Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The week after Suchdol had been largely uneventful for the pair—aside from certain nightly activities.

Hans stumbled into their shared room, having barely escaped Kubyanka’s relentless attempts to pour him another drink.

“Where do those men get the energy? Hans groaned, rubbing his temples. “I enjoy boozing more than the common man, but seven nights in a row!?”

Henry followed shortly behind, closing and latching the door shut behind him. “You’ll have to excuse them, Sir Hans. You, of all people, should know what it’s like to have been deprived of life’s pleasantries.”

“Indeed I do, but a man has his limits, and I’ve found mine!” Hans said, exasperated.

He paused for a brief moment before now speaking softly. “And… Drop the Sir, Hal. Not when it’s just you and me.”

His own words made him flush with embarrassment.

Henry took that as his cue, cupping Han’s cheek and stroking it gently.

“Aye, Hans.” He whispered softly, gazing softly at his lover. He hesitated for just a moment before leaning in, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss against Hans’ lips.

Hans responded in kind, their lips moving together in quiet familiarity—until Henry deepened it,
slipping his tongue past the seam of Hans’s lips.

Hans briefly lingered in the warmth of the kiss, savoring the moment, before pulling away with a sigh.

“Not today, Hal, I’m exhausted. We’ve been at it every night. This noble arse needs a break.”

“…Alright. But at least let me check how the wound on your chest is doing,” Henry said, his downcast blue eyes not attempting to mask his disappointment.

Hans smirked. “You dog, you just want an excuse to look at my bare chest.”

“Woof.” Henry made no attempt to deny it.

Still, Hans didn’t protest, tugging off his tunic without hesitation before sitting on his bed.

“But seriously—no funny business today, Hal,” Hans restated, though he didn’t sound particularly convincing to Henry. Henry knew the man well enough to recognize when there was room for persuasion.

However, concern was soon the only thing on Henry’s mind.

Though the nobleman looked much better than before, the lingering effects of weeks of starvation were still visible. His frame, once strong, had yet to fully recover—his ribs still faintly showed beneath his skin. The bandaging across his chest was a stark reminder of his injuries.

“Are you just going to stare, or are you going to get to work?” Hans teased.

Henry snapped out of his stupor, shaking his head. He stumbled over to his storage chest, pulling out some medicinal balm and fresh bandages before sitting beside Hans.

Carefully, he began unwrapping the old bandages. The wound beneath wasn’t deep—Hans' armor had taken the brunt of the damage—but it would undoubtedly leave a scar. The sight of it filled Henry with a burning rage, though he directed it at himself. He had been too late. Too late to protect him. And then, rage toward the bastard who had dared to harm Hans. his Hans.

Henry suppressed his feelings, not wanting to be caught staring again. As gently as he could, he applied the balm to Hans’ chest, causing Hans to hiss in discomfort.

Henry swallowed hard and applied the balm, earning a sharp hiss from Hans.

“Does it still hurt a lot?” Henry asked, voice dripping with concern.

Hans exhaled slowly. “Yes, but not as much as before. It’s much better now. Thank you, Henry. Only the Lord knows where you picked up these healer skills.”

Hans was sincere—Henry truly was a master of many trades, having even crafted the balm himself at the alchemy bench. As if being a skilled swordsman, stealth expert, alchemist, and archer wasn’t enough, now he had to excel as a lover too…

Henry chuckled. “Aye, well, I had to learn. Someone has a knack for getting into trouble. Just don’t go falling into a lake—I won’t be much help there.”
Hans laughed, momentarily forgetting the sting of the balm.

With practiced ease, Henry wrapped fresh bandages around his chest. “There. Now be good, yeah? No getting kidnapped or getting shot by arrows.”'

Hans smirked. “Thank you, my black knight. Here’s a little reward.” He leaned in and planted a soft kiss on Henry’s cheek.

Henry froze, face turning crimson. He clearly hadn’t expected that sudden intimacy.

Primal instincts surged within him, and he quickly adopted his best pout. “Hans… can we really not? I’ll be gentle, I promise.”

Hans scoffed, not buying the act for a second. “That’s a fucking lie. You will turn into a ravenous beast the moment our clothes are off.”

“And can you blame me?” Henry murmured, placing a hand on Hans’ thigh.

Hans swatted it away with a smirk. “No, I do see why you find me irresistible. But my noble arse really does need a break. So go lie on your bed, you mutt.”

Hans’ resolve for a night of abstinence was hanging by a thin thread—and Henry, ever the opportunist, could sniff that out a mile away. He could sense that his following words might be the ones to tip the scales.

“…What if we switched roles?” Henry suggested, a teasing glint in his eye. “Or I could… fondly caress your left ball?”

Hans was flabbergasted. “Do not bring up that poem, Henry. I spent many nights delirious in Suchdol—starvation and horniness do weird things to a man’s mind.”

Henry snickered. “But what about the first part? Are you seriously considering it?”

Hans hesitated. “…You mean switching roles? But this past week, you’ve been on top the whole time.”

“Well… I thought you enjoyed taking it up the ass. You practically offered yourself to me on our first night together.”

Hans sputtered. “No! I mean—yes? I did enjoy it! But there was a reason! That night, you were about to go off to battle, and I was being considerate of your peasant arse.”

Henry clutched his chest mockingly. “Thank you for your noble consideration, m’lord. But truth be told… I’m not opposed to it. I just… y’know, wasn’t sure it was an option. Didn’t want to ruin what we had.”

Hans' lips curled into a slow smirk. “Please. If anything, this would be me returning the favor.” He glanced down at Henry’s backside, licking his lips. “And I do believe you have interest to pay—for how you’ve been treating my arse. If we’re doing this today, I will be in full control, no objections.”

A shudder ran through Henry’s body. He wasn’t sure if it was from excitement, fear, or both.

A lump formed in his throat as he whispered, “May the Lord have mercy on this sinner today.”

The two men didn’t move, relishing the moment, their heavy breathing being the only exception to the silence.

Hans made the first move by pressing his forehead against Henry’s, their breaths mingling.

“You’re mine,” Hans murmured possessively, tracing the curve of Henry’s jaw with his thumb. “And I’ll spend the rest of my days proving it. Lancelot was a fool for letting Galehaut slip through his fingers.”

Henry huffed a quiet laugh, rolling his eyes, but the way he leaned into Hans’ touch betrayed just how much he liked hearing it.

“And the wedding… I’ll find some excuse not to marry that wench, Jitka.”

Henry raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think Hanush will be that easily swayed.”

“Nonsense. If I make enough of a fuss, he’ll eventually give up. Besides, we had a deal—he was supposed to hand over my estate when I came of age, not throw in a wife as part of the bargain.”

“Well… I wouldn’t count on him changing his mind that easily,” Henry said, shaking his head. “But I trust you. And I’ll be there, no matter what.”

Hans smirked. “As if that wasn’t obvious. The only place you belong is by my side, peasant.”

Henry only smiled in response. Hans leaned in, pressing a kiss to Henry’s lips before pulling away.

“Good night, Hal. Sweet dreams. Though if I catch you dreaming of another man…” Hans trailed off, smirking. “Well, I can’t be held responsible for what I might do.”

Henry snorted. “Don’t worry. The only man haunting my dreams is the one currently threatening me in my own bed.”

The following month settled into a rhythm—one that felt so natural it was easy to pretend it would last forever. Days were spent with Hans trailing after Henry as he busied himself helping others, their roles almost reversed from the days when Henry was the one following him. Evenings were quieter now, their drinking kept in check, their dice games played with laughter rather than desperation. The wound on Hans' chest had healed under Henry’s unrelenting care, leaving behind only the faintest scar—one that only Henry would ever notice.

But time was merciless, marching forward without pause or pity.

And now, the moment they had both dreaded—the one they had pretended didn’t exist—had finally arrived.

Hans was to return to Rattay. The wedding was happening.

The news struck like a lightning bolt, even though the storm had been looming on the horizon for weeks. They had known this was coming. That didn’t make it any easier to bear. How does a man sentenced to death prepare for his own execution? And what of his lover, left to stand helplessly by?

Henry was the first to break. He could barely breathe. His vision swam, his chest tightening like a steel trap around his ribs. The room suddenly felt too small, the air too thin. His hands trembled as he pressed them to his temples, trying to steady himself, trying to push back the rising wave of panic that threatened to drag him under.

Hans, in contrast, was almost eerily calm. Too calm.

“Henry.” His voice was firm, unwavering, a stark contrast to the chaos inside Henry’s mind. He moved closer, gripping Henry’s forearm with steady hands. “Look at me.”

Henry shook his head, sucking in a shuddering breath.

“Hal.” Hans’ voice softened, but his grip remained strong. “You need to breathe.”

“I—” The words wouldn’t come. His heart pounded painfully against his ribs.

Hans exhaled, then without warning, pressed their foreheads together, grounding him. “We’ll figure it out.” His thumb traced slow circles against Henry’s wrist. “I swear it.”

Henry swallowed hard, clinging to the steady warmth of Hans’ touch, to the unshaken certainty in his voice. He wasn’t sure he believed him. But he wanted to.

And for now, that would have to be enough.

At Hanush’s command, Hans was ordered back to Rattay to prepare for the wedding.

But Hans had no intention of making things easy.

“I’ll delay it as much as I can,” he told Henry that night, voice filled with quiet defiance. “And you’ll help me.”

And so they did. Over the next month, Hans found excuse after excuse not to leave. He was ill. The roads were too dangerous. There was urgent business that required his attention. Henry backed him at every turn, playing his part with ease, weaving lies as effortlessly as he had once swung a sword.

But Hanush was not a man easily fooled, nor was he a man who relented on his word.

A month after the first letter, the next one arrived.

An ultimatum.

Return or relinquish your estate.

Unlike what Hans had expected, the old man wasn’t budging an inch. He truly intended to see this through. His word, the promise to join the families, it seemed, mattered far more than what Hans wanted.

And this time, there would be no more excuses.

They returned to Rattay, as inevitable as the turning of the seasons.

Hans continued to insist he would convince Hanush, that the wedding would not happen, that something—anything—could still be done. Henry wanted to believe him. But as they arrived at the castle, settling once more into their old sleeping arrangements, the walls between them grew taller. It would be too suspicious to share a room, too dangerous to let slip what lay between them.

And so, they settled into their routines.

Hans spent his days locked in fruitless conversations, pressing Hanush for any leeway. Henry, on the other hand, found himself wandering outside the castle walls, throwing himself into menial tasks to escape the suffocating reality of what loomed ahead. If he kept his hands busy, perhaps he could forget for a moment. Perhaps if he tired himself enough, he wouldn’t dream of it.

Their nightly rendezvous continued at first—desperate, stolen moments, as though pretending hard enough could make the world bend to their will. But slowly, the weight of inevitability pressed down on them. The visits became less frequent. Then they stopped altogether.

And then came the final blow.

A week remained before the wedding. Hanush was unmoved. It was decided: Hans would depart tomorrow to meet Jitka, to finalize the arrangement.

The eve before Hans’ departure, Henry found himself retracing a path he knew by heart. He had walked it countless times before, each step once effortless—tonight, however, his feet felt heavy, as if weighed down by the words he had yet to say.

He stopped in front of the door, hesitation gripping him. If he walked in now, there would be no turning back. No more pretending. No more delaying the inevitable.

He entered without knocking.

The room was dimly lit, the warm glow of candlelight flickering against the walls. Hans sat at his desk, absorbed in a book. Henry didn’t need to see the title to know which one it was—the tale of Lancelot and Galehaut. A story he had once thought was just a knight’s indulgence. Now, he understood better.

Hans hadn’t noticed him yet. He simply sat there, golden hair catching the candle’s glow, broad shoulders hunched slightly as he read. Strong, proud, disciplined—yet to Henry, he had never looked more vulnerable.

If he were an assassin, Hans would have been dead by now.

The thought made something tighten in Henry’s chest.

He closed the door behind him, the soft click finally breaking the silence. Hans didn’t startle. He only turned his head slightly, as if he had been expecting this.

“Hal. You’re here.”

Henry hated that. Hated the certainty in his voice, the quiet expectation. What right did Hans have to assume he would come?

His fingers curled into fists at his sides. “We need to talk.”

Hans closed the book, his expression unreadable. “What’s there to talk about?” His voice was steady, but his eyes faltered—just for a moment.

Henry felt the first crack in his resolve. He forced himself to stand tall. “You said you wouldn’t get married,” he said, voice raw. “You said we’d figure it out. Was it all a lie?”

“You said you wouldn’t get married.” His voice wavered, but his stance was firm. “You said we’d figure it out. Was it all a lie?”

Hans stood up from the desks, jaws clenched, he said. “It wasn’t a lie, Henry. Not at first. I truly didn’t expect Hanush to be so—”

“So unconvincible?” Henry let out a humorless laugh, bitter as wormwood. “That’s it, then? It was only ever wishful thinking?” His voice cracked as he stepped forward. “You told me I was all you needed. That I was the only thing that ever truly belonged to you.” He inhaled sharply. “Were those just words? Something to keep me trapped at your side like a loyal hound?”

Hans stiffened, eyes flashing. “How dare you speak to me like that?” His temper flared, but beneath it, there was something else—uncertainty, or perhaps guilt. “What would you have me do, Henry? Give up everything? My estate, my name? Be left with nothing?”

“You’re a fool if you think you’re promised your birthright even if you go through with this.” Henry’s voice rose, thick with emotion. “Hanush will always find another excuse to hold it over you. First it was waiting for you to come of age, now it’s the wedding. What next? You think he’ll finally let you be your own man only after he’s in the ground?” His breath hitched. “You’ll never be enough for him, Hans.”

Hans clenched his fists. “And what would you have me do, then?” he spat. “Throw it all away? For what? To go where?”

Henry stepped closer, desperation bleeding into his words. “Hans… we could leave together.” His voice trembled. “Start over. We could go to Kuttenberg, fire up my father’s forge. I have friends there—we could make something of ourselves. You are more than your nobility, Hans.” He swallowed. “Let Hanush have his damned estate. Let him have his domain. I don’t care about any of that. I just need you.”

Hans turned away. “You know I can’t.” His voice was quieter now, uncertain. “I—I have a duty. A role to fulfill. The people need me. I need this. It’s what I’ve always wanted.”

Henry exhaled shakily. “But I need you, Hans. Please.”

Hans finally met his gaze, his expression unreadable. “You know you’ll always have me.”

Henry shook his head. “It’s not the same. I can’t…”

Hans cupped Henry’s cheek, voice dropping to something almost tender. “We’ll figure it out after the wedding.”

Henry let out a breath, disbelieving.

“It’s just a formality,” Hans continued, as though he truly believed it. “It won’t change things between us.” His thumb brushed over Henry’s cheekbone. “At most… I’ll do my duty. Have an heir. And that’ll be it.” He gave a wry smile. “I’ll even name my firstborn after you.”

Henry didn’t reply. He only looked at him—truly looked at him. There was something painfully final in his gaze.

Hans, either unable or unwilling to see it, smiled faintly. “I know how to cheer you up.”

He locked the door. Undressed. Guided Henry towards the bed.

And Henry let him.

The two tangled together as they always had, but Henry barely spoke. He let Hans take what he wanted, let himself be consumed by it, let himself drown in the heat of it one last time. Other than the occasional soft gasp, he was silent.
Hans thought nothing of it. He believed, as always, that Henry would overcome his anxieties. That the man would come around to understanding reality.

That night, Hans fell asleep quickly, spent and content.

Henry, however, lay awake, staring at the ceiling, lost in the storm of his thoughts.

He couldn’t keep doing this. He couldn’t always be playing second fiddle, a dog picking scraps off the table—even if the master was Hans.

He had made his decision.

He moved carefully, so carefully. Dressing in silence. He turned to look at Hans one final time, drinking in the sight of him—the rise and fall of his chest, the way his hair curled ever so slightly, the way the moonlight kissed his skin.
He was beautiful. He was everything.

And Henry could not stay.

He shut the door behind him, stepping into the cold night.

And he did not look back.

The sun shining through the windows warmed Hans' face, stirring him from his sleep. Waking up, his hands reached for something that wasn’t there—someone who wasn’t there.

No Henry.

An ominous feeling rose in his chest.

Instinctively, Hans sensed that something was wrong. Henry had never missed an opportunity to snuggle with him, laze around in the mornings—one of the rare moments Henry allowed himself reprieve from his duties.

The sun outside the window shone brightly, already well past noon. Hans must’ve overslept.

Henry must’ve gone to feed Mutt. That stubborn but lovable dog ate better than most peasants did.

Hans got dressed and headed to the stables, where Mutt usually slept beside Pebbles.

No Mutt.

No Henry.

Weird, he thought. Maybe Henry had taken Mutt out for a walk. The weather was perfect— clear skies, a cool breeze which ruffled his hair. Yet, despite the calmness of the day, an unease began to gnaw at Hans.

Wait.

It took him a bit to recognise an empty stable, an old but steadfast steed missing from its post.

No Pebbles.

No Henry.

The alarm bells went off in his head.

Wild scenarios ran amok in his head.

No, it couldn’t be.

He would never leave me.

He would never run away from me.

He made his way to the only place he knew to seek comfort.

A small, humble room, filled with trinkets collected from countless adventures. Gifts from grateful people whose lives had been saved. A room filled with love and warmth.

But when he opened the door, what greeted him was an empty room.

No Henry.

The bed, made-up neatly.

No Henry.

An empty storage chest sat at the food of the bed.

No Henry.

Empty shelves lined the walls.

No Henry.

A fireplace in its final moments, the dying embers flickering weakly.

No Henry.

On the nightstand, a letter lay.

Was he in the wrong room?
If his eyes could somehow deceive him, his nose would not. A familiar scent still lingered in the air—the comforting smell of Henry. The scent of leather and steel, of earth and sweat, of the man who had always been there. It was a fragrance that had lulled him to sleep every night, and yet now, it only made the emptiness more unbearable.

WIth trembling hands, he opened the letter, the paper feeling like it might tear under the weight of his touch. He didn’t want to read it-—he couldn’t—but there was never a choice.

He was naive to have ever believed otherwise.

To my Hans. My Galehaut. My love. It began, the ink barely legible as if each word had been written with a shaky hand.

I don’t know when it started, but there came a time when I felt a burning desire to make you mine.

It could’ve been when you dragged me through the forest, risking everything to keep me safe from the bandits.

It could’ve been when you looked at me as if I was the one you were waiting for to save you from the tower in Nebakov.

It could’ve even been as early as when we went hunting in Trotsky, and you were captured—showing a vulnerability that humanized you in my eyes.

Regardless of when it happened, it happened. And that will never change. But I must beg for your forgiveness.

Forgive me for running away, for I am not the strong man you believe me to be.

Forgive me for not being there when you marry Lady Jitka, who I’m sure is a lovely woman, and I hope you treat her with the respect she deserves.

Forgive me for not celebrating with you when your heir is born—your pride and joy, who I know will mean the world to you. Do not name him after me, for it may cause you to look upon him with grief instead.

The ink pooled at the start of the next word, a telltale mark of hesitation—the writer’s hand pausing, uncertain, before continuing.

Do not forgive me for blaming you for my feelings, for it was these very feelings that kept me alive.

The night I left Suchdol, I was ready to walk away from you forever. But with your kiss, you made me yours, and I made you mine. I did not, and will not, regret this. Through it, I found the strength to return to your side, to feel your face in my hands once more.

Lastly, do not hate yourself, as I know you would, my love. Forgive yourself. This was my decision. Lancelot would want Galehaut to live on, as I want you to live on without me.

I would be lying to say I wish for you to forget me, but the shackles of nobility may chain you down forever, and I do not wish to do the same to you.

Always,

Your Hal.

Hans could only weep, choking as he struggled to breathe between the flowing tears.

He had a duty to fulfil. But what was the cost?

With the wedding, he would be obtaining everything he ever wanted—his estate—his birthrights, everything he had been promised his whole life. Everything his younger self ever wanted.

He had never stopped to think about what he would lose.

He had always been selfish.

Things had always worked out. Henry would always save the day. So why would this time be any different?

But who would save Henry?

This time, his own hubris and ignorance had pushed the only person he had ever truly loved away.

After what felt like an eternity, the tears stopped—or rather, they ran out.

He made a resolution. A promise to himself.

He was the reason that Henry had to leave.

Sorry Hal, he would never forgive himself.

Neither would he allow himself the luxury of forgetting his love.

He would, however, move forward.

The weight of his duties would not allow otherwise.

The world had no mercy for a man with a broken heart.

With heavy steps and an unwilling heart, he moved towards the final source of warmth in the room.

The letter, soaked by the unknowing tears of a man forever changed, served as kindling for the dying hearth, words fading away in the flames.

While the heart of one man froze, its final embers departed on a journey.

Out on the roads beyond Rattay, the path stretched endless, leading a man away from everything he has ever known.

The Black Knight, kidnapped by fate, rode alone on his steady steed, loyal hound also by his side.

Henry didn’t look back.

He couldn’t.

If he did, he might falter.

He might stay.

And that would be the end of them both.

Thus ended the tale of the two knights, a tragic and sorrowful romance.

This was the day Sir Hans Capon of Pirkstein died.

Like Galehaut, not by blade or war, but by the loss of his heart.

And Henry was the one to bury him.

Chapter Text

Henry could not leave without saying goodbye to Theresa.

After returning to Rattay with Hans, he had been paying her frequent visits. Silence between them was never awkward, they could simply embellish in the fact that they were both alive and well.

The bond was a connection that transcended words—he owed her at minimum, a farewell.

He had saved her and she, him.

She had been there when he first lost everything.

When he was rebuilding his life brick by brick, she helped lay the foundation.

And again now, when he was about to lose everything again—this time demolitioning his peace of his own volition.

However bittersweet his departure, she was not to blame, and she deserved to have closure.

At the crack of dawn, Henry made his way to her dwellings, knocking softly yet firmly on the door.

He heard movement, a pair of feet shuffling. Then cautious footsteps, which made their way to the front door.

“Who is it?” Asked a wary voice. The familiarity of the voice alone brought Henry some desperately needed comfort.

“It’s me, Tess.”

“Henry?” The voice was now filled with surprise.

With a click Henry heard the door unlock.

Opening the doors, Theresa groggily greeted him. “To what do I owe the pleasure this early?”

Henry hesitated for a moment before speaking.

“Tess, I have something to tell you.”

Henry’s face was pale and restless. The rising sun cast a shadow across his features, deepening the gravity of his words.

Sensing the weight behind his words, Theresa’s
expression shifted to one of quiet concern. “Alright,” she said, stepping aside. “But at least come in for a cup of tea. If I don’t need one right now, then you certainly do.”

They sat at a table by the hearth, steam rising from their mugs as silence settled between them.

“Henry…” Theresa finally spoke. “Are you really never coming back?”

Henry exhaled, gripping the cup tighter. “Never isn’t exactly right. I-it’s more that I don’t know how long I’ll be gone for this time, and I might even be unable to return.”

He paused, lying to Theresa felt wrong, but he couldn’t— shouldn’t, always burden her with his problems. This was his battle to fight.

“I’ll be searching for Erik, to finish what I started. I don’t know how long it’ll take, or where it’ll lead me.” Henry explained.

Disguising lies with half-truths, Theresa would have to be satisfied with just this.

Theresa sighed, reaching out to grasp Henry’s hands onto her own.

“Hal,” she said softly.

The nickname sent a sharp pang through his chest. The last person to call him that had left wounds still too raw to touch.

“Revenge won’t fix anything,” she continued. “Did killing Istvan Toth make you feel any better? Or what came of after killing von Aulitz?”

“It’s… complicated,” Henry admitted. “I thought you, of all people, would understand.”

“I do understand,” Theresa said. “And that’s why I know you’re not telling me the whole truth.”

Henry froze.

“What’s really going on?”

He could have continued to lie. He could have buried it deep, as he had done before. But Theresa seemed to sometimes know him better than he knew himself.

“Seems like I can’t get anything past you, Tess…”

Still, the words were caught in his throat. Would she judge him for being a sodomite—and to make it worse, even falling for his lord?

He gathered his courage, choosing his following words carefully.

“I- I’m leaving because of Hans.”

Theresa had nothing to add, only nodding for him to continue.

And so, continue he did.

“We—indulged in acts that God intended only between a man and a woman.”

Closing his eyes, he braced himself for Theresa’s reaction—a gasp of horror, a cry of disgust, perhaps even a plea for his repentance. But the silence stretched on.

When he finally dared to look, he found her watching him, eyes steady and filled not with condemnation, but something far worse—pity.

That look alone was enough to loosen the tightness in his throat, giving him the courage to continue.

Faster now, the words spilled from him in a flood. The promises Hans had made. The lies, the stolen moments, the things they had done that no two men should do. He had trusted Hans—believed him.
And in the end, all Henry could do was leave.

His voice wavered, then cracked. Before he knew it, tears had been spilling down his cheeks.

Removing his hands from Theresa’s gentle grasp, he pressed them to his face, shaking.

After what felt like an eternity, the tears stopped, there was nothing left to cry.

Theresa stood up, walking around the table to Henry’s side.

“Here it comes, the condemnation,” Henry thought, bracing himself, burying himself deeper into his hands.

But instead of revulsion, he was met with a firm embrace.

“Thank you for telling me, Henry,” she murmured. “I know that wasn’t easy.”

He swallowed hard. “Do you not… find it disgusting?”

“When I was younger, I would, maybe,” she admitted.

“But I’ve seen enough to know better. I once caught two farmhands in the act, you know.” She huffed out a small, amused breath.

“At the time, I didn’t understand. But I’ve given plenty of thought since. Human sin in much worse ways every day, and their only penance is repentance.”

Pausing, as if to choose her following words carefully, she spoke softly. “If I ever found you a sinner, Henry, it wouldn’t be for loving another man. It would be for killing one who didn’t deserve it.”

Henry could feel a weight lifting off his chest, allowing him to breathe again.

“…Thank you, Tess.”

“For what?” she said lightly. “All I did was speak my mind.”

He smiled weakly. “Aye, but you’ve no idea what your words mean to me.”

Theresa made her way back to her seat. A comfortable silence settled between them as they sipped their tea.

“I can see why you want to leave,” Theresa finally said. “Honestly… I don’t know what I would do in your place. I might never go through what you have, so I can’t claim to understand it fully. But if my opinion means anything to you, I think you’re making the right choice.”

She met his gaze. “Staying would break you further than you already are, Hal. That man… he has a power over you. And that’s a dangerous thing.”

Henry exhaled. “… I don’t know what to say.”

“How about promising to write me?” she suggested.
“It doesn’t have to be often. Just enough to let me know you’re still alive.”

He chuckled weakly. “I’ll try. I did mean what I said about hunting Erik—I’ve no clue where to start, and the world is vast.”

Theresa set her empty cup aside. “Just remember—you’ll always have a place here, Henry. With me.”

Henry nodded. The two sat in their usual silence for a moment longer before he stood up.

“I should go,” he said. “I don’t know when Hans will wake and realize I’m gone. Lord forbid he sends a search party—or worse, a hunting party.”

Theresa smirked. “Hopefully they don’t ransack my place looking for you.”

Henry sighed. “It’s alright, Hans would never allow that to happen.”

Henry walked towards the front door, looking back as Theresa once again spoke.

“Take care, Henry,” she said, remaining in her seat.
“I won’t see you off, because this isn’t a farewell. Just a goodbye.”

He gave her a small, weary smile. “Goodbye, Tess.”
Theresa nodded in return.

“Goodbye, Hal.”

And with that, the man was gone.

His visit to Theresa had given him a newfound resolve. Before, he might have faltered—might have turned back, swallowed his pride, and begged Hans to take him back. But now, he would move forward.
His goal of hunting down Erik was ambitious, perhaps even foolish. The man had vanished without a trace after their duel, but Henry knew, with unwavering certainty, that he was alive.

Erik, to him, was like a hyena—lurking unseen, striking when least expected, and leaving only ruin in his wake. The world would be better off without him.

Luring him out would be the best course of action. And what better bait than himself?

Hatred surely burned just as fiercely in Erik as it did in Henry—after all, he had killed Istvan Toth.

In some twisted way, their relationship was somewhat similar to his own with Hans. Henry had seen it with his own eyes, back in Trosky, when he crept through the courtyard unseen.

Before Erik had ridden off, Istvan had cupped his face, the gesture unmistakable. Henry knew that look. It was not the gaze of a father toward his son. It was longing—longing that Henry understood all too well.

How would he have felt if Erik had been the one to kill Hans?

The thought alone made his blood run hot with fury. He shoved it away, refusing to dwell on it. Erik deserved every ounce of his suffering. But even as Henry resolved to be rid of him, another fear gnawed at his mind—Hans could be the target of Erik’s revenge.

Yes, he was a nobleman, protected by guards, but that status was a double-edged sword. He was a visible target, vulnerable to schemes and treachery.
It wouldn’t take much—an ambush on the road, an assassin slipping past lacking defenses, a single vial of poison in his next meal.

Henry clenched his jaw.

He was no longer by Hans’ side, but that didn’t mean he had stopped caring.

And so, as Pebbles carried him toward Kuttenberg, Henry set his mind on his next move. What better place to start the hunt than the site of their last battle?

Erik had been wounded—Henry remembered the feeling of his blade slicing into flesh, the way it had sunk deep into the bastard’s side. He could not have survived without help. He also then needed to recover.

It hadn’t been long since their duel—only a few months. The chances of Erik still lying low, biding his time in recovery, were high.

Though if God were just, Erik would already be rotting in the dirt.

But he knew better. God would not interfere in the matters between men.

His grip tightened on the reins. The journey ahead would not be glorious, nor heroic. It would be brutal, inevitable—necessary.

Determination and reigns in hand, he spurred Pebbles to pick up the pace.

The disappearance of one man would send ripples through the still waters of Rattay.

The local herbalist found herself missing the kind young man who brought her rare dried herbs, asking only for knowledge in return. He had listened with such earnest curiosity that she had given him her secret recipes freely, simply because she had wanted to.

The guards, once eager for his guidance in refining their swordsmanship, now found their practice yards lacking. Henry had been skilled yet approachable, never too proud to pick up a training sword and spar.

The stablemaster, too, felt his absence. With peace settling over the land, the horses had grown restless, and he was but one man. Henry lent a helping hand, being able to handle even the most stubborn of the steeds.

The bathhouse wenches whispered among themselves, lamenting the loss of their favorite visitor—not for his patronage, but for his stories. A man who shared tales so freely yet resisted their advances so firmly was all the more alluring.

Radzig had found it strange to see a letter upon his desk, brief and to the point. Henry was leaving his service, and he asked for forgiveness for not saying so in person.

With a sigh, Radzig set the letter down. Bastard or not, the boy was truly his son. His reckless pursuit of Erik, his thirst for vengeance—it was all too familiar. The hot-bloodedness ran thicker than anything else.

“Guess he finally got sick of Hans, like father like son,” he muttered with a dry chuckle, though there was a quiet fondness beneath his words. He wished Henry well, even if only in silence.

But as with all ripples in a lake, the surface always returns to calm.

Yet what seemed like still waters to others was a raging ocean to one man—Hans.

Hans alone knew the real reason Henry had left.

Hans alone knew that he was the reason.

And for that the waves within him surged in unyielding turmoil.

Yet life went on. He found himself on horseback, journeying to see Lady Jitka, accompanied by his guards and led by Captain Bernard.

The tension in the group was thick and heavy, exerting an invisible yet palpable pressure on the men.

To be wed. A usually joyous event, but for Hans, it felt more like a man being escorted to the gallows—a feeling he knew all too well.

The horses’ hooves thudded against the sandy roads, each step heavy in the silence that enveloped him. The overcast sky seemed to mirror his thoughts—gray and oppressive, as if the world itself held its breath, waiting for something to break.

Henry’s letter to him—though it may have burned away in the flames, still lingered in his mind, the words burning bright as ever. There was still a part of him that wanted to chase after him, to beg him to come back. But the shackles of his noble birth continued to hold him in place.

As the entourage rode in awkward silence, Captain Bernard tried to lighten the mood by making some small-talk.

“Are you ready for the wedding, Sir Hans?”

Hans only nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He felt that if he did, they would see through him—the way his shoulders slumped, the way his gaze never quite met theirs.

If the men did notice, then none of them chose to voice it. They respected his silence. Most of them had been in the future Lord’s service long enough to see the man underneath. How there was a man who only longed to be free.

Not to live a life as Hanush’s puppet, pulled along by his strings, strings that continued to tangle and weave into a web of politics.

Captain Bernard knew that he had failed and did not attempt to push the matter.

Hans did appreciate the man for this, though he did not express it.

The ride seemed to drag on forever in a deceiving monotony, yet Hans started to hear something the others could not.

The wedding was still a while away, yet he could already hear the wedding bells.

Like a death knell.

Like the tolling that had once marked his own execution.

Hans could only close his eyes and pray, murmuring softly,
“Alea iacta es.”

Chapter Text

As Hans approached the castle, its grandiosity immediately struck him. The towering stone walls stretched high, creating an imposing barrier against the landscape. The large gate stood firm, flanked by watchtowers that seemed to reach toward the sky.

The central keep rose above it all, its spires reaching far into the air. It was clear that this castle was built not just for defense, but to display wealth and power.

It was truly a structure that demanded attention.

Banners of House Kunstadt fluttered in the breeze, their colors vibrant against the gray sky.

The guards at the gate, spotting the approaching men, nodded to each other before one called out.

“Lower the bridge!”

With the groaning of chains and the creak of heavy wood, the drawbridge descended, allowing Hans and his escorts to cross. As they passed through the gatehouse, the smell of damp stone and hay filled the air.

Inside the courtyard, servants bustled about, their gazes briefly flickering toward the arriving guests before returning to their tasks.

At the grand entrance to the keep, a man stood waiting—a noble of fine stature, dressed in rich velvets and a heavy fur cloak. His presence alone similar to the keep, commanded attention.

“Sir Hans! It’s great to finally meet you.” He extended his hand with a broad smile.

Hans dismounted, stepping forward to return the gesture with a firm handshake. “Lord Erhart,” he greeted, keeping his tone polite.

The lord chuckled, giving Hans a once-over. “Hanush and Botschek has spoken well of you, and I see they weren’t lying!”

Hans raised a brow. “Sir Hanush spoke well of me?”

“Of course! He assured me that Jitka would not be unsatisfied with your face.” The lord laughed heartily, clapping Hans on the shoulder. “My daughter has incredibly high standards, you see.”

“And there aren’t many noblemen her age who aren’t fat, bumbling fools. So it seems you two were meant to be!”

Hans exhaled slowly, biting back his irritation. Of course, Hanush’s praise would only be superficial. He had been foolish to expect otherwise.

Only one man had ever looked past the surface, past his titles and his bloodline…

Forcing a smirk, he replied dryly, “Well, thanks for the compliments.”

The lord seemed oblivious to Hans’ lack of enthusiasm. “I’ve already sent for Jitka. She should be waiting in the reception hall. Why don’t you go and meet her now?”

Hans nodded, adjusting his gloves as he prepared himself. Another step forward on the path he could not turn back from.

As the Lord had said, Jitka was already waiting in the reception hall when Hans entered.

She stood by the window, her gaze fixed on the world beyond, a forlorn expression clouding her delicate features. The scene seemed to be straight out of a painting, that she was frozen in place.

However, paintings could not move on their own, as she did to the sound of Hans’ approach. She turned, her hazel eyes settling on him.

“Well, it’s nice to finally see the real face behind the name,” Jitka said, her tone measured.

They had exchanged letters in the weeks leading up to this meeting—polite, impersonal words meant to bridge the gap between strangers bound by duty.

Yet standing before her now, Hans realized how little he truly knew of the woman he was to marry.

She studied him openly, eyes flicking over his form. “And it seems the portrait artist wasn’t a liar. You look… better than I expected. I had half a mind to expect some fat nobleman to come stumbling through the doors.”

Hans flinched at her bluntness. Her voice was not at all what he had imagined. He had spent weeks thinking of her as some cruel harbinger of fate, a punishment wrapped in silk. In his mind, he had been the unwilling princess, sent away to wed the dragon.

But standing before him was no monster. Lady Jitka carried herself with effortless grace, her every movement steeped in nobility. Even her cutting words were laced with an elegance that made them sound more like honey than venom.

Hans smirked, composing himself. “I could say the same for you, my lady.”

He stepped forward, taking her hand in his own before bending down to press a courtly kiss upon it.

He had to admit—Jitka was the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes upon.

But the most beautiful person he knew was no woman.

“So, rough journey?” Jitka asked, eyeing him with a faint smirk. “The painter didn’t quite capture those eyebags or the grime caked on your face. Maybe a bath and a good night’s rest could fix… whatever it is you’ve got going on.”

There was a trace of concern in her voice, subtle but present.

Hans scoffed. “Your concern is unnecessary. I’m fine.” His voice was colder than he intended.

If Jitka was bothered by his tone, she didn’t show it. “I insist. We’ll have plenty of time to talk later. After all, we’re meant to be husband and wife, are we not? We have our whole lives ahead of us, dear.”

Husband and wife. Our whole lives. The words echoed in his mind, striking something deep within him. The truth of it stung more than he cared to admit.

But was that… sarcasm he detected? Something in her demeanor felt off—subtle, fleeting—but he couldn’t quite place his finger on it.

Not that it mattered. Her words were reason enough for him to take his leave.

“Then, I’ll see you later, dear,” he quipped without a second thought—sarcasm came as naturally to him as breathing.

Regret settled in as soon as he spoke.

The word felt foreign on his tongue. Wrong. It was a word he had already given to someone else.

Without another word, he turned and left, making his way back to the courtyard, where a servant led him to the bathmaids. After a brief soak, they brought him to his lodgings.

As he lay on the bed, he could still hear the distant toll of bells. His eyes locked onto the ceiling, his thoughts a tangled mess.

He was here—physically here. Yet he felt like a stranger in his own skin, his mind wandering elsewhere.

“…Henry.”

The name slipped from his lips before he even realized it.

He didn’t know when sleep finally took him, only that his body had betrayed him, even as his mind remained restless.

Hans spent the days leading to the wedding in a daze, the line between reality and fiction blurring with every passing moment.

The castle buzzed with preparations—this was, after all, the wedding of the century, at least for the noble houses involved. The dashing young Lord of Rattay and the beautiful Lady Jitka. A match made in heaven.

But if this was heaven, then Hans would gladly be cast aside as a sinner.

He had little role to play in his own wedding. Hanush had arrived shortly after him and, unsurprisingly, taken full control.

Of course, Hanush wouldn’t trust him to handle not even fuck up his own marriage.

All Hans had to do was recite his vows, exchange the rings, and seal it with a kiss.

The great hall of Lord Erhart’s castle was adorned with flowing banners. Nobles and clergy filled the space, and a bishop stood before them, invoking the blessing of God. The ceremony followed tradition—the vows sworn before witnesses, the rings exchanged as a symbol of their union. Then, the final act: the sealing kiss.

The hall erupted into cheers. Hands clapped, voices called out in celebration. Minstrels struck up a lively tune on their lutes and pipes, and servants moved quickly to prepare the wedding feast.

And just as their lips were about to meet, a black knight came crashing in, sweeping him off his feet and carrying him away into the sunset—rescuing him from the clutches of fate.

But life was no fairy tale. There was no black knight. And he was no princess.

The next thing he knew, he was standing before a door. Behind it, Lady Jitka awaited.

The wedding was already over. The black knight never came for him.

It was a surreal experience. He was a passenger in his own body, his mind screaming to be set free, but his flesh held him prisoner.

Entering the room, Lady Jitka sat on the bed, and Hans had to admit—she was undeniably beautiful. The kind of woman his younger self would have eagerly pursued without a second thought.

And yet, desire did not follow.

Jitka remained silent as Hans approached.

Taking a seat beside her, he found himself at a loss for words.

“What’s wrong, Sir Hans? Cat got your tongue?” she mused, her lips curling into a knowing smirk.

Then, after a pause, she raised an eyebrow. “Or… are you perhaps a virgin?”

It wasn’t an unreasonable assumption—nobles often had mistresses before marriage, but there were exceptions. A man of Hans’ stature and looks, though? Unlikely.

Hans, surprisingly, felt no offense at the question. “No, it’s just…” He hesitated.

It was now or never. For some reason, the words came easily.

“I’ll be honest with you, Lady Jitka.” He sighed.

“My heart already belongs to another.”

Now with a firmer voice, he continued, “What happens tonight is a formality, nothing more. I want that to be clear.”

He half-expected outrage. A slap, at the very least. He would have deserved it. He was sullying their union on the very first night.

Instead—

“Pff—”

Hans turned to her in confusion.

“Pfftthahaha!” Jitka burst into laughter, her shoulders shaking.

Hans frowned, more confused than ever. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, by the saints… They married me off to a man who pines for another. I knew there had to be a catch—with a face like yours, it was too good to be true.”

Hans felt his face heat up. “Don’t treat me like I’m just a pretty face. Show some respect.”

“Respect?” Jitka scoffed, her amusement fading into something colder.

“Well then, since we’re finally being honest—let me speak my piece.”

Hans said nothing, only nodding for her to continue.

“Do you think I wanted this? That I agreed to marry you because of your looks?” Her voice was sharp, laced with frustration.

“You men get to choose—your battles, your mistresses, your futures. But for me? Since childhood, I’ve been told how to act, how to speak, how to breathe—” she pressed her lips into a thin line, her voice tightening, “even how to love.”

“There was someone once—a knight I grew up with. We loved in secret.”

“But secrets never last. We were caught. He was exiled—or so they told me. For all I know, they put a blade in his gut and tossed him in a ditch.”

She exhaled sharply, as if willing herself not to linger on the thought.

“After that, I stopped pretending love had a place in my life. If I take a man to bed, it’s for pleasure. Nothing more.”

She looked at him then, eyes hard.

“You must think I’m the villain, the one tearing you from the person you love.” A bitter laugh escaped her lips.

“But I want this no more than you do. I want the same freedom you men enjoy—the right to love as I choose. To bed whom I please. And to do so without judgment.”

She let out a bitter laugh. “But I can’t. It isn’t allowed.”

As her words came to an end, her breath hitched. Tears welled in her eyes, but she willed them away, taking deep, steadying breaths.

Hans remained silent, waiting.

Her story was far too familiar. He had never stopped to consider how she might feel about this marriage, but now, as he watched her shoulders rise and fall with controlled breaths, he realized—Jitka was just as much a prisoner as he was.

Guilt twisted inside him.

“Thank you for listening,” she finally said, voice softer now. “It felt good to get that off my chest.”

Hans nodded. “Thank you for sharing.”

A wry smile played on her lips. “So then… who is this unlucky maiden I’ve stolen you from?”

Hans felt his breath catch.

"H—" He nearly said it. Nearly gave himself away.

Would she understand? Maybe. But it wasn’t time yet.

“She’s… someone I’ve been through a lot with.” His voice was measured, careful. “It doesn’t matter anymore. She’s gone. She left—” A pause. His throat tightened. “No. I pushed her away.”

Jitka watched him for a moment before saying, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

They sat in silence. And in that quiet, Hans finally understood why the words had come so easily.

Jitka was just as troubled by this wedding as he was.

Perhaps this was God’s way of showing him mercy.

Jitka was the first to break the silence.

“As much as I’d love to spend the night wallowing in despair with you,” she sighed, “we have a duty to fulfill.”

She turned to him, eyes steady. “I’d like to at least make this marriage pleasant. You don’t have to love me, nor will I love you.”

Hans could only nod. He had already sacrificed everything for the sake of duty. To refuse now would be foolish.

“We just have to pretend—at least until you become Lord and gain enough power to live as you wish. And then… perhaps you can go looking for her. Take her as a mistress or something.”

Hans raised an eyebrow. “A sham marriage? How uncouth, blasphemous, even.”

“I’d prefer not to be a political bargaining chip any longer.” Jitka shrugged. “Besides, it’s still technically a marriage. You get your estate, I get my freedom.”

She tilted her head, eyes filled with knowing. “We did go through the motions of a ceremony. I doubt the Lord sees a difference.”

