Work Text:
"Things have got a bit complicated, haven't they?"
"Tell me about it." From the light of the candelabra above him, the shift in Hans's expression could easily be seen. His smile falters and eyes lower, just for a brief moment, before quickly falling back into place. "But we can't give up now."
Henry nods once in agreement. "Aye."
"Well, enough talk! You should go and rest," Hans says. He leans forward a little with his hands on his knees to stand, and Henry catches the shadow of something on his neck.
"Hold on a mo'." He stops Hans and reaches out to pull the folds of Hans's hood and the collar of his pourpoint aside. There, just below his ear and above the curve of his shoulder, is a scar. It's red and raised but not new. And the shape of it…
He feels the hair on the back of his own neck stand. Something claws it's way down his spine and settles at the base. The fingers on his free hand curl, fingertips brushing against the sheath of his father's sword at his side.
"When'd you get this?" He asks, his voice a low rumble, and his knuckle slides softly over the scar.
Hans's hand flies up and bats Henry's away from him harshly before he stands. Now taller than him, though not by much, he avoids Henry's gaze and simply mutters: "We've got to be rested for our men tomorrow."
"Hans." Henry grabs his lord's arm firmly above the elbow to stop him before he can go down the stairs. In the room across the hall, he can hear the low murmur of voices, and he corrects himself. "Sir."
"What?" Hans snaps and jerks his arm free from Henry's grip. His brows are lowered and his lips are pulled taut, like a bow string, though the anger does not quite reach his eyes.
Henry hesitates before he opens the door to his own room and motions inside with a voiceless tilt of his head. Hans's eyes flick down the stairs momentarily before he enters. Henry follows and closes the door softly behind him.
The light outside the window is dark but there are flickers of torchlight from the Praguer men that patrol the fields around Suchdol. There's a cool, summer evening breeze that drifts in that Henry welcomes after the long, hot day now behind him. He watches as Hans crosses the room to put some distance between them before he turns, arms crossed over his chest and the hood of his chaperone pulled up closer to his neck once more to hide the mark on his skin. His mouth is still set into a firm line and his eyes do not meet Henry's. They flit about the room instead, like a restless bird out of its cage. He looks at the unmade bed, the open book on the desk, a discarded linen shirt in the corner.
"What happened?" He asks once the door is closed behind him. He steps further in and flips the open book closed to make room for his gauntlets next to it on the desk.
"I think it's pretty obvious, don't you?" Hans answers with a scoff.
"When?"
A beat of silence is followed by: "Trosky."
"I saw you on the gallows." Henry's voice is thick. The memory of it returns to him easily. Too easily. "There was no brand."
"After."
He can feel heat in his limbs, making him shift on the spot. Even his ears feel warm, making him feel acutely aware of them. It's become a familiar sensation to him over the last few months, a heat that reminds him of his anger. It often comes quickly and is hard to settle. He closes his eyes. "Von Bergow—"
"Christ," Hans sighs. Henry can hear his shoes against the wood floor then the creak of his weight on the bed. "Von Bergow didn't hang me. But he still wanted me punished for poaching on his lands. Probably to help Chamberlain Ulrich save face."
"But you —" the words were coming out sharper than he meant them to and Henry stops himself and takes a deep breath. "You're a lord."
Hans snorts. "Yes, Henry. I am. Clearly that didn't matter to him as much as I thought it might."
When Henry finally looks up at Hans, his lord is not looking at him. Again. His head is bowed and he rubs the inside of his own wrist in slow, firm circles with his thumb. The need for him to do something, anything, makes him restless. He moves to add a log to the hearth. It falls heavily, forcing embers up into the air around the fire.
Weeks. It had been weeks since they'd been "guests" of Von Bergow's in Trosky. How had he gone that long without noticing? Was he the only one? Did anyone else know?
"Why didn't you say anything?"
The cracking of the firewood was the only answer he received.
Henry can feel his fury pulsing through him, see the red tinging the corners of his vision as he stares at the flames. He can almost hear the screams Hans would've made, smell the burning of his flesh. It made him think of his return to Skalitz and the aftermath, of the charred buildings and bodies. He turns away from the hearth, his fingers flexing at his sides.
It made sense now, why they had separated the two of them after Hans had been removed from the gallows. He'd tried to put up a fight, refusing to leave his lord's side, but reluctantly agreed only after Hans's instance that they do as they were told. Lord Von Bergow had arrived, after all, what was the worst that could happen?
He'd stopped Sam from killing Von Bergow. Perhaps he shouldn't have. Or perhaps he should've done it himself. He'd slept so close not that long ago. How easy it would've been to sneak in and slide a blade over the old man's throat, to let the blood spill out onto Pisek's fine linens. It wouldn't have been the first man he'd killed in such a way. If he had known…
But instead of violence, he settles for tenderness. He moves to Hans's side, reaching for his chaperon again. This time he stops himself short, his fingers hovering in the air above Hans's shoulder. He can see Hans tense — his jaw flex and his hands still — but he does not pull away. Slowly, his fingers carefully curl around the fine silk fabric and he once more pulls it aside.
The anger he feels suddenly washes away and is replaced by guilt the moment the scar comes into view. He touches Hans's brand again, this time skin to skin. Still Hans does not pull away, but his breath does hitch softly when Henry lightly traces the lines with trembling fingers.
He was meant to protect Hans and now there would be tangible, long lasting evidence of his failure. He wonders briefly how Radzig, or Hanush, will react when the inevitably find out, and what punishment awaits him. The thoughts are fleeting, however, and soon he's thinking of how he could have helped. How he could've tended to the wound that would've been left by the red hot iron, if there was a way he could've made it heal cleaner, made the scar lighter.
"I'm sorry," he mutters.
The corner of Hans's mouth twitches up into a forced smile. "You were right about the poaching, after all."
He wishes he wasn't.
Henry tries to match Hans's weak smile with one of his own, tries to come up with a joke or smart remark, but words fail him. He swallows dryly and wets his lips. They part, but still, nothing comes.
Long fingers wrap delicately around his wrist and it's then that he notices Hans watching him up through his light lashes. Henry's brow furrows, just a little, when he feels Hans draw a slow, soft circle over his skin, like he'd been doing to himself. He flexes his hand to feel Hans's thumb press against the tendon that raises when he does. His own thumb falters over the scar on Hans's neck.
"Mark me," he says suddenly, his voice hardly more than a whisper.
"What?"
"Like this," he clarifies and swipes the pad of his thumb lightly over the red, raised lines that mars his skin one last time before Hans bats his hand away again.
"Have you lost your mind?"
"Maybe," Henry agrees, "but it should've been me to begin with."
And it should have. There were so many things he could have done differently. He could have found Hans earlier. He could have stayed with him at his camp. He could have taken the fall for his poaching. But he didn't. And now…
It would be better if the punishment comes from Hans, he thinks. There would be less shame, somehow, and more accountability. There was something about pain inflicted by Hans, too, that was different than others. It made his heart race and he would feel almost giddy. Like the first bruise Hans had inflicted upon him at the tavern below Rattay. He could still remember laying in his bed at the mill later that night and pressing his fingers against the tender spot until it stung, and the smile that pulled at the corners of his mouth.
He watches as Hans shakes his head and rises to his feet. "I'm not going to—"
"Please."
Hans's eyes flit about again when they meet Henry's. There's something behind them that Henry can't quite place, something that reminds him of their tavern brawl. Maybe it was the lighting, or the way that they narrowed, just for a moment, as if he was considering Henry's offer, considering causing him torment.
"… Okay."
Somewhere within the fortress, a raspy laugh echoed out. Muted. Distant. And Henry could not help but smile.