Chapter Text
Peace, Henry learnt, was far quieter than he’d ever imagined.
Following the siege of Suchdol, Henry of Skalitz had made the choice to restore his father’s old forge in the south of Kuttenburg. The great city offered no shortage of opportunity for an honest blacksmith, and before long the forge had become a thriving business that afforded him a comfortable life. He traded his sword and mail for hammer and tongs, content to shape steel for farmers and merchants rather than soldiers — though he would consider it for a fair amount of groschen.
He had avenged his parents. He had stood against Sigismund. He had earned the respect of men who once would never have looked twice at a blacksmith’s son. At last, Henry allowed himself to believe he could live a simple life, far removed from the bloodshed and fire that had consumed so much of his own.
The forge no longer resembled the one Henry had known as a boy. The roof had been repaired, the walls whitewashed, and every tool hung neatly in its place. Where his father once stood, Henry now worked from dawn until dusk, greeting familiar customers by name and sending them home with freshly shod horses or well-balanced axes. His apprentices worked hard with cheerful smiles on their face, creating a lively atmosphere that Henry thrived in.
And now, Henry was hard at work.
The iron glowed a brilliant orange as Henry blew on it, firm back muscles shifting as he pulled on the bellows. Letting go with an exhausted exhale, Henry gripped it with the tongs and laid it upon the anvil, the familiar rhythm of hammer against steel echoing across the workshop. Mutt laid at the entrance of the workshop, huffing as he buried his snout between his tucked arms. Sweat beaded across his brow, though he wiped it off carelessly. The routine had become second nature.
A voice broke the rhythm.
“Master Henry?” Magdalena called out, the older lady approaching with shaky steps.
Henry assumed it’s another customer. Instead, he finds his assistant holding out a sealed letter.
Travel-worn, dusty, outlined with gold.
Henry wipes his hands with a rag before taking it.
Almost instantly, his eyes lock onto the wax seal - The stag of Rattay. Henry feels his chest tighten. A small smile tugging on his lips before he even realised he’d recognised it. What has he gotten himself into now?
Henry turned the letter over in his hands. The wax was still slightly soft at the edges, as if it had been sealed not too long ago. Henry exhaled softly, breaking the seal. The wax cracked beneath his thumb with a quiet snap.
He unfolded it carefully, as though Hans Capon might somehow sense if he rushed.
Inside, the letter read:
{ Henry,
If you’ve forgotten how to ride a horse, I suggest you practice before arriving, unless you wish to embarrass yourself further in front of people who actually matter. I assume you’re still alive and not buried under a pile of poorly forged nails.
Rattay is as it always is — too large, too loud and somehow far too quiet. It has become incredibly dull. Everyone insists on calling me ‘my lord’ as though I’ve suddenly grown old and important! It’s deeply offensive.
You should come here. Not for any particular reason. I simply find the days pass more slowly when you are not around to remind me how irritating I can be.
Do not take your time. This isn’t a request.
- Lord Capon of Pirkstein }
Henry chuckled dryly as he read the last couple sentences.
He read the letter again. Once. Slowly.
Then a second time as if the words might rearrange themselves into something clearer, something less convenient. Hans’ handwriting was as careless as ever. The complaints, the tone, the familiar arrogance that he dressed up as humour. It was exactly as it should’ve been.
Henry lowered the parchment slightly, not breaking eye contact.
A small huff left him, almost a laugh. Rattay has become incredibly dull…
Of course it had. Hans Capon would call a battlefield dull if it didn’t suit his mood. Henry shook his head faintly, as if the gesture alone might dispel the feeling settling in his chest.
“Unbearably dull,” he repeated under his breath.
“Aye… I can imagine.”
Henry let out a short snort through his nose and folded the parchment back along its creases. He glanced towards the doorway where Magdalena still stood waiting, then back at the letter in his hand.
He tucked it away into his belt as if it were any other message, nothing worth overthinking.
“Tell the apprentices to keep the fire going, I must prepare something.” He said at last, moving past her before turning to add: “And tell Standa that he’s in charge of the forge until I return from my trip.” —————————————————————————————————————-
That evening, Henry sat alone in the small room above the workshop, up against the stove where the heat of the day still lingered faintly. Outside, Kuttenburg had long since settled into night. The noise of the carts and voices had faded, replaced by the distant bark of a dog somewhere down the street.
His armour stood on display across, same pose as he had left it in months ago. Half-forgotten beneath a cloth.
He reached for the cup beside him, found it empty, and set it back down.
His mind drifted, uninvited, to Rattay.
To the road leading there. To horses and noise. Hans had been there for most of it, in one way or another. Loud, irritating, far too sure of himself. Usually wrong, but occasionally right in the most infuriating way. There had been that first hunt — bad idea from the start. Hans insisting he knew which way the boar had gone. He in fact did not. There had been the tavern in Rattay, where Hans got super hilarious when drunk. There had been nights by the fire where neither of them had spoken much at all.
It was strange, how those memories did not feel particularly important at the time. Just moments between tasks. Between trouble.
Now they sat in his mind more stubbornly.
After a while, he got up and moved to his bed. Early mornings tomorrow.