Hans considered her words, letting the idea settle. A sham marriage—deceptive, yet practical.

You make a fair point,” he admitted. “We play our roles, gain our freedom, and when the time comes, we live as we choose.”

He paused, pursing his lips. “Let’s do it.”

“Wise decision, dear husband,” she teased, now more at ease, having gained his cooperation.

Embracing his role, Hans grinned and said, “Very well, my dear wife.”

Jitka smiled and rolled her eyes, but said nothing. Instead, she poured them each a glass of wine.

Lifting her glass, she smirked. “Well then, let’s get this over with. I do, however, intend to enjoy myself tonight.”

She raised her glass against his, then leaned in, fingers trailing across his jaw. Her breath ghosted over his lips.

“After all,” she murmured, “I don’t need your heart, all I need is your body. Ubi amor, ubi dolor.”

Latin. Where there is love, there is pain.

Hans understood. This was a transaction. A duty.

But there was no reason duty and pleasure couldn’t coexist.

His mind may have resisted, but his body—his body would remember.

Sorry, but not sorry, Henry. He was not a perfect man—he never was, never would be.

To soothe a broken heart, he would allow himself this reprieve.

He raised his glass.

“To whatever this is. Ubi amor, ibi dolor.”

And for the first time in a long while, Hans slept befitting of a lord.

Chapter Text

Henry traveled for days, heading towards the location of the duel, the former campgrounds of Sigismund’s army. His journey was one of retracing his steps, returning to places he had once known, as if the road itself would offer him some answers, some closure.

He rode for days, only sometimes stopping to rest when he was absolutely sure it was safe. Once at an inn that offered a brief respite, a warm meal, and a few hours of sleep. Another time, he slept on hay in an abandoned barn, the rough straw scratching at his back, but it was better than nothing. There was no room for hesitation or delay; he had a destination, a purpose, and his resolve was unshakable.

Finally, after days of travel, Henry approached a familiar location—a place where he felt everything had started to go wrong. The lake, the same lake where they had been ambushed by Zizka’s men, looked the same as ever. He stopped, dismounting Pebbles. 

He walked up to the area where they had set camp all those months ago. The scene was now unrecognizable compared to his first return to this place. Back then, traces of the battle were still evident. The grass had been trampled into the dirt, and blood had stained the earth where men had fallen. The memory of that day, the shouts and the clash of steel, still haunted him.

Now, however, nature had reclaimed the land. Save for a few faint traces of the violence, most of the evidence of the attack had disappeared. The grass was green again, the earth had settled, and the lake’s waters lapped gently at the shore. Time had worked its quiet magic, erasing the signs of what had occurred, as if it had all been a bad dream.

But what happened was no dream. He stopped at a collection of haphazardly erected graves. At Zizka’s command, his men had buried those they killed here. 

Henry wondered, as he often did, whether the burial had been a way of easing Zizka’s guilty conscience—a small act of redemption for the lives lost, for the senseless slaughter. He never asked Zizka. It wasn’t something he had ever been able to bring himself to question.

The graves were simple, no names, no marks—just the earth, the dirt, the weight of the lives that had once been. Oats, Tankard, Konrad, Nicholas. Good lads, all of them were.

They had never stood a chance. The ambush had been swift, brutal. One moment, they had been enjoying a drink, playing dice by the fire, laughing at the world’s little absurdities. The next, they were gone—taken by the blades of Zizka’s men.

Henry knelt before the graves, his hand brushing the cool earth. He whispered a soft prayer for the dead, his voice low and filled with sorrow.

"Remember, O Lord, the God of Spirits and of all Flesh, those whom we have remembered and those whom we have not remembered..." His heart ached for his fallen comrades—no, his friends. Men who died an unjust and inglorious death.

"Do thou thyself give them rest there in the land of the living, in thy kingdom, in the delight of Paradise..." He prayed for peace—for them to find rest in a place free from the violence and suffering they had known in life, a place where they could be whole again.

"...From whence pain and sorrow and sighing have fled away, where the light of thy countenance visiteth them and always shineth upon them. Amen." His eyes closed, wishing for them to be free of pain, for their souls to be bathed in the light of peace.

Lastly, he asked for forgiveness. He had, since his last visit, worked with men who had caused their deaths, who had struck without mercy. The world worked in mysterious ways, and now Henry was walking in the very shadow of that betrayal.

But he could not linger here. He had a purpose that could not be ignored. The path ahead of him was still long, and there was no time to waste.

With a final sigh, Henry got to his feet. The weight of his prayer settled in his chest. There was more to do, but in this moment, he had given them what he could.

With one final glance at the graves, He wiped his eyes, steeled his heart, and mounted his horse.

He then made a brief stop at Semine, where he rested at Miller Kreyzl’s mill. They exchanged a few words about what had been happening in the area, though Henry didn’t divulge many details of his own journey. 

The conversation was brief—there was no time to catch up properly. Still, the company of familiar faces allowed him to sleep better than usual, the comfort of old surroundings easing the weight on his mind.

As the sun began to rise, he knew it was time to leave.

Riding again for hours, he eventually came upon Nebakov Fortress—or what remained of it. The central building lay in ruins, reduced to rubble after the cannon shot.

Henry’s eyes lingered on the ruins, a grim reminder of the destruction that had swept through the land. Among the charred stones and broken walls, a fleeting memory crossed his mind—Klara.

It was a brief encounter, but memorable. Their night together was nothing more than a fleeting indulgence, but something about it had stayed with him. He hoped, against all odds, that she had made it out alive.

With no more time to waste, he urged his horse forward, the road ahead still long and uncertain.

After several more days of tiresome travel, Henry arrived at Suchdol Castle. The castle was alive with activity, men and women working tirelessly to rebuild after the brutal attack. 

There was a sense of camaraderie in the air, and those who recognized Henry welcomed him with open arms. After all, he had been the one to ride out and return with much-needed help, a hero in their eyes, even if he didn’t see himself as one.

He was shown to one of the few rooms still available for guests. But in a cruel twist of fate, it was the very room where he and Hans had spent their first night together—intimate, quiet, before everything had changed. 

As Henry lay on the bed, he swore he could still detect the faint scent of Hans lingering in the air, despite the passing days. It wasn’t overwhelming, just a subtle reminder of that night, of the man who had become both a burden and a memory. 

The familiarity of the space, the echoes of their brief time together, oddly helped him find some peace.

He closed his eyes, letting the quiet of the room cradle him into sleep.

Henry had plenty of time to plan his next move as he journeyed forward. Opatowitz, since overtaken by Sigismund’s men, was now a den of vagrants and bandits, and it was unlikely Erik would find any allies there. No, Henry believed Erik wouldn’t be foolish enough to seek help in such a place.

But Northeast of Opatowitz, there lived a man named Bohunyek, a gamekeeper known in the area. While he was largely left undisturbed by the hostiles, it wasn’t due to indifference. Rather, it seemed he had little of value to steal—or perhaps, they simply found him not worth the trouble.

As Henry approached the gamekeeper’s hut, he spotted the man sitting outside, hanging pelts out to dry.

"Can I help you?" the gamekeeper asked, eyeing Henry warily, his hand inching toward his weapon.

“I mean you no harm, Sire,” Henry replied quickly, raising his hands in a gesture of peace. “I only have some questions to ask.”

The conversation that followed revealed more than Henry had hoped for. The most important detail—Erik was alive. That bastard. His stomach churned with fury and disbelief.

Apparently, Erik had stumbled into the gamekeeper’s hut, bloodied and near death. The gamekeeper, no cruel man himself, had treated his wounds, cautious as always, but willing to help someone in need. 

For this, Henry couldn’t blame him. Erik had been left alone to recover, but as soon as he could move, he had disappeared into the wilds again, still injured, though able to travel.

Henry’s gut tightened with the realization that his quarry was not only alive, but still out there, somewhere. The hunt was far from over.

Henry traveled on, putting himself in Erik’s shoes. The man had nowhere to go. The army had long since departed, and with Istvan dead, his purpose in life was all but gone—except for vengeance, of course, against Henry.

Henry moved on, pushing through village after village, the trail growing colder with each passing day. In Horschan, he spoke to an old merchant who had seen many faces come and go. 

“Greetings, have you seen an injured man passing through these parts recently?”

A brief exchange and a few groschen later, the man gave a tight nod. "He passed through here," he said. "But he's not here anymore. He hitched a ride to Pschitoky."

Henry didn't hesitate. The lead was slim, but it was enough.

In Pschitoky, an innkeeper paused as Henry entered, eyeing him warily before answering his questions. “I’ve seen him,” the innkeeper muttered after a few coins were exchanged.

“Could have gone to Miskowitz. Try asking there.”

With that, Henry pressed on, the puzzle pieces falling into place with each word, each direction. 

Henry moved from village to village, each lead pulling him further down a winding path. With every stop, the picture became clearer, forming an image: Kuttenberg.

Making his way to Kuttenberg, he spent several days asking around but to no avail, the trail had finally run cold. 

The city was too vast, with too many faces passing through. Finding a single man in such a place was practically impossible, especially one who didn’t want to be found. But Henry was certain—Erik was here.

That’s good, at least Hans would be safe.

All he had to do now was set up the trap, with himself as bait.

On a walk through the town square, he stopped to admire the fountain, examining it. It wasn’t his first time passing through, but he always found himself wondering where the water came from.

His amusement was interrupted by a harsh announcement that made his heart sink.

“Hear ye! Hear ye! Hans Capon of Pirkstein has been wed to Jitka of Kunstadt, sealing an alliance between their houses!” the town crier boomed.

Was God playing a cruel joke? The timing was too perfect, as if it were meant for his ears. He had known it would happen, had expected it even—it was the very reason he had left. But now that it was reality, the truth still hit hard all the same.

The crier’s words echoed in his head, “Hans Capon of Pirkstein has been wed to Jitka of Kunstadt!”  

A sharp pain gripped his chest as everything seemed to close in on him. His vision blurred, and the world felt like it was spinning out of control. I knew it. I knew this would happen, but the reality of it hit him harder than he ever expected.

His hands began to shake, and looked for something to grip on, trying to steady himself. The ground beneath him felt unstable, and he couldn’t breathe fast enough. I’m going to choke, he thought, his heart thudding painfully in his chest.

The square felt too wide, too loud, too much. He had to get out.

He stumbled toward the nearest tavern, the noise fading into the background, his pulse thumping in his ears. He slid onto a stool, his hands still unsteady as he ordered a drink. Without a second thought, he downed it, the burning liquid a brief, harsh relief.

He slammed the empty mug down, signaling for another. This was the only thing that could quiet the storm inside him.

Henry’s mind was hazy, and he couldn’t remember how many drinks he had downed, but it had been enough to dull the sharp edge of his thoughts. Time seemed to lose meaning in the haze of alcohol, until a voice broke through the fog.

“Care for some company tonight, handsome?”

He looked up, his eyes locking onto the man who had spoken. It was Black Bartosch. The very same man who served von Bergow.

Fuck.

The name sent a jolt of clarity through Henry, and in his drunken state, his instincts kicked in. He reached for his weapon, a momentary flash of alertness cutting through the fog.

Bartosch held up his hands, his expression unbothered. “Woah, calm down. I mean you no harm. I’d just like to join you for a drink.”

Henry’s grip on his weapon tightened, but he didn’t make a move. His thoughts were still muddled, but something told him to stay sharp. The last thing he needed was trouble—especially from someone like Bartosch.

“I’m not here as von Bergow’s bodyguard,” Bartosch said, his tone casual, almost playful. “I’m here as the man you once spent a night of passion with,” he added, his voice carrying a hint of flirtation.

The words hit Henry like a wave, and for a moment, his mind flashed back to that night—the heat, the tension, the unexpected connection. He hesitated, the tension in his shoulders slowly easing. He slowly lowered his hand from his weapon, his guard wavering.

“What are you doing here?” Henry asked, his voice rough from the alcohol, but with a trace of curiosity beneath the sharp edge.

“It’s a long story,” Bartosch began, taking a seat across the table, his tone casual. “But in short, I’m no longer in von Bergow’s service. Left that behind. Now, I’m just wandering, looking for something else.”

He gave a slight smirk. “I came in for a drink and heard whisperings about a madman knocking back drink after drink. Had to see for myself. Imagine my surprise when I saw it was you.”

Henry leaned back in his chair, studying Bartosch for a moment.

"You must have one hell of a story," Henry said, trying to mask the tension in his voice with a forced chuckle. 

Bartosch’s smirk never faded. "More than you might think," he replied. "But let's not talk about that just yet. You're in a bit of a mess yourself, aren't you? Where’s that Lord of yours?”

Henry’s stomach twisted. The mention of Hans struck him harder than it should’ve. He didn’t want to talk about it anymore. Not with Bartosch. 

“Not here for that,” Henry muttered, his fingers tightening around his mug. He had enough on his plate without dredging up old memories.

Bartosch, though, raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Is that so? No more loyalty to the man, it seems?”

Henry shot him a cold look, his jaw clenching, but he said nothing. His mind was swirling, the wine making everything feel heavier. He didn’t want to go down that path.

Bartosch chuckled softly, reading the tension in Henry’s silence. “Fair enough,” he said, his voice lowering into something more dangerous, more intimate. “But you know, we could always pick up where we left off. There was something... memorable about that night, wasn’t there? I have a room in this inn.”

Henry’s heart skipped a beat at the mention. For a moment, his defenses dropped, and he couldn’t help but remember the heat of their bodies, the intensity, the chaos. It had been a long time since—but it felt so far removed from everything else, a fleeting moment in a sea of uncertainty.

“I’m not interested in that,” Henry said, though his voice betrayed him with a tremor.

Bartosch leaned back in his chair, a sly grin spreading across his face. “Of course not,” he said, but there was a glint in his eyes now. “But we both know you’re not the kind to shy away from temptation. Could be exactly what you need.”

“I need it too, you know, It’s hard to find men with… our interests around these parts,” he added, biting his lip.

Henry’s breath hitched, his mind racing. He should get up and leave. But the exhaustion of the past days, the weight of everything pressing on him... it all felt too much. He didn’t want to care anymore, didn’t want to think. Just for one moment, to forget.

He stared into Bartosch’s eyes, the pull of the man’s presence undeniable.

Bartosch's gaze never wavered, like a predator waiting for its prey to make a move. He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "I won't bite, Henry. Not unless you ask."

With a long, slow breath, Henry stood up from the table, his legs unsteady, but not from the drinks. He looked at Bartosch, who was already rising to meet him, an unreadable expression on his face. Henry didn’t speak, didn’t need to.

Bartosch didn’t need confirmation. Without a word, he led the way, guiding Henry through the tavern, ignoring the curious stares of the patrons, whose attentions quickly returned to their drinks.

As the door clicked shut behind them, Henry exhaled, the tension in his body giving way to something else—something inevitable. No more words were needed. The flickering candlelight cast shifting shadows across the room as they closed the distance between them.

And for a while, the rest of the world ceased to exist. 

Note: If you would like to read the full, detailed scene, refer to the notes below. Explanation on why is there too.

The men settled into the bed, bodies now untangled. Neither man spoke at first, the only sounds in the room being their heavy breaths and the slowing rhythm of their hearts.

Bartosch was the first to break the silence, letting out a low chuckle. “Didn’t think you had it in you,” he muttered, eyes meeting Henry’s.

Henry scoffed, turning onto his side, away from him. “Shut up.”

Henry stared at the wall, his thoughts drifting—Hans, Erik, the mess he was tangled in.

“Cold,” Bartosch noted, his voice lighter now. “But it seems like you’ve got a lot on your mind. If you need an ear, I’m here.”

“You expect me to talk to my enemy?”

“Well, you just slept with your enemy,” Bartosch said, then smirked. “ Former enemy specifically. And it’s not like we ever actually fought. I had no idea what von Bergow was up to, I swear. That’s why I left.”

He hesitated for a moment before adding, “Besides, I liked you, you know. I hoped you had survived the ambush.”

Henry turned, curiosity flickering, “You liked me? Why?”

Bartosch shrugged, grinning. “Why wouldn’t I? When we met, you were charming, friendly—well, maybe not so much now—but frankly? You’re hot.”

Henry didn’t blush. Maybe he already knew, or maybe he’d heard it plenty from someone else and had grown desensitized. “Well, you’re not so bad yourself,” he said, finally making an effort to be friendly.

“Thanks? I’ll take that compliment.” Bartosch said, his eyes glinting with amusement. 

Henry didn’t respond right away, his thoughts drifting elsewhere for a moment. He finally met Bartosch’s eyes, a small shrug escaping him.

Bartosch leaned back slightly, his expression softening into something more thoughtful, almost hopeful. “So, will you be sticking around for a bit? Maybe... we can continue this arrangement, if you’re interested.” His voice carried a hint of hope, he wasn’t quite sure Henry would respond.

Henry considered it for a moment, then nodded, his tone stoic. “I’ll be around for a while. We’ll see how things unfold.”

“Good enough for me,” Bartosch said, now smiling again.

The men chatted for a while, the atmosphere lighter now, Henry more open to the conversation than before. Bartosch shared that he’d been in Kuttenberg for about a month, working at the Menhart guild as a swordsmanship instructor. Henry didn’t go into much detail about what happened with Hans but did mention that he was on the hunt for Erik.

Bartosch, showing no ties to the man, nodded thoughtfully, offering his help. “If you’re looking for vengeance, I’ll help however I can. You don’t have to do this alone.”

Henry wasn’t sure why Bartosch was being so kind to him. Was it really just because he liked him? The thought lingered in his mind, but he quickly dismissed it. He didn’t have the luxury of overthinking things right now. Whatever the reason, he wasn’t going to refuse the help. Not when it might be the key to finding Erik and finally putting an end to this mess.

Henry met his gaze, nodding. “I could use all the help I can get.” The weight of his mission felt a little less heavy with someone by his side.

The room fell silent, but the unspoken understanding between them lingered—an alliance forged from two different intentions, each with their own motives. 

And yet, both men were satisfied. Perhaps it didn't matter at all why—only that they had what they needed, for now.

Chapter Text

Rain drummed softly against the windowpane, a quiet rhythm marking the passage of time. Nearly a month had passed since Hans and Jitka’s wedding, yet the weight of change still lingered in the air.

They now lived together in Pirkstein—Jitka, eager to escape her father’s watchful eye, and Hans, finding solace in the only home he had ever known.

The steady patter of rain filled the dimly lit room as Hans stepped into his bedroom. Jitka sat waiting on the bed, her posture at ease, yet something in her eyes held an unspoken weight.

Hans stepped into his bedroom, where Jitka sat waiting on the bed. Her posture was relaxed, but there was a certain weight in her gaze.

“Hans…” she said softly, meeting his gaze. “I have something to tell you.”

Sensing the gravity in her tone, Hans hesitated for a moment before sitting down beside her. "What is it?" he asked, his voice tinged with concern.

Their marriage had been built on duty rather than love, yet in the past month, they had found a sort of companionship—something closer to kinship than romance. Sharing a bedroom had become routine, a source of quiet comfort in an otherwise forced arrangement.

Jitka met his eyes, her expression unreadable. “I’m with child.”

Hans blinked, the words taking a moment to settle. “Are you sure?” His voice wavered slightly.

“I think I know my own body,” she said with a faint smile. “My time of the month should have come by now, and I can feel it—something is different.”

Hans exhaled, nodding. “That’s… good news.” But his voice lacked conviction, his expression distant.

Jitka studied him carefully. “You don’t sound happy. Isn’t this what we were meant to do? Hanush wanted you to secure an heir.”

“I am happy, I think.” Hans said, but the hesitation in his voice betrayed him. “It’s just… complicated. I don’t know what to feel right now.”

Jitka tilted her head slightly. “Do you think this is a betrayal? To that lover of yours?”

"Don't bring her up. I don't want to talk about it," Hans muttered, his lips pressed into a thin line, a furrow forming on his brow.

“…Even if I know that this lover of yours is really a man?”

The rain faded into the background, and for a moment, the world seemed to fall silent. 

Hans froze, his body stiffening.

Had he misheard her? No, he hadn’t. She knew. She knew.

Fuck. What now? What was he supposed to say? How could he explain? How could he deny it?

 “What!?” His voice came out too sharp, too defensive. He sprang up from the bed, eyes wide with disbelief.

Stumbling over his words, he spat, “N-no. That’s outrageous. How dare you? Me? With a man? Don’t you dare—”

“Calm down. I’m not here to criticize you.” Jitka’s voice was steady, almost amused.

Hans scoffed, turning sharply away from her. His hands twitched, restless. Without thinking, he grabbed a few logs and shoved them into the fireplace, as if tending to the fire could smother his own panic.

Jitka sighed, stepping forward and gently taking the firewood from his hands. “Your reaction just confirmed it.”

Hans stood there, trembling slightly. A deep breath, then another. “...How did you know?” His voice was quieter now.

“I’m not stupid, Hans. I put the pieces together.” Jitka folded her arms. “People here talk. A man left about a week before the wedding—Henry, your squire. They say you two were inseparable.”

“That doesn’t mean I loved him, we were just close friends!” Hans said, grasping at any excuse he could find.

“No, but the timing, the way you spoke about pushing her away, the complete lack of any consistent woman in your past—it all lines up too well.”

Hans swallowed, his fingers clenching into fists. He knew he couldn't lie his way out of this one. “What are you going to do with this information?” His voice was tight. “Are you going to blackmail me? Who have you told?”

Jitka rolled her eyes. “First of all, I’m offended that you think I’d blackmail you. What would I gain from that?”

She paused, then added, “And no, I haven’t told anyone. Not that it matters—you two did a pretty good job hiding it.”

Hans exhaled slowly, the tension easing from his shoulders, but his body still felt unsteady, as if it could collapse at any moment. He walked back to the bed, sinking onto it, trying to steady himself.

“…It’s true. It was him,” he confessed, gritting his teeth. “Are you disgusted?”

Jitka, still watching him from a distance, only smirked. “Disgusted? No. If anything, I think it’s kind of hot.” She raised an eyebrow. “Two men together? Honestly, the only sin is that I can't join in on the fun. The more, the merrier, right?”

Hans blinked. Then, to his own surprise, he let out a short laugh. “That’s… I don’t even know what to say.”

“It was a rhetorical question, there’s nothing to say.” Jitka walked over and plopped down on the bed next to Hans. “But I do have some actual questions. Did anything ever happen between you two? Did he love you back, or was this just some one-sided pining on your end?”

Hans scowled. “How dare you? Do you think I’m some lovesick maiden? Of course we… enjoyed each other’s company.” His voice dropped. “At least, that’s what I believed.”

Jitka hummed, tilting her head. “And how does it even work between two men? Where does it go? Did you do... the receiving or the giving?”

Hans felt the heat rise to his face. “I’m not having this conversation with you.”

Jitka’s grin widened, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Alright, alright, I’ll let it go.”

Hans groaned, burying his face into the pillow.

After a brief silence, Jitka spoke again, her tone unusually steady. “None of this changes anything between us. We’re still having a child, and you didn’t exactly have trouble... performing with me.” She gave him a small smirk. “What you do—or did—on your own time? Not my concern. People have far worse secrets than that.”

Hans felt a strange mix of relief and tension as her words settled in. It was bizarre, this conversation with her, but at least she wasn’t trying to make things worse.

Hans lifted his head from the pillow, his face still flushed, as he tried to gather his scattered thoughts. He remained quiet for a moment, letting out a long, shaky breath, attempting to steady himself.

Jitka leaned back, crossing her arms. "You can think about him later," she said, shrugging nonchalantly. "Right now, the only thing that matters is that we’re having a child. That’s our focus now."

Her gaze softened, just the slightest bit. "But," she continued, her voice quieter, more understanding, "you can talk about him when you're ready. I know it must’ve been hard for you, keeping all of this inside."

Hans nodded slowly, though her words barely touched the surface of what he was feeling. His mind kept wandering back to Henry, to what they had shared, to the life he thought could be. But he forced himself to push those thoughts aside. It wasn't the time. Not yet.

“Hanush mentioned it has to be a boy,” Hans said softly, his gaze distant. “I don’t think he’ll give up the estate otherwise.”

Jitka chuckled softly. “I’ll do my best, but I can’t exactly control that.” She flashed a playful smile, briefly lifting the mood.

Hans offered a faint smile in return, but the weight of the situation quickly settled back in. Jitka's tone shifted, becoming more serious. "Would you love the child? Whether it's a boy or a girl, can you find that in yourself?"

Hans paused, considering her words. After a moment of silence, he spoke with quiet conviction. “Of course.” His voice was steady, but there was a deep sincerity behind it.

“I know what it’s like to grow up without parents,” Hans said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. “...And the man I loved had his parents torn from him at a young age as well. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. Not even a child born out of circumstance.”

Jitka's gaze softened, her expression shifting from playful to something more understanding. She reached out, her hand finding his. “Then that’s all that matters,” she said, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

Hans nodded slowly, a sense of quiet resolve settling over him. He squeezed her hand back, the weight of the future pressing on him, but for now, he was no longer alone in it.

Meanwhile, in Kuttenberg, Henry met up with Sam, who had spent the past few months helping with the rebuilding of the Jewish quarter. Henry needed his help and connections to find the man he was hunting.

“Of course, my brother! Anything for the man who saved my life,” Sam laughed.

“Oh, stop that you,” Henry said, blushing and brushing it off. “Any decent man would’ve done the same.”

“I don’t think that’s the case, Henry. You’ve got to give yourself more credit,” Sam said, patting Henry on the shoulder.

Sam sighed, his expression turning serious. “But it’s a bit dangerous, don’t you think? Using yourself as bait?”

“It’s risky,” Henry replied. Henry’s tone then turned steady. "But it’s the best shot I’ve got. He won’t show himself unless I push him out. And I’m not doing this alone. There’s someone else helping me—someone capable."

"Someone capable, huh?" Sam raised an eyebrow. "That lord of yours? 'Capable' is a stretch."

“...Not him,” Henry said, looking away, his tone shifting. “Another man. It’s... complicated. But trust me, he’s strong. He’s not any weaker than me, at least.”

Sam could tell his brother wasn’t keen on saying more, so he didn’t press.

"Alright, I trust you," Sam said, his voice softening. "You’ve never let me down. Honestly, if I’d trusted you from the start, I wouldn’t have had my two best men out of commission for months."

Henry chuckled, a little sheepish. "Sorry about that. But thanks for trusting me."

"Don’t apologize, it was my fault," Sam sighed. "I’ll get my informants on it. I’ll spread the word that you’re in the city. Let’s see if anyone bites."

"Appreciate it. Let me know what you find—you know where to reach me. Take care, brother."

"You too, brother."

Henry made his way back to the inn, where Black Bartosch was already waiting for him. He’d rented the room next to Bartosch’s, ensuring they would be close by.

"So, how did it go?" Bartosch asked as Henry stepped inside his room.

"The trap is set. My brother’s agreed to help," Henry replied.

Bartosch gave a nod. "That’s good news. Now, I suppose all we can do is wait."

The two men stood there in silence, unsure what to say. The unlikely alliance between Henry and Black Bartosch was still new, still fragile in many ways.

Bartosch was the first to break the silence. “You know, I didn’t expect to be working with you again,” he said, his voice low and thoughtful, as he ran a hand over his stubbled chin. 

“There’s a lot riding on this,” Henry said quietly, walking toward the window and looking out into the streets. “If I fail, it’s not just me who’ll suffer.”

“Still worried about that Lord of yours? I think he’s more than safe back where he is,” Bartosch remarked, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

Henry’s jaw tightened, his frustration bubbling to the surface. He had shared just enough with Bartosch to paint a picture of the tension with Erik—why he was looking for the man, how much the man hated Henry.

“Don’t bring him up,” Henry snapped, his voice sharp.

Bartosch raised an eyebrow, unfazed. “You’re the one who brought him up, if I’m being honest,” he said, his tone softening. “But I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to push.”

Henry’s gaze softened as he met Bartosch’s eyes. “...I’m sorry for that, too. You’re being a great help, truly.” He sighed, a weight lifting slightly from his shoulders. He realized, in that moment, how much he appreciated having someone to share his burdens with. The thought of being alone with his worries, especially now, felt unbearable.

Bartosch’s gaze moved slowly over Henry, taking him in with a subtle, lingering look. “No need to thank me,” he said, his voice low. “I don’t have much going on in my life anyway. And I’m getting plenty out of this.” He glanced Henry up and down, a spark of something evident in his eyes.

Henry saw it and shook his head. “Not now, Bartosch. I’m not in the mood.”

“Your loss, I guess,” Bartosch shrugged, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “How about some real sword-fighting instead? A good sparring match with you might help me burn off some of this energy.”

“Alright, I’m up for it,” Henry said, his tone more focused now. “Could use a good challenge.”

With that, the two men left the inn, making their way toward the guild, where steel and sweat would serve as a welcome distraction for both.

As Henry stepped outside into the cool air, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the stakes were higher than ever. The hunt for Erik was closing in, but how it would end remained uncertain. One thing was clear—he would have to face whatever came next, no matter the cost.

Chapter Text

Weeks had passed since Henry had arrived in Kuttenberg. 

Before Henry knew it, he’d slipped back into a familiar rhythm—in the day he wandered around, helping people with all sorts of miscellaneous tasks.

He liked it that way. There was something fulfilling about lending a hand simply because he could, not because he stood to gain anything from it.

He had more than enough Groschen to live comfortably for the rest of his days anyway

At night, he returned to the inn where Black Bartosch would be waiting. It was a quiet sort of comfort, knowing he wasn’t alone while he slept.

Sometimes, they shared more than only conversation, and that was an added benefit.

Henry felt a flicker of guilt afterward, but he tried not to dwell on it—there were heavier burdens to carry. He… he needed this. To move on, he told himself.

Bartosch seemed more than happy with this arrangement so far anyway.

A life like this didn’t seem so bad. After everything he’d endured over the past few months—physically, mentally—it was a welcome reprieve. No more restless nights camped just outside city walls, no constant urgency pushing him to the next location.

Well… if not for the shadow of Erik still looming in the background. That unfinished business still hung over him, stubborn and ever-present.

Just as Henry was preparing to go to bed, he glanced over at Bartosch—already fast asleep, one arm draped lazily over the blanket. 

He felt… nothing.

Not disgust, not affection. Just a vague sense of comfort, perhaps. But nothing like what he had felt for Hans. That connection—tangled with guilt, longing, and something far deeper—wasn’t something he could recreate, and he didn’t think he ever would.

Bartosch was warm, reliable, a little annoying at times—but that was all. And Henry was fine with that.

A knock interrupted the stillness—three short, two long, one short again.

That rhythm. The code only him and Sam knew.

Henry opened the door to find Sam, breathing hard, as if he'd run across half the city.

“…I think we’ve found him,” Sam said, without preamble.

“Are you certain?”

"Not completely," Sam said, his voice steady but laced with frustration. "But it’s the best lead we’ve had in weeks. We’ve searched the whole city. Only one place stood out—a new guild in the slums with a bad reputation, and the leader’s identity is still unknown. Yesterday, we sent one of our men to gather information around the area." Sam’s gaze hardened. "He didn’t come back."

Henry’s expression darkened.

“We only found his body just now, in an alley near the guild’s base.” Sam continued grimly. “Throat slit. Probably for asking too many questions in the wrong place.”

He looked up, meeting Henry’s gaze. “If Erik’s anywhere in Kuttenberg, it’s there.”

It should’ve been good news—finally, a real lead on the man he’d been chasing. But all Henry could think about was the man who’d died for it. Someone who risked his life getting information for him. Someone who hadn’t made it back.

“…I’m sorry,” Henry muttered.

“No need to apologize,” Sam said quietly. “Everyone who agreed to help knew what they were getting into.”

But he saw the conflict still written across Henry’s face. After a moment, he added, “Listen, brother. This is how the world works. You should know that better than anyone. “The only thing you can do now is finish what you started. You owe the man who died that, at the very least.”

Henry stood still for a moment, letting the weight of it all settle in his chest.

“…I will. Thanks, Sam.”

Sam gave a small nod. “So what now? You want me and my men to come with you?”

Henry shook his head. “No. I don’t want to drag you into this any further. I can handle it from here.”

He then thought of Bartosch. “Besides… I have help.”

Sam raised an eyebrow, then tilted his head slightly. “…You mean the man behind you who’s been staring at me this whole time?”

Henry froze. Oh. Right. Fuck.

He turned around to see Bartosch, very much awake, very much shirtless, and sitting on the edge of the bed with a lazy smirk.

“Hello,” Bartosch said, stretching like a cat. “Was wondering when you were gonna introduce me.”

“Oh. Sam, that’s Bartosch. Bartosch, Sam. Listen… I can explain.”

“No need to explain, brother. I think I get the picture,” Sam chuckled.

“No, really. It’s not what you think—”

“Henry, stop. I’m a fucking Jew, not a Christian—have you forgotten?” Sam said plainly. “What you do, or who you do in bed, doesn’t concern me.”

A flicker of amusement crossed his face. “Didn’t peg you for swinging that way,, though.”

“It’s… complicated,” Henry muttered, stumbling over his words. “I’ll explain later. I swear.”

Sam waved it off with a grin. “No need. You’re my brother—that’s all that matters.”

Henry scratched the back of his head, looking sheepish. “Well… thanks. For everything. Really, I mean it.”

Sam clapped him on the shoulder. “Just take care, and don’t get yourself killed. I’ll put my trust in you that you can settle this yourself. You can introduce me to the man behind you properly next time.”

“Alright. Thanks, brother. I won’t fail.”

Sam turned and left, closing the door behind him.

The sound of his footsteps faded into the distance, and with it, the weight of the present moment sank in once again.

All Henry had needed was a location—and now he had one.

“Well, your brother seems like a decent guy,” Bartosch said, stretching a little.

“He is.”

Sam really was a blessing in his life, even though they technically weren’t even related by blood. It could’ve been so easy for them to go the rest of their lives unaware of each other—two strangers who just happened to cross paths in a world too big to care.

But fate had other plans, and somehow, Sam had become more than just an ally; he was a brother in every sense that mattered.

“Didn’t know Jews were that open-minded. Maybe I should convert to Judaism.” Bartosch hummed, swinging his feet off the side of the bed.

“Don’t joke about that. That’s blasphemy.” Henry said, but his tone was more amused than stern.

“Alright, alright. Just saying—he handled it better than I expected.” Bartosch leaned back on the bed with a smirk.

Henry rolled his eyes and sat down beside him.

“So,” Bartosch said, “why’d you turn down your brother’s help?”

“This is my fight. I don’t want anyone else getting caught in the crossfire.”

Henry glanced over. “Besides… I’ve got you, don’t I?”

“We do make a good team,” Bartosch said, then raised a brow. “But tell me you’ve at least got a plan.”

“I do. We go in. We kill the bastard.”

“…That’s your whole plan?”

“There’s no time to come up with something elaborate. We have to move now.”

“Wait— now now?” Bartosch asked, sitting up straighter.

Henry nodded. “If Erik doesn’t already know I’m coming, he at least suspects it. Leaving that body out in the open… that was a message.”

He paused, jaw tight. “It’s how he operates—fear, control. He wants us to hesitate, to second-guess ourselves.”

Henry stood, voice low but steady. “I’m not giving him that chance. The longer we wait, the more time he has to vanish or dig in deeper. I want to hit him before he even knows what’s coming.”

Bartosch sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Alright. You know the bastard better than I do.”

He rose to his feet, reaching for his gear. “If we’re doing this, let’s make it count.”

They made their way through the dim, winding alleys of the Kuttenberg slums, where the guild was said to be located.

Cloaked by night, they moved cautiously through the shadows—two armored men in a place where even a whisper of steel could spark unwanted attention. Every step was deliberate, every breath held in quiet tension.

The air in Kuttenberg’s slums was thick and heavy on the breath, the kind that clung to your lungs and refused to leave. Henry and Bartosch stood in the shadows of a crumbling wall across from a squat, dimly lit building.

“Is this the place?” Bartosch asked, adjusting the strap of his armor. His voice was low, steady, but there was an edge to it.

Henry nodded. “Yeah. That’s the guild’s safehouse. Sam’s guy was found dead just a street from here. This is the only real lead we’ve got—and I trust it.”

Bartosch glanced at the door. “So do we go in, ask for Erik, kill anyone who tries to stop us?”

Henry didn’t hesitate. “No. We kill everyone inside.”

Bartosch looked at him, eyebrows slightly raised. “Everyone? We don’t even know for sure that Erik is in there.”

“They’re criminals. Cutthroats. Murderers. You know that as well as I do.” Henry’s voice was sharp. “Even if Erik isn’t there, the world would be a better place without them.”

Bartosch didn’t answer right away. His jaw flexed. “...I don’t like killing people unless I have to.”

He sighed, glancing toward the building. “But I guess I’ve come too far to turn back now. And let’s be honest—if I didn’t help you, you’d charge in there alone anyway.”

Henry gave a small, humorless smile. “You’re probably right.”

Bartosch gave a firm nod. “But, let’s try to keep stealth for as long as we’re able to. Take out as many as we can.”

“Alright.” Henry agreed.

They crept around the perimeter, slipping through an alley cluttered with crates and splintered barrels. At the rear entrance, a lone guard sat slouched on a stool, barely awake. He didn’t even register their presence before Bartosch’s blade sliced clean across his throat—swift, silent, and final.

Inside, the base was dim and foul-smelling, the air heavy with the stench of sweat, rot, and old blood. A crooked hallway stretched ahead, lined with doors on either side—sleeping quarters, from the looks of them.

Henry and Bartosch moved quietly, methodically. Each room they entered held one or two men, all asleep, unaware of their fate. Throats were slit, necks broken—quick, quiet work. No screams. No noise. None the wiser.

They heard footsteps—slow, heavy, a guard making his rounds. As he rounded the corner into view, torch in hand, he barely had time to register their presence. Henry stepped out from the shadows and drove his blade clean into the man's neck.

Room after room, they swept through with grim efficiency—until the fifth door. It creaked open, and a man inside looked up from sharpening his dagger. His eyes met Henry’s—and widened.

“Intrud—!”

He didn’t get to finish. Henry surged forward, blade flashing across the man’s chest. The scream never came, but the shout had already echoed down the hall.

Too late. The silence was broken.

Shouts erupted from deeper inside the base. Footsteps thundered. The hideout stirred like a kicked hornet’s nest.

“Shit,” Bartosch muttered, drawing his blade.

Three men rushed into the hallway—then four more. Bartosch pushed ahead, engaging two at once while Henry parried a sword that came swinging for his ribs. The space was tight, chaos pressing in from every side. Blades clashed. Sparks flew. Blood splattered the walls.

But the cramped corridor worked to their advantage—there was no room for the enemy to fully surround them. They could only come at them one or two at a time, bottlenecked by the narrow space. It turned the swarm into something almost manageable.

Through it all, Henry caught sight of a man at the end of the corridor.

It was Erik. The man was here.

He stood at the far end of the hallway, arms crossed as if he’d been expecting them all along. His face was unreadable—cool and composed, with not even the faintest flicker of concern.

But there was something off—something different about the man. The way his body slouched, the faint tremor as he stood still, all told a story without a word being spoken. The man was injured.

Henry’s heart pounded. The sight of him after all this time—it was a gut-punch. But Erik still didn’t move. He just watched. 

Then, as the tide of the fight turned decisively against his men—cutthroats falling one after another beneath the relentless, practiced rhythm of Henry and Bartosch.

Erik began to step back, no longer carrying a calm look on his face. He clearly had not expected the situation to unfold in this manner.

He didn't consider that Henry and Bartosch were no ragtag duo—they were skilled swordsmen on their own right, then having trained together for months. Now, they moved like parts of the same machine. The nameless men stood no chance against their onslaught.

Finally, realizing this, Erik didn’t shout a command. Didn’t draw a blade. He simply turned, and began to walk away.

“He’s leaving!” Henry barked.

“I see that,” Bartosch snarled, driving his blade into a man’s gut. “Go after him—I’ll handle the rest of these bastards!”

Henry hesitated, breath ragged, his eyes flickering between his friend and the retreating figure of Erik. There were still at least another 6 men, maybe even more on their way. It would be risky, leaving Bartosch alone to handle the others. If they fought together, it would be a walk in the park.

But Bartosch alone? He was strong, yes, but It would be far too risky.

“Go!” Bartosch shouted, his voice strained but firm. “Don’t let him slip away again!”

With a final, grim nod, Henry surged forward, fighting his way through the cluster of remaining men. He sliced through the first with a quick swipe, ducked under a swing, and kicked another back into the wall. Slipping through the chaos, he pressed on, boots thundering against the warped wood floor.

Henry’s heart pounded as he pushed through the darkened hallway, the clash of steel fading behind him. 

He burst into the alley, his boots slamming against the cobblestones, eyes scanning the shadows. And there, at the end, a familiar figure limped away, one hand clutching his side, the other dragging along the wall for support. Erik.

Henry’s pulse quickened. He had him. Finally.

Erik turned his head slightly, his face pale, sweat beading down his forehead. His eyes narrowed when they met Henry’s, lips curling into a sneer.

"So, you found me," Erik muttered, his voice rough from the pain.

Henry’s lips twisted into a cruel smirk. "I see you can’t run. That duel of ours sure did a number on you, huh?"

Erik’s gaze flickered to the wound on his side, his lips twitching into a grimace. “You’re one hell of a fighter, I’ll give you that.”

Henry stepped forward, his voice steady but cold. “Why run this guild? If you wanted to disappear, you could’ve done it easily. What’s the point? Power? Revenge?”

Erik let out a harsh laugh, his face twisted with contempt. “Power… revenge… sounds like familiar territory, doesn’t it, Henry?” His eyes gleamed with mockery. 

Erik’s eyes narrowed, his sneer never fading. “Just a few more weeks, Henry. I would've gotten to that little birdie, that Lord of yours.”

Henry clenched his jaw. He was right, Erik was after Hans.

Erik’s voice dropped to a venomous whisper. “We’re the same, me and you. You can’t deny that. We both thirst for revenge, both driven by anger. You’re just as much a killer as I am.” 

Henry’s eyes flared with anger. “We’re not the same, and we never will be. At least I’ll still be alive when it’s over. You? You’ll be dead.”

Erik’s smile was cold, a calculated sneer. “That man who came over yesterday—he was one of yours, wasn’t he? The one who begged for his life, crying about a family he would never see again. His blood’s on your hands too, Henry. Don’t fool yourself.”

For a moment, Henry’s chest tightened. But then a cold realization hit. Sam had confirmed the man had no family. Erik was lying, using the same twisted tricks he always did.

Erik continued, undeterred. “You even left that man behind to chase me. Black Bartosch, was it? Von Bergow’s bodyguard. I recognize him. How did you two end up working together? Seems a bit hypocritical, doesn’t it? Teaming up with your enemy?”

Shit. Seeing Erik had caused him to forget. Bartosch was still back there, fighting by himself. He needed to finish this quickly and go back to help.

“None of your business,” Henry muttered, his grip tightening on his sword, approaching Erik. “A dead man doesn’t need to know the affairs of the people who live on.”

Hearing this, Erik’s desperation became more evident, his breath ragged as he glanced around. “You wouldn’t kill an injured man in cold blood, would you? Be honourable, a fair duel to end it all would only be right.”

Henry continued to approach, his eyes cold. “Honor is only for those deserving of it. You lost yours the moment you chose this path.”

Erik let out a strained laugh, his defiance burning through even as his body faltered. “Fuck you.” 

Henry didn’t respond. With a swift motion, he drove his blade into Erik’s chest. The defiance was extinguished in an instant. Henry withdrew the sword, watching as Erik’s body slumped against the wall, his last breath a faint rattle before he collapsed to the ground, lifeless.

A strange numbness settled over Henry. There was no cathartic release, no satisfaction, nor was there regret. But these feelings weren’t something he could process now—it wasn’t over yet. 

He turned around and broke into a sprint, retracing his steps.

But something was immediately wrong.

Why was it silent?

The sounds of battle had ceased. No clashing of steel, no grunts of exertion, no footsteps. Nothing. His pulse quickened, dread settling in his gut.

Each step felt like it carried the weight of a thousand, and every second stretched on endlessly.

The room was littered with bodies, sprawled in unnatural angles, blood staining the floor beneath them. The men Bartosch had taken down after Henry left. The chaos of the fight was evident in the way the corpses were positioned—some with weapons still gripped tightly in their hands, others seemingly frozen in the last moments of struggle.

It was only then that Henry’s eyes landed on the figure slumped against the wall, barely visible in the dim light. 

Bartosch.

A dark stain pooled around him, creeping across the floor like ink, while the silence in the room was suffocating.

Henry’s breath caught in his throat. The evidence of his friend’s fierce fight was undeniable. But the silence, the stillness, it all hinted at a grim truth—Bartosch had been overwhelmed.

A faint groan from Bartosch snapped Henry out of his daze. The injured man’s eyes fluttered open, his voice rough with exhaustion.

“Sure took your time, didn't you, Henry?”

Chapter Text

Henry rushed to Bartosch’s side, dropping to his knees beside him. His eyes scanned over the man, hands hovering uselessly for a moment before settling on the dark stain spreading beneath him.

“Are you alright? Where’s the bleeding?” Henry asked, panic breaking through his voice.

Bartosch gave a low chuckle, wincing slightly. “Could be better... but don’t worry, most of this blood isn’t mine. Would have been better if you made it back earlier though.”

Henry didn’t laugh. His hand darted to the pouch at his waist, pulling out a marigold decoction. “Shut up. You shouldn’t be speaking so much right now,” he muttered, his voice tight as he unstoppered the vial.

“Oh, please. If I can’t joke while half-dead, when can I?” Bartosch quipped, trying to smirk—but the strain on his face betrayed the pain.

“Shut up,” Henry grumbled, carefully sliding a hand behind Bartosch’s back and easing him forward. “If you’ve got time for jokes, I guess you’re not dying.”

He brought the potion to Bartosch’s lips, steadying him as the man drank. Some of the tension in Henry’s shoulders eased as color slowly began to return to Bartosch’s face.

After a few sips, Bartosch let out a ragged breath. “Tell me you at least got the bastard.”

Henry was quiet for a moment, eyes dark. “...Yeah,” he said at last. “He got the death he deserved.”

Bartosch gave a faint nod. “Well… that’s good. So, you got what you came for. Goal achieved, right?”

Henry hesitated, his gaze fixed ahead, unfocused. “I… think so,” he said quietly. “But it doesn’t feel the way I thought it would.”

A dry chuckle escaped Bartosch. “Yeah, revenge is funny like that. All fire and fury until it’s done—then you’re just left with just ashes and more questions.”

He shifted with a grimace, glancing around at the mangled corpses. “As much as I’d love to sit here and help you unpack that little crisis, maybe we do it somewhere that doesn’t reek of death?”

Henry blinked out of his thoughts. “Right—yeah. Sorry.”

He crouched beside Bartosch, carefully lifting the older man’s arm over his shoulder. Bartosch grunted as he stood, but didn’t resist, leaning into Henry’s support.

Together, they moved slowly through the now bloodied hallways. The bodies lay silent behind them, and with each step, the weight of it all faded just a little—though neither of them said a word about what still lingered ahead.

They made their way through the slums, and thankfully, no one dared to bother them. Those who might have considered it thought better after catching sight of Henry, bloodied and furious.

They made their way to the bathhouse on the edge of the slums—run by Betty, someone Henry was well-acquainted with. He had helped her get the place running months ago, back when he first came to Kuttenberg. Those days felt like a lifetime ago now.

It was well past midnight when Henry knocked repeatedly on the heavy wooden door of the bathhouse, the quiet of the street broken only by the echo of his fist. A few moments later, the door cracked open to reveal a bleary-eyed Betty, her expression immediately souring.

“Are you out of your damned—” she began, but her words died on her tongue the moment she saw the state they were in.

Henry didn’t need to say much. A quick explanation, a glance at Bartosch, and Betty’s face shifted from fury to concern. With a sharp nod, she stepped aside and ushered them in without another word.

Betty led them through the dim halls of the bathhouse, her slippers scuffing against the worn floorboards. The place smelled faintly of lavender and steam—clean and quiet, a stark contrast to the blood and chaos they’d just left behind.

She guided them into a small back room, where Henry helped lower Bartosch onto a padded bench. Betty disappeared for a moment to fetch some supplies.

In the meantime, Henry had already begun unfastening the buckles of Bartosch’s armor, easing off the heavier pieces with care. Each clatter of metal onto the wooden floor felt oddly loud in the quiet room. Bartosch didn’t say much, but the tight line of his jaw told Henry enough—every movement hurt.

Betty returned, bringing a basin of warm water, clean rags, and a small wooden box of herbs and tinctures. 

She knelt beside Bartosch, eyes scanning his injuries with practiced ease.

“It looks worse than it is,” she said, dabbing away dried blood from his leg. “There’s a big gash here, but I don’t think it hit anything vital. He’ll probably recover completely... with a few months of proper rest.”

She worked with practiced hands, cleaning and bandaging the wound in silence. When she finally looked up, her gaze landed on Henry, who stood nearby looking pale and anxious.

“Relax, I already said he’ll be fine,” she said firmly, giving him a reassuring nod. Then, with a wrinkle of her nose, she added, “But you— you need a bath. Or are you planning to stay drenched in blood all night? I’ll go draw one now.”

Henry let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Thanks, Betty. Really.”

She shot him a look as she stood. “Don’t mention it. After everything you’ve done for me, this is the least I can do. I won’t ask any questions on what you two were up to.”

Betty left the room to prepare the bath, leaving the two men alone in the quiet.

Henry glanced at Bartosch, guilt weighing on his shoulders. “I’m sorry, Bartosch. You’re hurt because of me.”

Bartosch shook his head. “I chose to be here, remember? Let’s just be glad this is all I walked away with.”

“Still… if it weren’t for you, that bastard might’ve gotten away.” Henry hesitated. “I’ll stay with you, Bartosch. Until you’re fully recovered.”

Until you’re fully recovered. Bartosch stared at him for a moment, his expression unreadable. The silence stretched between them like a thick fog, and then, quietly, he asked, “And after that? When I’m walking properly again… what happens then? Are you going to leave?”

“…And what comes of us?” he whispered in a hushed tone.

What comes of us? Henry’s chest tightened. He wasn’t daft—he knew. He knew the man liked him, maybe more than he should.

But would it be right? Would it be fair to let himself feel something for Bartosch, just a few months after leaving Hans? Was that even what he was feeling? He couldn’t tell. He didn’t even know if it was okay to let himself think of it that way.

He looked away, his gaze falling to the floor.

“I… I don’t know,” he admitted quietly. “I haven’t really thought that far ahead. I didn’t plan for anything past this.”

Silence settled once more, suffocating in its weight. Then Bartosch spoke again, his voice softer, almost tentative. “You could come with me, you know. I’m planning on heading out for a while… traveling, no destination in mind. I didn’t mean to stay in Kuttenberg this long anyway.”

Henry felt the pull of those words, that invitation, but something inside him recoiled. He knew what was being asked—he could feel it in the air, thick and unspoken.

But he couldn’t answer. Not yet. Not when he was still tangled up in the mess of everything he’d been through. He turned his gaze to the floor, his hands fidgeting at his sides, restless.

“That’s… I’m not sure, Bartosch. Really. I don’t know.” The words fell from his mouth too easily, but they didn’t feel true, not entirely. His heart ached with the weight of them.

He couldn’t bring himself to look at Bartosch—not now. Not when he was afraid of what he might see in his eyes. If he had, though, he would have seen the fleeting sadness that crossed Bartosch’s face. The disappointment that quickly masked itself behind a neutral mask.

“It’s okay,” Bartosch said softly, almost reassuring himself more than Henry. “You’ve been through a lot. We can talk about it later—after some rest.”

Henry forced a smile, but it was tired, hollow. “Thanks, Bartosch. For everything.”

A long pause. Bartosch didn’t reply. His silence hung in the room like an unspoken understanding, one that neither of them was ready to face just yet.

Then, the door opened again, cutting through the thick tension. Betty entered with a towel draped over her arm. “The bath is ready, Henry, follow me.”

She paused, turning her attention to Bartosch. “And you—don’t worry, I’ve called one of the girls to help you clean up properly. She’ll be here in a minute.”

“Alright. Thanks, Betty.” Henry said, getting up a little too quickly. He felt like the space was closing in on him, like he needed to escape the silence before it swallowed him whole.

Bartosch didn’t say anything as Henry followed Betty and left. There was no movement, no words to stop him. Just the quiet, the weight of things left unsaid.

As Henry walked out, the door closing softly behind him, Bartosch was left alone in the dim room. He stayed there, staring at the empty space where Henry had been, and he let his thoughts settle in.

What was I expecting?

The question lingered in his mind, but he didn’t have an answer for it. Maybe he’d been hoping for something—a future where their relationship was more than just physical. But as the silence of the room stretched on, he realized it was never going to be that simple.

Bartosch hadn’t helped Henry without ulterior motives. He’d hoped, deep down, that maybe Henry could finally let go. He hoped that, after avenging his past, his heart would open again. That perhaps, just maybe, Henry could find something with him.

But as Bartosch reflected on Henry’s reaction earlier, the truth became clearer. Henry probably never would.

Despite everything Bartosch had done—trying to be the support Henry needed, pushing his own feelings aside to help—he realized the painful truth: Henry’s heart was still tethered to someone else. No matter how much time passed, no matter how many wounds Henry healed, he wasn’t truly free. Not really.

A part of Bartosch had always known this, deep down. But he’d clung to that fragile hope anyway. Now, though, he saw it for what it was—foolishness.

Bartosch sat in the stillness, his heart heavy, the pain in his leg barely registering compared to the ache in his heart. The final remnants of hope, those delicate threads he'd held onto for so long, slipped from his grasp like sand through fingers.

Months passed as Bartosch made his slow recovery. Henry kept his promise, tending to Bartosch with quiet devotion. He brewed marigold decoctions to speed the healing and chamomile brews to ease the constant ache in Bartosch's leg. But despite the care, there was an unspoken distance that grew between them.

They never did sleep together again. Bartosch didn’t initiate, as he once had, and Henry, burdened by guilt and unspoken feelings, never found the courage to ask. The space between them was vast and unsaid, filled with too many things neither of them could voice.

They returned to their separate beds at the inn. Henry’s bed., once filled with the warmth of another, now felt cold and unfamiliar. He had grown accustomed to the presence of someone beside him, to the quiet comfort of shared space, and now, the emptiness felt sharper than he expected.

And yet, Henry couldn’t bring himself to confront his feelings for Bartosch. He cared for the man—appreciated the man’s presence, yes, but not in a romantic way. His feelings were all just so complicated. He didn’t want to burden Bartosch, to drag him into the mess of his own emotions. He had already caused enough chaos in the lives of those around him. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, do that again.

Bartosch continued to work at Menhart's guild, offering only verbal advice to the trainees on their forms and technique, rather than physically demonstrating himself. Every morning, Henry would help him to the guild and return with him to the inn in the evenings.

During the day, Henry assisted Sam with various tasks, repaying the favor his brother had extended to him, though Sam always insisted there was no need.

As time passed and Bartosch’s leg slowly healed he was eventually able to make the journey on his own, no longer relying on Henry’s daily assistance.

One evening, after Henry finished his work at the Jewish quarter, Sam invited him to share a drink at the local tavern.

They sat together, a few beers in, the comfortable silence settling around them. But eventually, Sam broke it.

“Brother, are you alright?”

Henry glanced at him, a bit surprised. “Why do you ask that? Of course, I’m fine.”

“It’s just… you’ve been going through the motions lately. Ever since you got your revenge, it’s like you’ve lost your purpose.”

“I’ve been helping you with the rebuilding, haven’t I? That’s my purpose now.”

Sam shook his head, frustration creeping into his voice. “That’s not it, and you know it. You’re meant for more than just these menial tasks.”

“...I don’t know, Sam. I’m not in anyone’s service anymore. There’s no more revenge to be had.”

Sam’s gaze softened, his tone steady. “You’re more than someone who got your revenge, Henry. I’ve never met anyone with as much potential as you, and it hurts to see you wasting it.”

Henry shifted uncomfortably, his hands tightening around his mug. “Then what am I supposed to do? I...I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

“That’s not true. And you don’t have to go anywhere.” Sam sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Look, I think you need a change of pace. You’ve been stuck in this rut for too long.”

Sam paused, studying Henry for a moment, as if weighing his next words carefully. Then, with a slow exhale, he spoke again.

"Why don't you open a blacksmith forge?" he suggested, his voice steady but soft. "My—our father ran one in the city, before... before things fell apart.”

Sam’s expression softened, a shadow of sadness crossing his face. “After Martin was chased out by my grandfather, it was abandoned—now sitting there, neglected, waiting for someone to bring it back to life. With some work, you could make it yours again. You have the skills, Henry. You could rebuild it."

Henry sat in silence, the weight of Sam's words sinking in, heavy and unfamiliar. The suggestion felt like a spark in the dark—a possibility, a flicker of something more. But doubt quickly followed. Could he really do that? Could he build something new, something lasting?

For a long moment, he didn’t respond. The idea lingered, but he couldn’t quite reach for it yet. Sam’s words had planted a seed, but Henry wasn’t sure he was ready to let it grow.

Seeing Henry hesitate, Sam reached across the table and took his hands firmly. "Look, brother. If anyone can do this, it's you. I’m no blacksmith, but I’ve seen the work you’ve done—the gear you’ve crafted. You’ve got the skill, Henry. I know you do."

Henry met Sam’s gaze, his own thoughts swirling. It was true. He had the craft, the knowledge, the experience. But a part of him had been stuck, unsure of where to direct all that energy now that the revenge he’d sought was finally behind him.

After a long silence, Henry exhaled deeply, the weight of Sam’s words slowly sinking in. He looked at his brother, his expression softening. "You really think I can do it? Start over, like that?"

Sam nodded, his grip tightening on Henry's hands. "I don’t just think it, I know it. You’ve always been more than what you’ve been carrying. This... this could be your chance to build something for yourself. Something that’s yours, without the shadow of all that past weighing on you."

Henry gave a small, reluctant smile, the first he’d felt in weeks. "Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s time for a change."

Sam grinned back, his usual warmth returning. "Then let’s make it happen. I’ll help you—we’ll rebuild that forge together. No looking back."

Henry nodded, a sense of resolve slowly filling the space that had once been consumed by doubt. "Alright, Sam. Let’s do it."

With a much lighter heart, the two brothers continued their drinks, the atmosphere in the tavern now warmer and more comfortable. For the first time in what felt like forever, Henry could smile genuinely, the weight that had hung over him lifting just a little. 

But many, many drinks later, all good things had to come to an end, and soon enough, Sam mentioned he had to leave, something about an early start the next day—Henry didn’t quite catch the details, but it didn’t matter. Sam’s presence had given him a renewed sense of purpose.

Sam squinted at him, swaying slightly on his feet. "You sure? You look a bit... off."

Henry waved him off with a sloppy grin. "Mm, I'll be fine. Just a little tired, that's all. Go on, Sam. I'll leave when I'm ready."

Sam hesitated for a moment, then gave a half-hearted shrug. "Alright, if you say so. But don't get lost or anything." He slurred, before turning to stumble off into the night.

Henry watched him go, feeling the weight of the alcohol in his system. He took a deep breath, steadying himself before setting off down the darkened street.

Henry made his way back through the cold streets of Kuttenberg. The night air bit at his face, sobering him slightly, but the lingering warmth of the evening kept a smile on his lips.

He wasn't sure how, but he made it back to the door of his room in the inn. Opening it, he was surprised to find Bartosch seated on his bed, as if he had been waiting for him. The sight was unexpected, and for a moment, Henry wondered if the alcohol was playing tricks on him.

"Up for something tonight, are you, Bartosch?" Henry asked, a teasing edge to his voice, but his heart was racing for reasons he couldn’t fully place. The atmosphere in the room felt different—charged, somehow.

“No, Henry,” Bartosch shook his head, a sad smile tugging at his lips. “We need to talk. Come sit with me.”

Henry, still hazy from the drinks, nodded without thinking and slowly made his way to the bed, sitting next to Bartosch. He gave a half-smile, a little off-balance, but still trying to keep things light.

“I’ve done enough talking tonight,” Henry slurred, his voice carrying the faint edge of a smile. “But I always have time for you, Bartosch. What’s up? Need some chamomile to help you sleep? There's some in the chest.” He gestured vaguely toward the wooden chest across the room, his words lazy but warm.

Bartosch felt his chest tighten, but he kept his voice steady. “No, I’m fine. Thanks, Henry.”

He took a deep breath, the words heavy in his mouth. “It’s just… I’m leaving soon. I came to say goodbye.”

Henry blinked, the words cutting through the fog of his mind slowly. “Leaving… soon? Why so sudden?” He frowned, trying to piece the meaning together, still slightly drunk and not fully grasping the weight of Bartosch’s decision.

“I think I already told you,” Bartosch replied softly, eyes turning distant, “I never planned to stay in Kuttenberg for long. I stayed to help you with your vendetta, and now that I’m fully recovered, I think it’s time for me to move on.”

Henry’s heart sank, his mind reeling in confusion. “Aww, come on, Bartosch… I just decided to rebuild my father’s forge here in Kuttenberg, you could stay, help me with that…”

With me.

Bartosch felt a flicker of something—hope, maybe—but it was quickly smothered by the bitter reality he’d known all along. Henry’s offer wasn’t meant to be anything more than kindness, Bartosch couldn’t mistake it for anything deeper, even if it hurt.

“Thanks for the offer, Henry,” he said, his voice soft but firm, a bittersweet look crossing his face. “But my mind’s pretty set on leaving.”

Henry sank back against the bed, his words a bit more sluggish now. “I-I’m sure I could convince you, Bartosch. Just… maybe not now, I’m a little drunk. Let’s talk about it in the morning?”

Bartosch nodded slowly, his heart heavy. “Sure, Henry. We’ll talk later. You best get some rest then.”

“Alright then… good night, Bartosch,” Henry murmured, already half asleep as he settled into the warmth of the covers.

Bartosch sat there, watching him, wishing for a moment that things were different.

He hadn’t meant for this conversation to unfold like this. If Henry were awake, sober… maybe, just maybe, Henry could’ve convinced him to stay. But Bartosch knew better than to let himself get lost in that dream. Henry wasn’t his. He never had been, and he never would be.

Bartosch sighed softly, a lump in his throat. When he saw that Henry was finally drifting off, he quietly pulled the covers up, making sure he was comfortable. His fingers brushed over Henry’s face, lingering a moment too long. His heart ached with a quiet tenderness that caused him to tear up.

When had it happened? When had his desire for Henry turned into something deeper? Something more. Something that hurt more than it should. Henry was so many things—kind, caring, funny, generous—but the hardest truth to swallow was that none of it would ever be enough to change the fact that Henry’s heart wasn’t his.

Bartosch gently bent down, brushing a soft kiss against Henry’s forehead.

"Goodbye, Henry. I don’t regret helping you," Bartosch whispered, his voice cracking with the weight of the words as he pulled away. The words felt right to say, even if Henry would never know.

Henry stirred, mumbling something in his sleep, “Mmm…Thank you….Goodbye, Bartosch…”

Bartosch walked away, his footsteps heavy as he grabbed the few belongings he had already packed from his room beside Henry’s.

As he stepped out of the inn and into the night, the cold air hit him like a slap, sharp and biting against his skin. It was nothing compared to the ache inside him, though. That emptiness, the kind that no amount of distance could fill, gnawed at his chest, sinking deeper with every breath.

He knew he was doing the right thing, knew he couldn't stay. As he walked through the city to the gates, Bartosch understood that walking away wasn’t just about leaving a place—it was about leaving a part of himself behind, a part that would never truly heal.

But he didn’t regret it. For that was life, wasn’t it? Pain, longing, and the quiet, inevitable sacrifices made along the way. He had loved, and he had been hurt, and in that, there was no shame. It was just part of his life’s story—and there would be many more chapters to come.

Henry woke up with a groggy head and an empty feeling that settled in his chest, the aftermath of a night filled with alcohol and hazy memories. He groaned, trying to piece together the fragments of yesterday.

First, he remembered his conversation with Sam—how he had opened up about rebuilding the forge. That made him smile, the idea of something new to focus on, something that felt right. A chance to build something meaningful, to rebuild his life.

Then, the memories got murkier. He remembered the walk back through the streets of Kuttenberg, how he had stopped to puke in an alley, the world spinning around him. The rest was a blur, but then there was Bartosch.

Bartosch had been there in his room. They had talked, hadn’t they?

Suddenly, the memories rushed back to him: Bartosch had said he was leaving. Leaving? That was right. They had agreed to talk in the morning. Had they?

Henry got up quickly, his feet unsteady as he walked to Bartosch’s room, the tightness in his chest growing with each step. He knocked lightly on the door, but there was no answer. Confused, he turned the handle and opened the door.

Empty.

His heart stopped for a moment. His chest tightened as he stepped inside the room, looking around. There were signs that someone had been there—bed roughly made, open chest beside it. But no Bartosch.

The realization hit him like a cold wave, a sharp pang in his chest. Bartosch was gone. He had left, without a word of protest from him. The emptiness in his chest spread like an ache, deep and raw. It was a hollow feeling, one that gnawed at him from the inside out. He then remembered Bartosch’s voice in his head, the bittersweet look on his face as he said goodbye.

The weight of his indecision pressed on him, could they have had something together? He had hesitated when he should have acted. There had been the chance, the moment to do something, to reach out and hold on, but he hadn’t taken it. He had been too afraid to take the leap, to risk something that might never have worked, and now the moment was gone.

His heart felt like it was sinking. He didn’t know if it was the absence of Bartosch, or the realization that he had let it slip through his fingers, but he couldn’t shake the cold emptiness creeping inside him. 

Was this how Hans felt when he left? He had no answers, no way to fix it. Just the aching feeling in his chest of an opportunity missed. Every breath felt heavy, like he was carrying something he couldn’t even name.

He turned away and left the room, the weight of his own hesitation heavy on his shoulders. His heart ached, a familiar emptiness settling in. He wasn’t alone. He had friends all over Kuttenberg, his brother was also around.

But in that moment, it didn’t matter. Despite the people around him, despite the fact he now had a new goal, he felt more alone than ever.

Chapter Text

"Hynek."

Jitka raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“If the baby is a boy,” Hans said, his voice calm but certain, “I’d like to name him Hynek.”

Hans had spent months mulling it over. At first, he’d thought of naming the child Henry—or even Heinrich—as originally planned. But the idea sat wrong with him. That would be naming a child after a ghost, a shadow from his past. It wouldn’t be fair. Not to the child, and not to himself.

Henry wouldn't like it either.

Hynek. It was a compromise—familiar yet different. A name with weight, but one that belonged to no one else in his heart. A clean slate.

Jitka was quiet for a moment. The name hung in the air, unfamiliar but not unpleasant.

“Hynek…” she repeated, testing the sound on her tongue. “It’s got a nice ring to it, I’ll admit.”

“But,” she added quickly, a playful edge in her tone, “if the baby is a girl, I’m choosing the name. No negotiations.”

Hans chuckled, nodding. “Deal.”

She grinned. “Imagine that—us making formal arrangements over baby names. This marriage really is a contract.”

Hans smirked, the corners of his mouth curling with dry amusement. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The months passed in a blur, and it was already the middle of winter. Jitka gave birth to a beautiful baby boy.

The boy had golden blonde hair, soft and fine like Hans', and hazel eyes like Jitka.

As promised, they named him Hynek.

The evening air was crisp and cold, a sharp bite to it that made the world outside seem still and distant. Inside, the room was softly illuminated by the flickering light of a crackling fireplace. 

Hans stepped in quietly, the door creaking slightly as he entered. Jitka was resting on the bed, Hynek nestled peacefully in her arms. The baby’s small breaths were steady, and her tired eyes lit up when she saw Hans.

“How are you feeling?” he asked gently, his voice low so as not to wake the child.

Jitka smiled softly. “Better than I thought I would. I was terrified… terrified to bring a child into this world, into everything we’re caught up in. But now that he’s here, I wouldn’t change a thing.”

Hans approached the bedside, his expression warm. “He’s beautiful. You did so well.”

They stayed in silence for a moment, gazing at the sleeping infant.

Then Jitka glanced up at him with a knowing look. “So… how are you feeling? You must be especially thrilled, he’s a boy.”

Hans chuckled under his breath. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t. But really, I’m just relieved you’re both safe. That’s what matters most to me.”

She gave a small laugh, rolling her eyes. “Alright, I believe you.”

Hans looked toward the window. The sky had darkened into a midnight blue, the stars shone in his eyes brighter than ever before. “I’ll go speak with Hanush in the morning,” he said. “It’s already late, and I doubt he wants to be disturbed at this hour.”

“Hmm. I suppose not,” Jitka murmured, then added under her breath, “Though I’m sure it won’t be as simple as just telling him.”

“What was that?” Hans looked at her, not quite catching the last part.

“Nothing,” she said quickly, waving him off. “Anyway, I need rest. So if you’re planning to celebrate, keep it far from here.”

Hans grinned. “Alright, alright. I’ll head down to the tavern and let off some steam there. You rest well, Jitka. I’ll check in on you both first thing in the morning.”

He gave one last glance at Hynek, his heart unexpectedly full, then turned and slipped out.

That night, the tavern rang with laughter and clinking mugs. Hans bought drinks for everyone, and the patrons raised their cups to the newborn child. For a few fleeting hours, joy washed away everything else.

In the reception hall of Upper Rattay Castle, Hans stood before Sir Hanush, tension simmering just beneath the surface.

“What do you mean, it’s not time yet?” he demanded, his voice sharp with disbelief.

“You’ll understand when you’re older, boy. You’re not ready,” Hanush replied coolly.

Hans’s fists tightened. “Don't call me boy! I’m not a boy anymore. Or will I never be ready in your eyes?”

Hanush gave a tired sigh. “You storm in here like this and expect to be taken seriously? This is exactly why you're not.”

“I’ve done everything you wanted!” Hans bellowed, his voice hoarse with frustration. “I got married, just like you asked. The heir you were so obsessed with? He’s been born—and he’s a boy, not that it should’ve ever mattered in the first place!”

Hanush only turned his back. “Calm yourself. Speak to me again when you’re done throwing a tantrum.”

And with that, Hanush walked away, leaving Hans staring after him—speechless.

Then something in him snapped.

“Fuck… FUCK!” he roared, grabbing the nearest thing and hurling it across the room.

He lashed out at whatever his hands could reach—furniture, decorations, anything unfortunate enough to be in his path. The sound of splintering wood and clattering objects echoed through the hall, a wild release of everything he couldn’t say.

His breath came in ragged bursts, fury still burning in his chest. And then, just as suddenly, the fire went out.

He collapsed onto a bench, hands buried in his hair. The fury drained from his body, leaving only a hollow ache.

“…If I can’t even claim my place,” he said quietly, the words catching in his throat, “then what did I give Henry up for?”

He stood there, surrounded by the wreckage of his own anger, a bitter taste rising in his mouth as the silence closed in.

“Sir Hans?” came a quiet, meek voice.

He recognized it—it was Jitka’s handmaid.

“…What is it?” he asked, his voice strained and hoarse.

“Lady Jitka is here… she said to fetch you. In case this happened.”

Hans exhaled a slow, resigned breath. “So she knew,” he murmured. “Of course she did. Only I was blind.”

He stood and followed the maid through the corridor. They stopped at a chamber nearby. Inside, Jitka was already seated, Hynek cradled gently in her arms.

Without a word, she looked at the maid. “Take him for a moment and wait outside.”

The handmaid nodded and left, Hynek in her arms.

Hans stood silently, staring at Jitka.

“How did you know?” he asked, finally breaking the stillness.

“I’ve lived in Rattay for about a year now,” she said, her voice calm but resolute. “I suspected it. The way Hanush talks, the way he holds himself—he’s the kind of man who grips power like a miser hoarding gold.”

She paused, then looked at him directly. “I hoped I was wrong. But it seems I wasn’t.”

Hans looked away, jaw tight. Jitka’s presence grounded him in a way nothing else could—but it also made the disappointment cut deeper.

Jitka’s expression softened as she looked at him. “Look at me, Hans. Hans… I never saw you as just a way out.”

He looked at her, pained and defeated, but she went on, gently.

“I won’t lie—marrying you did offer me a different path. But you’ve never just been a means to an end. We’ve grown into something more than circumstance. If anything, you’re my friend, Hans. A good one. And I care about you.”

She reached out, placing a hand on his arm. “Even if the world refuses to give us what we deserve, that doesn’t mean you’ve failed. Not to me.”

"... I always thought it would be mine," Hans murmured, his voice thick with a mix of disbelief and pain. "I thought I knew Hanush better than this. He was harsh on me, yes, but I really thought..." He trailed off, the weight of his own uncertainty pressing on him.

Jitka's gaze softened, her eyes filled with quiet understanding. "Power changes people, Hans. It’s a brutal thing. He may not be the man you remember growing up."

Jitka leaned back carefully, still recovering, and fixed him with a steady gaze. “And don’t you think you’re giving up too easily? It is your birthright, Hans. It really should belong to you—regardless of what Hanush thinks.”

Hans exhaled deeply, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. "I suppose you're right. But what can I do now? He holds the power, the court’s favor. All I have is... well, my name, and you."

"That's more than you think, Hans," Jitka said, her voice calm but firm. "The court will rule in your favor. And don’t forget, I’m Lady Jitka of Kunstadt. My father is one of the wealthiest men in the country."

Hans met her gaze, the weight of her words sinking in. Her confidence was a quiet anchor in the storm he felt inside.

Jitka's eyes softened. "We’ll go to my father’s castle. It’ll be a safe place to plan. I won’t lie, it won’t be easy. Politics are everything, and neither of us has any real influence. But it’s a start."

Hans thought for a moment, the road ahead uncertain, but something in her words gave him a sliver of hope. "You’re right. It’s not going to be simple, but... I have to do this. Thanks, Jitka.."

Jitka smiled, a quiet sense of determination in her expression. "We’ll make it work. Together."

They left for Kundstadt as soon as Jitka was fit to travel again.

Hanush didn’t say a word. Whether out of guilt or simply because he believed Hans was giving up and running away, he stayed silent. The tension hung in the air, unspoken but palpable, as if neither party knew what to say or how to address the growing divide between them.

The journey was quiet, but the weight of what lay ahead hung heavy in the air. Jitka’s father, Lord Erhart, was more than happy to welcome his daughter back. 

It was early 1404, the political landscape had shifted in Bohemia. The news of Wenceslaus IV escaping from his captivity in Vienna, freed by John of Liechtenstein, spread through the kingdom. The escape, swift and unexpected, had shaken the court, and the ripples started to be felt across the region.

For Hans and Jitka, this turmoil offered both a challenge and an opportunity. They settled in Lord Erhart’s castle, a safe haven where they could begin gathering the support they needed. 

Jitka’s family, wealthy and influential, had ties to many who would prove useful in their pursuit. With each passing day, they worked on building alliances, sending word to those sympathetic to their cause, and quietly preparing for the long battle ahead.

It wouldn’t be easy. The court was a ruthless game of power, where standing meant everything, and they had none. But they weren’t without resolve. Both had their sights set on their goal, and nothing—no obstacle, no force—would stop them from reaching it. Whatever it took, they would fight for it.

The years slipped by in the blink of an eye, the seasons shifting in their endless cycle. Five years had passed, each one leaving its mark, and yet it felt as if time had both rushed and slowed all at once. Hans and Jitka had made much progress in securing their influence, though it still wasn’t quite enough to sway the courts just yet.

Hans sat in his study, buried in papers—sorting through political matters, replying to letters, and managing the ever-increasing demands of his current life.

Hans sometimes found himself thinking about Henry, the memory of him still vivid in his mind, as clear as the day they had parted. The way he had laughed, the way his eyes had lit up with a fire that Hans had admired so much. Henry had been a part of his life, a piece of his past that, despite everything, he couldn't quite forget. 

He had often imagined what their reunion would be like—what he would say, how it would feel. Was Henry even still alive? No, he had to be. Had he moved on? For all Hans knew, Henry might already be married to some random wench, and the thought of it twisted painfully in his chest.

There were so many things he wanted to say, so many things left unsaid between them. But it wasn’t time yet, perhaps never would be. The weight of it all pressed on him at times, but he knew he couldn't afford to dwell on it. Not now, not with everything on the line.

If he hadn’t left, Hans wondered if he would have had the courage to walk the path he was on now. 

He doubted it. He would have been too scared, too uncertain—too weak.

He would have run away and never found the strength to face what lay ahead. Looking back on his younger self, he could see how far he had come—how much he had changed. It was Henry’s absence that had given him the push he needed, the final push to step away from the shadow of his past and into the unknown.

But sometimes, in the quiet moments, the longing for the man he once was—the man he had lost—still lingered, just out of reach.

The soft creak of the door broke his focus, and before he could look up, a small voice interrupted.

"Dad!"

A young boy came dashing in, his eyes locked straight onto Hans with the intensity of someone who had something important to share.

It was Hynek, who had grown into a bright and lively young boy, his energy contagious to all those around him.

Hynek had grown into a bright and lively young boy, his energy contagious to all those around him. His hair, a messy mop of golden blonde, fell carelessly over his forehead, much like Hans' own when he was younger. His hazel eyes, though still soft and full of wonder, gleamed with the curiosity of a child eager to learn and explore the world.

“Dad! Dad! I'm going to bed! Come and tell me my bedtime story!” Hynek’s excited shout echoed through the room as he scrambled into Hans’s lap.

Jitka appeared behind him, a gentle smile on her face. “Sorry, I couldn’t stop him,” she said with a soft chuckle, leaning against the doorframe.

Hans couldn’t help but laugh, rubbing his son’s tousled hair. “It’s alright, Jitka, no one can stop this boy when he's this determined. What story do you want tonight?”

“Tell me about the black knight again! The story where he saved you from the Cumans!” Hynek’s eyes were wide with excitement, and he looked up at his father with eager anticipation.

“Again? Don’t you want to hear something different this time? Maybe a story where I don’t get captured? One where I’m the hero!” Hans teased, raising an eyebrow.

“No! The black knight is way cooler than you! Whoosh, whoosh!” Hynek swung his arms around, mimicking sword movements with all the enthusiasm of a young knight in training.

“Ouch, that hurts my feelings, you rascal,” Hans said with a playful sigh, ruffling his son’s hair affectionately.

“Hehe,” Hynek giggled, clearly enjoying the banter.

Hans smiled, leaning back in his chair as he looked at Jitka, her expression warm and fond. “Alright, I guess it’s time to get you to bed. Come on, up you go,” he said, gently nudging Hynek off his lap.

Hynek jumped up, eyes sparkling with excitement. “Yay! I’ll race you to my bedroom!” he declared, already running toward the door.

Hans got up from the chair, shaking his head. “I don’t know where he gets all that energy from.”

Jitka watched with an amused smile. “You say that like you’re an old man. I can’t be married to an old man when I’m still this young,” she teased.

Hans chuckled softly. If he didn’t look older, he at least carried a more mature presence, molded by the years spent maneuvering through the intricacies of court politics. Jitka, however, still exuded the same grace and beauty, timeless and unaffected by the passage of time.

“Maybe you are getting old.” Hans teased back, walking toward the door.

Jitka playfully slapped his back. “Oh, shut up. You better hurry up before Hynek throws a tantrum.”

“Alright, alright,” Hans grinned, breaking into a half-sprint to catch up with their son.

Jitka smiled, shaking her head affectionately as she followed them.

Chapter Text

It was late in the year 1410, and the world had begun to settle into the quiet rhythm of winter. After years of struggle, whispered alliances, and careful maneuvering, their endeavors had come to fruition. They had returned to Rattay in triumph, the city Hans called home, but now felt like the final stage in a journey that had taken them to places both dark and brilliant.

The days leading up to their return had been marked by quiet triumph. Hanush, who had once held tightly to his power, had finally relented. In a move that was as calculated as it was inevitable, he agreed to step down from his position of influence, citing ill health as the reason for his departure. The excuse, though thin, was enough to preserve what little pride he had left. The people would never know the true reason—only that his time had come to an end.

And so, all that remained was the formal announcement in court. The halls of power would soon echo with the sound of a new chapter being written. Hans, whose claim to the position had once seemed distant, now stood on the verge of securing what was rightfully his. The path ahead was clear, though not without its own challenges. There was still work to be done, and yet, for the first time in years, it felt as though the storm was finally subsiding.

The journey had been long and fraught with peril, but now, as the cold winds of winter began to blow through the streets of Rattay, they could see the first glimmers of a future that had once seemed beyond their reach.

On a late evening, the frost clung to the windows and the wind howled softly beyond the stone walls, whispering of winter's grip.

In Hans’ study, however, the air was warm and cozy. Hans sat at his desk, hunched over parchment, sorting through stacks of documents and penning careful replies. Beside him, Jitka sat with a fur draped over her shoulders, quietly assisting—reading over letters, sealing scrolls, and occasionally scribbling notes of her own. 

They worked in companionable silence, the only sound the gentle scratch of quills and the distant crackle of the hearth.

“Let’s take Hynek somewhere,” Jitka suddenly said, stretching lazily.  “He’s turning seven soon. We should celebrate—show him the world a little, get him a proper gift.”

Hans leaned back in his chair, thumbing through a stack of letters. “The court’s ruling is only a few months away. There’s still so much to do before then…”

Jitka rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on, Hans. We’ve already won. Showing up at the court is but a formality at this point.”

The pair had truly toiled over the past few years, slowly but surely winning the court’s favor and carving out a place of their own. Bit by bit, their influence grew—built not on noble blood alone, but through relentless effort and careful maneuvering.

At long last, Hans was on the verge of claiming what was rightfully his—his birthright finally within reach.

But it still wasn’t his yet—not officially. The final verdict loomed just ahead, and part of him wondered if he truly had the right to rest now, so close to the finish line. Doubt crept in, quiet but persistent. Could he afford to let his guard down, even for a moment? Or would one misstep cost him everything he’d fought for?

“It would just be a short trip,” she added quickly, seeing his hesitation. “A week or two, at most. It would be great for Hynek—and we deserve a break, if anything else.”

Hans sighed, setting the papers aside. “You already have somewhere in mind, don’t you?”

Jitka grinned. “You know me too well. I want to go to Kuttenberg.”

“…Kuttenberg? It's a little far, don't you think?” The name alone made Hans stiffen. He hadn’t set foot in the city in years. There was nothing waiting for him there—nothing but old ghosts and memories best left buried.

Sensing the tension, Jitka nudged his knee gently. “It’s perfect for a vacation, Hans. A big city with enough shops to find something special for Hynek. It’ll be good for him to see more of the world.” 

She paused, then added with a playful glint in her eye, “And I’m sure there’ll be no shortage of pretty city boys waiting for me.”

Hans scoffed. “So that’s your real reason. What an unfilial wife.”

Jitka gave him a mischievous look. “Please. You’re my husband in name only. It’s not like we’ve… done much over the years.”

Hans nearly choked on his breath, glancing toward the door. “Gods, will you keep your voice down? What if Hynek hears you?”

Jitka shrugged with an unapologetic smile. “Oh hush, he’s already asleep. Besides, ulterior motive or not, everything else I said still stands.” She tilted her head. “So? Are we going?”

Hans rubbed the bridge of his nose, letting out a reluctant sigh. “…Fine. But we only stay for a week.”

“A week is plenty,” Jitka said brightly. “Though let’s see if you’re still saying that once we actually get there.”

Hans gave her a pointed look, lips tugging into a reluctant smile. “Please. What am I if not a man of my word?”

Jitka leaned in, brushed a kiss against his cheek, and rose. “We’ll see. I’ll go tell Hynek. He’s going to be thrilled.”

And thrilled he was. From the moment he heard the news, Hynek’s excitement was boundless. His energy was relentless, peppering them with questions and bouncing around the halls like a whirlwind until they finally agreed to leave within just a few days.

The journey to Kuttenberg was long, but uneventful. Armed escorts kept the roads safe, and a small entourage of handmaids and attendants—along with their loyal steward—ensured the family traveled in comfort. 

Hans usually rode alongside his men, only sometimes joining Jitka and Hynek in the carriage for conversation.

“So,” Jitka began, glancing at Hynek with a warm smile, “what would you like for your birthday, little lord?”

“A sword!” Hynek answered instantly, eyes lighting up. “I want my own sword!”

Hans raised an eyebrow. “Absolutely not. You’re still a bit too young for that, don’t you think?”

“Aww…” Hynek pouted, slumping back against the seat.

“Hang on now, Hans,” Jitka said, her voice light but firm. “Starting early isn’t a bad thing. He’s old enough to begin learning.”

“He can start with a wooden one,” Hans replied, crossing his arms. “A real blade is another matter. It’s dangerous.”

“He doesn’t have to use it right away,” Jitka reasoned. “We can keep it stored safely until he’s ready. But it’s a symbolic gift—it’ll mean something to him.”

Hynek’s ears perked up at that, and he turned to Hans with wide, pleading eyes. “Please, Father?” he asked, clasping his hands dramatically. “I’ll be careful. I promise!”

Hans sighed, glancing between his ever-persistent son and his equally persuasive wife. He rubbed his temples with a groan, already seeing himself outvoted. “You two are going to be the death of me,” he muttered.

Jitka just grinned. “But we make a good team, don’t we?”

Hans gave a helpless laugh. “Alright. But it’s staying under lock and key until I say otherwise.”

“Yay!” Hynek shouted, practically bouncing in his seat.

“I suppose I’m raising a little knight now,” Hans muttered, unable to hide his fond smile.

“I was speaking with one of the handmaids earlier,” Jitka began, adjusting her shawl against the chill from outside, “and she mentioned a well-known forge over in Kuttenberg. They’re said to craft some of the finest blades in the region—strong, balanced, beautifully made.”

“A forge in Kuttenberg?” Hans echoed, the words landing oddly on his ears. He couldn’t place why, but something about it stirred a strange feeling in his chest—an almost imperceptible tightening, as though some long-forgotten thread had tugged gently at the edge of his thoughts.

“A forge! Let’s go to the forge!” Hynek also echoed, causing Hans to lose the feeling.

He leaned back slightly in his chair, brow furrowed. “A proper forge, then. That does sound promising.” He glanced at Hynek, who was practically bouncing with anticipation. “If we’re getting him his first sword, even if it won’t be used for years, it ought to be something made with care. Something meant to last.”

But as he spoke, the strange feeling returned—this time just beneath the surface. Like a memory trying to rise through fog.

She smiled. “Exactly. Something he can treasure and grow into.”

Hans nodded. “Alright. Once we’ve arrived and have settled in, we’ll pay them a visit. Custom work takes time, so best we get started as early as possible.”

They soon arrived in Kuttenberg, greeted by the familiar buzz of the bustling city nestled under a soft blanket of early winter frost. Their destination was a stately estate tucked away on the quieter side of town—an old property belonging to Jitka’s family, elegant and well-maintained despite the years.

The morning after settling in, Jitka stretched by the hearth, then turned to Hans with a smile. “Why don’t you two go visit the forge today? I don’t know much about swords anyway. And I have a few… acquaintances to catch up with.”

“Acquaintances, huh?” Hans quirked an eyebrow, a teasing lilt in his voice.

“Yes, acquaintances,” she replied, brushing a hand through her hair dramatically. “Don’t ask too many questions, Hans. Just take Hynek and go. The forge isn’t far—it’s over in the Jewish quarter.”

Hans chuckled, shaking his head. “Alright, alright. Come on, Hynek. Let’s go get your gift made.”

“Let’s go!!” Hynek shouted, bouncing in place, practically halfway out the door already.

Hans chuckled, grabbing his cloak. With a few guards accompanying them—not that Kuttenberg was particularly dangerous, but better safe than sorry—they set off through the morning mist that still clung to the narrow cobblestone streets.

On the way, Hans found his thoughts drifting. The forge... it had only come into prominence within the past decade. That timing alone stirred something in him. Could it really be...? He hadn’t let himself hope—hadn’t dared to. There were hundreds of blacksmiths in Bohemia. And yet, something about this one tugged at his memory. The name hadn’t been mentioned, only the quality of the work, but now, as they got closer, his chest tightened with a quiet anticipation he couldn’t fully explain.

Maybe it’s just a coincidence, he told himself. Most likely is.

Lost in thought and struggling to keep up with Hynek’s unrelenting excitement, Hans barely registered how quickly time passed until they arrived in front of the forge. Despite it being early morning, a respectable line had already formed at the entrance, townsfolk huddled in cloaks.

Yet the moment the crowd spotted Hans and Hynek—with their guards, noble bearing, and fine attire—they quickly stepped aside with a mix of curiosity and deference, murmuring polite words and clearing a path toward the counter.

Hans felt a bit awkward about this, but wasn’t one to turn down this opportunity.

There, behind it, stood a young man—no older than sixteen—with ash-dusted sleeves rolled up and soot smudged along his jaw. His eyes widened when he saw the group approach. Straightening quickly, he cleared his throat and said, voice cracking slightly, “H-How can I help you today, sirs?”

Hans offered a small smile. “No need for such formality. We’re just here to have a sword made for this one.” He rested a hand gently on Hynek’s shoulder.

“Yes! My own sword!” Hynek beamed, puffing up proudly like a knight in a storybook.

“Something fancy, yet practical” Hans said thoughtfully, leaning on the counter. “He won’t be wielding it yet, but it should still be presentable—engraved, if possible. Perhaps the house of Leipa motif—in yellow, on the hilt. Not too flashy, just strong, like a knight’s blade should be.” He ruffled Hynek’s hair. “A noble sword for a noble boy.”

Hynek puffed up at that, eyes gleaming. “And a black gem on the pommel!”

The apprentice blinked, hesitating. “Ah… for something like that, it’s best if the master handles it personally. I’ll go fetch him.”

He disappeared behind the heavy curtain, the faint clanging of hammers and hiss of quenching water audible for a moment before the sound was muffled again. Hans waited, arms crossed, glancing idly around the forge—the quality of the blades on display was undeniable. Clean lines, balanced forms, a few ornamental hilts in glass cases. Whoever was behind them knew their craft.

The master. So the person behind the counter was only the apprentice. His heart paused, for a moment wondering ifs he was about to see a familiar face coming out from behind the shop.

He was then distracted by Hynek, who was filled with many questions. He described the technique behind the forging of the blades, mentioning how the steel was had to be heated to an appropriate temperature, then tempered to a rhythm, evenly, across the blade.

“How do you know so much, father?” Hynek said, eyes gleaming.

Hans smiled at Hynek's question, his gaze softening as memories flooded back. "Well... there was someone who rambled about these things after he'd had a few too many drinks," he said with a chuckle, a nostalgic glint in his eyes.

The apprentice returned alone after a few moments, wiping his hands on his apron a little too quickly. “I—I’m sorry, my lord. The master’s currently busy at the forge, deep into some delicate work. He asked me to take your order as best I can.”

Hans raised an eyebrow, curious. “And what is your master’s name?”

The boy stiffened—only for a second—but enough that a careful observer might have noticed. “Martin,” he said quickly, eyes darting down. “Master Martin. He means no offense, Sir, he really is busy.”

Martin.

A familiar name, but It wasn’t him.

Hans wasn’t sure if he was to be disappointed or relieved.

Hans gave a thoughtful nod,  “Very well then.”

He began describing the blade in more detail—Toledo steel for the core, a fuller running nearly the length of the blade, not too heavy. Hynek only nodded excitedly beside him in agreement.

The apprentice scribbled everything down, his hand trembling slightly.

“That should do it,” Hans said at last. “Three days, you said?”

“Yes, my lord. It will be ready by then. We’ll send it to your residence once it’s finished.”

“No need,” Hans replied, setting a pouch of Groschen down on the counter. “We’ll come pick it up ourselves.”

The apprentice nodded, trying not to visibly sigh in relief. “Th-thank you for your business, sires, Truly.”

With that, Hans turned, cloak trailing behind him, Hynek excitedly chattering at his side about what he’d name his sword. Their guards fell into formation and the group began to depart.

As they exited the forge, a figure stood in the shadows of the workshop’s second floor, partially concealed by the heavy window frames.

Henry watched them leave—his gaze fixed on Hans’s retreating form, his body frozen, breath caught in his chest.

He had heard that voice—one he hadn’t heard in so long, drifting from the back. Felt it deep in his chest.

His heart wasn’t ready for this.

And now… he wasn’t sure what he should do.

Henry had spent the past decade building up the forge’s reputation in Kuttenberg. It wasn’t difficult, really. His skill with the anvil, coupled with word-of-mouth, had caused the business to blossom beyond his expectations. Despite his growing fame, he always offered fair prices, never letting success cloud his principles. For that, more and more people sought his work, trusting the craftsmanship that bore his name.

A few years ago, he had taken on an apprentice—an orphan by the name of Matthias. The boy had reminded Henry of himself when he was younger, lost in the world, desperate for something to hold onto. Matthias had tried to steal from the workshop once. Henry caught him in the act but instead of turning him out, he took the boy in. He saw in him a reflection of his own past and offered a chance for redemption.

Henry used the alias "Martin" in the forge, both as a tribute to his fallen father and to keep his past buried. Only a handful of trusted souls knew his true name. The rest were left with the story of Martin, the blacksmith who built his reputation from nothing. It was a fresh start—a chance to leave the past behind, or so he thought.

As Hans’s figure grew smaller in the distance, Henry lingered at the window, unable to tear his gaze away. 

Was that… his son? Did Hans have a family of his own now? He seemed so happy, so content. Henry couldn’t help but wonder if he had moved on from everything that had happened between them. Perhaps it was for the best. He had no right to reach out, no right to disrupt the life Hans had built.

He remained there, his thoughts tangled and uncertain. Time passed—how long, he couldn’t say—before he was snapped back to reality by his apprentice’s voice.

"Master Henry," Matthias said, appearing at the door with a hesitant look, "there’s a woman here to see you. She says she knows you… and she even knows your real name, so I brought her to you."

Henry’s heart skipped a beat, and he turned slowly. From behind Matthias stepped a familiar face, one that he hadn't expected to see again.

It was Theresa.

“Surprise, Hal!”

“Tess?!”

Henry stood frozen, his eyes wide with disbelief. For a moment, all the air seemed to leave the room, and he couldn’t find the words.

Theresa, standing there with a small, playful smile, crossed her arms. She watched him, clearly amused at his stunned silence.

“Right, I guess you two know each other,” Matthias said awkwardly, glancing between them. “Uh, I’ll just... go back to running the workshop.” He quickly turned on his heel and left, his footsteps fading down the hallway.

Once they were alone, Henry finally found his voice, though it was still thick with surprise.

“What are you doing here, Tess?”

Theresa laughed softly, her gaze softening as she stepped closer. “What, I can’t pay my best friend a visit? Especially when he doesn’t want to visit me?” Her tone was teasing, but there was an underlying warmth, as if picking up right where they left off all those years ago.

They had exchanged letters over the years—only a handful, given the distance and the difficulty of keeping in touch. Mostly, they’d written to let each other know how life was treating them.

Henry had spoken of his forge—how it was thriving, how he’d taken on an apprentice. They’d both shared what they were up to, but it wasn’t the same as sitting here, face to face.

A sense of nostalgia washed over Henry as he watched her now, his heart momentarily heavy with the years they had lost. But curiosity soon took over, and he had many questions to ask.

“How did you get here? It must’ve been dangerous!” Henry asked, voice dripping with concern.

“Don't worry Hal, I hitched a ride with some people traveling from Rattay,” Theresa continued, her voice steady. “I’m acting as a handmaid for the trip, I’ll also be returning with them later.”

Henry’s eyes widened as the realization hit him, his thoughts racing. "Don’t tell me… You came here with Hans!?" The coincidence felt too improbable to ignore, and it struck him with an unsettling clarity.

"...Yeah, I did. It was the safest way, I have a friend who works in the castle, she got me a place amongst Lady Jitka's accompanying handmaids." Theresa explained.

Henry’s lips tightened into a thin line as he processed the information, a mix of surprise and something darker flickering in his expression. “Of course you did," he muttered, the weight of the revelation settling on him. "Seems like fate’s playing tricks on us all."

Theresa took a slow, deliberate breath, her posture stiffening for a moment as she looked at Henry. "Don't worry, he didn't know who I was."

She seemed to sense the tension in the air. Without another word, she moved to one of the nearby chairs, lowering herself into it with a sigh. 

Henry hesitated, his gaze lingering on her before he followed her to the seat, his movements more cautious now. As he sat beside her, he noticed the exhaustion in her eyes—this wasn’t a casual visit.

Henry stared at her for a long moment, piecing together the fragments of her words. His mind raced, trying to connect the dots. The timing, the sudden arrival of Hans and his family—there was no such thing as coincidence, not with everything that had happened between them. His brow furrowed as he leaned forward, the suspicion growing within him.

"Wait a minute..." he began slowly, the realization dawning on him. "Why would Hans even come here to the forge? The timing's too... perfect. And now you're here, right after he left. It's almost as if you—" His voice trailed off as he looked at her more closely, searching for the truth.

Theresa’s expression softened, but there was no hint of surprise in her eyes. Instead, she simply looked at him with a steady, almost resigned gaze. After a moment, she spoke, her voice quiet but resolute.

"I… I may have slipped the idea to Lady Jitka. I thought it might help, getting him here. It was never about causing trouble, Hal." She paused, her gaze turning distant.. "I thought maybe if he saw the forge, saw you... that you two would talk things out."

“Why would you do that, Tess? I’m content with where I am now.” Henry’s voice held a note of confusion, though a part of him felt he should be angry—he wasn’t.

“But you’re not, Hal,” Tess replied softly, her gaze steady. “I can tell. From the letters, and now, even just looking at you... you’re carrying something. A sadness I can’t ignore. Things have changed in Rattay. Hanush is gone, and Hans is practically the Lord now. Everything’s  different now, maybe you guys can meet again?”

“It’s exactly because everything’s changed,” Henry muttered, running a hand through his hair, his voice tinged with frustration. “It’s been more than seven years, Tess. He has a family now—he brought his son with him, and they looked happy. He’s probably forgotten all about me by now.”

“Trust me, Henry, he hasn’t forgotten about you.” Theresa said empathetically. 

“How can you know that? How can you be so sure?” Henry's voice tightened, frustration creeping in.

Tess exhaled slowly, her expression softening. “Alright, you want the truth? The friend who works in the castle? It was Lady Jitka. She was the one who brought me here. She knows, Henry. About the history between you and Hans.”

Henry’s face went slack with shock.

Theresa then continued, “I was just as surprised when she found me in Rattay. And the fact that she’s gone this far to bring you two together? That should tell you everything.”

“That's…” Henry was at a loss for words. He didn’t know much about Lady Jitka, if anything at all. She had orchestrated this, and Hans was completely unaware? A whirlwind of questions flooded his mind.

Theresa sighed softly, as if she could see the turmoil on his face. “Henry, you need to stop overthinking this. You can ask Lady Jitka yourself later, jJust talk to Hans first.”

“But… what if he doesn’t care? Doesn't want to speak to me?” Henry's voice faltered, his expression tight with pain, his eyes reflecting the weight of the thought. “I don’t think I could bear that, Tess.”

“You won’t know unless you try. And believe me, if you don’t, it’ll be something you’ll regret for the rest of your life.”

Henry paused, the rawness of his emotions evident. He let her words sink in, the truth of them cutting through the fear that held him back. Slowly, with a deep breath, he nodded.

“Alright… I will.”

Chapter Text

Henry and Theresa spent some time catching up—there was a lot to share after all these years, letters could not convey everything they had wanted to say. Laughter mixed with quiet moments, stories traded like old habits returning.

Eventually, Theresa stood and stretched. “Alright, it’s been good seeing you again, Hal. But you really should go find Hans before it gets late. We can continue our conversation later.”

Henry sighed, this was a bridge he would have to cross. “...Yeah. I guess I should.”

“Come on,” she said, tugging her shawl around her shoulders. “I’ll walk you there.”

Evening had fallen by the time they stepped out of the workshop, the streets cloaked in that soft amber hush before night.

As they walked, Henry glanced over. “So… what exactly do I do? Just knock and ask for h—”

Not far from the forge, Henry spotted a figure cloaked in black, cornered by two rough-looking men. The hood was drawn low, but even in the dim light, the man's posture—tense and too composed—stood out like a sore thumb.

"Stay back, Theresa," Henry murmured, his tone quiet but firm.

He stepped forward, boots crunching against the dirt road as he approached the confrontation.

“Come on, just hand it over. You look like you can spare a few groschen,” one of the men sneered, shoving the hooded figure by the shoulder.

The other laughed, eyeing him up and down. “What’s a fine little lamb like you doing out here all cloaked up? Trying not to get fleeced?”

“I’ve nothing to give you,” the cloaked man said, voice low but steady—familiar, somehow. Too familiar.

Henry’s pace quickened.

“Oi,” he called out sharply. “Is there a problem here?”

The two thugs turned toward him, irritation written across their faces—until one of them squinted through the dim light and stiffened.

“Shit,” he hissed, grabbing the other by the arm. “It’s the blacksmith. I was too focused on the target—didn't realise where we followed him to.”

“Which one?” the other muttered, eyes narrowing.

“The blacksmith, you buffoon,” he hissed. 

Recognition hit them like a blow to the gut. They stiffened, then stepped back in unison.

“We’re not looking for trouble,” one said quickly, raising his hands. “Didn’t mean no harm.”

Without another word, they turned and hurried off into the dark, their footsteps quick and quiet, like they didn’t dare breathe too loud.

Henry slowed, gaze fixed on the cloaked man. The air felt colder now.

“You alright?” he asked, more out of instinct than anything else.

The man straightened slowly, the hood falling back slightly—and Henry’s breath caught in his throat.

It was Hans.

Hans’s eyes met his, wide with disbelief, then something softer, heavier. His lips parted, but no words came out. His hand twitched at his side and then fell still again.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

“Henry…” he said, barely above a whisper.

“Sakra—Hans, what the hell are you doing here?” Henry asked, his voice catching with disbelief.

Then Hans took a few uncertain steps forward, his gaze flicking between Henry and Theresa before settling fully on the man he hadn’t seen in years.

“I came back,” Hans said quietly, the words more to himself than anyone else. “Something felt… off. Something about the craftsmanship on the blades, I needed to see who the blacksmith was—had to confirm my suspicions.”

His voice faltered, barely audible now. “It really was you.”

Henry swallowed, unsure if it was his heart or the ground that had suddenly become so unsteady. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

Hans took another step. “Is it really you, Hal?”

Theresa glanced between them, her voice gentle. “I’ll give you two some space.”

With that, she stepped away, leaving the two men alone. The street around them seemed to quiet, the world narrowing to just the distance between them.

“This… wasn’t how I wanted this to go.” Hans said, voice low.

Henry held his gaze for a beat, then turned toward the forge. “Come inside,” he said softly. “Let’s talk.”

The night air was cool against their backs as they stepped through the doorway. Hans followed without a word, and the soft creak of the wooden door closing behind them seemed to seal the world out. The scent of metal and smoke lingered in the air, grounding them in the present—though neither man felt entirely there.

Hans was the first to move again. He took a breath—shallow, uncertain—and stepped forward. Not too close, not yet. His eyes searched Henry’s face, like he was trying to find something familiar beneath the time that had passed.

He looked the same, the man. Not in the sense of appearance—he was older now, that much was clear—but to Hans, Henry still looked the same. The same as he did all those years ago. And somehow, that made his chest ache.

All the words he had rehearsed, the ones he thought he’d say if this moment ever came… vanished. Just like that.

“I didn’t know if it was really you,” Hans said, his voice barely a murmur. “I didn't know if I wanted it to be you.”

Henry didn’t answer right away. His throat tightened.

“Why are you looking for me?” he finally asked, quiet.

Hans took a step closer. “Why did you avoid me?” he said instead. “You must’ve known I was here earlier.”

Henry looked down at his hands—rough, stained with soot, callused by years of labor. “You weren’t supposed to see me like this,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Not like this.”

Hans frowned. “Why not?”

“Because it’s easier that way. If you’d never seen me again… then I could’ve just been someone you forgot.”

Hans flinched, like the words had struck him. “Forgot?” he echoed, voice strained. “God, Hal. Do you really think I could ever—?”

“I saw you with your son earlier,” Henry said, cutting him off, voice low. “You seemed happy. Things must be going well with Lady Jitka. I thought… I thought you would’ve moved on.”

“I didn’t move on,” Hans said, his voice firm, aching. “I just kept walking. Pretending I had to.”

“Why?” The word cracked from Henry’s throat, raw and exposed. “Why pretend at all?”

Hans exhaled sharply, emotion breaking through. “Because I was afraid. Afraid of what it meant. Afraid of what you meant . You were… everything I wanted, Hal. And back then, I didn’t know how to want you and still be who I was supposed to be.”

Henry turned away, jaw clenched, pain etched into every line of his face.

“Don’t,” Hans said softly. “Don’t look away. Look at me, Hal. Please—don’t avoid me.”

Henry turned slowly, and the look on Hans’s face—open, pained, pleading—cut through him like a blade.

“I’m sorry, Hans,” he said. “I just… I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry for leaving back then.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Hans said, stepping close now, close enough to feel the warmth between them. “If anything… It's me. I knew. I knew what I felt, and I still made you leave.”

Their eyes met, silence thick around them, full of everything they had never said.

“I missed you,” Hans said, his voice barely a whisper, as if the words were too heavy to say aloud. “Every single day. I tried to build a life, Hal… but it never felt complete without you.”

“I missed you every single day too,” Henry choked out. “I loved you—I hated you. I tried to forget you but I never could.”

Hans reached out then, hand trembling as it found Henry’s. Fingers curling tight like he never wanted to let go again.

“You were always everything to me,” Henry whispered, his voice breaking as he pulled Hans closer. “I never stopped loving you.”

And in that moment, everything they had never said, everything they had kept buried for so long, seemed to hang between them. The distance, the time, the pain—it all vanished in the quiet of the workshop, replaced by something tender, something fragile but real.

Hans’s breath caught, his hand trembling in Henry’s. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, voice breaking. “I’m so sorry for making you go. I was a coward. I didn’t know how to love you then.”

Henry shook his head, his forehead resting gently against Hans’s. “You don’t have to apologize either,” he murmured. “You had your duties, and you had to do what you thought was right.”

Hans's breath hitched, his hand tightening on Henry's. “But you were right, Henry,” he said softly, the words tasting bitter as he spoke them. “Hanush… He never stepped down. I should’ve stood my ground, drawn a line in the sand. I should’ve fought for myself. For us ”

“No, don’t say that, Hans.” Henry’s voice cracked as he whispered, his words heavy with the burden of the years that had passed. “I should’ve fought with you. All I could do instead was run, like a coward.” He closed his eyes for a moment, swallowing the pain that rushed through him, each word more painful than the last.

Hans’s hand found Henry’s, his fingers brushing against the back of his hand as he gave a gentle squeeze. “You’re not a coward, Henry,” Hans said, voice thick with emotion. “It wasn’t your fight, it was mine.”

Hans’s thumb brushed gently against Henry’s hand, his heart pounding in his chest. The air between them was thick with unspoken feelings, regrets, and longing, each of them reaching for something they had almost lost.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. The only sound was the soft rhythm of their breathing, steady but quickened, as though they both knew the inevitable was coming but didn’t know how to reach it.

And then, without thinking, without needing to say a word, Henry closed the gap. His lips found Hans’s, tentative at first, like a question—soft and unsure. But as Hans’s breath hitched, he deepened it, pulling Henry closer, his hands cradling his face as if afraid he might disappear if he let go.

The kiss was everything they hadn’t been able to say, everything they had buried under years of pain, regret, and separation. It was fierce, desperate, but tender—each touch, each movement a plea for forgiveness, for understanding, for the love they had once shared.

And when they finally pulled apart, gasping for air, they didn’t need to speak. The silence between them now was different—no longer filled with sorrow or longing, but with something deeper, something that had always been there. The bond between them, fragile but unbroken, was still intact.

As they stood there, the kiss still lingering on their lips, Henry pulled back just slightly, his brow furrowed. He looked at Hans, his thoughts swirling like a storm.

“This is wrong,” Henry said, his voice laced with hesitation, unsure of what to do. “You’re married. We can’t—”

“Shut up, Hal, you started this,” Hans interrupted, his tone gentle but firm. “Are you really going to stop me now?” He paused, his eyes softening as he took a step closer. “I’ll explain later, I promise. But right now… this is what I need. What we both need.”

Henry’s heart raced in his chest, Hans’s words lingering in the air. Part of him wanted to believe it, wanted to believe that after all the years of silence and separation, this moment was meant to be.

“I don’t want to do something you'll regret again,” Henry said, his voice faltering, conflicted.

Hans took a step closer, his hand reaching out to gently cradle Henry’s face. The touch was warm, grounding. “I won’t regret it, I never did,” Hans whispered, his gaze unwavering. “I swear. And if you do, we’ll deal with it, together. But right now, let’s not think about anything else.”

Henry’s breath hitched at Hans’s words, the intensity in his gaze drawing him in. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he nodded, the last of his resistance crumbling. “Alright… but we need to be sure. This… this can’t just be another mistake.”

“It’s not a mistake, it never was,” Hans said, his voice firm, yet gentle. “Not for me. I promise.”

Hans’s words hung in the air, and for a moment, the world outside of them seemed to fade into nothing. Henry stared at him, the weight of the past and the uncertainty of the present pressing down on him. 

But then, something inside him shifted—maybe it was the need for closeness, maybe it was the undeniable ache that had been building for so long. At that moment, Henry didn’t care anymore.

He nodded, a small, almost imperceptible movement, and then he turned, walking toward the stairs without a second thought. He didn’t look back to see if Hans was following—he knew he would be. The only thing that mattered now was the space between them, the distance that had kept them apart for so long, was finally closing.

They reached the bedroom door, and without saying a word, Henry pushed it open, stepping inside. The room was dimly lit, shadows casting long across the wooden floor. He moved toward the bed, then turned to look at Hans, whose eyes were filled with an unspoken need that matched Henry’s own.

Without another thought, they collapsed onto the bed together, a tangle of limbs and shared breath. There were no words left, only the quiet sound of their heartbeats, thudding in time, as if they were both finally breathing again after so long.

The world outside faded into nothingness, leaving only the two of them, wrapped in each other's warmth.

At that moment, all that mattered was that they were finally, finally, together again.

The night stretched on, each hour slipping by unnoticed, consumed by the ecstasy of being together. Time itself seemed irrelevant, until the first light of dawn gently filtered through the windows. 

Slowly, they pulled apart, settling onto their sides of the bed, but their hands remained firmly clasped, as if afraid that they might wake from this dream and find themselves lost in the years they had spent apart.

The soft glow of the morning light bathed the room, but it didn’t feel like the start of a new day—it felt like a quiet moment suspended in time, one neither of them wanted to break.

Henry stared up at the ceiling, his thumb tracing absent-minded circles on Han’s hand. “What now?” he asked quietly, his voice hoarse from the emotions he hadn’t allowed himself to feel for so long.

Hans closed his eyes, trying to let his words catch up with the whirlwind of emotions inside him. ”I won’t lie, Henry. I don’t know what the future holds,” he admitted, his voice soft but steady. “But I know I want to be with you. I can’t promise anything beyond that.”

Henry, in response to that, only remained silent, and Hans felt his heart race in his chest. His breath hitched and he blurted out, “but… things are different now,”, trying to reassure Henry. “I’m officially becoming the Lord in a few months. No one can keep us apart anymore.”

At his words, Henry turned toward him, and before Hans could fully process what was happening, Henry let out a laugh—a genuine, soft sound that sent warmth flooding through Hans. The tension in Hans’s chest melted away, and he blushed, feeling exposed but strangely relieved.

Henry reached out, gently running his fingers through Hans’s hair, the soft strands brushing against his palm. The simple touch made his heart race all over again. “You’re so cute when you’re panicking, you know.”

Hans closed his eyes for a moment, letting the sensation of Henry’s hand in his hair ground him. “I never thought I’d hear that laugh again,” he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion.

“Then I’ll make sure you hear it more often from now on,” Henry replied softly.

Hans realized the weight of Henry’s words, the meaning behind them finally sinking in. “Does that mean…?”

“Aye,” Henry replied softly, his eyes sincere. “Let’s give it another try, Hans. I don’t know what the future holds, either. But I know I want it to be with you, as long as the feeling is mutual.”

Hans’s heart fluttered at those words, and without hesitation, he smiled. “It will always be mutual, dear Henry.”

They spent the next few hours talking, about everything and nothing at all. Hans explained his arrangement with Jitka, how they worked together to gather influence. Henry listened intently, a small laugh escaping his lips when Hans described their first night together. The awkwardness of their reunion seemed to fade as they settled into the warmth of being together.

“I slept with Jitka, Hal.” Hans said, offering a guilty look.

“I figured as much, unless she gave birth to your son by virgin birth,  Jesus Christ be praised. What's his name?”

“Hynek,” Hans replied quietly, his voice dipping slightly. “You didn’t want me to name him after you.”

There was a pause before he continued, almost as if to reassure Henry. “I need you to know, he’s not just a duty to me. I love him, truly. As my son.”

Without hesitation, Henry reached out and flicked Hans on the forehead.

"Sakra—what the fuck, Henry?" Hans exclaimed, rubbing his hand over his forehead.

“Don’t apologize for loving your son, Hans,” Henry replied, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You know I would never judge you for that.”

Hans smiled, the relief and tenderness in his chest growing. “Thank you, Hal.”

They kept talking—trading stories, memories, and laughter about the years that had passed them by. Henry chuckled as he recounted his unlikely encounter with Black Bartosch, how they... shared a room, and how they'd ended up taking down Erik together.

He left out the part about Erik having targeted Hans. It didn’t feel necessary. Not now.

Still, Hans's brow furrowed—not at the mention of Erik, but at Bartosch’s name.

"You—slept with that bastard~again!? And here I felt bad for sleeping with Jitka." Hans exclaimed, raising an eyebrow. “I swear, Henry, you know how to pick ‘em.”

“Enough, Hans,” Henry said with a smirk, though there was a hint of discomfort in his voice. “I needed his help.”

“Well, he also needed your cock in his arse, apparently?” Hans said, rolling his eyes.

Henry grimaced but couldn’t suppress a chuckle. “Those were dark times for me, Hans.”

“Oh, surely they were,” Hans shot back, unamused and pouting.

Henry grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Your noble arse is much better, Hans,” he teased.

Hans shot him a sidelong glance, a blush creeping up his neck. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

Henry’s smile widened, his tone playful but warm. “Well, it’s meant to make you feel something. Hopefully, something good.”

Hans rolled his eyes, but the smile he couldn’t quite hide betrayed him. “You really do know how to make me blush, don’t you?”

Henry’s grin softened into something more tender. “Only because you’re still so easy to tease,” he replied, his voice low and affectionate. “But honestly, you look better when you do.”

Hans shook his head, still blushing, but a contented warmth spread across his chest. “You’re impossible, Hal.”

Henry leaned in closer, brushing a soft kiss against Hans’s lips. “I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”

Hans laughed, but it was a mix of frustration and affection. “I can’t stay mad at you, but I swear, I’m going to kill that bastard when I see him.”

Henry chuckled, shaking his head. “I wish you wouldn’t. I still consider him a really good friend.”

Hans raised an eyebrow. “Really good friends don’t sleep with each other, Hal. Do I need to be worried about all your friends? Like who was that woman you were with earlier?”

Henry’s eyes widened in surprise before he smiled, shaking his head. “That woman? Oh, Theresa? She’s my childhood friend. You remember her, right? She even came with your group as a handmaid. Lady Jitka brought her along to make us meet again.”

Hans froze for a moment, processing the information. “Hold on, what the fuck? Explain. Immediately, Hal.”

Henry sighed and explained the whole story: how Hans had once mentioned Theresa’s existence to Jitka, while he told her about Henry, and how Jitka had spent time tracking her down to ask if she knew where Henry was. Hans could only gape in disbelief at the story.

“That damned woman…” Hans muttered under his breath. “I guess I’ll have to thank her later.”

Henry smiled, his eyes soft. “Me too.”

They continued to chat, sharing stories and laughing about the years they had lost—and the ones they now had ahead.

Henry brought up that he was actually going to find Hans, before running into him and the two hooligans outside.

“Well, you’re a proper lord now. You shouldn’t be wandering around alone like that,” Henry said, eyeing him. “What if I hadn’t been there?”

Hans gave a small shrug. “If push came to shove, I could’ve handled the two of them. You saved me the trouble, though. Thanks, Hal.”

Henry raised an eyebrow but let it slide.

Hans chuckled. “Still—why were they so bloody scared of you? I can’t believe our reunion involved you helping my arse again.”

Henry shrugged, like it wasn’t worth mentioning. “Oh… might’ve killed half their lot a couple years back when they tried to rob the forge.”

Hans blinked—then doubled over in laughter. “Jesus Christ, Henry. You really haven’t lost your touch, have you?”

Eventually, the conversations dwindled as exhaustion settled over them both, their words becoming slower, heavier.

The warmth of their closeness, the quiet of their shared space, was all that mattered now.

And then, with one final sigh of contentment, they both drifted into a peaceful sleep, hands still intertwined, hearts finally at peace.

The world outside could wait. For now, it was just the two of them, and the future could come when it would.

Chapter Text

“What do you mean you can’t come with me to Rattay?” Hans snapped, voice sharp with disbelief as he took a step back, like the words had physically struck him.

Henry flinched, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “Hans, that’s not what I said so calm down. Please—just listen, I can explain—”

“Calm down? Don’t tell me to calm down! Sakra!” His voice cracked, tears already stinging at the corners of his eyes. “Are you saying you’re staying in Kuttenberg? After everything? After we finally found each other again?”

Henry sighed, running a hand through his hair—and then, infuriatingly, rolled his eyes.

Hans bristled. “Did you just—Are you rolling your eyes at me right n—mmph!”

Henry stepped forward, grabbing his shoulders and cutting him off with a firm kiss.

Hans stiffened for only a second before melting into it, gripping Henry’s arms like a lifeline. The kiss lingered, grounding them both, until Henry finally pulled away—foreheads touching, breath shared.

“Can I talk now? Listen, I can explain.” Henry murmured, his voice softer. Hans gave a stiff nod, lips parted, still breathing hard.

“I didn’t mean I don’t wanna go with you,” Henry said gently. “I meant I can’t yet . I need time, Hans. To put things in order here. Then I’ll come. I promise.”

Hans finally exhaled, his anger simmering down to a quiet murmur. “Alright... I understand.”

“Thank you, Hans,” Henry said, relieved.

“I’ll stay here and wait for you, then. I’ve got a week here anyway.” Hans said while smiling.

Henry shifted awkwardly. “Yeah... about that—Hans, it might take a little longer than just a week—”

Hans rolled his eyes. “Fine. I’ll stay for two weeks, then. Gods, did Jitka see this coming? I’m never going to hear the end of it.”

Henry hesitated, voice barely audible. “Two weeks won’t be enough.”

Hans blinked. “What was that?”

“…I said two weeks won’t be enough.” Henry said, much clearer this time.

Silence fell between them like a stone in water. Then, cautiously, Hans asked, “How long exactly do you need?”

Henry winced, avoiding his gaze. “…Maybe a month. Or two.”

At first, there was no reaction, and Henry allowed himself to hope—maybe Hans understood. Hans had grown, right? He was mature enough to not overreact now.

But then—

“A month ? Months ?” Hans exploded, his voice rising like a crack of thunder. “What the actual fuck, Henry? What could possibly be so important that you need months before you’re ready to leave?!”

“I’ve built a life here, Hans,” Henry said quietly. “I need time—to say goodbye to my friends, to my brother. And there are the apprentices at the guild... I still have techniques to pass on before I go.”

Hans scoffed, voice rising in disbelief. “And that’s supposed to take more than two weeks?”

Henry stiffened, but his voice remained calm, measured. “There’s the forge, Hans. If I leave it now, everything I’ve worked for crumbles. I need some time to train my apprentice properly—make sure he can stand on his own before I go.”

“Screw the apprentice! Screw the forge! You can just start another one in Rattay!” Hans shouted, the words escaping before he could think them through..

But the moment he saw the flicker of hurt cross Henry’s face—how he instantly looked down, lips parting in quiet disbelief—Hans’s fury dissolved. Guilt surged up like a wave crashing over him.

Sakra, why did he say that? He knew how much the forge meant to Henry—it was proof of his late father’s legacy.

“I... I didn’t mean that, Hal,” Hans said quickly, stepping forward and pulling Henry into a tight embrace. “I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry.”

“I know,” Henry whispered, his voice low, almost too soft to hear. “I know you didn’t.”

“It’s just… I can’t let you go again,” Hans whispered, voice cracking. “I’ve already lived through losing you once. I can’t bear it a second time.”

“I know,” Henry said softly. “I feel the same. But we’ve both built lives of our own—ones that matter. I just need time to close this chapter properly. We’ll have forever soon. I swear it.”

Before Hans could respond, Henry leaned in, capturing his lips in a kiss that said everything his words couldn’t—a vow, sealed in quiet desperation.

He drew in a slow, steady breath, grounding himself in the musk that hadn’t changed—leather and steel, earth and sweat. It was Henry, through and through. Familiar, solid. If they stayed like this any longer, Hans wasn’t sure he’d be able to let go. 

Hans also knew his self-control would slip—desire already stirred low in his belly, threatening to take over.

“One month,” he whispered, barely audible, like the words themselves might break him.

Slowly, reluctantly, he loosened his arms. Henry followed suit, though both their hands lingered for a moment before they stepped back.

The distance between their bodies felt colder than it should have, jarring after the closeness they’d just shared.

Hans looked up at him, eyes still glassy. “I’ll stay for two weeks,” he said quietly, but firmly. “That’s all the time I can afford. But you—promise me you’ll come after a month. No more. Two weeks after I leave. I can’t wait longer than that. I won’t.”

Henry’s shoulders tensed. “Hans... a month might not be enough. There’s so much to take care of here—”

Hans cut in, eyes narrowing, voice low but firm. “The last time you left, you packed up and disappeared in a day , Henry. One day. One month is more than enough.”

Henry looked away, sighing heavily. “Sakra… You’re still as stubborn as ever. And here I thought time had made you wiser.”

Hans let out a breathless laugh, more broken than amused. “I thought the same. But I think this is just what you do to me. You bring out the worst and the best, you dolt.”

Henry rubbed his temples with a groan, but a reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “God help me. It’s going to be a long, rough month.”

Hans stepped closer again, not quite touching him but near enough to feel the heat between them. “Evenings and nights. You’re mine for those. I need you with me—don’t shut me out again.”

Henry’s smile faded into something softer, heavier. He nodded slowly.

“You will be the death of me,” he muttered, half under his breath.

Hans caught the words and returned a smirk. “Then I’ll die with you.”

The evening had already settled in, the fading light casting a soft glow through the window. Henry’s stomach let out a low growl. “I feel quite hungry,” he muttered, rubbing his belly.

Hans tried to remain composed, “I guess I could go for a bite myself.” Yet, his stomach betrayed him with a loud growl of its own, breaking the facade of indifference, causing Henry to laugh.

They were both famished, the hours spent lost in each other’s company leaving no room for anything else, least of all food. Henry, ever the resourceful one, quickly pulled together a simple meal—just bread, cheese, and some fruits, the basic provisions he had on hand. It had been more than a day since they last ate, and the hunger had been gnawing at them both.

Hans shoved a chunk of bread into his mouth, still half-distracted by the remnants of their earlier activities. “Oh damn... Jitka and Hynek,” he mumbled, his mind catching up with reality. “I should let them know where I’ve been.”

Henry nodded, swallowing his own bite. “So... I’ll see you in the morning, then?” His words were muffled, still chewing.

Hans looked up at him, brow furrowed. “What do you mean? You’re coming with me, of course.”

Henry nearly choked on his food. “What? Me? To meet your family? Hans, I’m not sure that’s such a good idea. It’s too sudden.”

“Nonsense,” Hans said, waving it off, a confident smirk tugging at his lips. “It’ll be fine. Jitka’s the one who planned this, right? It has to happen eventually.”

Henry wasn’t convinced, but before he could protest further, Hans had already pushed back from the table, clearly done with the conversation. Once they had both eaten their fill, they left the forge and made their way to the estate.

When they arrived, Jitka greeted them at the door, along with a few servants. With a dismissive gesture, Hans sent the servants away and they headed inside to the drawing room, the atmosphere thick with unspoken tension.

“…Jitka, this is Henry. Henry, Jitka,” Hans simply stated with no foreword. 

Jitka, in response, said nothing. Her eyes swept over Henry with cold, measured disdain before cutting back to Hans. The silence between them stretched taut.

Henry cleared his throat, trying to break it. “A pleasure to meet you, Lady Jitk—”

“So you’re the fabled homewrecker.” Her voice landed like a slap. “You’ve got some nerve showing your face here.”

Henry froze, words caught in his throat. “I— I thought you arranged this,” he managed, looking to Hans in alarm. “Hans, what—what is this?”

Hans avoided his eyes. Jitka stepped forward slightly, folding her arms, her gaze piercing. “So this is the man who comes between our marriage? You must be proud of yourself.”

Henry’s jaw clenched. The tension in the air was suffocating. 

Perhaps he was in the wrong, yes. But he wouldn’t back down anymore. Not after they’ve come this far.

He straightened his back, meeting her glare. “Yes. I am. I— I’ve loved him since before you ever knew his name.”

A beat of silence. Then a snort.

“Pff—” Hans turned away, shoulders shaking.

Henry blinked, confused. “What?”

That bastard. Was he laughing?  

Hans let out a breath and turned back, a crooked grin breaking through. “Alright, that’s enough. Stop fucking with him, Jitka.”

Jitka rolled her eyes and smirked. “Can’t play along for a moment, can you, Hans? I was this close to making him cry.”

“Wait— you were messing with me ?” Henry asked, still in shock.

Jitka laughed, clearly enjoying herself. “Yes, my apologies. I couldn’t resist. Wanted to see you cry. That’d be kinda—“

“Stop,” Hans interrupted, cutting her off with a stern tone. “Don’t scare the poor man. Besides,” he paused, grinning proudly, “that pleasure of seeing him cry is reserved for me alone.”

Jitka grimaced, her playful mood instantly soured. “Ugh, you just killed the mood. How do you say stuff like that with a straight face? The power of love scares me…”

She turned back to Henry, who was still standing there looking a little shaken. “Again, sorry about that,” she said, softening. “Nice to finally meet you, Henry. I’m Jitka.”

“Oh, uh, aye,” Henry stammered, still processing what had just happened. “You got me there, Lady Jitka. I’m Henry.”

Jitka gave him a mischievous smile. “You can call me just Jitka in private. After all, you’re my husband’s lover.”

Henry blinked, his mind racing. He wasn’t sure how to feel about that, but he didn’t want to make things more awkward. “Alright, Jitka. Pleasure to meet you.”

They sat in the drawing room of the estate in Kuttenberg, a quiet fire crackling nearby. The conversation drifted naturally, mostly between Henry and Jitka, while Hans interjected with a few thoughtful questions.

They talked about how Jitka had found Theresa—how she’d shown up unannounced at her cottage, and how shocked Theresa had been to see a noblewoman at her doorstep. Jitka described the careful planning, the letters exchanged, and how everything had been coordinated to manipulate Hans into going to Kuttenberg.

“All of this…” Hans said eventually, brows furrowed. “Why go to such lengths?”

Jitka leaned back in her chair, wine glass in hand, as if it were the most casual thing in the world. “Why not? Call it a gift—for all our years of hard work, our odd little friendship.” She gave a small shrug. “You deserve to be happy.”

Hans stared at her for a moment, caught off guard. “That’s… thank you, Jitka. I don’t even know how to begin to repay you.”

“Oh, I have a few ideas,” she said with a smirk, the playfulness in her voice unmistakable.

Henry felt a chill crawl down his spine. He wasn’t entirely sure why.

Hans gave her a look. “Jitka...”

She rolled her eyes. “Fine, fine. Killjoy. Anyway—Hynek’s already asleep. I told him you’ve been out on business matters. Best to speak with him in the morning.”

Hans nodded. “Right. We’ll talk then.” He turned to Henry. “You’re staying here tonight, Hal.”

“Oh, alright. Where should I sleep?”

Hans blinked at him like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “With me, of course. I’ll show you to the bedroom.”

Henry nearly choked. “Don’t you—don’t you share a room with Lady Jitka?”

Jitka was already standing, stretching lazily. “Oh, don’t worry about me. I have… alternate plans for the night.” She gave them both a sly grin on her way out. “You boys enjoy yourselves. But maybe next time, hmm, Hal ?”

Henry turned to Hans, wide-eyed. “What was that?”

Hans groaned and rubbed a hand over his face. “It’s better if you don’t know.”

With a sigh, he called over a servant, giving quiet instructions to prepare a proper meal and draw a bath.

Their bath ended up taking longer than either of them expected—there had been… distractions. But eventually, they got cleaned up, dressed, and had something warm to eat before retiring for the night.

Henry was already stretched out in bed, comfortably tucked under the covers when he spoke. “I don’t think I’ve slept in a bed this comfortable in my life.” 

Hans climbed in beside him, pulling him close with a soft smile. “Consider it a privilege for my favourite peasant.”

“Won’t the servants find our times together… suspicious?” Henry asked, cautiously.

Hans thought for a moment, before saying gently, “maybe, but so what? They’re trained not to ask questions. And even if they did—what can they do? I run this household.”

Henry chuckled, nuzzling into him. “You’ve really come a long way, Hans.”

Hans kissed the top of his head. “And it was all worth it. For this.”

They fell asleep in each other’s arms, warm and full, too exhausted for anything more. But that was fine—they had all the time in the world now, the rest of their lives still ahead of them.

Dawn crept in softly through the curtains, casting a golden glow across the room. Henry stirred, letting out a low groan as he tried to stretch—only to realize he couldn’t move much.

His eyes fluttered open, still heavy with sleep, and there was Hans, already awake and watching him with a quiet sort of reverence, arms snugly wrapped around him.

“Sorry,” Hans whispered. “Did I wake you?”

Henry yawned, rubbing at his eyes with one hand while the other found its way into Hans’s hair. “No, you didn’t. When did you wake up?”

“Not long ago,” Hans murmured, smiling lazily. “I was just enjoying the handsome view.”

Henry chuckled, his voice still hoarse with sleep. “Gods, is that what you used to tell the tavern girls?”

Hans let out a short laugh, eyes crinkling. “No, this one’s just for you. I’d usually be gone before they woke up.”

“Mmm,” Henry hummed, leaning in to nuzzle his nose against Hans’s. “I must be special, then.”

“You always were.”

They stayed like that for a while, wrapped in the warmth of each other and the new morning. No pressure, no expectations—just soft touches, shared breath, and the quiet promise of a day ahead.

Eventually, Hans shifted, pressing one last kiss to Henry’s temple before pulling back. “Come on. Let’s get ready. We’ve got a big day ahead of us.”

Henry groaned again, but followed suit. They got dressed and headed to the dining room for their morning meal.

When they stepped into the dining room, Lady Jitka was already seated, sipping from a teacup with practiced grace. But her eyes gave her away—subtle darkness beneath them, a touch of weariness softened by the unmistakable glow of satisfaction. She looked tired, yes, but radiant in a way that only deep indulgence could explain.

But before either man could greet her, a blur launched across the room.

“Dad! I missed you!” Hynek hurled himself at Hans with all the enthusiasm of a boy who hadn’t seen his father in years—not just a single day.

Hans stumbled backward with a startled grunt, crashing to the floor with a thud. “Oof—! Calm down, you little brat,” he said, though he was grinning. He ruffled Hynek’s hair, letting him cling a moment longer.

“You act like I went off to war,” he muttered, still sprawled on the floor.

“You kind of did,” Jitka quipped from her seat, clearly entertained.

Hans rolled his eyes and helped Hynek up before pushing himself to his feet. That’s when the boy finally noticed Henry standing nearby.

“Who’s that?” Hynek asked, his curiosity piqued. “Is he your friend?”

Hans opened his mouth but faltered, caught off guard. What exactly was Henry to him? He hadn't quite figured out how to put that into words.

Henry stepped in smoothly. “Nice to meet you, Hynek. I’m Henry—your dad’s... friend.”

The moment Henry spoke, Hynek froze. His eyes went wide.

“No…” the boy whispered, stepping closer in awe.

“No?” both Hans and Henry said at once.

“That’s the Black Knight! He’s real!” Hynek shouted with glee before tackling Henry to the ground this time.

“Whoa—!” Henry laughed as he landed on his back, the boy practically bouncing with excitement on his chest.

“Hynek!” Jitka scolded from her chair. “You can’t just tackle everyone you meet. That’s bad etiquette.”

“But Mom, it’s him ! The Black Knight! The one Dad always talks about! Look—brown hair, blue eyes, and that strong, manly voice! Just like Dad said!”

Henry turned to Hans, a brow arched. “Always talks about me, huh?”

Hans looked away, cheeks reddening. “Shut up. Don’t start.”

Hynek finally calmed down—barely—but refused to leave Henry’s side, even at the dining table. He sat next to him, eyes full of admiration.

“Is it true? Did you really save my dad from a bandit ambush? What about that time with the Cumans? Is that one real too?”

“Well…” Henry leaned in, grinning. “All real. In fact, I had to rescue him again yesterday.”

Hans groaned and buried his face in his hand.

Jitka watched the whole thing with amusement, her eyes twinkling. She leaned over and murmured to Hans, “They’re getting along well.”

Hans sighed, then smiled despite himself. “Yeah… though I think he likes Henry more than me.”

“Well, then liking him seems to run in the family. Like father, like son.” Jitka teased, causing Hans to once again blush.

Eventually, they told Hynek that Henry would be the one forging his very first sword. The boy’s eyes went wide with awe, nearly dropping his fork. “Really? You’re forging my sword? That’s so cool!”

Henry chuckled, a little bashful at the sudden attention. “That’s right. Gotta make sure it’s a proper blade for a proper knight.”

Then came the second surprise—Henry would also be helping with his sword training and meeting up with them later in Rattay. Hynek practically lit up at the news, already rattling off excited questions about training schedules and techniques between bites of his breakfast, barely able to sit still in his seat.

Just as Hans started to feel left out, Hynek turned to him, eyes sparkling.

“This was meant to be a surprise, wasn’t it?” he beamed. “Thanks, Dad. This is the best birthday gift ever.”

Hans’s expression softened, and he reached over to tousle Hynek’s hair again.

“Happy birthday, Hynek.”

Henry looked around, a smile tugging at his lips. Had he really found his place in Hans’s world, in his family? The future remains uncertain, its path still winding ahead, but in this moment, he felt content.

Fate had woven their lives through twists and trials, heartaches and hope—but in the end, every step, every stumble had led them here, to warmth, to laughter, to something that felt like home. And for that, it was all worth it.

Chapter Text

They had just finished breakfast, sunlight spilling warmly through the estate windows. Henry rose from his seat, stretching lightly as he prepared to leave.

“Where’s Theresa, by the way?” he asked Jitka, suddenly remembering his friend who had arrived come with as Jitka’s handmaid. “Is she staying here now?”

“She was welcome to,” Jitka replied, sipping the last of her tea. “But she wanted to explore the city. I assigned a guard to accompany her yesterday and gave her some groschen to enjoy herself.”

“Hmm. Alright then. I imagine she’ll come find me at the forge later anyway.”

As he turned, Henry noticed Hynek standing beside him, quiet and wide-eyed.

The boy had just been told that his sword would take longer than expected—Henry would be busier than expected, but he’d be pouring all his spare time and effort into the smithing, determined to make it a true masterpiece.

Hynek wasn’t upset about the delay, not really. It was something else.

“Say goodbye to Henry,” Hans said gently, crouching slightly to nudge the boy forward.

“No! I wanna go with him!” Hynek cried, flinging his arms around Henry’s waist and clinging tight.

Jitka stepped in, crouching beside him. “He has things to take care of, Hynek. Also, he’s making your sword, remember?”

“I—I could watch him make the sword,” Hynek insisted, stubborn and teary-eyed.

“He also has other things to do,” Jitka replied patiently. “And what about spending time with me? We’ve got the whole city to explore.”

“But…”

It took a few more soft words and a small promise of sweets before Hynek finally let go.

“Bye, Uncle Henry!” he called out as Jitka led him away to get dressed for their outing today.

Henry chuckled and gave a small wave. “Goodbye, Hynek.”

He turned slightly and nodded. “And goodbye to you too, Jitka. Thank you… for everything.”

He half-expected her to throw in one last tease, some knowing remark to make him squirm.

But instead, she simply smiled—warm, genuine. “Take care, Henry. See you later.”

As Henry watched them leave the room, he noticed Hans wasn’t here anymore. He had left the room while Jitka was coaxing Hynek.

Odd. He hadn’t heard him leave. Maybe some urgent business called him away—after all, Hans was still a noble, even if he acted like anything but. Regardless, they’d see each other later in the evening Henry had promised, and he intended to keep it.

He made his way through the estate gates, nodding briefly to the guards as he passed, the cool morning air brushing against his face. The streets of Kuttenberg were already stirring, merchants setting up their stalls, townsfolk bustling about.

Then—footsteps behind him. Light and quick, not someone who was trying to keep their presence concealed.

Henry glanced over his shoulder, expecting to see a child’s pouty face chasing after him.

Instead, he saw a man in a hooded cloak. Slightly too fine for a commoner, worn just awkwardly enough to draw attention rather than deflect it.

Wait, he recognised it. A “disguise”—the same bloody one as before.

Henry didn’t even need to look closely. “Hans?”

The man straightened. “What?” he asked, feigning innocence.

Henry blinked at him. “What are you doing?”

Hans raised a brow, as if he were the confused one. “I’m following you, obviously.”

“…Following me?”

“Mmhm.” Hans gave a little nod, entirely unbothered. “I thought we agreed. You’re mine in the evenings and nights.”

Henry raised a brow. “Exactly. Evenings and nights. That’s what you said.”

Hans beamed. “Right. And you’re mine then. But mornings and afternoons? I can do whatever I want, and I want to follow you around.”

Henry squinted, struggling to come up with a response. “…That’s not how I remember the deal.”

“Well, that’s how I meant it,” Hans said breezily, falling into step beside him like he’d always belonged there.

“You’re going to get bored,” Henry muttered. “Then start whining about your feet, or the dust, or the lack of wine.”

“I never whine,” Hans replied with mock offense, clutching his chest. “I express my discontentment.”

Henry gave him a look. “Don’t you have actual business to attend to in Kuttenberg?”

“You are my business,” Hans said, grinning shamelessly. “I told you, didn't I? I’m on vacation in Kuttenberg. A noble’s retreat. Very fashionable these days, haven’t you heard?”

Henry rolled his eyes. “Right. And of course the best use of that time is to sneak around after me in a ridiculous cloak.”

“It’s not ridiculous, it keeps me from being recognised.” Hans argued, not seeing the flaw in this logic.

Henry only sighed, shaking his head. Why was the man he loved still so childish?

Hans shrugged. “You don’t have to pay attention to me. Just pretend I’m not here.”

“You’re literally walking next to me.”

“Fine. Pretend I’m your very quiet, very charming shadow.”

Henry fought a losing battle with the smile tugging at his lips. “What about Jitka and Hynek? Shouldn’t you be with them? Showing them around?”

Hans shrugged, far too nonchalant. “They’ve got all the guards with them. Since I don’t technically need an escort…” He glanced sidelong at Henry, voice lowering with a hint of mischief. “Not when I’ve got my squire back to protect me.”

Henry arched a brow. “I thought you said I wouldn’t even need to pay attention to you.”

“Well—yes. But…” For once, Hans hesitated, the cockiness softening. “You know what I mean, don’t you?”

There was something a little too earnest in his voice—just enough to catch Henry off guard.

Henry exhaled, both amused and exasperated. He shook his head slowly. “You’re hopeless.”

“I’ve been called worse.” Hans said, a little too proudly.

“…Alright fine,” Henry relented, finally turning back toward the road. “Let’s go then.”

Hans grinned like he’d just won a game of dice. “Wonderful. Lead the way, my ever-faithful squire.”

Henry rolled his eyes, but this time, he didn’t bother hiding the smile that followed.

The two of them set out together, side by side, and for a moment it felt like old times—like nothing had ever changed. The streets of Kuttenberg stretched ahead, but Henry barely noticed them. 

The rhythm of Hans’s footsteps beside his own, the easy banter, the quiet companionship—it all came rushing back, warm and familiar. Some things changed with time, it was true. But others? Others stayed exactly as they were.

The rest of the morning was spent at the local guild, where Henry led a training session for a handful of eager young learners. He moved with ease, demonstrating sword techniques he’d learned through hard-earned experience, offering patient guidance and the occasional stern correction.

Hans, of course, couldn’t stop himself from interrupting with the occasional comment.

“His footwork is too stiff,” he called out from the side. “And you’re holding back, Hal—don’t be so gentle, they won’t learn anything that way.”

Henry finally shot him a look. “Do you want to run the lesson?”

“I’m just saying—”

“Fine then. If you know so much, come show them how it’s done.” Henry said, pointing his training sword at Hans.

Hans blinked, caught off guard for a second. “You’re challenging me?”

“A little sparring match, for old time’s sake.” Henry smirked. “And maybe to shut you up.”

Hans grinned, undeterred. “I accept. I’ll have you know, I’m a much better fighter now than I was back then.”

To his credit, Hans hadn’t been boasting without reason—his skill had grown. But in all his usual pride, he seemed to forget that time had only honed Henry to be even sharper.

Moments later, Hans was flat on his back in the dirt, blinking up at the sky.

“You brute,” he mumbled under his breath, the wind knocked out of him.

Henry laughed and offered him a hand, hauling him back to his feet with a satisfied grin. Hans dusted himself off and wandered to the sidelines, grumbling to himself but otherwise now silent.

With the biggest critic finally shutting up, Henry returned his attention to the young trainees and finished the rest of the session in peace.

Heading off to lunch, Hans had already bounced back to his usual self—chatty, smug, and visibly pleased just to have Henry’s attention again. Henry led him through the winding streets to one of his favourite little taverns tucked between a cobbler’s shop and an apothecary.

Inside, the scent of roast meats and herbs filled the air. They were promptly greeted by a pretty tavern maid who lit up when she saw Henry.

“Well, well—welcome back, Henry,” she said with a sly smile, eyes flicking to Hans with open curiosity. “And who’s this? Don’t think I’ve seen him around before.”

“He’s a friend of mine,” Henry replied, brushing it off with a casual tone. “I’ll have the usual. He’ll have the same too.”

“Of course,” she said, lips curving into a grin. “Coming right up.” She winked at Henry before disappearing into the kitchen.

Hans watched her go, then turned slowly to Henry with narrowed eyes. “Is she always that… friendly?”

Henry snorted. “What, jealous?”

Hans scoffed, crossing his arms. “Me? Jealous? No. Just observing. Critically.”

Henry chuckled, clearly amused. “Don’t worry, she winks at everyone.”

“That wasn’t a friendly wink and you know it,” Hans muttered under his breath.

But once the food arrived, all grievances vanished. The steaming plates of roasted duck and herb-drenched potatoes, crusty bread with honeyed butter, and spiced cider were enough to distract Hans. He fell silent, absorbed entirely in the meal.

By the time they were done, Hans was leaning back with a satisfied sigh, his jealousy long forgotten. Henry paid the bill, tossing a few groschen onto the table, and the two of them stepped back out into the golden afternoon.

Their next stop was the forge. Henry had, luckily, before leaving with Hans yesterday, already pinned a neat little notice to the door, letting customers know it would be closed for a few days for a short break.

As they stepped inside, the comforting scent of smoke, metal, and old timber welcomed them. 

They found Matthias, Henry’s apprentice, in the back, sleeves rolled up, sparks flying as he worked a blade against the anvil with practiced force.

“Where have you been, Master Henry?” Matthias called over the clang of metal, not even looking up. “I can’t handle all these orders by myself!”

Henry chuckled and crossed the room, giving the apprentice a friendly clap on the shoulder. “Sorry about that—had some business to take care of. Go on, take a break. I’ll take over for a while.”

Matthias didn’t need to be told twice. He wiped his brow, muttered a grateful “Thanks,” and headed out for something to eat.

Hans settled into a seat near the workbench, resting his arms on his knees as he watched Henry pull on his worn blacksmith’s apron and get to work. There was no chatter between them—Hans, for once, stayed quiet, unwilling to distract Henry as he melted seamlessly back into his craft.

When Matthias returned a while later, looking far more refreshed and a bit less pale, he lingered near Hans, clearly unsure how close he was allowed to stand near nobility.

Hans glanced at him with mild curiosity. “What do you think of Henry?” he asked, seemingly idle, though his tone was pointedly interested.

The young man brightened immediately, like someone had lit a torch inside him. “He’s amazing. Knows the forge like the back of his hand. Patient when I mess things up—well, mostly. He’s a bit grumpy in the mornings, but never rude. You should see the detail on the sword he made last month, it’s like—like it was born that way, not forged. Also—”

Hans nodded along to every word, a small, smug smile curling at the edges of his mouth. “Mm. Sounds like him.”

He didn’t say anything else. Just leaned back, watching Henry work—content, quiet, and very proud of the man he loved.

“Ah, I best go help Master,” Matthias said, tightening the straps of his apron as he joined Henry at the workbench.

With the two of them working in tandem, the forge quickly filled with a steady rhythm—the hiss of steam, the clang of hammer on steel, the scrape of files against blade. They worked like a well-oiled machine, years of familiarity evident in every unspoken cue and passing of tools.

A couple of hours later, the backlog of orders was finally cleared. Henry exhaled, rolling his shoulders as he pulled the apron over his head and wiped the sweat from his brow. He glanced over at Hans, who was still seated off to the side, watching with the same focused gaze as before.

“Sorry about that, Hans,” Henry said, half sheepish. “Hope you weren’t bored out of your mind.”

Hans tilted his head slightly, smiling. “I wasn’t. I like watching you do something you love. You’re… different when you work. Quiet. Steady. It suits you.”

Henry paused, caught off guard. For a second too long, he didn’t say anything—just looked at Hans, then quickly looked away, ears pink.

“Oh,” he muttered, scratching at the back of his neck. “Well… thanks, I guess.”

Hans leaned back a little, smug and satisfied. “Told you I wouldn’t be a distraction.”

Matthias let out an unexpected sneeze, loud enough to make both Henry and Hans turn.

“Oh, right,” Henry blinked. “Matthias. Forgot you were still here.”

“I’m literally covered in soot right next to you,” Matthias muttered.

Henry wiped his hands on a cloth, the light tone fading from his face. “Well... I guess now’s as good a time as any. I have some big news.”

Matthias straightened, instantly alert.

“I’ve been training you for years now,” he began, voice calm but steady. “Watched you grow from a scrawny apprentice who couldn’t even lift a hammer straight to someone who knows this forge like the back of his hand. 

“You’ve got talent, and more importantly, you’ve got heart. You care about the work. About doing it right. I’ve trusted you with the forge a dozen times already, and you’ve never let me down.”

Matthias blinked, mouth parting slightly in surprise.

Henry met his gaze. “Which is why… I feel confident and safe in making this decision.”

He paused, letting the moment settle before he continued.

“I’ll be away for a while. Indefinitely, most likely. So you’ll be in charge of the forge.”

Matthias stared at him, wide-eyed. “Wait, what? Are you serious? Me?”

“You’ve learned a lot,” Henry said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You’re more than ready.”

“But I’m not you,” Matthias said quickly, almost in a panic. “I’m not as good as you.”

Hans, who had been quiet until now, spoke with casual certainty. “No one’s as good as him. You’d be chasing ghosts if you tried.”

Matthias looked at Hans, flustered at the words.

“But,” Hans added more gently, “from what I’ve seen, you’re already a damn fine blacksmith. Don’t sell yourself short.”

Henry nodded. “You’ve got the eye and the hands for it. I’m not tossing you into the fire without prep either—I’ll be training you hard for the next month.”

Matthias took a moment, then finally gave a small, determined nod. “Alright. I’ll do it. I won’t let you down, Master Henry.”

“I know you won’t,” Henry said, giving his shoulder a firm, reassuring squeeze.

From his seat, Hans leaned back with a grin. “Look at you. Just like a proud father.”

Henry shot him a glare. “Don’t ruin the moment.”

Matthias just grinned, a little sheepish—but there was a spark of pride beneath the soot, glowing quietly in his eyes.

Noticing it, Henry smirked. “Don’t go getting too proud just yet. For the next month, I’m hammering that apprentice title right out of you. You’ve got a month before I leave, and I intend to turn you into a full-blown, independent blacksmith by then.”

He picked up his hammer again.

“In fact, your lessons start now.”

Hans sat up slightly. “Sakra, Henry, you’re still not done for today?”

“I’ve still got work to do,” Henry replied, rolling up his sleeves again. “Hynek’s sword isn’t going to forge itself. And it’s going to be the best damn sword I’ve ever made. So watch closely, Matthias.”

The younger man straightened, a flicker of excitement lighting his face. “Yes, Master Henry,” he said, already shifting into position to observe every movement with sharp, eager eyes.

Hans let out a long, exaggerated sigh as he slouched deeper into his chair. The heat from the forge clung to him like a second skin—his tunic was damp with sweat and smelled of soot. And he hadn't even touched a damn hammer.

Still, he’d chosen to be here. And as he watched Henry work, with sparks flying and purpose in every movement, Hans knew he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Hans was stirred from his sleep by a soft voice and a gentle shake. Blinking his eyes open, he was met with the sight of Henry standing over him, shirtless. 

The shadows from the flickering forge fire danced across his muscular frame, casting deep, defined lines across his body—his shoulders broad, his chest tapering down to a lean waist. The light played off the sweat on his skin, making him look almost otherworldly, like some kind of perfect warrior carved from the very flames.

"...Am I dead? Is this heaven?" Hans mumbled, his voice thick with sleep, eyes still trying to focus on the sight in front of him.

Henry snorted. “What nonsense are you on about now? Get up, Hans. I’m done for the day. Matthias has already left to wash up.” He tossed a towel at him, shaking his head. “Sakra, how the hell did you fall asleep in a forge with all that noise?”

Hans groaned as he sat up, rubbing his eyes. “Must’ve been knocked out. Maybe by the hammering sounds. Or your terrible whistling.”

Henry rolled his eyes. “You’re welcome, then.”

Henry’s skin, glistening with a thin layer of grime, only added to the overall picture of someone who had been working tirelessly for hours. His hands were smeared with dark smudges, his arms a canvas of ash and sweat.

His face, too, was dusted with soot, and his hair, damp with sweat, clung to his forehead in uneven strands. He looked like he'd just stepped out of a forge—because he had.

“Gods, you look terrible,” Hans said with an exaggerated wave of his hand, clearly enjoying the moment. “And you smell bad too.”

Henry rolled his eyes but grinned, clearly used to the jab. “Well, at least I was hard at work.” He gave Hans a skeptical look. “How are you even covered in soot? You didn’t even do anything.”

Hans blinked, surprised, before glancing down at himself. He hadn’t realized until now how filthy he was—his clothes were streaked with dark patches of ash, his face dusted with soot. The forge’s heat and the air thick with smoke had clearly worked its way into his skin and clothes.

“Well, looks like I got a bit too comfortable watching you work,” Hans muttered, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “We’re both a mess.”

Henry snorted. “A bath sounds good, doesn’t it?”

Hans' eyes lit up at the suggestion, and Henry gave him a knowing smile. “I know a bathhouse nearby. Let’s get cleaned up and grab some food afterward.”

They both nodded in agreement, ready to escape the oppressive heat of the forge. After a short walk, they arrived at the bathhouse, the warm steam filling the air as they stripped away the soot and grime of the day.

Clean and refreshed, they headed for dinner. Henry led them to a nearby small, cozy tavern he frequented, where they enjoyed a hearty meal, letting the conversation flow as easily as the wine. 

They made their way back to Henry’s upstairs bedroom at the forge, settling into the comfortable space. The bed creaked softly as they both climbed in, the rustle of sheets the only sound for a moment.

“Gods, I’m exhausted,” Hans muttered, sinking into the bed with a contented sigh, his eyes already half-closed. “No funny business tonight, Henry.”

Henry chuckled, shifting to settle beside him. “That’s rich coming from you. Besides, what did you do today, besides watch me work?”

Hans grinned, his voice already heavy with sleep. “I’ll have you know, watching over peasants is hard work,” he mumbled, his words blurring as he drifted. “Good night, Henry…”

Henry smiled fondly, leaning over to kiss Hans gently on the forehead. “Sure it is, m'Lord. Good night, Hans.”

As Hans’s breathing evened out into sleep, Henry relaxed beside him, the warmth of the room and of the man laying beside him pulling him into rest as well.

A similar song and dance carried on for the next two weeks, both men relishing in the blend of chaos and quiet that defined their days. But duty called, and Hans had to return—court business awaited, and preparations could no longer be delayed.

It was time to say goodbye. They wouldn’t be apart for long this time—but that didn’t make the parting any easier.

Chapter Text

Somewhere outside the Kuttenberg city gates, the early morning light cast a pale gold over the frost-kissed stones. The horses were saddled, breath misting in the cold air as the guards formed a quiet, orderly cluster around the waiting group. Hans and Jitka stood near the main carriage, their hands resting lightly on Hynek’s shoulder as the boy shifted with barely-contained excitement.

Henry approached with a long wooden box cradled in his arms, its shape hidden beneath travel-worn linen. He knelt before Hynek, the boy practically vibrating with anticipation.

“Here you go, kid,” he said with a smile.

Hynek leaned in as Henry unwrapped the bundle, revealing a sword of gleaming Toledo steel—its blade sharp and supple, catching the light with a faint blue sheen. 

The hilt was wrapped in deep golden leather, the colors of House Leipa, and the crossguard bore a subtle engraving of their lion crest. 

The pommel held a polished onyx, dark as a moonless night yet seeming to smolder with a hidden fire.

Henry believed it was the best work he had ever made—his magnum opus, forged from all the techniques he had been taught and refined through years of experience. It was a weapon fit for a nobleman, as deadly as it was beautiful.

The sword’s balance was perfect—light enough for swift strikes, yet heavy enough to cleave through chainmail. Its craftsmanship spoke of a master smith’s hand, made not just for war but for status, a symbol of power as much as a tool of battle. In the right hands, it would be as much a lord’s scepter as a warrior’s blade.

Hynek’s eyes widened. He leaned forward, hands hovering just above the weapon, hesitant and reverent.

“It’s so cool…” he whispered. “Can I—?”

“No, not yet,” Hans said gently, putting a firm hand on Hynek’s shoulder. “You’ll need training first, remember? This isn’t a toy.”

Hynek pouted, but only for a moment, but his attention returned to the sword, eyes filled with wonder.

“There’s writing on it!” he suddenly exclaimed, squinting. “Audentes… Fortuna Iuvat…”

Henry chuckled and opened his mouth to explain, “It means—”

“I know! Fortune favours the bold!” Hynek grinned, clearly proud of himself.

Henry raised a brow, glancing at Hans. “Someone’s been teaching him Latin?”

Hans folded his arms with a smug smile. “Of course. He’s a nobleman’s son, after all.”

Henry chuckled and shook his head.

“Well, I don’t speak Latin myself—but that’s the first phrase your father ever taught me. It’s gotten me through some rough moments.” He paused, then added with a grin, “Though half the time, I think it just gave me the nerve to get into trouble.”

Hans laughed. “That sounds about right!”

Henry smiled and gently wrapped the sword back in the cloth, placing it in its box. He handed it to Hans, who took it with care and turned to place it in the carriage.

Before Henry could say more, Hynek darted forward and hugged him tightly.

“Thank you,” the boy murmured into Henry’s coat. “I’ll grow up fast so I can use it.”

“Aye, you’re welcome,” Henry said softly, ruffling his hair. “But maybe don’t grow up too fast.”

“Hynek! Let’s go,” Jitka called, already on the carriage. “Other people still need to speak to Uncle Henry.”

Uncle? Henry blinked, caught off guard—but before he could say anything, Hynek echoed it.

“Goodbye, Uncle Henry!” the boy called, waving before climbing into the carriage beside Jitka.

Nearby, Theresa approached. She’d been chatting with the guard who had been escorting her around Kuttenberg.

They’d hit it off during their time together—so much so that Theresa had barely come to see him. Maybe this pairing was Jitka’s doing, too.

Theresa gave Henry a small wave and a wry smile.

“Well, well,” Henry said with a teasing grin. “Someone’s been having a good time.”

She scoffed playfully. “Jealous?”

“A little.”

Theresa gave him a quick hug. “You’ll be back in Rattay soon. I figured I’d let you and Hans have some privacy.”

“Whatever you say, Tess.” Henry chuckled.

“Take care of yourself, Hal. I’ll see you soon.” She squeezed his arm and turned back to continue chatting with the guard.

Just then, Hans approached, having just finished a quiet conversation with Jitka and Hynek by the carriage.

“I’ll catch up in a bit,” Hans told them, casting a glance toward Henry. “I just need to have a quick word with him—alone.”

Jitka raised an eyebrow but gave a knowing smile. “Alright. Don’t take too long.”

“Make sure he comes on time!” Hynek piped up, bouncing a little in his seat. “He promised!”

Hans chuckled and gave the boy a small nod. “I will.”

He turned and began walking toward Henry.

From her place near the carriage, Jitka called out to the guards, “Lord Hans will catch up shortly. Let’s ride ahead.”

With that, the group set off, leaving the two men alone as the dust settled and the quiet returned.

The sound of hooves and wheels began to fade as the carriages rolled out, and soon, it was just Hans and Henry left, standing together in the stillness of the morning air.

“You better be on time,” Hans said. “If you’re even a day late—”

Henry rolled his eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic. I’ll be back with you in less than a month.”

“That’s still too long,” Hans muttered. After a moment, he added, quieter, “I’ll miss you.”

Henry’s expression softened. “I’ll miss you too.”

Hans glanced around. No one was nearby. He leaned in and kissed Henry—slow and quiet, the kind of kiss meant to last until the next one.

When they pulled apart, Hans exhaled. “Like I said… if you’re even one day late—”

“I won’t be,” Henry said, steady and sure. “I promise.”

Hans mounted his horse, pausing to look back one last time.

“Don’t make me come drag you back.”

Henry grinned. “You’d enjoy that.”

With a faint scoff and a final smirk, Hans turned his horse and rode off. “Goodbye, Uncle Henry!” he called over his shoulder, his voice echoing down the dirt road as he rode to catch up with the others.

“Goodbye, Hans!” Henry shouted after him, cupping his hands around his mouth.

Uncle Henry, huh?

Henry blinked, a small, surprised smile tugging at his lips. Was this what the family agreed to call him? He didn’t hate it, a warm feeling settled in his chest.

He stood there at the city gate, watching until Hans disappeared into the morning mist.

Then, with a quiet breath, he turned back towards the city gates.

“Well,” he murmured, “time to settle things here.”

—--------------

Henry made his way through the winding streets of Kuttenberg, the early morning quiet broken only by the distant clatter of carts and the soft echo of his boots on the cobblestones. 

The town had become familiar to him over the years—once foreign, now etched with memories. Not quite home, not like Skalitz had been, but something close. A second home… No, it’s technically the third, he thought with a faint smile. 

And soon, he’d be leaving it behind. That thought sat heavy in his chest.

He turned the final corner and the forge came into view, smoke already curling lazily from the chimney. Inside, Matthias was waiting, sleeves rolled up and eager as ever.

Henry stepped through the doorway and dusted off his hands. “Alright,” he said with a grin, “let’s get to work. Your technique’s come a long way, but it’s still not perfect.”

Matthias gave him a look, half determined, half amused. “Then let’s fix that.”

They got to work quickly, the rhythmic clang of metal filling the forge once more.

“You didn’t heat the steel enough,” Henry commented.. “Another two seconds, and it would’ve been perfect.”

Matthias exhaled, wiping his brow with the back of his arm. “I thought the color was just right.”

“It was close,” Henry replied, gesturing toward the forge. “But you want that hay yellow—almost glowing. A few seconds more, and the grain would’ve opened just the way we want it. Honestly, it still would’ve made a fine blade—but we don’t settle for fine. We aim for perfection, even if we never quite get there.”

They carried on like that—Henry guiding, correcting—Matthias adjusting, refining. The afternoon slipped away unnoticed, the light through the forge windows growing amber and low. Neither of them had eaten, but neither seemed to care. They were too deep in the rhythm of their craft.

By the time they stopped, both were streaked with soot and sweat, hands rough and blackened, shirts sticking to their backs.

Henry stretched his arms over his head, letting out a satisfied groan as he cracked his neck. “Well, I’m heading to get a drink with Samuel tonight. You want to join us?”

Matthias paused, looking a little caught off guard. He scratched the back of his neck, glancing away shyly. “Actually… I’ve already got plans. With a girl, I mean.”

Henry raised an eyebrow, then grinned widely, clapping Matthias on the back with a hearty slap. “Attaboy! Didn’t know you had it in you. Good luck with that.”

Matthias chuckled, his cheeks flushing slightly. “Thanks. I’ll try not to embarrass myself.”

“Don’t worry too much. Just be yourself.” Henry winked, then added with a smirk, “Just don’t get too distracted, alright? You’ve still got work to do tomorrow.”

“Of course,” Matthias laughed, nodding. He turned back to the workbench, gathering up the tools and tidying them up.

Henry stood there for a moment, watching him, then nodded and walked toward the door. “Alright, see you tomorrow, Matthias. Have fun.”

With the sun dipping low over Kuttenberg, Henry made his way to the bathhouse run by Betty. The familiar scent of steam and herbs greeted him as he stepped inside, the warmth soaking into his skin after a long day at the forge.

Zlata, one of the girls who worked there, gave him a bright smile as he entered. “There’s our most loyal customer,” she said, already grabbing a fresh towel. “Rough day?”

“Something like that,” Henry replied, rolling his shoulders as she led him to his usual spot.

As Zlata scrubbed at his back with practiced hands, she gave him a sidelong glance. “You’re especially tense today, everything alright?”

Henry nodded, but his gaze was distant. “Just got a lot on my plate, that’s all…”

She tilted her head, studying him. “Care to share?”

He hesitated for a moment, then said, “I won’t be coming by much longer. I’ll be leaving Kuttenberg soon.”

Zlata paused, the cloth still in her hand. “Leaving? Why?”

Henry offered a small, amused smile. “Let’s just say… something’s come up. Or rather, someone.”

She let out a theatrical sigh. “Figures. A girl, then.”

He didn’t deny it, which only made her shake her head with mock disappointment. “What a shame. We’re losing our most dependable patron. You know, for someone who proudly told us on our first meeting that he was an arse man, you haven’t exactly lived up to the title.”

Henry chuckled. “You lot are the one who asked, remember?”

“Right, but you get what I mean.” She smirked. “Well… since you’re heading off soon, I could offer you some special treatment. A little farewell gift.”

Henry blinked at her, then let out a soft laugh. “Tempting, but I think I’ll pass.”

Zlata gave an exaggerated pout. “Shame. That girl of yours must be something special.”

“She is,” Henry said quietly.

They finished the bath with easy chatter, the warmth of the water soothing the aches in his muscles. Once he was clean and dressed, he gave Zlata a nod of thanks and stepped back into the cool evening air.

Henry made his way over to the tavern, the golden glow from the windows spilling out onto the cobblestones. Inside, he spotted Samuel at their usual table, already halfway through his drink.

“Starting without me?” Henry asked as he pulled out a chair and sat down, signaling the tavernmaid to bring him a mug.

Samuel raised his mug with a grin. “What choice did I have? My brother lets me drink for two weeks and thinks he can still claim the title of ‘reliable drinking partner.’”

Henry laughed. “Fair enough. Work’s been nonstop.”

“Work, huh?” Samuel leaned forward, eyes glinting with mischief. “Is that what you call that lord of yours in bed?”

Henry groaned, laughing as he rubbed a hand over his face. “Don’t be such a prude, Sam.”

“Oh, please, I’m just stating the obvious, I’ve seen the way you look at him.”

Henry had brought Hans to meet Samuel before, telling him about the decision to leave Kuttenberg soon and settle down in Rattay. Samuel had taken it in stride, though he’d had a dozen questions and twice as many warnings.

They both laughed, and the banter softened into the kind of quiet, steady conversation only close siblings could share. 

Samuel sipped his drink, glancing toward the hearth. “The kids are going to miss you. Be sure to say goodbye before you go.”

Samuel had married a few years back, to a warm, kind-hearted woman who shared his faith. Together, they had two spirited children—a boy and a girl.

“I will.” Henry nodded. “I’ll be back from time to time. Not often, but… I’ll visit. Check up on the forge, when I can.”

Samuel gave him a knowing look. “You’ll always have a place here, don’t be a stranger.”

The noise of the tavern hummed around them, but their table felt still—quiet with unspoken things

. Henry swirled the dregs of his drink, then looked up, his voice low.

“I’m sorry. For leaving again. I know the forge means as much to you as it does to me.”

Samuel shrugged. “Don’t be. I’d rather see you follow your heart. You’ve done right by that place, and Matthias is a fine blacksmith on his own.”

“He’s a good one. But he still needs guidance. Can you look after him for me? Make sure he stays on the right path?”

Samuel took a sip and nodded. “I’ve got him. Besides, the forge is in my blood too. I’ll make sure it keeps going strong.”

Henry gave him a grateful smile. “Thanks, Sam.”

Samuel grinned, nudging him with his elbow. “Just don’t forget to come back every once in a while. Maybe without a pretty nobleman on your arm.”

Henry snorted, raising his mug. “No promises. I don’t think I can escape from him anymore, even if I tried.”

They both laughed, then slipped into the comfortable rhythm of familiar conversation over many, many, drinks.

Eventually, Henry pushed back his chair and stood with a stretch. “I’ve gotta turn in. Still have an apprentice to yell at in the morning.”

Samuel also stood up, smirking. “Alright, but let’s get a few more drinks before you ride off into the sunset.”

Henry nodded, pulling his brother into a firm hug.

“Take care of yourself, brother.”

“You too.”

He stepped out into the cool night air as the tavern door creaked shut behind him, muffling the lively chatter and clink of mugs within. 

The cobbled street stretched ahead, quiet and dim under the glow of lanterns. Henry let out a slow breath, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he walked back home.

The next two weeks passed in a blur. Henry moved through each day with purpose and urgency—training Matthias, preparing his gear for the journey ahead. From sunrise to sunset, they worked side by side. 

Henry took the time to walk Matthias through everything he’d need to keep the forge running smoothly: finishing techniques, handling clients, and bringing him around to the local material suppliers. 

There was always more to do, always one last thing he could’ve shown or said. But neither time nor the man he loved would wait any longer.

He had done all he could for now. And though a part of him wished for just a few more days—maybe even one more week—he knew it was time.

His last night in Kuttenberg was simple, just the way he wanted it. A quiet dinner with Samuel, Matthias, and a few of the old drinking crew he’d come to know like brothers. 

No grand speeches or tearful farewells. Just food, laughter, and ale. Stories were traded between drinks, the kind you only tell when you know you won’t get another chance for a while. They didn’t drink too deep into the night—Henry had an early start.

Morning came too quickly. He dressed in gear he’d forged and polished himself: sturdy, well-worn, and polished with care. 

His belongings were already packed—his father’s sword, reforged into his own, a few repair tools, travel essentials, and the small things he couldn’t leave behind. His old set of lucky dice. A necklace Hans had once bought him. Dried herbs, potions, and remedies for the road. 

Matthias helped him secure them into saddlebags and strapped them to the new mare Henry had purchased for the journey.

It had been a long time since he last traveled. He hadn’t left Kuttenberg since he first arrived.

 Pebbles, his old steed, and Mutt, his loyal companion, had both passed on in the years since—gone quietly, like so many things with time.

He missed Pebbles. Missed Mutt even more. They had been with him through his roughest days—through battles, heartaches, and countless roads. Their absence still echoed in the quiet moments. The new mare was strong, steady, and young—but she didn’t carry the same memories. Not yet.

Before setting off, Henry took one last walk through the forge’s courtyard. The morning sun was just beginning to climb over the rooftops, casting a golden hue across the stones. He had built a life here—one of routine, of purpose. But it was time to leave it behind.

“Well, this is goodbye for now, Matthias,” Henry said, clasping the young man firmly by the shoulders. “I’ll be back to visit when I can—but the forge is yours to handle.”

“I won’t let you down, Master Henry, have a good trip.” The young man said with firm resolve.

Henry offered a small smile, then mounted his horse with practiced ease. He gave the reins a gentle tug and set off through the winding streets of Kuttenberg, the city he’d called home for years.

The town was just beginning to stir. Rooftops glowed with the golden touch of morning light, and the scent of fresh bread drifted through the air. He passed familiar corners, worn stones, vendors setting up their stalls.

He slowed as the city gates came into view, letting the moment settle in his chest. The quiet hum of the waking city faded behind him.

With a steady breath and one last glance over his shoulder, Henry gave his mare a gentle nudge.

He turned his eyes to the road ahead—and didn’t look back.

Chapter Text

The road home was familiar, yet not entirely the same. Change came slowly to Bohemia, but it came all the same.

It had only been seven years since Henry last rode these paths, yet it felt like a lifetime ago. 

Henry welcomed the rhythm of travel again. The wind at his back, the creak of saddle leather, the quiet solitude of the road—he had missed this life more than he realized. There was peace in motion, in the stretch of countryside rolling past him, in the sky that shifted from dawn to dusk without the clamor of anvils or the weight of duty.

But peace did not mean safety.

A man riding alone was always a tempting target, and bandits still roamed the woods and lesser-used roads. He was ambushed twice during his journey home, and spotted more shadows that likely thought twice about approaching. He handled each threat with practiced ease—his sword still knew its work. Most attackers didn’t get the chance to regret it.

One of his first stops was west of Kuttenberg, near the river bend, where he remembered little more than canvas tents and a stubborn woman with big plans.

Bara’s bathhouse.

When Henry first saw her again, she’d been scrubbing out tubs beneath flapping canvas, trying to build a business from nothing but determination and soap. Now, her bathhouse stood tall and proud—a fine timbered building with tiled roofing and flower boxes in the windows. A proper sign hung above the door, freshly painted. Music and laughter floated out with the steam, and bathmaids bustled around like clockwork.

Bara still remembered him. They shared a few words and a quiet moment about the old days—how far they’d both come since the pillory and the chaos of the past. Then he was off again, not to linger too long.

Opatowitz, once a den of outlaws and ash, had risen from the ruins. Rebuilt, re-settled. Smoke rose from chimneys, carts rattled through the streets, and children played where once there was only violence. Civilization had taken root again. Henry rode through slowly, marveling at what had grown where violence once ruled.

Suchdol was a different story. The castle, already rebuilt in his time, now simply bustled like any other busy town, the traces of war long lost to the passage of time. Henry didn’t stop. Not for any particular reason—just a feeling. Some places, you leave behind for good.

The ruins of Nebakov Fortress were barely more than moss-covered stone now. The forest had crept in, trees twisting through old courtyards and ivy clutching crumbling towers. But if you looked close enough, the shape of the place remained—a skeleton of history.

At Semine, he sought the old mill. Miller Kreyzl had once worked his schemes there, the wheels turning as quietly as his deals. But now, the mill was gone. Replaced by a grain store and a stable. When Henry asked a passing villager, the man simply shrugged. “They moved on years ago. Don’t know where to.”

Henry nodded and moved on. Some stories end quietly.

He came at last to the lake which still carried shadows of distant past. The waters were still, reflecting the grey sky above. Nearby, still stood the graves of his friends—good men—rested there eternally. The markers were worn, so Henry tended to their repairs. A short prayer, a touch of fingers to stone. Then he returned to his horse, the breeze tugging gently at his cloak.

By the time he reached the Rattay region, the road felt more familiar than foreign. These were hills he had once patrolled, paths worn into memory. He felt the ache of time in his bones—but in his chest, the quiet warmth of coming home.

He arrived earlier than expected—just past nightfall, a day ahead of schedule. He hadn’t thought he was rushing, but perhaps some part of him was. After all, he had someone waiting for him. 

As he passed along the familiar roads into Rattay, he noticed little changes: a new tavern sign creaking in the wind, a few unfamiliar shopfronts tucked between old stone and timber. But the town’s spirit remained the same. It welcomed him like a place long missed.

It was strange, in a way. Henry hadn’t spent more than a year here in truth, but it felt like coming home. Something about Rattay had always settled quietly in his bones, as though it had been waiting for his return.

The town had already settled into sleep, save for the taverns still aglow and the few souls lingering over their drinks.

He stopped outside the Trader’s Tavern, the sight of it striking a chord deep in his memory. This was where he had first met Hans. Not under the best of circumstances—they had brawled, as young men full of pride and foolishness often did. But looking back now, it almost felt like fate, that strange, brash collision that had marked the beginning of something much greater.

Anyway, it was late at night—and he was earlier than expected. So… what now?

A slow grin crept across Henry’s face as a devious little idea took root. He could’ve ridden straight to the castle and asked to be let in like a sane person. But where was the fun in that?

Instead, he booked a room at the tavern for the night, handing off his mare to the stablehands with a quiet pat on her flank. She’d earned her rest—it had been a long road. That was his excuse, anyway. In truth, he wanted to surprise Hans. Maybe even catch him asleep. The image alone made him snort softly to himself.

Up in the room, he freshened up, making himself a little more presentable. He swapped his travel-worn clothes for something lighter—quieter. No armor; it would’ve made too much noise. Once upon a time, he fancied himself a master of stealth. Time to see if the years had dulled that edge.

Moving like a shadow, he slipped out into the night. Guards patrolled the streets in their usual routes, but Henry knew how to avoid their lantern light, when to duck behind a crate, when to wait and breathe and listen. No clinking metal, no heavy boots—just quiet footfalls and the faintest rustle of cloth.

Let’s see how well the old city remembered him.

Henry moved like a shadow through Lower Rattay, slipping past the guards with ease. It felt good—familiar. He hadn’t done this sort of thing in years, but the muscle memory hadn’t faded.

He crept through the quieter streets, half-laughing to himself as he made his way toward Pirkstein. If Hans was anywhere, it’d be up in the upper castle. With Hanush gone, that’s where Hans and family would be residing, he presumed.

Henry had planned to scale his way up to the noble quarters—startle Hans awake with some grand, ridiculous entrance like old times. But as he slipped through the streets of Lower Rattay, something felt… off.

There were more guards here than he remembered. Not just drunk or lazy ones staggering about, either—these men were alert, posted deliberately. Watching the lower castle.

Henry slipped into the shadows beside a stable, frowning. That was strange. Why post so many guards down here? 

He tilted his head, listening to the silence beneath the torchlight and the steady clink of chainmail. A gut feeling stirred within him. He couldn’t explain it—just a pull in his chest that told him something was different tonight. Something was off.

So, he followed it.

With practiced, fluid steps, he moved closer, blending into the stone and shadows like he had done countless times before. 

The concentration of guards increased, especially near the wing where he used to sleep. They were watching the area more carefully than usual, scanning the area with quiet, determined vigilance. But why?

He slowed, his breath steady, his mind racing. Something didn’t sit right. They were guarding something—or someone.

Could it be?

Henry’s suspicions grew with every step he took. He waited for the right moment, watching the guards move past him in their patrols. With the quiet stealth he prided himself on, he slipped past them, moving like a shadow in the night.

He finally reached the door to his old quarters, the one he had slept in for years.

It was locked.

His heart skipped a beat. Why was it locked? What was inside?

He stood still for a moment, eyes narrowing as his mind raced. Something—someone—was inside. And now, it seemed, he had no choice but to find out what.

Smirking to himself, Henry pulled out the old tools he never thought he’d use again. With barely a whisper, the lock gave way.

He nudged the door open, peering inside.

And there, dead asleep in the bed he once called his own—was Hans Capon. Hair tousled, boots kicked lazily off to the side. Just… sleeping, like the world didn’t matter.

Henry stared, a grin creeping across his face, part fond, part incredulous.

“Of all the bloody places…”

Henry closed the door behind him with a soft click, careful to avoid even the smallest creak. The room was dim, lit only by the faint flickers of a burning candle.

Hans was sprawled across the sheets with the easy, relaxed posture of a man deep in sleep. His chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm, hair tousled against the pillow, one arm dangling off the side like he hadn’t a care in the world. Henry would’ve been at peace just watching him sleep.

A smile tugged at Henry’s lips as he stood there, considering his next move. He had a few ideas—he could scare him, wake him up with a loud greeting or a startle, but no, that felt too unsatisfying. Then something else crossed his mind, something that made him chuckle quietly. 

He crept over to the side of the bed, and with a smirk, he carefully slid into the covers beside Hans, tucking himself in close. The warmth of the blankets and the familiar scent of his old companion was comforting. Henry settled in, arms behind his head, waiting for Hans to wake.

It didn’t take long.

“Mmm… oh, Henry’s come to see us,” Hans murmured sleepily, his voice thick with drowsiness, his words slurring into the haze of a half-dream.

Henry blinked, waiting—half-expecting Hans to stir, to fully wake up and start yelling. But nothing came. Just soft breathing, steady and content.

“…He really thinks he’s dreaming,” Henry muttered under his breath, shaking his head with an incredulous smile.

Well. No reason to ruin the moment.

The warmth of the bed, the familiar weight of Hans beside him, and the long road behind him—all of it began to pull at his eyes. With a quiet sigh, Henry let himself relax, sinking into the comfort of it all.

And soon enough, he was fast asleep too.

Hans stirred with a soft grunt, shifting beneath the covers as dawn crept in through the shutters. His hand brushed against something—someone—warm beside him. He frowned slightly, not quite awake.

Then he breathed in.

That scent—familiar in a way nothing else was. It tugged at something deep in his chest.

“…Henry…?” he mumbled, not questioning, just knowing.

Henry was stirred awake and murmured, “Mhm… got here early…”

A pause. Then a soft chuckle, and he nuzzled a little closer, half-asleep.

“You came to see me after all… Good… good…”

Hans let out a content sigh and draped an arm across Henry’s chest.

Then, silence. Stillness. A moment suspended in a sleepy haze.

Until Hans’ brow furrowed. Something was off. The warmth beside him, the weight, the breathing —it all felt too real. His eyes cracked open.

Too real.

He saw Henry. Really saw him. Tousled hair, half-lidded eyes, that smug mouth already fighting a grin.

Hans stared.

“…Wait—wait, what the hell—?! ”

He jolted upright, nearly tumbling off the bed as the covers went flying. “What the—Henry?! Are you—are you real ?!”

Henry yawned, slowly sitting up on one elbow. “I think so, yeah.”

Hans scrambled back, pointing like Henry had grown a second head. “You—what—how?!”

Henry stretched lazily, completely unfazed. “Snuck in last night. Thought I’d surprise you, might want to tighten security though.”

“I thought— I thought you were a dream!”

Henry smirked through another yawn. “I get that a lot.”

Hans dropped his face into his hands with a dramatic groan. “You fucking arse.”

Henry chuckled, his voice still rough with sleep. “Morning to you too.”

Hans peeked out from between his fingers, exasperated but clearly fighting a grin.

“Why are you sleeping here anyway?” Henry mumbled, settling back into the bed.

Hans hesitated, suddenly looking a little sheepish. “I… had this room prepared for your return, in case you wanted it. They turned it into storage after you left.”

He paused, as if unsure how much more to admit.

“I’ve been using it now and then. I don’t know, it just… felt closer to you.”

Henry looked at him, surprised—but not teasing. A breath hung between them, then he shook his head gently.

“You don’t have to explain,” he said softly. “It’s alright.”

Hans gave a lopsided smile, the tension easing from his shoulders. “Well. Good. Because I was running out of ways to make it sound less pathetic.”

Henry’s gaze lingered on him for a moment—eyes warm, fond. Then, without a word, he leaned in and kissed him. Just a small thing. Gentle, half-lidded, still thick with sleep, but honest.

Hans blinked, caught off guard—but didn’t pull away. His expression softened, breath hitching for just a second.

When Henry pulled back, there was that smug little smile on his lips again.

“I’m home, Hans.”

Hans stared at him, then sighed through a helpless, quiet laugh.

“…Welcome home, you ridiculous bastard.”

When they reached Upper Rattay, it was still early—the castle was just beginning to stir.

They found Jitka and Hynek in the dining hall, seated at the long wooden table for breakfast. 

Jitka was mid-sentence, speaking to Hynek when the doors creaked open.

“Morning,” Henry called casually.

Hynek turned first, wide-eyed, blinking once—twice—before leaping to his feet.

“Uncle Henry!” he shouted, nearly upending his stool as he dashed across the room and flung himself into Henry’s arms.

Henry laughed, staggering back a step as he caught him, ruffling the boy’s hair. “Missed me, huh?”

Hynek clung to him, already breathlessly recounting everything he’d been doing since Henry left. Behind them, Hans leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching it all unfold with a fond smile.

Jitka, at last, set her mug down with a sharp clink. She stood slowly, looking him up and down.

Henry gave her a sheepish wave. “Surprise.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“A little early, aren’t you?”

Henry grinned. “Aye, and it was worth it, see—”

Henry recounted his return and how he surprised Hans, gesturing vaguely while trying not to laugh at his own retelling. Jitka listened with arms crossed, eyes gleaming with amusement.

She shook her head, laughter slipping out as she said, “Waking up to a man like you in bed… could’ve been worse.”

Henry blinked, caught between flattered and flustered. “Er—right,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck with a crooked grin.

Hans snorted behind him. “Careful, Jitka, you’ll make him blush.”

Henry just shrugged with a chuckle, setting Hynek down as the boy tugged at his hand, already dragging him toward the breakfast table.

It was a strange kind of homecoming. But it was home.

Not many in the castle remembered him. Many of the old staff had moved on, those who did remain were pleasantly surprised to see Henry again.

Officially, Henry resumed his place as Hans’s squire. Unofficially, he was Hynek’s uncle, and a source of endless whispers among the staff.

Henry started training Hynek gently, never pushing too hard—just guiding. The boy took to it with quiet determination, swinging wooden swords too big for him and tumbling more often than not, but always getting back up with grit in his eyes.

Hans and Jitka were kept busy—there were still preparations to be made for the journey to the royal court in Prague, where Hans’s future would be sealed.

Henry eased back into life at a steady pace. Officially, he was Hans’s squire again, though the role had softened with time. Truthfully, they didn’t need him for much. Hans had retainers, scribes, a castellan to manage the keep. 

But still—Henry was there. He kept the bed warm, kept Hans company on long, quiet evenings. He made the laughter come easier and the burdens feel lighter, and that, in itself, was enough.

He helped where he could—mending broken hinges, finding misplaced ledgers, offering a shoulder to lean on when words failed.

Then, after a few months, came the journey.

A final audience. A name carved in stone.

Hans Capon—legitimised by the court in Prague, granted full lordship of Rattay.

The celebration that followed was unlike anything the region had seen in years. Tables overflowed with food and drink, music and laughter filling every corner of the castle. Henry stood beside Hans through it all—quietly, proudly, one step behind and exactly where he chose to be.

Life settled into a new rhythm.

Hynek grew taller—his limbs awkward at first, then surer with each passing year, wooden sword traded for steel.

Hans grew sharper, his words more measured, his gaze heavier. Leadership suited him, though he’d never say it aloud.

Henry stayed steady. The same easy grin, the same way he’d throw his cloak over tired shoulders and lend a hand where it was needed.

And Jitka?

Well, she grew too—but mostly in mischief. Rumors trailed her like perfume, and she wore them with a grin. She had her fun.

Seasons passed, and while they had hoped the peace would last, as they had changed, so did the world around them. Shifts in power and influence began to stir, subtle yet undeniable.

Three years had passed in the blink of an eye, and it was now 1414. In Bohemia, Wenceslaus still wore the crown of Bohemia, but his rule had grown increasingly fragile. His brother Sigismund, who had been elected King of the Romans, was steadily gaining influence over much of the empire. 

Sigismund’s ambition, sharp as ever, meant that the balance of power in the region was starting to tilt in his favor, and many of the lords of Bohemia, who had once pledged loyalty to Wenceslaus, now turned their eyes toward Sigismund, drawn by his promises of stability and order.

The moon hung low over Rattay, bathing the castle in silvery light. Henry eased open the door to their chamber with a quiet creak. The fire had burned low, throwing long shadows along the stone walls, but the room wasn’t empty.

Out on the balcony, Hans stood bare-chested against the railing, a half-finished cup of wine in his hand. His hair was tousled, his expression unreadable in the dim glow. The slow rise and fall of his shoulders matched the quiet night air, heavy with thoughts neither of them had yet put to words.

“You’ll catch a cold like that,” Henry said gently, pulling the door shut behind him.

Hans didn’t turn around immediately. “You were out late.”

“Some drunk was making a scene at the tavern,” Henry replied, stepping closer. “Had to help get him home before he fell into the river.”

A quiet chuckle. “Of course you did.”

Henry moved up behind Hans, wrapping his arms around his waist, pulling him close. “What’re you doing out here?”

Hans hesitated, then let out a breath. “Thinking.”

“That’s dangerous.”

“That’s why I stopped drinking halfway through the cup.” A pause. “Have you heard of a man named Jan Hus?”

Henry blinked. “…The preacher?”

Hans nodded. “He’s been speaking in Prague. Loudly. Against the Church, the corruption, indulgences, all of it. People are listening. Nobles. Commoners. Even some of the clergy.” He finally looked at Henry. “It’s… spreading.”

Henry’s arms tightened around him, the warmth of his presence grounding him in the cool night air. “You’re worried.”

“Of course I am.” Hans’s voice was soft, but not uncertain. “He’s bold, and people believe him. And if Sigismund has his way… if this stirs up too much, peace will be the first thing to die.”

Henry stayed silent for a long moment, his chin resting lightly on Hans’s shoulder. Jan Hus’s message was no secret—criticism of the Church was dangerous in those times, and with Sigismund gaining power, the growing influence of Hus was a threat.

Wenceslaus, weak as he was, had little ability to stop the spread of such ideas. It was more than just a philosophical debate; it was a challenge to the very fabric of the Church, which held a tight grip over the land and its people.

With Sigismund, a man who had no love for reformers, rising ever higher in power, Hans’s concerns were valid. The winds of change were blowing, but whether that change would be for better or worse was uncertain.

Henry’s voice was low, filled with understanding. “You can’t control everything, Hans. But I’m here. And I’ll stay here.”

Hans turned slightly, but not enough to face him fully. “I’m just trying to make sense of all of it. Everything always feels like it’s shifting beneath my feet.”

Henry’s voice softened, his arms tightening just a little as he held Hans close. “I know.”

Hans exhaled deeply, the frustration creeping into his voice. “I worked so hard for this, you know? Became a lord, pushed Hanush out, fought my way to where I am now… but sometimes it feels like I’m still just a pawn. Not the family, not the life we’ve built—that’s different. But the politics? The constant maneuvering? It’s like I’m still being played, no matter what I do.”

Henry’s lips brushed the back of Hans’s neck as he spoke, his words gentle. “Your feelings are valid, Hans. You’ve worked hard, but you don’t have to carry it all on your own. You don’t have to face all this alone.”

Hans stared out at the dark sky for a moment longer, the weight of his thoughts pulling at him, but then he felt Henry’s presence behind him—close, grounding. Henry’s lips brushed the back of his neck again, a slow, soothing pressure that made Hans’s breath catch just a little.

“Come to bed,” Henry murmured, his voice low, as his lips trailed along his neck before moving to his ear. “It’s too cold out here.”

Hans’s heart skipped, and without thinking, he leaned into the touch, finally turning to face Henry, a half-smile playing on his lips. “You just don’t know when to leave me in peace, do you?”

Henry chuckled, his arms still wrapped around Hans, pulling him a little closer. “It’s just one of my many flaws.” With a grin, he leaned in to kiss Hans deeply, his lips warm against the cold night air. “Come on, let’s get you to bed. Tomorrow’s another day for worrying.”

Hans melted against him for a moment, the tension easing from his body as Henry held him. Despite everything, in that quiet moment, he felt safe—if only for tonight. He could let go of the weight of the world for a while longer.

“I suppose you’re right,” Hans murmured. “It can wait.”

Together, they headed back into the warmth of the chamber, leaving the cold and the uncertainties of the world behind, even if it were just for a night.

Chapter Text

It was late in the year 1414. Jan Hus, the radical preacher from Bohemia, had journeyed to the Council of Constance, armed with only his conviction and a promise of safe conduct from King Sigismund. He had hoped to defend his teachings, to speak for himself before the Church.

But instead of a hearing, he was met with chains.

Perhaps he’d foreseen the betrayal—perhaps not. In the end, it made no difference. The decision had already been made.

The promise was twisted on a technicality—“Safe passage for the journey,” the bishops claimed coldly. “No protection extends to heretics.”

Sigismund protested at first, his pride stung by the betrayal carried out in his name. But faced with pressure from Church authorities, he relented. Whatever outrage he may have felt, he chose silence over conflict with the catholic church.

The news spread quickly across Bohemia, shaking towns and noble courts alike. For many, it wasn’t just an attack on one man, but on truth itself.

Evening had fallen over Rattay, the sun now a dying ember slipping behind the hills, casting the practice yard in a dim, dusky glow. The sharp clack of steel rang through the air, rhythmic and familiar. Henry and Hans moved in a fluid, practiced dance—swords crossing, feet adjusting, the occasional grunt escaping as they pressed harder into each swing. It was a ritual by now. A way to stay sharp. 

A way to stay sane.

“The streets are stirring, Hans,” Henry said between strikes, his tone light, but the tension behind it betrayed his concern. “I heard a merchant in town yesterday say Hus won’t see the spring. People are whispering, gathering. There’s an edge to everything, like we’re waiting for thunder.”

Hans frowned, his sword parrying Henry’s in a hard arc. “That damned Sigismund,” he growled. “Does his word mean nothing?” His blade slashed the air with a touch more force than before. “They throw Hus in chains like he’s some criminal.”

The clang of steel echoed in the cool evening air as Hans and Henry circled each other, swords raised. A streak of orange clung to the horizon, the last traces of daylight slipping away behind the rooftops of the castle.

Hans frowned, his blade parrying Henry’s with a sharp, practiced arc. “That damned Sigismund,” he muttered, voice tight with restrained fury. “Does his word mean nothing?” His next strike came faster, harder—steel slicing the air with growing frustration. “They throw Hus in chains like he’s some criminal.”

Henry swiftly stepped, narrowly avoiding the blade. He furrowed his brows. “…Do you think he is one?” he asked, cautiously.

Hans’s grip tightened on his hilt. “I… I don’t know. But I do think the Church needs to change.” His voice softened, not in tone but in honesty. “There’s too much rot at the top—too much greed dressed up in gold and groschen. Jan Hus… he gave voice to something people already knew deep down.”

Henry nodded slowly. “Aye. He’s no saint, but they’d rather burn the truth than face it.”

Hans hesitated, lowering his sword slightly, “And I do know this—if he falls, if they make an example of him… any peace we’ve scraped together will burn with him.”

That brief moment of distraction was all Henry needed. With a swift pivot, he knocked Hans’s sword clean from his hands, the blade clattering to the dirt. Before Hans could react, Henry tackled him, sending them both tumbling to the ground in a tangle of limbs. Dust kicked up around them as Henry pinned him there, grinning despite the weight of their conversation.

Hans groaned. “Dirty trick, I was talking.”

“Dirty, but effective,” Henry said, though his voice was quieter now, gentler. He hovered above Hans, watching the flicker of doubt and worry settle into his eyes. “I don’t think we can stop what’s coming, Hans.”

“No.” Hans looked past him at the darkening sky. “Not while Wenceslaus sits drunk in his halls pretending all is well.”

Henry shifted slightly, still holding him down, but softer now, as if just the act of touching might be enough to keep the world from breaking apart. “Then we prepare for the worst. And we face it together.”

Hans blinked up at him. “Together?”

Henry leaned in, brushing their foreheads together with a quiet kind of defiance. “Always.”

Their kiss came not out of lust, but out of the kind of need that simmered beneath words—a promise formed not in vows, but in breath shared between two men who knew the world might soon turn to ash.

They had washed up quickly, the dust of swordplay rinsed from their skin and the weight of conversation tucked somewhere just out of reach—for now. The sky had faded to dusk, the castle glowing with warm light as Hans and Henry made their way toward the dining hall.

“Uncle Henry!” a voice cried before they even crossed the threshold.

A small whirlwind crashed into Henry’s side, arms flinging around his middle as Hynek launched himself into a tackle. “Oof,” Henry grunted, stumbling a step before regaining his balance with a laugh.

Hans raised a brow, watching the boy cling tightly to the older man. “Aren’t you a little too old to still be doing that?” he teased, though he couldn’t quite hide the tinge of jealousy in his voice.

From her seat at the table, Jitka laughed lightly, sipping from her goblet. “Can’t get rid of old habits so easily.”

Hynek had grown into a sturdy ten-year-old—still slight, but solid in his frame, with an alertness in his eyes that hinted at his potential. He had a natural talent for swordsmanship, quick on his feet and eager to learn, and Henry had been training him steadily with a firm yet patient hand. 

Jitka and Hans had ensured he was well-studied, too, schooled in letters, numbers, and history. He lacked for nothing, yet they had seen to it he was not spoiled—he held a kind of grounded pride.

Though still a child, Hynek was not oblivious. He knew, vaguely, that Henry’s presence in his life was not the norm—that most men didn’t have “uncles” who weren’t related by blood. But he never questioned it. Family, to him, needed no explanation.

They settled around the table, the food warm and plentiful—roasted root vegetables, seasoned meats, fresh bread, and cheese. Candlelight flickered softly against the stone walls, casting a golden glow over their quiet little gathering. For a while, only the sounds of eating and the occasional clink of cutlery filled the room.

A gentle peace hung in the air—until Jitka paused mid-bite, set down her fork, and picked up her goblet of wine. She swirled the contents absently before speaking.

“What do you two think about what’s going on in Constance?”

Hans set down his knife, exchanging a glance with Henry. “We were just talking about it,” he said, his voice low. “It doesn’t look good… not at all.”

“More groups are forming,” Henry added, resting his elbows on the table. “Angry ones. They haven’t acted yet, but it feels like a matter of time.” His brows furrowed, lips tightening.

Jitka took a sip, then placed her goblet down carefully, her tone even but edged with concern. “It’s getting louder. It would be foolish not to prepare for the worst.”

For a moment, silence crept in, curling around the corners of the table like an unwelcome draft.

Then Hynek looked up. He didn’t fully understand what the adults were talking about, not really—but he could tell it was serious, that something in the air had turned heavy.

Puffing out his chest with all the bravery a ten-year-old could muster, he declared, “When I grow up, I’ll protect us! I’ll protect this whole region!”

The boldness of it caught them off guard and the three adults laughed. With that one earnest “As expected of my son, he’s taking after me well,” Hans said, unable to hide the pride tugging at his voice.

Jitka smiled faintly, shaking her head. “Not sure if that’s a good or bad thing.”

Henry chuckled, reaching over to ruffle the boy’s hair. “Then I’ll have to make your training harder, won’t I?”

Instead of being daunted, Hynek practically bounced in his seat, grinning wide. “Good! More training!”

The rest of the meal carried on in laughter and lightness. For that evening, the castle held peace. The world outside might shift and smolder, but here—just for now—this patch of life was still whole. Still family.

Barely six months had slipped by—months spent clinging to hope, watching the horizon for a sign that sanity might yet hold. But despite their prayers and patience, the very outcome they had dreaded descended all the same.

The news, shocking yet grimly anticipated, swept through Bohemia like wildfire.

The preacher named Jan Hus had been executed—burned at the stake in Constance.

His final words rang through taverns, churches, and noble halls alike, repeated with reverent fury:

“You may kill a weak goose, but more powerful birds—eagles and falcons—will come after me.”

Whether he truly uttered them or not no longer mattered.

The fire had been lit.

The man had been burnt.

And nothing—nothing—could stop what was to come.

The tension in Hans’s study was suffocating. The crackling fire cast long shadows against the stone walls, its warmth failing to soothe the storm that raged inside him. Hans paced restlessly, his footsteps heavy, like thunder echoing in the stillness. He couldn’t gather his thoughts, couldn’t find a place for them to settle. His mind spun in circles, the uncertainty of the future pressing down on his shoulders.

“Sakra, how can the Church be so unbelievably fucking stupid?” he muttered, more to himself than to Henry. His voice was a harsh rasp, tight with frustration.

Henry stood nearby, watching him, his own anxiety simmering just beneath the surface. He knew better than to speak out of turn. He knew Hans needed to vent, needed to rage—there was no other way for the tension to escape. The silence stretched on, thick and uncomfortable, as Henry searched for the right words to ease the weight of the room.

Before Henry could find the words, Hans abruptly halted at his desk. His next movement was swift and violent—slamming his fist down with such force that papers flew into the air, scattering across the surface. The sound rang through the room, sharp and brutal, like a whip cracking in the silence.

His voice broke as it erupted with raw, guttural fury. “What the fuck do they think is going to happen now? Did they really think they could silence a man like Hus and not pay the price?” The words tore from his chest, a storm of emotion unrestrained.

Henry stood silently by, arms crossed, his face grim but trying his best to remain composed. At least one of them would need to be calm. He watched Hans for a long moment before speaking, his voice quiet but firm. “They may have scattered his ashes in the Rhine,” he said softly, “but I fear they’ve only made a martyr of him.”

With a strangled growl, Hans swiped everything off his desk in one furious motion. The clatter of ink bottles, parchment, and books echoed sharply against the cold stone floor. His breath came in ragged gasps as he sank into his chair, body slumping over his powerlessness in preventing this outcome. He buried his face in his hands, chest heaving with the frustration and helplessness that gripped him.

Henry was at his side in an instant, his movements steady, calm—everything Hans needed but didn’t know how to ask for. He placed a hand gently on Hans’s shoulder, offering silent support. “Hans,” he murmured softly, his voice like a beacon of reason to Hans, “breathe.”

“I’m trying, Hal,” Hans said through clenched teeth, his voice breaking. He fought to hold himself together, to stem the tide of emotions threatening to drown him, but they came anyway—fury, sorrow, helplessness—until his body trembled with the strain.

Henry didn’t say another word. Instead, he sat onto Hans’s lap, pulling him into his embrace. He felt the man’s body crumple stiff against him, heard the quiet sobs that came after. Gently, Henry cradled Hans’s head, brushing his hand through his hair. “I’m here, Hans. Please, breathe for me.”

And with that, something in Hans seemed to crack. The storm within him couldn’t be held back any longer. Hans’s arms wrapped around Henry’s waist, pulling him close, and their lips met in a soft, desperate kiss. It was more than just a moment of comfort; it was a grounding, a silent plea for peace amidst the chaos, for a moment of stillness in a world on fire.

As the kiss broke, Hans’s breathing slowed, though his heart still raced in his chest. He didn’t pull away from Henry, just leaned into him, allowing himself to settle. For a few moments, nothing else existed but the two of them in that space, the crackling of the fire in the hearth and the soft rhythm of their pulse beneath their skin.

But then came a knock at the door, pulling them back to the harsh reality waiting outside. The door creaked open and Jitka stepped in, her gaze immediately landing on the scene before her.

If the situation had been any different, if the air had been lighter, she might have made a teasing remark. She might have commented on the closeness of the two men, joking about Hans’s tendency to find solace in Henry’s arms. But Jitka didn’t laugh. She didn’t even smile. She simply saw the mess, the raw tension in the air, and her expression grew serious.

“Is this a bad time?” she asked, her voice calm but carrying a weight of its own.

Hearing her tone, Hans collected himself. Beath still uneven, he wiped his face with the back of his hand before managing to rasp out, “No, what is it?”

Henry shifted, easing off Hans’s lap, giving them both the space to face Jitka properly. Though he stood, ready to step away, Hans, still in a state of quiet turmoil, searched for him, his fingers instinctively reaching out to hold onto Henry’s for comfort.

“A messenger has brought a document,” Jitka said, her voice now taking on a note of urgency. “Someone’s gathering signatures.”

Hans’s gaze hardened as he stood, still moving with a kind of raw energy. He met her eyes, his voice low but firm. “What’s it say?”

Jitka handed over the document, and Hans read it through quickly, his frown deepening with each word. “They’re calling for peace,” she said. “A protest of sorts. They’re saying Hus was a just man, that his death was a crime, and anyone who believes otherwise is a traitor.”

Henry gave Hans hand a squeeze, watching him with a quiet intensity. “Will you sign it, Hans?”

The question hung in the air between them, heavy with its implications. Hans stared at the parchment, his finger tracing the lines of text, but his thoughts were a thousand miles away. After a moment, he looked up and set the document down on the table, his face set with grim determination.

Henry then noticed Hans’s eyes flicker down toward the floor—the scattered quill, the overturned bottle of ink. It was only a glance, but Henry understood. Quietly, he moved, stooping to retrieve the quill and right the ink bottle, setting them gently on the desk with the document.

Hans didn’t speak at first, but when he did, his voice was quieter, rough with emotion. “Thanks, Hal.”

He dipped the quill with a shaking hand, the ink swirling into darkness, and signed his name with a sharp, deliberate stroke. Each letter carved like a wound.

“I would sign my soul away to the devil,” Hans said, eyes locked on the ink still glistening. “If it meant we could live in peace.”

Chapter Text

The times following Jan Hus’s execution had left Bohemia in a slow, seething boil. Tensions thickened with each passing month. New groups were forming—people calling themselves Hussites, followers of Hus’s teachings, determined to carry his legacy forward. Though open violence had not yet erupted, the air was restless. Sermons grew sharper, nobles grew wary, and communities, sensing the tremors of something vast approaching, quietly prepared for upheaval.

Despite the mounting pressure, there were still moments—small, defiant acts of normalcy carved out against the backdrop of unrest.

The calendar had turned its page to 1416.

Henry, Hans, and Hynek rode to Talmberg under the pretense of a diplomatic visit. In truth, it was a bit of everything—politics, preparation, and a lesson in growing up. Hynek had just turned twelve—no longer quite a boy, not yet fully a man. In the eyes of their world, he was old enough to fight, to rule, to kill. Hans believed he ought to begin learning what that meant beyond swordplay and manners. So they brought him to Talmberg, where Sir Divish and Lady Stephanie still held their lands and their dignity with quiet strength.

Over wine and firelight, they discussed the growing storm: the rumblings from Prague, the sermons in Kuttenberg, the nobles beginning to draw lines in the dirt. Hans himself wasn’t quite sure yet where he stood. Nevertheless, the ground beneath their feet was shifting, and he felt it in his bones. Henry, silent more often than not, listened closely, leaving the talking to Hans.

The next morning, Henry left early to scout the woods southeast of the castle. He remembered them well; it was where he had once clashed horns with Hans—two angry, reckless boys in men’s clothing. Hatred had been the mask they wore. But it was in those woods, amid branches and blood, where everything had changed. Henry had saved Hans from the Cumans there. That memory, buried deep, stirred now with each step he took.

But this time, he wasn’t here for sentiment. He’d come days before to make sure the woods were safe. They weren’t. He’d found signs—prints in the mud, faint whispers, rustling steel. 

Bandits.

He tracked their patrols, waited in silence. When night came, he struck. Silent, efficient. The watchers died with a whisper. The sleepers didn’t wake. There was no mercy in Henry for men like these. Never was any.

He spent the night camping in the woods and returned to Talmberg in the morning. The sun had barely climbed above the hills when he passed through the gates, the guards on duty having opened the gates.

He found Hynek by the stables, laughing—trading jabs and stories with a boy close to his age. The lad had the bearing of nobility, a quiet confidence beneath the playful grin. It was Ulrich, the son of Sir Divish and Lady Stephanie. They were already talking like old friends.

Henry smiled faintly at the sight.

“You’re back? How were the woods?” came Hans’s voice from behind him.

Henry turned to see him approaching, arms loose at his sides, expression unreadable. He’d clearly been watching the pair for a while.

Henry shrugged. “Just a few bandits, as we expected. Nothing clever. Made the right call going in early.”

Hans nodded, agreeing, “Mm. Good job.”

Henry gestured toward the boys by the stables. “Looks like Hynek made a friend. Makes me feel old, seeing them like that. Kinda reminds me of us.”

Hans chuckled. “We hated each other at first though.”

Henry smirked. “Yeah, we did.”

But the smile faded just as quickly. Hans’s gaze lingered on the two boys. His expression grew distant—thoughtful in a way that Henry had come to recognize as serious.

“Hans?” Henry asked.

“What?” Hans blinked, then shook himself slightly. “Oh, uh… sorry. Got distracted.”

Henry tilted his head. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” Hans replied quickly, too quickly. “Just… thinking. That’s all. I’ll tell you later”

He looked back toward the boy—the other boy—who was now nudging Hynek in the ribs, both of them laughing.

Hans swallowed the thought, tucked it away for later.

He’d tell Henry soon. Just not here. Not now.

Just then, Hynek spotted Henry out of the corner of his eye. His face lit up and he nearly sprinted over—but caught himself just in time. He straightened his back, remembering how Hans and Jitka had taught him to carry himself in public. Still, he couldn’t hide the excitement in his voice as he strode over, trying to act composed.

“Uncle Henry! There you are! Why weren’t you at breakfast?”

Henry smiled at the effort, ruffling the boy’s hair. “Had to visit an old friend. What, did you miss me already?”

Hynek tried to maintain his serious face, but it cracked into a grin.

Before he could answer, another boy stepped up beside him. He looked to be about Hynek’s age, with soft blue eyes and a head of tousled brown hair. There was a quiet curiosity in his gaze, along with the unmistakable poise of noble upbringing.

“My name is Ulrich of Talmberg,” he said with a small, polite bow. “It’s an honor to meet you, Master Henry. I’ve heard quite a lot about you.”

“You have?” Henry raised a brow at the boy calling him master, but he was amused,

“Yes. My parents told me how you helped them during the siege, back then.”

“Ah, they did, did they?” Henry scratched the back of his neck, a little sheepish. “I didn’t really do all that much.”

“Don’t be modest, Uncle Henry!” Hynek grinned, casting a quick look at Ulrich for support.

Ulrich nodded with a smile. “It’s true. You’ve earned quite the reputation around here.”

Henry chuckled softly, scratching the back of his head. “I’d rather be known for fixing fences than for being some legend, if it’s all the same to you.”

They shared a light laugh before the conversation turned again toward the Siege of Talmberg. Henry recounted the story and the role he played, answering their questions modestly.

“Alright, I’d love to keep chatting, but we’d best get going on that hunt, Hynek,” Henry cut off further questions.

Hynek hesitated, not quite ready to part from his new friend just yet, before an idea struck him.

“Can Ulrich come with? Please?” Hynek asked, his eyes wide with expectation.

Henry raised an eyebrow. “...I’m fine with it, but does he want that?” He glanced at Ulrich.

Ulrich looked up at Henry, his voice tentative. “I—I would love to, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Henry looked at Hynek and Ulrich, then over at Hans—who was still standing off to the side, distracted, staring past them like he hadn’t heard a word.

“Hans?” Henry prompted.

Hans blinked, refocused, then gave a small shrug. “…Sure. I don’t see why not. As long as Sir Divish approves of it.”

Ulrich brightened immediately, and Hynek elbowed him with an excited grin.

Henry just shook his head, the corners of his mouth tugging upward. “Alright then. Go get yourselves ready—we’re leaving in a moment.”

And with that, the matter was settled. Sir Divish, after some brief contemplation, gave his approval and they set out after noon.

The day passed in good spirits, Hans having returned back to being his usual self. Hans, being the expert hunter, took the lead in instructing the boys, his voice steady and patient as he taught them to track prints and ready their bows. Henry offered advice here and there, though he mostly hung back, watching the younger two with a quiet smile.

Both Hynek and Ulrich, after many struggles and failed attempt, managed to bring down a hare each by the evening—a small but honest victory. Hans, not to be outdone, brought down a young boar. He used a spear this time, having learnt from his past mistakes. Henry clapped him on the back afterward, grinning.

“Not bad,” he teased. “Bit better than your first attempt, eh?”

Hans rolled his eyes but didn’t hide the pride on his face. “Let’s not bring that up.”

By nightfall, they had a fire crackling and the meat roasting over the flames. The boar, properly gutted and dressed by Henry, sizzled and spit fat into the embers. The hares, smaller and leaner, browned quickly. The scent alone was enough to hush the boys into focused silence—at least until dinner was served.

They ate heartily, seated on logs and bedrolls, the flickering firelight playing across their faces. Between bites, the boys kept pressing Henry and Hans for stories of the past—of battles, close calls, and how the two of them met. Hans, as always, was happy to embellish. Henry rolled his eyes often but never truly stopped him.

Eventually, the boys gave in to fatigue. Wrapped in thick woolen cloaks and laid out on padded rolls near the fire, they drifted off beneath the stars. The campsite was modest but warm enough—cloths covers above and beneath to ward off the damp, a small tent fashioned from nearby branches, and their backs to the embers for warmth.

Henry stood, stretching, then settled on a nearby rock with a quiet sigh. Opposite to him, Hans took up his own seat on a cloth, poking the fire gently with a stick.

They sat in silence for a while, listening to the quiet rhythm of the forest.

“Still can’t believe we’re the ones watching over kids now,” Henry murmured.

Hans gave a low chuckle. “Time’s a funny thing, isn’t it?”

“Hard to believe it was only ten years ago we were just a couple of fools. Well, at least one of us was one, trying to kill a boar with an arrow.”

Hans grimaced. “I told you not to bring them up.”

Henry laughed softly. “Still, it’s the reason we got closer, didn’t we? Maybe it wasn’t such a terrible thing.”

Hans smiled faintly. “Maybe it wasn't.”

They let the quiet stretch between them, the forest humming with the soft crackle of the fire and the chirps of insects. The boys were curled up nearby, wrapped in their cloaks on a bed of straw and canvas, already fast asleep. The night was still.

Henry stirred. “If you’re tired, Hans, go on and rest. I’ll keep watch for the night.”

Hans didn’t move.

“Hans?” Henry asked, puzzled, glancing over at him.

There was hesitation on Hans’s face, a flicker of something unspoken tightening his brow. He looked into the fire for a moment, as if searching for the right words.

Hans gave a vague hum. Then, slowly, “Sorry, I’m still thinking.”

Henry looked back at the fire. “...About Ulrich?”

Hans froze.

Hans sighed. “You already know, don’t you?”

Henry didn’t answer at first, then gave a quiet nod. “I’ve suspected for a while. Since the first time I saw him, really. That night with Lady Stephanie... the timing adds up.”

Hans pursed his lips before speaking, “I'm sorry I didn't bring it up sooner. I wasn’t sure if I should say anything. Jitka—she thought it best not to tell you. Said it’d complicate things.”

Henry gave a small, wry smile. “Don't worry about it, she’s was right, I probably would've been better off not knowing.”

“...But now that you do." Hans paused for a moment, before continuing in a gentle voice, "How do you feel about it?”

Henry’s gaze lingered on the fire. “I don’t know. It’s not certain, is it? And even if it is… he’s got a good life. Lady Stephanie loves him and Sir Divish treats him like his own. He’s got a name. A future. He’s happy.”

Hans nodded slowly. “He is. And he’s a fine young man.”

There was a pause, then Henry added, “Still. I’ll be around. If he ever needs me… I’ll be there. Maybe not as a father, but—something.”

Hans looked over at him, really looked. “He’ll be lucky to have you, Henry. However you choose to be there, just as Hynek is lucky to have you.”

Henry softly met his gaze, “...Thanks, Hans. That means a lot to me.”

Hans leaned his arms back onto the ground, gazing at the stars. “Fate’s strange, isn’t it? All those years ago, we were chasing hares and arguing in these woods. Now our children are friends in the very same woods.”

“Tell me about it, I guess Fate isn't always a cruel bitch." Henry stated plainly, causing Hans to softly laugh.

Henry continued. “Imagine they turn out like us.”

Hans raised an eyebrow. “Stubborn idiots?”

“I was thinking more…” Henry trailed off with a grin. “Sensitive. Soft-hearted. Maybe even sweet on each other.”

Hans let out a quiet snort. “That’d be tragically hilarious.”

“Would explain all that giggling today,” Henry teased.

“Careful,” Hans sighed, shaking his head with a faint smile, “you’ll curse it.”

Henry glanced at him, smile softening. “What we have isn’t a curse, Hans.”

Hans looked at him and laughed, a warm look in his eyes. “You’re right, Hal, sorry for saying that.”

The fire crackled quietly between them. Their voices faded into the gentle hush of the woods, conversation meandering through old memories and quiet thoughts. Sleep seemed distant—helped along by the cockerel potions Henry had brewed, keeping the weight of fatigue at bay just a little longer.

The night passed peacefully with no incidents, the men quietly tending to the fire to keep the boys warm as they slept. Morning came with the pale light threading through the trees and birdsong beginning in cautious bursts. They packed up their things, doused the fire, and made their way back to Talmberg.

After a few more pleasantries with Sir Divish, shared over wine and bread, the time came to part ways. Promises were exchanged—support between their lands, news shared swiftly should any trouble arise.

The boys said their farewells beneath the waning afternoon light—Ulrich offering a polite handshake in proper noble fashion, while Hynek grinned from ear to ear, already talking about their next visit as though it were tomorrow.

“Next time, you’re coming to Rattay!” Hynek said, clapping Ulrich on the shoulder.

They made their way back home to Rattay, the visit having been a positive one—new friendships had been forged and old bonds were strengthened. 

Henry and Hans may have uncovered truths and faced quiet revelations—but perhaps, some stories are meant to unfold in their own time—or even to be left untold.

About half a year had passed since their visit to Talmberg. Nothing had gotten better in the region—nor had they been so deluded as to truly believe it would. The calm was thin and stretched, the kind that only existed before a storm. They spent their days keeping their ears to the ground, listening, watching, preparing.

But they didn’t sit idle. Grain was stockpiled in every cellar that could be spared, blacksmiths worked their forges until their arms ached, and the sound of blades striking wood echoed through the training yards. Men drilled by torchlight, boys were made into soldiers, and quiet agreements were struck in candlelit halls amongst Lords, oaths sworn in low voices.

It was not a question of if something would come—but when . And when it did, they meant to be ready.

It came on a morning like any other—sunlight slanting through the high windows of the castle, the low hum of voices as servants and guards went about their duties. Henry was in the courtyard, guiding the soldiers through their morning training. 

Hans and Jitka had been in their study, leafing through trade correspondence and idle gossip from the neighboring provinces, when a messenger arrived bearing a letter.

It was sealed with red wax stamped by the insignia of Sir Radzig Kobyla —a simple yet unmistakable mark, as familiar to Hans as his own name. He took it without a word, broke the seal, and began to read.

Jitka watched as the light in his eyes dulled, as the lines in his brow grew deeper with each passing line. The words caught somewhere between his chest and his throat, refusing to reach his lips.

“Hans?” she asked gently.

But he didn’t answer—not right away.

He stood still for a long moment, the paper trembling faintly in his hands.

“Sakra…” he muttered under his breath. “I don’t know how he’s going to take the news.”

Jitka, who had only been watching him curiously a moment before, felt her chest tighten. The air shifted—something wasn’t right. “Hans?” she asked softly, stepping closer. “What’s happened?”

He didn’t answer immediately. His eyes stayed on the page, as though he could will the words to change. “Sir Radzig… has been murdered.”

Jitka’s face fell, sadness blooming quietly beneath her calm. “Oh no…”

There was a long pause between them, filled only by the distant rustle of a breeze outside and the muffled steps of a passing guard.

“He’ll be coming here when he’s done training the guards. I’ll tell him when he returns.” Hans said at last.

Jitka nodded slowly. “I’ll go first then. He’ll need time. And… you by his side.”

Hans folded the letter, jaw tight. “He won’t go through this alone.”

Henry wiped the sweat from his brow, the clatter of wooden swords and shouted commands slowly fading behind him as the morning drills wrapped up. The air smelled of dust, steel, and early spring. He stretched his arms with a satisfied grunt and made his way up toward the keep, expecting a light meal and some idle chatter with Hans and Jitka.

He pushed open the door to their study without knocking, as he often did, but found Hans alone. His face was grave, unreadable, and something in the way he sat—rigid, like stone carved to stillness—set Henry instantly on edge.

“What’s wrong? Where’s Jitka?” he asked, pausing just inside the doorway.

Hans looked up. His voice was low, deliberate. “She thought it’d be better if I told you myself.” A pause. “Listen, Hal… you might want to sit down for this.”

Henry’s stomach tightened. He crossed the room in two strides and dropped into the chair opposite. “What’s wrong, Hans?” he said, eyes sharp now. “You’re scaring me. Just tell me.”

Hans hesitated, fingers curling around the folded letter on the desk. Then finally—quietly—he said, “It’s… it’s Radzig. He’s dead.”

The words hit like a blow. Henry sat frozen, the breath caught in his chest, a long silence stretching between them.

“What?” he said at last, voice thin. “No, that… that doesn’t make sense. He was—where?”

Hans’s jaw clenched. “Kuttenberg. He was there on Wenceslaus’s orders. Collecting taxes. Things have been unstable since Hus burned—some preachers have stirred the people into madness. The letter says there was unrest… and he was caught in it.”

Henry swallowed, but his throat felt too tight to speak.

Radzig had been a supporter of Jan Hus—and not a quiet one. He never shied away from speaking his mind, even when it would’ve been wiser to bite his tongue.

And he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The letter did not say everything. It did not describe how the mob of miners had stormed into the tavern where Sir Radzig and his men were lodged, drunk on rage and sermon-fed fury. It did not recount how they were dragged out like animals, cut down not in battle but in chaos—no dignity, no honor. 

Their bodies were torn apart, hacked into pieces and thrown into the street like refuse. And as if that desecration weren’t enough, the crowd stomped upon their remains until blood and bone were indistinguishable, all while singing hymns outside the home of the very preacher who had roused them to kill. It was not a warrior’s death. It was a massacre. But Henry would not know that—not yet.

Henry lowered his eyes to the table, fingers trembling faintly. “So that’s it, then. After everything he’s survived…”

His voice faded, but the thoughts raced louder than words. His relationship with Radzig had never been easy to define—more a tangle of what-ifs and half-healed wounds than anything else. 

The man was his blood, his birth father. But he hadn’t raised Henry. He hadn’t even acknowledged him until Henry’s world was already in ruins—Matin murdered, his mother gone, everything he had known burned to ash. Only then had Radzig stepped forward—too late to be the father Henry had once needed.

Not long after, Henry left Rattay behind. He walked away from the life he’d rebuilt, and Radzig let him go. He didn’t come looking. Maybe he thought it was Henry’s decision to make. Maybe it was guilt towards the past.

They met again during Hans’s appointment as a Lord in the courts of Prague. Radzig didn’t make a fuss of the reunion—no grand gestures, no apology. Just a quiet nod, a shared glance, and life carried on.

From then on, they slowly built something between them. It wasn’t quite a father-son bond—there was too much distance, too much history. But it wasn’t nothing either. It was a fragile rhythm, a tentative peace between two men who had both lost too much. It was imperfect, but it was something.

Now, that something was gone.

A strangled sound escaped Henry’s throat before the tears broke through. He pressed a hand to his face, but it couldn’t stop the sobs that came, low and shuddering. He hated crying like this—hated the weakness, the finality of it—but it came anyway.

Hans stood without a word and crossed the room. He placed a steady hand on Henry’s shoulder, then knelt beside him, the way one might kneel before a wounded man on the battlefield. No words, just presence. Quiet, steady, unyielding. Henry leaned into him, and Hans let him. Let him cry. Let the world fall apart for a moment.

Because no matter how distant or flawed, losing a father still shattered something in a son. 

And Henry had now lost two.

For Hans, this wasn’t a moment to speak or try to fix things—it was simply a moment to be there. The first blood of the conflict had long been drawn, but now it had hit close to home. It wasn’t just a war between factions anymore; it was a war that had claimed a life close to Henry’s heart.

But as the storm of grief began to subside, reality would soon call upon them once again. The winds of conflict were blowing ever stronger, and soon, it would be time to pick sides.

The news of Radzig’s death had also affected Hans deeply. The man had quietly supported him against Hanush, despite their shared history and the tangled web of old friendships and rivalries. Radzig had been the type of man who, deep down, wanted to do the right thing, despite all his flaws and imperfections. 

Radzig had supported the Hussite cause not out of blind loyalty but because he believed in the need for reform within the Church—reforms Hans had long seen as necessary.

Hans had always believed that faith and duty should guide a man, but now, those very things seemed to be pulling him in different directions. Would he continue to stand by the Church, as he had always done, or would he join the Hussites who were calling for a reformation of the very system he had sworn to protect?

It was a question that would soon demand an answer. But for now, Hans could only sit beside Henry in silence, offering what little comfort he could. The choice ahead would be a heavy one, its consequences not his alone to bear. Such was the burden of a lord—and when the time came, the shackles he’d been born into would tighten, cold and unyielding, whether he was ready or not.

Chapter Text

It had been three years since Radzig’s death. Henry had had plenty of time to grieve, though it was a grief that never truly went away, like a shadow that lingered at the edges of his thoughts. but he couldn’t grieve forever. The world, indifferent and relentless, would not wait for him to heal. Time marched on, callously, as always.

The threat of war continued to loom, but despite the skirmishes—small, not quite insignificant incidents—they had not yet tipped over into full-blown conflict. Both sides, the Hussites and those who still held loyalty to the crown, were carefully preparing for what was to come. They gathered allies, trained their forces, and bided their time, waiting for the other side to make the first move.

Hans’ loyalties still lay with the Catholics, as most of his allies in the region had done the same, and he knew his allegiances needed to align with those who could help maintain order and protect his family. 

However, this decision was not made lightly, nor was it a choice born of certainty or stability.

The fact that Catholic supporters had played a role in Radzig’s death weighed heavily on him, and he couldn’t ignore the fact that the Hussites had a valid point in that the church was filled with corruption. Still, Hans had lived his entire life in service to the crown and the church, and those loyalties were not easily abandoned.

Henry never questioned him for this choice; instead, he trusted Hans’ judgment. He understood that Hans had to make decisions for the greater good, and Henry knew that Hans was always striving to act in the best interest of their future, no matter how difficult the path was.

The year was now 1419, and Hynek had just turned 15. No longer considered a child, he spent his days receiving the rigorous training necessary to prepare him for the responsibilities of a future lord.

The clang of steel echoed across the courtyard of Upper Rattay. Under the golden light of the late afternoon sun, Hynek lunged with sharp precision, sweat trailing down his brow. His blade came in low—feinting—then twisted upward in a surprisingly deft flick.

Henry blocked it with a smirk, boots shifting lightly on the dirt. “Good. Again!”

Hynek pressed forward, his strikes fast and relentless now—he was pushing himself, not for pride, but to prove he could. A high cut, a sweep to the side, then a quick jab. Henry took a step back, letting the boy think he had an opening—then with one well-timed pivot, he disarmed him and swept his legs out from under him in one fluid motion.

Hynek landed with a solid thud, his sword clattering to the side.

Flat on his back, he let out a groan that turned into a laugh. “I still can’t beat you, Uncle Henry.”

Henry chuckled, tossing his sword to the side and offering a hand. “Don’t worry. Your father can’t either.”

From where he leaned on a wall, Hans scoffed loud enough to startle a mare. “Excuse me! I’ll have you know I once—nearly—had you cornered, Henry.”

Henry grinned. “In your dreams, Hans.”

Hynek took Henry’s hand and stood, brushing dust off his tunic, still catching his breath. His cheeks were flushed, but his eyes were bright. 

“Yeah, I doubt that happened.” Hynek huffed, rubbing his back.

Hans put a hand to his chest in mock offense. “I am surrounded by traitors in my own courtyard.”

Hans, arms still folded, watched in silence for a moment, the edge of his amusement giving way to something more contemplative. The boy was growing up fast—too fast, if he was honest. But the times demanded it so Hans pushed hard each day for it.

He wished Hynek could’ve lived in times of peace—the freedom to choose his own path without the weight of titles or the shadow of war. But the world was what it was, and Hans had a duty to raise him not just as a son, but as a lord. The boy needed to be ready, for anything.

Hynek had just turned fifteen, and already he was growing into a fine young man. He shared more than just a resemblance to his father—his messy blond hair and sharp features were unmistakably Hans’—but his eyes were a softer shade of hazel, inherited from his mother.

Unlike Hans, who had been reckless and headstrong in his youth, Hynek moved through the world with a quiet composure that seemed far beyond his years. There was a calmness in the way he carried himself, as though he understood the weight of responsibility before it was even placed upon him. His maturity, tempered by his observant nature, set him apart, marking him as someone who would one day lead with thoughtfulness, not impulse.

Hans and Jitka had taught him the ways of nobility—how to lead, how to read a room, how to win with words. Henry had taken care of the rest: swordplay, archery, and all the dirty tricks a man might need when honor alone wouldn’t be enough.

Hynek rolled his shoulder with a faint wince. “If I can’t beat you yet… I’ll just have to make sure I learn everything you know.”

Henry’s nodded, “That’s the right idea.”

Henry clapped his hands together and picked up his own sword again. “Alright! Let’s practice masterstrikes. They’ve gotten me out of more scrapes than I can count—and more importantly, they teach you how to read your opponent’s movements, not just react. Timing, control, instinct—core principles of real swordplay.”

Hynek wiped his brow with the back of his hand, breath steadying, then grinned and lifted his blade again. “Alright, let’s do it.”

Henry’s smile widened. “That’s the spirit.”

Steel rang again as they began their next exchange, the sun shining bright above the castle walls. And off to the side, Hans watched—quietly proud, and quietly afraid.

Later that night, in the quiet stillness of the castle, Hans made his way to Hynek’s chambers. The halls of Upper Rattay were dimly lit, and the soft glow of torchlight flickered across the stone as he knocked gently on the door.

“Who is it?” came Hynek’s voice, muffled but alert.

“It’s me.”

“Dad? Come in.”

Hans pushed open the door and stepped inside. Hynek was perched cross-legged on his bed, a candle burning low on the nightstand and a worn book resting open in his hands. He closed it as Hans approached, setting it aside and shifting to sit upright.

Hans sat beside Hynek on the bed, his hands clasped together as he stared at the floor for a moment, gathering his thoughts.

“What is it, Dad?” Hynek asked, his voice gentle, but a little curious.

Hans hesitated before looking up at his son, his expression suddenly weighed down by something he hadn’t fully articulated before. “I wanted to say… I’m sorry,” he said, his voice quieter now.

Hynek raised an eyebrow. “Sorry? For what?”

Hans sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair in a familiar gesture. “For… making you carry all this. This life, this responsibility. You should have had more time to be a boy, to have your own dreams and not always be thinking about what you need to do as a lord. I pushed you into that role because I had no choice. But I regret it… Sometimes I regret it.”

Hynek looked at his father, surprised by the depth of the admission. He reached out, placing a hand on Hans’s arm and giving it a comforting squeeze. “Don’t apologize, Dad. I’m proud of the man I’m becoming.”

Hans’s face softened, but there was a shadow in his eyes. He sighed, a quiet frustration creeping into his voice. “Still… When I was your age, I hated Hanush for trying to force me into a certain mold. And now I feel like I’m doing the same to you.”

Hynek’s gaze softened as he thought back on his childhood. “I don't know or remember Sir Hanush much, I was too little,” he said thoughtfully. “But what I do remember… are the moments with you, Mom, and Uncle Henry. You all gave me a happy childhood, Dad. I know you’re just trying to prepare me for the future. I trust that you’re doing what’s best for me.”

Hans blinked, his breath catching for a moment as his son’s words settled in. He hadn’t expected to hear such understanding from Hynek, especially not in the way he said it. A lump formed in his throat. Hynek’s maturity was unlike anything he’d had at that age, and it filled him with a quiet pride—and a growing fear that time was slipping too quickly through his fingers.

Hans cleared his throat, his voice unsteady as he spoke. “That… That means more to me than you know, Hynek. I’m proud of you too. Truly.”

For a moment, they stayed like that, the comfort of the embrace wrapping around them both. Hynek rested his head against his father’s chest, a quiet contentment settling between them. Despite the weight of the future pressing on his shoulders, Hynek found solace in the presence of his father.

After a while, Hans pulled away slightly, brushing a hand through Hynek’s hair before standing up. “I’ll get going now, let you get back to your reading.”

Hynek smirked, his eyes twinkling with a hint of mischief. “Alright Dad, off to find Uncle Henry?”

Hynek knew well what was going on in the family. There had always been unspoken things, things that no one explicitly discussed, but that were understood all the same. He had seen the way his father and Uncle Henry looked at each other when they thought no one was watching, the quiet moments they shared, the subtle touches. 

Hynek had always been perceptive, even as a young boy, and as he grew older, the truth became clearer. It was a truth that was never acknowledged aloud—never spoken about—but he understood it nonetheless. And though it wasn’t a topic for open discussion, there was a quiet respect between him and his father.

His mother, though she never directly spoke of it, seemed to know as well. If anything, she seemed to be actively encouraging it. It therefore wasn’t something that needed to be addressed.

Hans blinked, caught off guard by the question, before his lips curled into a small, amused grin. Maybe the boy still had some growing left to do—though that cheeky remark was definitely a sign that he was his son, through and through. The mischievous glint in Hynek’s eyes reminded him so much of himself.

He crossed his arms, trying to look serious, but the grin crept back onto his face despite his efforts. “Don’t talk to your father like that,” he said with a chuckle, shaking his head as he made his way toward the door.

Reaching his chambers, Hans quietly pushed open the door, slipping into the warmth of the room. Henry was already lying in bed, half-asleep, his body curled in a relaxed sprawl. 

Henry stirred as Hans climbed on the bed and he shifted, offering Hans a sleepy smile. 

“Sorry, did I wake you?” Hans asked, his voice soft as he climbed into bed beside Henry, pulling the blanket over them both and snuggling closer.

“No, wasn’t quite asleep anyway.” Henry mumbled, his voice thick with the last remnants of sleep. He shifted, settling into Hans’ embrace. “How did it go?”

“Well, I think… sometimes I’m not sure if he’s really my son,” Hans chuckled, his voice light.

Henry chuckled back, his hand instinctively reaching out to pull Hans closer. “Aye, agreed. He’s much more mature than you ever were.”

Hans let out an exaggerated gasp, though there was no mistaking the warmth in his voice. “You’re not supposed to agree with me, Hal.”

“Mmm, sorry.” Hans snuggled deeper into Henry’s chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath, the sense of calm that settled over him. They lay there for a moment, wrapped in a quiet comfort that only the two of them shared.

Then, as the room grew stiller, Hans’ voice broke the silence, quieter now, with an edge of something far more serious. “Listen… Hal. If anything happens to me… I want you to take care of them. Hynek and Jitka, I mean.”

Henry’s body stiffened immediately. His eyes, which had been half-lidded with sleep, snapped open, now fully awake, and his gaze focused intently on Hans. His brow furrowed, concern flooding his expression. He could feel the weight in Hans’ words, and it made his stomach twist.

“Don’t say that, Hans,” Henry said softly, his voice thick with urgency. “Nothing’s gonna happen.”

Hans let out a quiet breath, his eyes drifting to the ceiling as his fingers traced along Henry's back. “…You never know, Hal. Anything can happen in war, and life… well, it’s fleeting.”

A beat of silence passed—just long enough for the words to settle. Then, with a tired shrug, he added, "One day you’re here, the next? Could be gone. That’s just how it goes."

Henry’s concern deepened at the words, but his voice was firm, steady, as he pulled Hans closer. “I’ll make sure we’ll all be fine, Hans. I promise. We've made it this far, haven't we?”

Hans smiled softly, a sense of comfort washing over him. “That means a lot to me, Hal.” He paused for a moment, then added, “I know, I'm being irrational. But still, promise me.”

Henry’s gaze softened, his hand gently stroking Hans’ hair as he kissed the top of his head. “Fine, if it means that much to you,” Henry whispered, the words of reassurance carrying the weight of their bond.

“Thanks, Hal.” Hans’ voice was quiet, almost a murmur, his heart warmed by the promise.

Henry shifted slightly, the weight of the conversation settling between them. He smiled, though his concern was still evident. “Now go to sleep before you speak more nonsense,” he teased gently.

Hans chuckled, his body sinking further into Henry’s embrace. “Alright, alright. Good night, Hal.”

"Good night, Hans."

Soon, the two of them drifted into a peaceful slumber, the quiet of the night wrapping gently around them. Moments like these—simple and full of understanding—were to be cherished, for they both knew all too well that the luxury of such calm wouldn’t last forever.

The fire crackled softly in the corner of the study, the warmth of the flames barely making a dent in the chill of the evening air. As always, news from Prague had trickled in, but this time, the report felt different. It had come swiftly, carried by a messenger with an urgency that could not be ignored. Hans was reading it now, his brow furrowed, and Henry sat at the edge of the table, eyeing the letter with concern. Jitka stood near the window, her back turned, watching the faint glow of the evening light fade beyond the castle walls.

“It was a Hussite procession,” Hans began, his voice steady but with a clear edge of tension. He read the words aloud, “Led by a priest, the crowd gathered outside the New Town Hall in Prague, demanding the release of several Hussites held in prison. When the councilors refused, the crowd stormed the hall and threw the councilors out of the windows.”

Jitka turned around at the mention of the violence. “A procession? And they did what?” Her voice was tinged with disbelief.

This incident, though more significant than the usual unrest that had plagued the region, wasn’t yet a declaration of war. It was far from clear whether this would escalate into anything more dangerous.

But Hans hesitated before continuing. “There’s more.”

Hans let the weight of the moment settle in the air before reading aloud again, his voice quieter now. “Some eyewitness reports also state a man with an eyepatch instigated the events. A man going by the name of… Jan Zizka.”

Henry’s face tightened at the mention of Zizka’s name. The room fell into a heavy silence, stretching out longer than it should have. Jitka’s gaze flickered between the two men, sensing the tension building between them. “Who is that?” she asked, her voice quieter now, tinged with concern.

Hans finally looked up from the letter, his expression somber. “He’s someone we’ve known… someone who’s crossed our path before.”

Henry’s mind was already working, his hand gripping the back of the chair as if holding onto his thoughts. “If he’s involved, this is no small matter. That man’s dangerous. He’s always been cunning, always a step ahead. Supporting the Hussites now? If he’s showing his face, it means something far worse is on the way.”

Jitka’s eyes flickered between them, anxiety creeping into her features. “I hope you’re wrong…” she muttered, her voice trembling for just a moment before she steeled herself. “What does this mean for us? For the future?”

Hans didn’t answer immediately. His gaze shifted to the floor, the shadows from the flickering flames playing across his face. Finally, he spoke, his tone heavy. “It means the Hussites are gaining strength. And with Zizka leading them… the balance of power is shifting. This is no longer just unrest. It’s the beginning of something far more dangerous.”

Henry, his face hardening, stepped forward. “We’ll have to be ready for whatever comes. Whatever it takes.”

The room felt colder as the weight of the situation settled between them.

It was barely two weeks after the defenestrations when more news came from Prague.

Unfortunately, the worst of their fears had come true.

The streets of Prague were already seething with unrest as Hussites and Catholics clashed in skirmishes around the city. The tensions had been building for some time, but now they were spilling over into violence. Hussite mobs seized control of New Town, turning it into a radical stronghold in their fight against the Catholic authorities. The city, once a symbol of imperial power, had become a battleground.

In the midst of this chaos, the message was clear: the Hussites were no longer just rebels, they were a formidable force. The storm had arrived.

Henry and Hans had no doubt about Zizka’s involvement. The fact that innocent civilians were spared, with only those who opposed the cause being targeted, spoke volumes of his hand in the violence.

Then came a blow that struck harder than any before. News that shook the heart of Bohemia.

Wenceslaus IV was dead.

The details were murky—whispers of illness, poison, or even treachery filled the air—but in the end, it hardly mattered. The weak and distracted king had left behind a fractured kingdom, already teetering on the edge. His death was the final spark, igniting a realm already smoldering with unrest and plunging it deeper into chaos.

The Hussites wasted no time. The opportunity was too great to pass up. If there was ever a moment to act, it was now, and all knew it.

The war, once a distant possibility, had arrived with a crash, undeniable and unstoppable.

The war was no longer a distant prospect.

It was here.

Chapter Text

The clashes in Prague escalated, Hussites and Catholics fighting desperately for control of the battered city. In the wake of Wenceslaus’ death, the kingdom was adrift, and uncertainty festered like an open wound. With no clear heir in Bohemia, many nobles, soldiers, and common folk alike turned their gaze to King Sigismund, the only surviving symbol of imperial authority.

Hans, too, found himself caught in the tide.

Loyalty to Wenceslaus had been simple—a matter of heart and duty. But now, in the king’s absence, loyalty became survival. Refusing Sigismund’s claim meant isolation, or worse, death. Supporting him was not a matter of faith; it was a bitter necessity.

Like his allies around him, Hans had to compromise, convincing himself that order—any order—was better than letting the kingdom tear itself apart. Sigismund’s banner was stained, but at least it was a banner to rally under. In a world gone mad, Hans chose the devil he knew.

The summons arrived on weathered parchment, the seal of King Sigismund pressed deep into the wax. A call to arms to aid in the defense of Prague—a demand, not a request.

Hans stared at it for a long time before Henry spoke.

“So,” Henry said, voice low, almost hollow. “You’re going.”

Hans’ hands tightened around the parchment. “I have to.”

Henry gave a soft, humorless laugh. “You have to.” He turned away, running a hand through his hair. His shoulders were tight, brittle. “His men killed my family, Hans. Burned them out like they were nothing. And now you have to fight for him.”

Hans closed his eyes for a moment, steadying himself against the surge of shame. “I know.” His voice was rough. “I know what he did. I haven’t forgotten. I never will.” He crossed the space between them, standing just behind Henry, almost touching but not daring to. “But Bohemia’s falling apart. We can’t survive this war alone. I… I have no choice.”

Henry turned, and for a long moment, their eyes locked—a storm trapped between them.

“I don’t blame you,” Henry said quietly. “I never will.” He reached out, brushing the back of his fingers along Hans’ jaw. “War doesn’t care about what we want. It doesn’t care about love, either.”

“I’m sorry, Hal,” Hans murmured, the words catching like thorns in his throat.

Henry didn’t answer at first. He just stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Hans, pulling him in tightly, as if trying to shield him from the world outside.

“It’s alright…” Henry whispered against his shoulder. “I’m not angry. Just… worried.”

Hans exhaled shakily, burying his face in the crook of Henry’s neck. For a moment, neither moved. The quiet between them said more than words could.

Henry pulled back just enough to look at him. His hands rested firm and steady on Hans’ shoulders. “Stay further back, when the fighting starts. Let the others lead the charge. You don’t have to throw yourself into the thick of it.”

Hans smiled faintly, a sadness behind it. “That’s not what a leader does, Hal. I can’t ask others to bleed while I stand safely behind.”

Henry shook his head, stubbornness flashing in his eyes. “Then I’ll be there. Beside you. Every step. If you won’t stay safe… then I’ll make sure you stay alive.”

Hans’ breath hitched. He lifted a hand to Henry’s cheek, thumb brushing lightly across his skin. “You don’t have to fight for Sigismund if you don’t want to. I would never ask that of you.”

Henry gave a small, crooked smile—one that didn’t reach his eyes but carried all the weight of his heart.

“My love for you,” he said softly, “is greater than any grudge I have against that bastard Sigismund.” He leaned closer, their foreheads touching again. “Greater than any king, any war, any blood debt.”

Hans let out a shaky laugh that was half a sob. “You’re a fool,” he whispered.

“I know,” Henry said, voice trembling with a warmth that hurt to hear. “But I’m your fool.”

They kissed, slow and desperate and full of the promises neither dared to speak aloud. In that moment, there was no war, no Sigismund, no death looming on the horizon.

Only them.

Only love.

The castle courtyard was a chaos of noise and movement — the clatter of armor, the sharp bark of orders, the thick smell of oiled leather and sweat heavy in the damp morning air. Horses snorted and stamped, soldiers hurried past with grim faces, and over it all loomed the knowledge that soon, they would all be riding to war.

Henry stood near the stables, fastening his pack with steady hands that belied the knot twisting in his gut. A few paces away, Hans finished speaking with one of the captains under his command, his expression unreadable.

By dawn, the time had come. They were to set out from Rattay, bound for a war none of them had asked for, under the greater command of Peter of Sternberg, a powerful neighboring lord.

Final preparations were being made, the two of them adjusting saddles and checking gear side-by-side when Hans broke the silence.

“I’ll say it again, Hal,” he said quietly, stepping over towards Henry. “You don’t have to fight in this war.”

Henry snorted, throwing him a sideways glance. “Don’t be an idiot, Hans. You think I’d let you ride off without me?”

Hans chuckled under his breath. “I didn’t think so. But… figured I’d be a fool if I didn’t ask.”

Henry grinned, the smile easing some of the tightness in his chest. “What you’re trying to protect—I want to protect it too. You’re not getting rid of me that easily. Besides…” His voice dropped a little, softer. “I have to make sure you come back in one piece.”

Hans’s smile faltered for just a heartbeat before he pulled Henry into a brief, fierce hug. “Thank you, Hal,” he murmured. “I’ll feel much safer with you beside me.”

They stood like that for a moment, just holding onto each other, when a sudden clatter of boots on stone made them pull apart.

Hynek came hurtling through the courtyard, nearly slipping on the wet cobbles. Without hesitation, he flung himself into their arms, squeezing them so tightly it was almost painful.

“Don’t go…” he gasped out, clutching them like he could somehow anchor them there. “Dad… Uncle Henry…”

“We have to,” Hans said gently, stroking Hynek’s hair. “It’s our duty. You know that.”

“And we’ll be back before you even know it,” Henry added, ruffling the boy’s hair with a trembling hand.

Hynek lifted his tear-streaked face, voice breaking. “Can’t I come with you?”

Hans’s heart cracked clean in two. He pressed a kiss to Hynek’s forehead and shook his head. “No, Hynek. It’s too dangerous. And… if anything happens to me…” His throat tightened painfully, but he forced the words out. “I need you here. To keep the family safe.”

Hynek shook his head frantically, sobbing harder. “Don’t say that! I’m not ready. I’m not—”

“You are,” Hans said, voice rough and firm. “You’re stronger than you know. You’ve got a good head, and a good heart. You’ll have Jitka, the others. You won’t be alone. I believe in you, Hynek. I always have.”

Hynek clung to him a moment longer before finally, reluctantly, letting go. He turned his wet eyes to Henry, his lower lip trembling.

“Keep him safe, Uncle Henry,” he whispered. “Promise me. You’re strong enough to do it, I believe in you."

Henry smiled tightly, ignoring the way his own throat burned.

“Aye,” he said, his hand resting heavy on Hynek’s head. “I’ll keep him safe. Just like always.”

Hans watched them, something raw and bright flickering in his gaze.

At that moment, Jitka appeared, weaving her way through the soldiers with stiff, careful steps. She stopped in front of Hans, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

“Hans…” she said, almost too softly to hear. Then, in one swift movement, she leaned up and kissed his cheek, her hand lingering against his armor. “Come back to us. Promise me.”

Hans gave a ragged breath of a laugh, trying for bravery he didn’t feel. “I will,” he said. “I swear it.”

She turned next to Henry, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. Then, without hesitation, she kissed his cheek too.

“You too, alright? Both of you—you have to come back,” she said fiercely.

Henry nodded, unable to find words, only squeezing her hand in answer.

Another long, low blast of the horn rang out from the gates. The sound seemed to settle over them like a shroud.

Henry crouched again briefly, ruffling Hynek’s hair one last time. “Be brave for us, lad. We’ll be home before you know it.”

Hynek nodded, though tears still streamed down his face.

Hans and Henry straightened. For a long moment, they just looked at each other—nothing left to say, not really. Every touch, every glance over the past few weeks had already said it all.

Henry reached out, squeezing Hans’s hand hard, grounding them both.

Then they let go.

They mounted up, the leather creaking under them. The gates groaned open ahead, revealing the misty road winding off into the distance.

The army began to move, banners fluttering limp in the damp air.

Hans and Henry rode out side-by-side, the army around them and the world behind them falling silent—the weight of duty and love and fear pressing down on their shoulders like the heaviest armor of all.

Even if the road led straight into Hell, at least they would not be riding it alone.

They had gathered with their allies, their numbers swelling into a mighty host as they pressed steadily toward Prague. Smaller Hussite bands that tried to bar their way were crushed beneath the tide of steel and banners. Each skirmish passed like a blur—blood, screams, the ring of swords—but through it all, Henry guarded steadfast at Hans’ side.

He had a made promise, and he would keep it.

Whenever the enemy charged, Henry’s blade was the first to meet them, cutting them down before Hans ever had to lift his sword. In battle after battle, Hans’ weapon stayed clean, his armor nearly spotless save for the dust and grime of the road. Henry bore the blood and the burden without complaint, silently, fiercely—as if he could shield Hans from the very ugliness of war itself.

From behind, Hans watched him—watched the broad set of his shoulders, the surety in every strike. And as he watched, a thousand thoughts warred inside him. Gratitude. Fear. Guilt. Love so sharp it almost hurt to breathe.

At last, after a day of brutal marching, they made camp. The army sprawled out across the fields like a slumbering beast. Fires were lit, tents hastily pitched. Somewhere in the distance, a lute was playing, and the low murmur of tired men filled the cool evening air.

Inside the tent set aside for them, Henry sat cross-legged on the ground, methodically wiping blood from his blade. The light from the brazier threw deep shadows across his face, catching in the grim set of his jaw, the distant look in his eyes.

The flap of the tent rustled, and Hans slipped inside, his boots crunching softly on the dirt floor.

“Hey, Hal,” he said gently.

Henry glanced up, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Hey, Hans.”

Without a word, Hans settled down beside him, close enough that their knees brushed.

For a while, neither spoke. The rhythmic sound of cloth on steel filled the space between them, steady and tired.

Then, almost hesitantly, Hans broke the silence.

“Thanks for fighting for me, Hal.”

Henry shook his head with a tired smile. “No need to thank me. It’s my pleasure.”

Hans let out a quiet sigh, fidgeting with the edge of his sleeve before glancing at Henry again. His voice was softer this time, almost uncertain.

“…Hal? How are you feeling? About… all those men?”

Henry slowed, then stopped, placing the blade off to his side. He stared down for a long moment before answering.

“…I’m fine,” he said at last. His voice was low, almost hollow. “I’ve already killed too many people in the past to feel anything anymore.”

Hans shifted beside him, struggling for the right words.

“Even if… even if this time we might not be in the right?”

At that, Henry paused fully. He set the cloth down beside the sword and turned to face him properly. His eyes, when they met Hans’, were steady. Sure.

“As far as I’m concerned,” Henry said quietly, “the side you’re on is the right side.”

Hans’ mouth opened slightly, as if to protest—but nothing came out. He looked down at his hands, clenching and unclenching them.

“I don’t know why you have so much trust in me,” he said finally, voice cracking at the edges. “I don’t even know if I’ve made the right choice here… I’ve never made a decision like this before.”

Henry gave a soft, almost sad laugh.

“What about back then? When we fought against Sigismund?”

“That was…” Hans shook his head, memories flickering behind his eyes. “That was different. We were young. I was just following orders, doing what Hanush told me to. But now… now it was my decision. Mine alone.”

Henry reached out, catching one of Hans’ fidgeting hands in his own.

“And I trust in that decision,” he said simply.

Hans stared at him, wide-eyed, raw with emotion. Then, wordlessly, he leaned forward, burying his face against Henry’s shoulder.

Henry embraced him tightly, one hand threading through Hans’ hair, soothing.

After a long moment, Hans shifted, resting his head in Henry’s lap. Henry smiled faintly, combing his fingers through the soft strands, gentle and slow.

Then Hans spoke, voice once again breaking the stillness.

“Hal… would you still love me if I wasn’t a noble?”

Henry chuckled at first, thinking it a joke. “Where’s this coming from, Hans?”

But when he glanced over, he saw the seriousness in Hans’ eyes, and his laughter faded. He shifted, beginning to speak,

“I don’t love you because you’re a noble, if that’s what you were asking,” Henry huffed. “But… if you hadn’t been, we probably never would’ve met, would we?”

Hans gave a small, bittersweet smile. “Maybe not. But you’re the only one who’s ever looked at me and seen me —not the Capon name, not the lands, not the titles.”

Henry released a soft breath, reaching out to brush his thumb along Hans’ knuckles, a slow, grounding touch.

“You’re damn right I do,” he said, voice warm. “But why are you asking me this now?”

Hans hesitated, then turned to meet Henry’s gaze. His voice was low, almost a whisper, as if afraid the night itself might steal it away.

“Do you remember the tale of the two knights?”

Henry gave a soft laugh. “How could I forget? But why are you bringing it up now?”

Hans’s fingers tightened slightly around Henry’s.

“It’s just… I keep thinking about it. How they never had a happy ending.”

Henry’s smile faltered, something tender and aching flashing through his eyes.

“But we’re not them, Hans. Lancelot never loved Galehaut back. I love you.”

Hans smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Still… I wish they could’ve had their happy ending. They deserved it.”

“I wish they did too, but we'll have one, I promise,” Henry said, voice steady. He leaned in a little closer, trying to read the storm behind Hans’ eyes. 

For a moment, Hans said nothing. Then he exhaled slowly, like he was letting go of something heavy.

“When all of this is over…” he murmured, “let’s leave. Just you and me. Far from courts and politics. Somewhere no one knows our names. Somewhere we can just… be.”

Henry chuckled lowly, his hand moving to brush tenderly along Hans’ temple, as if grounding them both in the moment.

“Like in fairytales?” he teased, voice warm. “Do we just ride off into the sunset?”

Hans smiled, a little wistful. “Exactly like a fairytale. Just you and me.”

Henry smiled back, deciding to indulge Hans, “And what about the life we’ve built here? Our family? Rattay?"

“We’ll come back sometimes. Just for visits. Hynek will be running things just fine with Jitka’s help.” Hans said, a bit more brightly. “He’ll probably be better at it than me.”

“And if people come looking for you?” Henry asked softly.

“Then you’ll protect me from them,” Hans said simply.

Henry let out a laugh, full of real warmth. “I’d be hanged for kidnapping a lord.”

“Then we’ll change our names,” Hans said stubbornly, tilting his head up with a playful smirk. “Live as commoners. They’ll never find us then.”

“You? Lord Hans Capon, roughing it with the peasants?” Henry teased, a glint of mischief in his eyes.

Hans huffed, giving him a mock glare. “I don’t need my titles. Or my riches. I only need you, Hal.”

Henry’s chest ached at the raw sincerity behind the words. For a moment, he could only look at Hans, wonder and love swelling so strong it hurt.

Then Hans smirked, that familiar mischievous glint returning.

“And technically,” he added with a sly grin, “I have been roughing it with a peasant for most of my life now.”

Henry let out a real, full laugh—the kind that made the heaviness in his heart lift, just a little. He shook his head fondly, brushing his knuckles lightly against Hans’ cheek.

“You poor thing,” he said, grinning. “How ever have you survived?”

Hans only laughed quietly, leaning further into his touch.

“Where would we even go?” he asked, brushing a few strands of hair from Hans’ forehead.

“Anywhere,” Hans whispered. “We could travel the world. See places we’ve only heard of. Get into all sorts of trouble together.”

“And when we’re old and grey?” Henry grinned.

“Then we’ll settle in some cabin deep in the woods,” Hans said dreamily. “There are forests out there untouched by man. I’ll hunt for game, and you’ll… do everything else.”

Henry laughed, shaking his head. “Sounds like I’m stuck doing all the hard work, then.”

“Of course you are,” Hans said, smirking. “You’ll always be my peasant, after all.”

Henry chuckled, looking down at him with such fierce affection that it almost broke his heart.

“You’ve given this a lot of thought, haven’t you?” he said softly.

“…I have,” Hans admitted. “War makes you think about what matters. About what you might lose.”

Henry leaned down, resting his forehead gently against Hans’ for a long, tender moment.

“So, what do you think? Will you take me away, my black knight, Lancelot?” Hans whispered.

Henry’s reply came in the form of a kiss—slow, sure, a promise sealed in warmth and unspoken vows.

“Anything you want, Lord Galehaut,” Henry whispered against his lips.

Hans closed his eyes, drinking in the words like a prayer.

In that quiet little tent, with the world falling apart around them, they held each other—two little hearts clinging desperately to a future that might never come.

But for now, it was enough to believe in that future.

No—it was enough to believe in each other.

Chapter Text

Hans rode silently, the leather reins loose in his hands. His horse moved steadily beneath him, but his gaze was fixed on the sky above.

A flock of birds soared overhead, their dark shapes cutting across the fading blue.

Beside him, Henry nudged his horse a little closer.

“What’s on your mind?” he asked, voice low and easy.

Hans shook his head, almost smiling to himself.

“Nothing. Just a stupid thought.”

Henry leaned over a little in the saddle. “Now you’ve got me curious. Tell me.”

Hans sighed and shook his head. “It’s nothing important.”

Henry grinned. “Come on. You know I won’t let it go until you tell me.”

“It’s really nothing.”

This exchange continued until Hans, exasperated by Henry's persistence, finally relented.

“...Fine. If you really must know. I was just wondering… if humanity will ever conquer the skies,” he huffed.

He paused and braced himself for Henry’s teasing.

But Henry didn’t laugh. Instead, he simply shrugged, glancing up at the birds himself.

“Maybe,” Henry said. “Doesn’t sound so stupid to me.”

Hans blinked at him. “You really think so?”

Henry smiled. “Aye. Not that I believe people will just sprout wings—but I believe in what we’re capable of. Someone, someday, will find a way to fly. To soar through the skies.”

“Soaring through the sky…” Hans murmured, his voice soft, almost dreamlike, as he watched the flock vanish into the clouds.

Henry’s smile softened. “Probably not in our lifetime, though,” he said quietly.

Hans gave a small, rueful laugh. “I know. But a man can dream, can’t he?”

“He can,” Henry said.

For a while, they rode in companionable silence, the sounds of the army—marching feet, distant shouting—blurring into a steady hum around them.

Then Hans spoke again, his voice softer.

“If I were a bird…” he murmured, eyes still fixed on the sky. “I’d live a life of freedom. Drift through the clouds and open skies—far from the burdens of men.”

Henry turned his head to look at him. “And you’d leave me behind?” he teased.

Hans smirked and leaned a little closer in the saddle, voice dropping to a whisper only Henry could hear.

“Never. I’d still love you, even as a bird,”

Henry gave a soft laugh, reaching out to bump his horse lightly against Hans’ in a playful nudge.

“Aye, well, a bird wouldn’t make a very good lover.”

Hans chuckled under his breath. “I suppose not.”

Henry leaned in just a little more and whispered, just for him,

“But I’d still love you too.”

Hans smiled—a real, quiet smile, touched with something tender and sad. 

“I know,” he said.

Overhead, the last of the birds vanished into the wide, endless sky.

The army marched on without mercy, leaving behind a trail of blood and broken banners. Villages fell one by one—some burning, others left in eerie silence. Those who stood in their path were either slaughtered or bound in chains.

Now they rode into Zivohost, a quiet village nestled in a dramatic bend of the Vltava River just south of Prague.

The water curved around it like a crescent blade, enclosing the land on three sides and turning it into a natural peninsula. From a distance, it looked peaceful—tranquil, even. The river shimmered in the morning sun, reflecting the sky as if untouched by war. But within, the truth was far crueler.

Smoke curled from the rooftops of burnt buildings and blackened wood snapped underfoot. The village had been occupied by Hussite pilgrims, drawn here by faith or perhaps the illusion of safety. Neither had protected them. Most now lay dead or dying, their blood soaking into the soil. The few who resisted had been captured and herded like cattle—bound, bruised, silent.

The battle had taken more effort than the ones before. The surrounding river that served a natural barricade made it harder to siege, with the only land access coming from the east. But even that hadn’t slowed the Catholic advance for long. Their superior numbers overwhelmed the defenders within hours.

After the first clash at the village’s edge, the force led by Hans  had stayed behind to hold the approach—cutting down stragglers as they tried to flee. They’d seen little direct fighting since then. The main body of their army had flooded into the village and swiftly broken its resistance. All that remained now were the dying, the captured, and the smoke curling up into the spring sky.

Hans rode quietly beside Henry, his armor stained only with dust and smoke, untouched by blood. The same could not be said for Henry. His blade was still wet, stained a crimson red.

Hans said softly, “This doesn’t feel like a battle. It feels like a purge.”

Henry didn’t answer right away. His gaze swept a half-burned church, over the slumped corpses and blood-soaked stones. He let out a slow breath.

“…It does,” he admitted. “But the real battle hasn’t begun yet. It starts in Prague.”

Hans huffed. “We’re walking straight into the storm.”

“Aye,” Henry said, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. “And we’re idiots for it, aren’t we?”

Hans chuckled, low and soft. “The worst kind.”

They continued their patrols, the weight of the coming battle looming over their shoulders.

It was now late evening, the golden hour painted the ruined village in deceptive warmth as they dismounted, their boots sinking slightly into the blood-dampened earth. 

Around them, men moved like shadows through the smoke—some tending wounds, others piling bodies with the dull efficiency of those who'd done this too many times before. The air smelled of charred wood and iron.

Hans stretched, his armor creaking as he rolled his shoulders. "At least we'll get a night's rest before Prague," he said, reaching for his waterskin. "Assuming the bastards don't—"

Henry froze mid-step. His hand twitched toward his sword.

Hans caught it immediately. “What’s wrong?”

Henry’s eyes narrowed. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. He wasn’t sure—at first. Then he noticed it: the sudden hush in the air, like the world had drawn a breath and held it. Off in the distance,  a flock of birds erupted into the sky, scattering fast and wide.

“…I don’t know,” Henry murmured. “Just… a bad feeling.”

Hans’s tone dropped, serious now. “That’s not good.”

He knew better than most—when Henry felt something, it was almost always right. That instinct had saved their lives more times than he could count.

The two of them slowed, eyes fixed on the distance—a hill their column had descended from hours ago, when the battle was still young. 

Then, like a wave crashing over the horizon, armor caught the sun.

Riders. Dozens at first—then hundreds. Cresting the hill in tight formation, banners flaring. The ground seemed to tremble beneath the sudden thunder of hooves and marching feet.

Henry’s stomach dropped.

“Sakra,” Henry breathed, eyes narrowing. “Reinforcements.”

Hans didn’t waste a second. He grabbed the nearest soldier. “Ride—warn the main force. Now!”

The rider galloped off into the smoke as Hans turned back, jaw clenched.

“If we pull back now…” he started.

“We’ll lead them straight into the village,” Henry finished, heart sinking. “There’s nowhere to run. No time. And the only other escape—”

“—is where they’re coming from.” Hans’s voice was grim. Steady. Already resigned.

“Form up! Shields to the front—move, move!”

The soldiers scrambled, boots thudding, shields locking in with dull clacks. Spears bristled forward like the spines of some desperate beast. Panic rippled through the ranks, but they obeyed—because Hans’s voice gave them something to anchor to.

Across the field, the enemy began to charge—an unstoppable tide of iron and fury.

Hans stood still for half a heartbeat, watching it come.

Silence fell between them, thick with dread and dust.

Then Henry straightened. “We hold the line.”

Hans nodded. “Until the main force regroups and gets here.”

Henry glanced at him. “It’s a suicide mission.”

“We don’t have a choice.”

“You should fall back.”

“You know I can’t,” Hans said, quiet but firm. “If the commander runs, the men won’t stand.”

Henry’s hand tightened on his hilt. “Then stay close to me.”

“You worry too much,” Hans said, managing half a smile.

But Henry didn’t smile back. His throat had gone tight.

Because at the head of the charging enemy—one-eyed, relentless, riding through the smoke like Death made flesh—was a face he knew too well.

Zizka.

Henry exhaled, bitter. “Of course it’s him.”

Hans followed his gaze. Whatever smile he had left disappeared.

And yet, despite everything, he let out a breathless laugh. Short. Shaky. Then he looked back at Henry, and his face changed—open, terrified, defiant.

Henry saw it all. For a moment, the battlefield vanished. It was just the two of them.

He found the only words he could say.

A pause. A breath.

“I love you, Hal.”

Henry’s chest tightened. Everything in him ached.

“I love you too.”

Then the world shattered.

The two forces crashed together like waves against rock.

Steel screamed. Shields splintered. The air filled with the stink of blood and sweat.

A spearman lunged at Henry. Henry pivoted, his blade flashing in a perfect masterstrike—parrying the thrust and countering in the same motion. His sword bit deep into the man’s throat. Blood sprayed as the attacker crumpled.  

Behind Henry, Hans braced, catching a sword strike on his shield. Metal shrieked as he deflected it, then twisted, driving his own blade under the attacker’s armpit—a gap in the light mail. 

The man gasped, choking on his own breath as Hans wrenched the steel free.  

They fought side by side, moving without speaking, without thinking. 

Hans ducked a wild axe swing, felt the wind of it ruffle his hair. Before the attacker could recover, Henry was there—his dagger finding the man’s eye through the slit in his helm.

But the enemy kept coming.

Henry’s arms burned. His breath came in ragged gasps. He killed another—a masterstrike that shattered a poorly wielded sword before opening its owner’s belly—but the bodies piling underfoot made every step treacherous.

Hans staggered as a mace clipped his shoulder, the force nearly buckling his knees. Henry was there in an instant, driving his pommel into the attacker’s teeth, then finishing him with a thrust through the ribs.

For a heartbeat, they stood back-to-back, gulping air.

The attackers weren’t skilled combatants, but there were just too many. 

Far too many. 

Henry had barely opened his mouth to speak before three more enemies came rushing at him.

The first swung high—a two-handed chop meant to split his skull. Henry twisted aside—felt the blade’s wind kiss his cheek—then lashed out. His sword carved through the man’s wrist, tendons snapping like bowstrings. The bastard screamed. Henry didn’t let him finish, ramming his blade up into the man’s neck.

The second came in low—spear leveled at his gut. Henry batted the shaft aside and stepped in close—too close for the spear to matter—and drove his pommel into the man’s face. Cartilage crunched. The spearman reeled back, and Henry’s sword opened his throat before he hit the ground.

The third was already on him—a shortsword slicing through the air toward his ribs. Henry twisted, metal shrieking as he caught the blow on his blade. The clash sent a jolt up his arm, but he held firm, locking their swords together with brute force.

For a heartbeat, the man’s balance faltered—just enough.

With a sharp grunt, Henry shoved forward, overpowering him. Their blades slid apart, and in that instant, Henry’s sword swept clean through the man’s neck. Blood sprayed as the body crumpled at his feet.

Panting, Henry whirled around—

“Hans—”

Empty space where Hans had once stood.

Hans was gone.

The battlefield had swallowed him.

"HANS!" Henry roared, his voice raw.

Only steel answered. Only death laughed back.

Henry felt his blood turn cold.

He charged forward like a madman. A sword clanged off his shoulder armor—the shock of it rattled his teeth, but his own blade came around and crushed the man's skull like an eggshell. 

Someone else hacked at his legs—he felt the blow through his greaves like a hammer strike—then silenced the attacker with a brutal stab through the throat.

Something sharp bit into his thigh. Henry roared through the pain and gutted the spearman who'd wounded him. The burning in his leg only made him angrier.

All that mattered was moving forward. Finding Hans.

Then, through the swirling dust and blood, through all the chaos—he saw him. 

Backed against a broken wagon, a lone figure fighting like a cornered wolf. His movements were sluggish, his sword arm trembling with exhaustion, but still he stood. Still he fought.

His garments, though soaked through with blood and grime, still bore its unmistakable colors—red and yellow, slashed and dirtied but defiant. Henry could barely see the man’s face beneath the battered helmet, but he didn’t need to.

He could never mistake him for anyone else.

Hans.

Surrounded. Outnumbered. Still standing.

Still fighting.

Henry’s heart stuttered—then came the roar, raw and guttural, tearing from his throat as he surged forward like a storm given flesh.

A swordsman blocked his path—Henry cut him down without breaking stride. A spear jabbed toward his ribs—he batted it aside and crushed the wielder’s skull with his pommel. Blood sprayed, bodies fell, but Henry didn’t stop.

Nothing mattered except closing the distance between them.

By the time he reached the fray, Hans had already gutted one attacker, his blade ripping free in a shower of crimson. 

Two remained.

The clash of steel rang out—Hans parried a downward strike, pivoted, and drove his boot into the second man’s knee. A sickening crack echoed as the man collapsed, and Hans’ sword found his throat before he could scream.

But it wasn’t enough.

Henry’s scream caught in his throat as he saw it happen.

The last attacker—a brute in battered mail—lunged as Hans turned. The blade slipped past his guard, punching through the gap in his armor, deep into his side.

Time froze.

Hans turned—slow, almost instinctive—as if he felt Henry’s presence before he saw him.

Their eyes met.

Hans’s shoulders sagged, his sword slipping low. A blade was buried deep in his side.

And for the briefest moment, Henry could’ve sworn he saw it—

A smile.

Not on Hans’s lips—hidden behind the steel of his helm—but in his eyes.

Even through the narrow slit, Henry saw them—those soft, familiar blue eyes, wide with pain, shimmering with something unspoken.

Eyes filled with love.

Time unfroze.

The enemy blade twisted free.

Hans collapsed.

The roar that tore from Henry barely sounded human.

The attacker raised his blade to finish Hans—but Henry was faster.

His sword met the man’s neck with bone-shattering force.

One swing.

The head was gone before the body hit the ground.

Henry stepped over the corpse, shoving it aside with his boot as he dropped to one knee beside Hans.

“Hans—”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He couldn’t.

Another enemy came at them.

Henry rose in a blur, sword flashing.

Steel rang against steel—then split flesh. The man crumpled with a scream, his weapon clattering to the ground.

Henry turned, teeth bared, daring the next one to try.

None came. Not yet.

Henry dropped to his knees again beside him, blood soaking the earth beneath. 

He eased Hans against the broken wagon, trying to make him as comfortable as the battlefield would allow. Hans’s breath was ragged, each one a struggle. His once-bright red-and-yellow outfit was shredded and soaked through with blood, clinging to him like a second skin.

With careful hands, Henry unbuckled Hans's helmet, the straps stiff with grime. He tossed it aside, freeing Hans to draw a ragged, desperate breath.

“Hal…” Hans’s voice was barely a whisper. “You came.”

“I’m here,” Henry said, voice hoarse. “I’ve got you now.”

He fumbled at his waist for the pouch with his potions—his fingers grasped only empty air.

Fuck, it was gone. Torn off in the chaos. His gut twisted.

“Shit—just hold on—stay awake,” Henry muttered, tearing off what remained of his own waffenrock to press against the wound. His hands were slick, useless with blood. “You’re gonna be alright, you hear me?”

Hans gave a trembling smile—more a grimace. “You’re bleeding.”

“So are you,” Henry snapped. “Much worse than me.”

Hans’s eyes fluttered. Blood bubbled at his lips.

“I’m sorry I left your side,” Henry said, choking the words out.

“It’s not your fault,” Hans murmured.

“It is,” Henry growled. “I should’ve been faster.”

“Don’t blame yourself.”

“I won’t if you live,” Henry said. “So do it. Live, damn you.”

Another soldier lunged at them. Henry surged up like a striking beast—parried once, then rammed his blade through the man’s chest. He kicked the body aside and dropped back down, blood-slick hands returning to Hans’s wound.

The bleeding had slowed, but too much had already been lost.

Hans’s gaze found him—dazed, but steady for a breath. “You always made me feel like I mattered,” he said softly.

Henry blinked through the sting in his eyes. “You do. You always did. Since the first time I saw you—laughing like a fool in that tavern.”

Hans managed a faint, bloodied smile. “I could go for a drink right now.”

Henry huffed a breath that was half a laugh, half a sob. He pressed harder against the wound, desperation mounting. “You’ll have one, alright? We’ll go have a drink right after this. Just hang on.”

Hans blinked slowly. “Hal…”

“You’re not dying here, Hans. Remember our promise? We were gonna leave all this fighting behind. See the world. Just you and me.”

A silence lingered between them—heavy, trembling.

Then Hans spoke again, his voice thinner this time. “Sorry, Hal… don’t think I can keep it. Will you forgive me?”

“No,” Henry said fiercely. “There’s nothing to forgive. Just—just stay with me. I’m not letting you go, you hear me?”

Hans coughed, hard—and blood sprayed against his chin, stark and red. The sound tore something loose in Henry’s chest.

“Your hands are shaking,” Hans rasped, voice barely more than a breath. “You never used to shake.”

“Stop fucking talking, goddamnit.” Henry’s voice broke as he pressed harder against the wound. “I never used to have to hold your damn guts in.”

Hans let out a weak, breathless laugh,  “I was always reckless.”, he murmured. Another cough wracked his body, more blood staining his lips. 

“I didn’t mind,” Henry said. “It meant I got to chase you.”

Hans’s eyes fluttered, heavy with pain, struggling to stay open. “I always felt safe with you…”

Henry’s throat tightened. He leaned in closer, pressing his hands harder against the wound. “Then stay safe now. Stay with me. Please, Hans. Don’t go.”

Hans exhaled shakily. “Take care of Hynek and Jitka… would you?”

“Take care of them yourself, you bastard,” Henry choked out, voice breaking.

Another soldier lunged at them.

Henry rose like a fury unbound, his scream tearing through the chaos as his blade found flesh and bone. The body dropped, lifeless.

He dropped beside Hans again, knees hitting the earth hard. His hands were shaking. His chest, heaving.

“H-Hal?” Hans rasped, his voice dazed, unfocused. “Where… where are you?”

“I’m right here,” Henry said quickly, pressing close. “I’m here, Hans.”

“I… I want to see you.”

Without hesitation, Henry tore off his helmet and flung it aside. Blood-matted hair, dirt-streaked face—his eyes full of terror and love.

“There you are,” Hans whispered, and in that moment, his bloodstained hand rose, trembling. Fingers brushed clumsily against Henry’s cheek, lingering with all the strength he had left.

Then his arm fell away.

Hans slumped forward, his head resting against Henry’s shoulder—too heavy now. Too still.

“No,” Henry gasped. “Don’t you fucking close your eyes. Please—don’t do this to me.”

“I’m cold…” Hans whispered, barely audible.

Henry pulled him in tighter, wrapping his arms around him as if he could anchor him to the earth. “You don’t get to go yet. Not without me. Not like this. Don’t leave me alone. Please…”

"I love you, Hal."

A pause. A breath.

“I love you too,” he whispered. His voice cracked, barely audible. Then he leaned in and kissed him—gentle, desperate, aching with all the things he never got to say.

And then he just held him, quiet, unmoving.

The world around them blurred. Steel clashed, men screamed, but Henry didn’t hear any of it. He didn’t care. Let it end. Let it all end. If death was coming, so be it—better here, like this, with Hans in his arms.

Bootsteps crunched the dirt behind him.

Henry didn’t flinch. He didn’t even look up. 

But the blade never came.

Instead, a voice spoke—gravelly, low, and all too familiar.

“It’s been a while, lad.”

Henry froze.

Slowly, he turned his head—and there he was. Zizka. Dust-covered, bloodied, a shadow of war itself standing unshaken amidst the ruin. The chaos around them dimmed under his presence.

Henry’s breath hitched. His eyes narrowed, voice hoarse and bitter.

“You—” He nearly choked on the words. “You did this.”

Zizka exhaled through his nose. “Look. I’m not gonna apologise.”

Henry surged partway to his feet. “He’s dying—”

“I know.” Zizka cut him off, firm but not unkind. “This is war. It’s just how it is. You know that as well as I do.”

Henry’s fists trembled, blood-slicked and clenched. Zizka squatted down beside Henry, reaching into his cloak. “For the sake of old times,” he muttered, and held out a small glass vial.

The liquid inside shimmered—a pale silver-blue, like moonlight over still water.

Henry’s eyes widened. “Lethean Water.”

Zizka nodded. “This might save him.”

Henry reached out and took it with shaking hands. He opened his mouth, but before he could speak—

The blare of war horns shattered the moment.

They had held the line.

And now—at last—help was coming.

The main force had regrouped and were charging to meet the enemy, to break the tide.

Zizka glanced over his shoulder, then looked back to Henry.

“I think that’s my cue to leave,” he said, standing to his full height once more. “Think again later about which side you two want to be on, Henry.”

Then, without another word, he turned and strode off—disappearing into the retreating tide of his army like a ghost into fog.

Henry didn’t waste another second.

He dropped to his knees, vial clutched tight in his fist.

“Hans—” he breathed, turning back.

But Hans didn’t answer.

His body had gone slack in Henry’s arms. His lips parted just slightly. His chest—still.

No rise. No fall.

He shook him once, hard. “Hans. Hans, wake up—look at me!”

Nothing.

He stared down at the vial, then back at Hans. “You’re not dying here. Do you hear me?” 

Hands shaking, Henry uncorked the vial with his teeth and pulled Hans closer, cradling his face in both bloodied palms.

He tipped the Lethean Water into his own mouth.

Then, gently—desperately—he pressed his lips to Hans’s.

A kiss that wasn’t a kiss. A gift passed mouth to mouth. Life poured into stillness.

Henry held it there for a moment, eyes squeezed shut, praying to the Heavens.

Please. Please.

He pulled back, barely able to breathe.

Silence.

Then—

A breath.

Faint. Shallow. But real.

Hans’s chest lifted with it—fragile, like a thread barely clinging to wind—and Henry felt it against his arms, against his heart.

Henry let out a choked sound, part sob, part laugh, his eyes flooding with tears all over again. 

“Hans,” he murmured, pressing his forehead to Hans’s. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Hans’s lips twitched. Barely. But it was enough.

Henry closed his eyes, arms wrapped tight around the man he thought he’d lost.

Around the man who came back to him.

Their allies had arrived—but the damage had already been done, and it was Hans’s company that had paid the highest price.

The medics did what they could. Hans lived, but just barely. The Lethean Water stopped the bleeding and dulled the pain, yet it was no miracle—it couldn’t mend torn muscle or shattered bone. He would survive, they said, but he’d carry the wounds for the rest of his life. Some visible. Some not.

They patched Henry up too, though he’d ignored his own injuries until Hans was stable. Even then, he refused to leave his side, hovering at every hour like a shadow that would not be dislodged.

When the army continued north to defend Prague, Hans, Henry, and what remained of their company did not follow. They were too few, too broken, too tired.

They rode instead for Rattay—scarred, silent, and changed.

They traveled by wagon. Hans couldn’t ride a horse, not with the risk of the wound reopening. The journey was slow, careful. Every rut in the road was a risk. Henry barely left his side, doing what he could to soothe the pain or keep fever at bay.

By the time they reached Rattay, word had already spread: Lord Hans Capon had been gravely injured in battle.

Rumors swirled like smoke. Some said he was a dead man walking. Others claimed he’d lost a leg, his mind, his will to live. No one knew the truth—but everyone whispered.

There was no fanfare. No celebration. Just silence, and sideways glances from townsfolk who didn’t know whether to bow or avert their eyes.

Jitka was waiting at the gate, Hynek clinging tightly to her. She didn’t cry. Not then. She simply reached up and touched Hans’s pale cheek when Henry helped lift him down from the wagon.

“Welcome home,” she whispered, and Hans stirred faintly in response.

The castle had quieted, the fire in the hearth casting long shadows as Henry, Jitka, and Hynek sat in silence. Hans had been settled upstairs, his breathing shallow but steady—alive, though barely.

Jitka broke the silence first, her voice hushed but urgent. “The streets are in chaos. They whisper that their lord is already dead—that without him, they’re defenseless.”

Henry’s hands curled into fists. “He’s breathing. That’s not dead.”

“No. But the war isn’t over either.” She met his gaze. “And when it flares again, who else will they turn to?”

The unspoken answer hung between them. Hans. Always Hans.

Hynek’s hands clenched on his knees. “Then they shouldn’t.” His voice was low but firm.

“Dad’s given enough. More than enough. Let someone else carry it now.”

Henry studied him. “What are you saying?”

Hynek didn’t flinch. “I’ll take over Dad’s place.”

Jitka reached for his hand, her grip steadying. “Are you sure?”

“I will do it.” Hynek’s voice was firm, though his eyes were raw, his shoulders squared in resolve. “He deserves to rest. Truly rest.”

His words hung heavily in the air, their weight settling across the room. Jitka squeezed his hand, her gaze unreadable as she processed his declaration.

But Henry’s attention had drifted to the fire, his thoughts spinning. His voice, when it came, was quiet, almost as if he was thinking aloud. “It won’t be easy.”

Hynek frowned. “What do you mean?”

Henry’s gaze returned to him, sharp now. “I believe you’re ready to lead, Hynek. But even if you take over, there will always be those who expect more from him. People who call him weak. People who say he never measured up.”

“But he was enough!” Hynek’s voice cracked with frustration.

Henry’s jaw tensed. “That’s just what people expect of nobility—the very thing Hans always wanted to escape.” He paused, drawing in a breath. “Even if you step in, they won’t let him go. Not if they think he’s still alive. He’ll always be the wounded lord behind the curtain. Still carrying the weight.”

Jitka’s brow furrowed. “But he’s not dead, Henry. He’s still here…”

Henry looked between them, something solidifying in his eyes. “What if we let them believe he’s gone?”

Jitka stiffened. “You mean…”

Henry nodded slowly. “We say he died from his wounds. Let the people mourn him. Let the legacy end here. And then Hans can slip away. Live the life he chooses. No more titles. No more duty. Just peace.”

Hynek stared at him, stunned. “But… would people believe it?”

“Why wouldn’t they?” Henry said quietly. “The rumors are already out there. All we have to do is let the silence speak for us. The story writes itself. Hans dies a hero, and the world moves on.”

Jitka turned to Hynek, her voice barely above a whisper. “It could work.”

Hynek’s throat tightened. “And… what happens to Dad then?”

Henry met his gaze. “I’ll take responsibility. I’ll get him out of here, far away. Quietly. But only when you’re ready—when the people have accepted you.”

A long pause followed. No one spoke. The crackle of the hearth was the only sound, the firelight casting flickering shadows on their faces.

Finally, Hynek nodded once. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

Jitka didn’t speak at first. Her eyes glistened, fixed on the firelight dancing across the stone. Then she gave a small, trembling nod, her voice barely more than breath. “Let him go. Let him be free.”

None of them spoke after that. There was no triumph in the decision, only the quiet knowledge of what it would cost—and what it might save.

Above them, the fire crackled on, steady and unyielding. Somewhere upstairs, Hans breathed on. Unseen, unheard. And soon, as far as the world would know, no longer there at all.

Henry stepped into the dim room, the air still and heavy. Hans lay in bed, pale and still, but stirred at the sound of the door. His eyes barely opened.

“Hal?” he murmured, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

Henry chuckled softly. “How did you know it was me?”

“I just… know.”

Henry sat beside him, careful not to disturb the blanket too much. There was a pause, a softness between them that didn’t need to be filled.

“Listen," he said, keeping his voice low. "I talked to Jitka and Hynek."

Hans turned his head slightly. "About what?"

"About you." Henry rubbed his thumb along the edge of the blanket. "We... we figured something out."

As he explained the plan, Hans' face remained still.

"Yeah." Henry reached for Hans' hand, their fingers slotting together like they always did. "I’m getting you out of here."

Hans blinked slowly. "Out?"

"We're letting everyone think..." Henry swallowed. "Well. That you didn't make it."

The fire popped in the hearth. Hans' thumb moved weakly against Henry's knuckles. "Just like that?"

"Just like that." Henry brought their joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to Hans' scraped knuckles. "We'll go somewhere warm. Where no one knows your name."

"Just like that?" Hans' voice was rough. "I can really just... go?"

Henry nodded. "Yeah. You can."

Hans swallowed hard. "After everything..."

"You've done enough," Henry said firmly. He reached out, brushing Hans' hair back from his forehead without thinking. "More than enough."

A weak chuckle escaped Hans, turning into a cough. Henry's hand moved to his shoulder, steadying him. "Easy now," he murmured. "No more fighting. Just rest."

The quiet between them felt different now - lighter. Henry cleared his throat. "When Hynek's ready, we'll leave. Somewhere quiet. No more battles."

Hans' breath hitched. "Together?"

Henry leaned in, his free hand cupping Hans' cheek. "Where else would I be?" he murmured, and closed the distance between them.

The kiss was gentle—just a brush of lips, really—but when Henry pulled back, Hans was smiling properly for the first time in weeks.

“It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” Henry asked, voice low.

Hans nodded, then let his gaze drift briefly to the bandages wrapped around his side. “It is. But you’re going to have to take good care of me.”

Henry huffed a quiet laugh. “So… no different from the usual, then?”

Hans gave a soft chuckle, his voice still hoarse. “Exactly. Just like always.”

They talked long into the night, their voices weaving together like the embers curling upward from the hearth. Plans unfolded—fragile yet hopeful, distant but no longer out of reach. The fire burned low, its glow painting their faces in gold. 

Whatever lay ahead, they would meet it together, bound by a bond unbreakable, never again to be torn apart.

Chapter Text

The funeral was a quiet, solemn affair. Hans had been a good lord, and the people mourned him as such. Death, ever indifferent, came in the end as it always did—full-stop to every story, common or noble.

Those in the know mourned alike; not for the death of Hans, but the death of Lord Hans. 

In the eyes of the world, it was the end of his tale.

But for Hans and Henry, it was only the beginning of something else—quieter, gentler, shaped in shadows and soft light. A life no longer measured in titles or time, but in love still fiercely, stubbornly alive.

In 1420, Hynek officially assumed his role as Lord of Pirkstein. Guided by Hans and Jitka’s advice, and with Henry serving as a mediator, he forged a quiet alliance with the Hussites. Through Henry’s old connection to Zizka, they arranged a meeting—Hynek pledged subtle support, and in return, the Rattay estates would be spared the flames of war.

Hans, though still recovering and staying mostly bed-ridden, didn’t allow himself to grow idle. He spent his days reading books and practicing new tongues, determined to speak the language of every land he hoped to see with Henry.

One night, as they lay in bed, Hans turned his head slightly and whispered into the quiet—

“Ich liebe dich.”

Henry blinked, then turned to look at him. “What was that?”

Hans’s smile was soft. “It means ‘I love you.’ In proper German.”

Henry paused, then cleared his throat, before starting to speak,

“Ick… leebuh… dich… too?”

Hans burst out laughing, the sound hoarse but genuine. “You sound like you’re choking on a fishbone.”

Henry groaned, burying his face in the pillow. “It’s your fault for speaking in riddles.”

Hans shifted closer, tucking a hand under Henry’s chin to tilt his face back up. “It’s three words, Henry. Three. You faced down bandits and nobles without blinking, and this is what gets you?”

Henry grumbled, “Language is harder than swordsmanship.”

“You’re not wrong,” Hans murmured, his laughter fading into something quieter, more tender. “But it’s fine. You don’t need to say it right.”

He leaned in, pressing a kiss to the corner of Henry’s mouth. “I already know.”

Through Henry’s attentive care—and more of Henry’s marigold decoctions than either of them could count—Hans gradually regained some of his strength. He could walk again, slower than before, and not without effort, but it was a victory nonetheless. 

The wound still lingered beneath the surface, a quiet ache in his side that flared when the days were cold or when he pushed himself too hard. He could no longer lift anything heavy, nor ride alone for long stretches, but he managed. 

And with Henry by his side, he always would.

Hynek, now standing proud and steady in his role as the new Lord of Pirkstein, watched them with equal parts happiness and worry. 

The next spring, as the last of the frost gave way to green, Hans and Henry prepared to leave.

Their final morning in Rattay was quiet, touched by birdsong and the first hints of spring in the air—one of those mornings that felt like a farewell before it even began.

Hans stood beside Henry, his cloak pulled tight around him. His once-golden hair had been dyed a deep black to better hide his identity on the road, at least until they made it out of Bohemia. The old wound in his side ached with the chill, but he held himself tall.

Jitka stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Henry, holding him tightly. He stiffened for just a moment before leaning into it, closing his eyes.

“Take care, both of you,” she whispered.

Henry gave a small, soft smile. “You too, Jitka. Look after yourself.”

When she pulled back, she turned to Hans next, her expression softening. She reached for him and drew him into a gentler hug, careful not to press too hard against his injured side. Hans returned the hug, eyes closing for a brief second. "Have enough fun for the both of us, will you?"

“I will.” Hans murmured. “Thank you. For everything.”

Hynek stepped forward, eyes shifting between the two men.

“You’ll write?” he asked, voice low.

Henry nodded, stepping in to pull him into a firm hug. “Whenever we get the chance to,” he promised, giving Hynek a light clap on the shoulder before stepping back.

A pause settled over them, quiet but full.

Hans and Hynek faced each other in silence for a long heartbeat. Then, without a word, Hans stepped forward and pulled Hynek into a firm embrace, one hand cradling the back of his head.

“I’m proud of you,” Hans murmured.

Hynek held on tightly, his voice low and a little unsteady.

“Thanks, Dad. Take care… and try not to drive Uncle Henry mad, yeah?”

Hans huffed a soft laugh against his shoulder, then drew back with a crooked smile. “No promises,” he said, eyes warm.

Henry was already waiting by the horse. With practiced ease, he helped Hans up into the saddle, then climbed up behind him, slipping one arm carefully around his waist to steady him.

They lingered for a moment at the edge of the courtyard, the sun casting long shadows behind them. 

Jitka and Hynek stood together, watching in silence as the two men turned their backs on Rattay, and rode off into the warm breath of spring.

Their path wound first through familiar fields, then faded into the hills beyond, where the world grew wide and new again.

They journeyed. Hans found joy in collecting books in other languages—picked up from passing merchants, gifted by old scholars, or salvaged from forgotten corners of dusty shelves by Henry’s clever hands. He kept a journal, wrote quiet poems when the mood struck, and sketched the places they passed, capturing glimpses of fleeting towns and long skies.

Henry tended to everything Hans could not. He kept them fed, warm, and safe, always making sure Hans had what he needed before he even asked.

As they had planned, they eventually crossed quietly into Austria. No fanfare, no eyes upon them—just the hush of new land underfoot. It felt like coming up for air. 

German came easily to Hans; he had been raised speaking it fluently, as every Bohemian noble was expected to. He took to teaching Henry with quiet patience, gently correcting his pronunciation and coaxing him to roll his “R”s properly—often with a smile tugging at his lips as Henry stumbled through the sounds, determined and endearing in equal measure.

The war was behind them now, distant in more ways than one. Here, the villages moved slower, the fields stretched greener, and time itself seemed to loosen its grip.

They had plenty of groschen—which meant they could live without want. But neither of them had ever been built for idleness.

Well, it was mostly Henry that helped. Henry repaired roofs, fixed tools, and hauled timber for a widow’s hearth.

Hans was there for moral support, and when he wasn’t offering commentary, he was buried in a book or teaching the local children the basics of reading and writing.

Small things. Quiet things.

Their lives were no longer gilded with titles, but filled with meaning all the same.

When Hans’s wound flared, they stayed put. When the pain passed, they moved again.

There were still many roads to travel, countless corners of the world to explore—and always, together, they would follow wherever their hearts led.

Not every moment is meant for the pages of history; some are simply meant to be lived, felt in the quiet pulse of the heart, and cherished in the tender silence of now. 

Life, like a fleeting breath, doesn’t need to be immortalized—its beauty lies in the simple act of being, in knowing that, for the briefest of moments, we are whole.

Winters gave way to soft springs, summers lingered like a breath held just a little too long, and autumns passed with gentle hands, brushing everything in their wake.

The fields of Austria, the forests of Poland, the sun-drenched roads of Italy—their heart and the wind guided them, the only constant the warmth of each other’s hand.

They met few troubles, as if Lady Fortune had finally remembered them, her gaze soft from afar.

Their story in those years was not recorded in the history books, they were moments meant only for them.

To speak of it fully would be to trespass, a step too close to something sacred.

Yet, if one were to take a cheeky peek, just a fleeting look—they would find small chapters, tenderly folded between the turning seasons—

<<Laughters Carried in the Breeze>>,

They were only meant to pass through the village, but somehow Henry ended up wrestling a runaway sheep in a muddy field, arms wrapped around its wooly middle as it kicked and shrieked indignantly.

Hans stood at the edge, arms crossed, laughing helplessly. “Bastard must be a cousin of Ignatius,” he called, grinning wide.

The sheep bleated like it agreed, then promptly kicked Henry in the chest and broke free again.

“C’mon… be nice,” Henry groaned, hauling himself up and giving chase once more.

He returned triumphant—mud-streaked, grass in his hair, holding the now docile sheep like a grumpy trophy.

Triumphant, yes. But he certainly didn’t feel it.

<<Familiar Flames>>,

They were passing through a busy square in a mountain town somewhere in Austria, the air sharp with woodsmoke and early snow. Merchants hollered from their stalls, peddling everything from leather boots to fresh herbs—and near the edge of the crowd, one voice rose above the others in sharp, excited German.

“Feinste Klinge aus Kuttenberg! Meisterhaft geschmiedet! Direkt aus der besten Schmieden in Böhmen!”

Hans slowed, brow arching as a burst of German reached his ears. “Did he just say Kuttenberg?”

Henry glanced over, distracted. “Hmm?”

Hans tugged on his sleeve. “That merchant—he’s selling a sword. Claims it’s from a famous forge in Kuttenberg.”

Henry’s eyes sharpened. “Could it be…”

They made their way over to the stall.

The merchant, stout and red-cheeked, welcomed them with a booming grin and laid the sword out like it was a crown jewel. It was a beautiful piece—sleek, well-balanced, the grip wrapped in rich leather, the blade bearing a subtle wave along its edge. But Henry’s gaze went straight to the fuller, where a small, familiar mark was etched near the guard.

A stylized M, cradled between a hammer and flame.

His breath caught. “Well I’ll be. It's from Matthias. The lad must be doing really well.”

Hans leaned in, grinning. “Of course he is. He was your apprentice.”

Henry ran a thumb along the flat of the blade. The steel was cool, but in his mind, it still carried the warmth of the forge—the clang of iron, the hiss of quenched fire, the sweat and soot of long afternoons. A life he'd left behind.

He stepped back and nodded to the merchant, quiet pride in his voice. “She’s a fine blade. Worth every groschen.”

Hans tilted his head. “You going to buy it?”

Henry laughed. “Nah, I won't. Someone else’ll need it more than me.” He bumped Hans with his shoulder, eyes twinkling. “Besides, I’ve already got a treasure attached to my hip.”

Hans groaned. “That was awful. Where did you even learn that?”

Henry smirked. “You.”

Hans snorted. “Touché.”

<<A Rude Awakening>>,

Morning sunlight streamed through the cracks in the curtains, casting a soft glow across the room. Henry was already up, getting dressed with quick, deliberate movements, preparing for whatever the day would bring. The faint sound of his boots hitting the floor as he laced them together was the only noise in the otherwise quiet room.

Hans, on the other hand, lay motionless in bed, staring at the ceiling, his face scrunched in an exaggerated expression of discomfort. He shifted slightly, wincing as if some internal pain had taken hold of him. With a soft groan, he rolled onto his side, clutching his ribs with a hand, faking another wince.

Henry glanced over at him, brow furrowed. “Hans? You okay?”

Hans barely opened his eyes, his voice coming out rough. “I… I think it’s happening again,” he muttered, his tone low, strained. “My side’s killing me. I don’t think I can move today.”

Henry paused, his hand halfway to his jacket, brow furrowed in concern. His heart gave a small flutter at the sight of Hans looking so vulnerable.

He stepped closer, eyes scanning Hans’s face for signs of real distress, but there were none. Hans’s lips were twitching at the corners, betraying the playful intent behind the act.

Henry sighed. He knew Hans well enough by now to recognize when he was being dramatic, but there was still a brief, nagging worry that lingered in the back of his mind.

“Are you sure? You’ve been walking fine the last couple of days,” Henry asked, his voice softening despite his growing frustration.

Hans didn’t move, only let out another low groan, shifting slightly under the blanket. “I think this time it’s worse. The old wound—my ribs. It’s… I don’t know if I can even stand.”

For a moment, Henry once again hesitated, genuinely concerned. The injury had been something Hans carried with him for years, and he had his fair share of painful flare-ups. But now, looking at him, it was clear that Hans was exaggerating.

Henry’s grin grew wider. “You’re such a child. Fine, but if you’re really so sick, I guess I’ll just leave you to fend for yourself while I go have breakfast.” He made a show of turning to leave.

Hans sat up, rubbing his eyes. “Fine, fine, I’m moving. But I expect breakfast in bed tomorrow as compensation.”

Henry snorted. “Don’t push it.”

<<In the Quiet of an Evening>>,

The inn was warm, the fire crackling in the hearth, casting flickering shadows on the walls. Hans sat with a book in his lap, the pages worn with age, his brow furrowed as he read. Henry, on the other hand, was busy with something else—mending a tear in his coat, the needle glinting in the soft light.

Henry’s voice broke the silence, low and thoughtful. “How’s it feel? Living like this. As a… nobody?”

Hans looked up, eyes soft with a contentment that had taken time to settle in. He smiled, his gaze drifting toward Henry. “It’s everything I dreamed of. And more.”

There was a quiet pause, the kind that spoke of shared understanding. Then, Henry spoke again, his words slower this time, almost hesitant.

“Ich… ich liebe dich.”

Hans blinked, startled for a moment, before a grin tugged at the corner of his lips. He marked his place in the book, setting it aside. “You said it properly this time.”

Henry looked up from his work, a flush rising in his cheeks as he smiled, proud of his effort. “Been practicing.”

Without another word, Hans reached out, brushing his lips gently against Henry’s. “It shows.”

<<Not all Prophecies are Bad>>,

They were strolling through town just past midnight, still buzzed from the festivities—a local festival had filled the streets with music and color earlier that evening. Now, the lanterns had dimmed, the crowds had thinned, and only the faint hum of laughter and the scent of smoke lingered in the air. Their cheeks were warm, their hands occasionally brushing.

Hans was the first to notice the tent: tucked between two shuttered stalls, dimly lit from within. A soft glow outlined the silhouette of a woman seated behind a crystal ball. Dried herbs dangled along the entrance, rustling in the cool night breeze like an invitation whispered through leaves.

“Oh, we’re doing this,” Hans said immediately, already tugging Henry’s sleeve. “Come on. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Henry raised an eyebrow, his gaze lingering on the tent. “Isn’t it a little… weird?” he asked, glancing back at Hans.

Hans, with a mischievous grin, tossed his head toward the entrance. “Are you scared?”

Henry scoffed, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Never.”

“Good,” Hans said, his voice low and teasing as he tugged Henry closer, pulling him toward the entrance. “Then let’s go.”

Inside, the tent was perfumed with lavender and old smoke. Bundles of dried flowers swung gently overhead. The woman behind the low table didn’t move. She looked as though she’d been carved out of wax and time—still, ancient, and waiting. Her eyes were clouded gray, her hands folded neatly before her.

Hans flipped some groschen onto the cloth. “Alright. Tell me if I’ll die rich or handsome.”

Her eyes snapped to his—and stayed there.

“You have known storm,” she said, her voice the brittle hush of wind through dry leaves. “Not of the sky, but of the soul. A youth misspent. A heart cracked by its own pride.”

Hans’s grin faltered, dimming into something quieter.

“But you carry love now,” she continued, softer. “It steadied you. Grounded you. Healed you.”

 The tent fell still, the lantern light flickering between them.

“You don’t need the cards,” she murmured. “It’s written all over you. You’re free now.”

Hans didn’t speak. His mouth twitched like he meant to smile, but it never quite came. His eyes slid toward Henry.

Then the old woman turned.

“And you,” she said, gaze settling on Henry. “You are the quiet strength in him. The harbor he didn’t know he was searching for. But you’re afraid, too—not of love, but of loss. Of what would happen if one day, you turned around and he was simply… gone.”

Henry’s lips parted, his breath caught in his throat.

“You love fiercely,” she added, almost gently. “But not fearlessly.”

Hans stood abruptly. He reached for Henry’s hand and tugged him up with him.

“Right,” he said briskly. “That’s enough philosophy for one night.”

As they turned to leave, the old woman’s voice followed them like a breeze slipping through the tent flap.

“Hold on to each other,” she said. “The road is long—and love is light to carry, until you must carry it alone.”

They paused, just briefly. then stepped into the night without looking back.

They stepped outside into the chill of early spring, hand in hand. Neither said anything at first. The stars were smeared behind clouds, and the festival around them had thinned to scattered laughter, soft music, the occasional flicker of torchlight in the distance.

Only as they returned to their lodgings, did Henry speak.

“She was just saying things,” he muttered. 

Hans gave a dry, shaky laugh. “Suppose so.”

A beat passed, and then Henry reached out, laced their fingers together, and gave Hans’s hand a quiet, grounding squeeze.

“She wasn’t wrong, though,” he added, voice gentler now. “Not about the love part.”

Hans looked at him—really looked—and then smiled. Soft, warm. A little sad.

“No,” he said. “She really wasn’t.”

<<This Is Definitely Belladonna>>,

Henry muttered curses under his breath as he pushed aside another tuft of weeds. “Sakra, where the hell is it…” He crouched low, squinting at a cluster of leaves beneath a shrubby patch of undergrowth, then let out a frustrated sigh. “It’s like it’s hiding from me.”

From a few paces away, Hans sat cross-legged in the grass with the worn herbarium open on his lap, flipping through its fragile pages with exaggerated care.

“I don’t know why you’re struggling so much,” he called, tone maddeningly calm. “It’s right here. Page thirty-two.” He pointed to a sketch with a triumphant little smirk. “That one, right?”

Henry didn’t even look up. “That’s nightshade, Hans.”

“Ah.” Hans tilted the book. “Still pretty.”

“Pretty deadly,” Henry grumbled.

Hans flipped a few more pages. “Alright, what about this? Same droopy-looking leaves.”

“That’s valerian.”

“Isn’t that the one that smells like feet?”

“Yes,” Henry snapped, exasperated. “And you still confuse it with the one that could kill you if you brew it wrong.”

Hans ignored the jab and kept flipping. “Fine. How about—wait, no, no, that’s just lettuce. Why is there lettuce in here?”

“I don’t know, Hans, maybe because you have your fucking recipe book open— ah ha!” Henry’s voice rose in triumph. “Finally.”

He reached under a low tangle of brush and carefully plucked a cluster of dark berries with their telltale dull, purple-black sheen. “Belladonna,” he said, holding it up like a prize. “God, that was hard to find.”

“Was it?” Hans shut the herbarium with a snap and stood. “Because it’s also right here.” He pointed at a patch just a few feet away.

Henry turned to look—and frowned. “That’s just grass.”

Hans smirked. “No it’s not.”

“Yes, it is.”

Hans crouched and pointed insistently. “Look at the shape of the leaves.”

Henry narrowed his eyes. “Those are blades, Hans. Literal blades of grass.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s a different stage of growth,” Hans said, completely unfazed.

Henry groaned and stood, brushing off his knees. “You’re full of it.”

“Nope.” Hans crossed his arms smugly. “I win.”

“You win nothing,” Henry muttered, groaning as he stood—and promptly let out a sharp hiss as his back seized up. “Ah—damn it—!”

Hans rushed forward with a laugh already bubbling in his throat. “Oh, no. You didn’t.”

Henry grimaced. “I did.”

Hans howled with laughter. “You threw your back out picking herbs. Who are you, Father Godwin?”

“Shut up.”

“I can’t!” Hans was gasping now, leaning on his knees. “This is the funniest thing I’ve seen all year.”

Henry scowled at him, still clutching his lower back. “Keep laughing, I swear I’ll break yourback later.”

Hans straightened with a grin that was all mischief. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

Henry glared at Hans, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re bendy in the wrong ways,” Hans said, looping an arm around Henry’s waist to steady him. “Come on, old man. Let’s get you off your feet before you fall apart completely.”

Henry allowed himself to lean on him just a little, muttering under his breath, “You’re lucky I love you.”

“I really am,” Hans replied, grinning wide. “Even when you grunt like a dying ox.”

“Shut up.”

Hans did not shut up.

<<Echoes of the Past>>,

Many years into their travels, in a town far from anything familiar, they crossed paths with someone neither of them expected—Black Bartosch.

He was different now. Travelling with another man, smiling more easily than he once had, the sharp edges in him softened by time and tenderness. Whatever feelings he’d once harboured for Henry had long since faded; he held no grudges, only warmth and surprise to see him alive and well.

The real shock, though, came when he saw Hans—very much alive despite the world’s belief otherwise.

Bartosch had left the army. An eye disease had slowly claimed the sight in one eye, and with it, his place among the ranks. That loss had unraveled something in him, enough to send him wandering again. He called it another soul-searching pilgrimage—until, he said with a half-smile, a chance encounter had given him reason to stop searching.

Now, he and his partner moved from town to town, collecting stories of the war and its aftermath, recording them in thick, uneven manuscript folios. It was clumsy work, he admitted, but it mattered to him. It mattered to both of them.

Hans took one look through them and snorted, “Your Latin’s abysmal.”

Henry elbowed him. “Be nice.”

Bartosch laughed and shrugged. “It is bad, I admit. But I’m getting better, I think.”

They shared a laugh—

Well, everyone except Hans did.

Some grudges, it seemed, were never meant to be let go.

Not when the man had once shared Henry’s bed.

<<Directionally Challenged, Romantically Certain>>,

Hans adjusted the map for what felt like the tenth time, holding it up against the sun like it might reveal some divine answer, if squinted at hard enough. “No, no, no. The village is this way,” he declared confidently, pointing towards his right.

Henry looked up from where he was standing, hands on hips. “Hans, that’s the same direction you pointed thirty minutes ago. We passed that rock twice.We’re going in circles.”

Hans scoffed. “Rocks are famously non-distinctive. You can’t prove it’s the same one.”

Henry marched over, snatched the map from his hands, turned it right-side up, and glared. “Sakra, Hans. You’ve had it upside down again.”

“I—!” Hans started, then paused. “No, I… was merely adjusting for wind direction.”

“That’s not a thing,” Henry said, deadpan.

Hans rubbed the back of his neck, muttering, “Well, it should be.”

“Why don’t I just lead the way?”

Hans pouted, mumbling, “But I wanted to try leading the way for once.”

Henry’s expression softened—just for a moment—before hardening again with mock severity. “Then maybe next time, lead us somewhere that isn’t a cow pasture.”

Hans puffed up. “That pasture had potential!”

Henry sighed dramatically, pacing a short circle. “Do you even knowhow to read a map?”

“Of course I do,” Hans snapped, trying to regain dignity. “This squiggly line is a path.”

“That’s a river.”

“Details.”

“You almost walked us into a ravine.”

“I thought it was a charming brook.”

Henry looked up to the sky, closing his eyes in prayer. “Father Lord in Heaven… Give me the strength—”

Hans was already back to turning the map this way and that. “If you’d stop talking, I could concentrate. This is very delicate work.”

“Oh yes, navigating blindly into probable death—very delicate.”

Hans finally gave an exasperated noise, shoving the map toward Henry. “Fine! You do it, if you’re so clever.”

“I am clever,” Henry said, snatching it. “And when we get to this village and it’s not a cow pasture, I expect an apology.”

Hans raised an eyebrow. “Do I get to apologize with a kiss?”

Henry rolled his eyes, though his lips curled. “Do you think I’m some kind of cheap whoreson?”

They started walking again, Henry leading this time. A few steps later, Hans quietly slipped his hand into Henry’s.

“Not cheap,” Hans murmured, a smile in his voice. “But definitely mine. Even if we’re lost, I’d rather be lost with you.”

Henry gave him a sideways glance, pretending to be annoyed—but his fingers curled tighter around Hans’s.

<<Something Old, Something Ours>>,

Snow tapped at the windowpanes of the quiet inn, muffled and soft, like the world outside was holding its breath. Inside, the fire crackled low and steady, throwing a golden glow across the room where Hans lay sprawled across the bed, one leg dangling off the edge, dramatically bored.

“This is pathetic,” he sighed. “It’s Christmas Eve and we’re doing nothing.”

Henry looked up from where he sat, half-lounging in the corner chair with a blanket over his legs. “We’re warm, fed, and cozy. I’d call that something.

Hans made a noise of protest. “We should at least start a tradition. Make something up. Something sweet.”

“Like what?” Henry asked, raising a brow.

Hans waved a hand. “I don’t know. Like…” He paused, thinking. “Like giving each other a compliment.”

Henry blinked at him. Then, leaning forward with a crooked grin, said, “You complain more than a mule in winter, but somehow I still sleep better next to you than alone.”

Hans furrowed his brow, throwing a pillow at him. “Not like that.”

Henry laughed, dodging the pillow with minimal effort.

Still grinning, he stood and crossed the room to the little table near the window. “You know,” he said after a moment, “this just reminded me of something. We used to do this back in Skalitz, every Christmas Eve.”

He opened his bag, rummaging through it briefly, and returned with two candles. He set them on the table with a thud.

“My mother used to say—if you let a candle burn a bit, then blow it out and the smoke rises straight, it means you’ve been good that year.”

Hans swung his legs off the bed, curiosity piqued. “Sounds like something your mother made up to keep you in line.”

“Probably,” Henry admitted, smiling. “But we all played along. Even Pa.”

Hans came over, watching with interest. “So? You gonna test your moral standing?”

Henry grinned. “Let’s see.”

He lit one of the candles, letting it burn for a few seconds, then gently blew it out. The smoke rose—slightly slanted at first, then slowly straightened.

Hans leaned in, peering. “That’s… mostly good, I think.”

“Good enough,” Henry said.

“Do me,” Hans said, nudging him. “My turn.”

“You sure?” Henry teased. “Still time to repent.”

Hans narrowed his eyes. “Just light the damn thing.”

Henry. lit the second candle. Hans gave it a few moments, then blew it out. The smoke curled immediately sideways.

Hans stared at it, then huffed. “You rigged it.”

Henry chuckled. “I’d never.”

“Well I demand a do-over.”

Henry smirked. “That’s not how it works. I’d say the candle just knows the truth.”

Hans made an exaggerated face, then leaned his head on Henry’s shoulder with a sigh. “Next year,” he murmured, “we make up our own tradition. Something just ours.”

Henry looked at the still-smoking wick. “Something new,” he agreed. “But I think we can keep this one too.”

Hans tilted his head up, smiling. “Fine. But next time, I’m picking the candle.”

<<Carrying Their Light>>,

They had been riding together to their next destination, the warmth of the afternoon sun still clinging to the air as they made their way along a quiet path. Henry sat at the front, guiding the horse, with Hans nestled behind him, their legs brushing together with each steady stride. The only sounds were the soft thud of hooves against the earth and the gentle rustle of leaves in the breeze.

As they rounded a bend, the horse slowed instinctively, hooves tapping softly against the dirt. Henry eased back on the reins. A tall linden tree stood ahead, its branches stretched wide like open arms, blossoms swaying gently in the wind and filling the air with their faint, sweet scent.

Henry let out a quiet sigh, his fingers relaxing on the reins as his gaze fixed on the tree, distant and thoughtful. Hans, close behind, said nothing—but he felt the shift, the silence that spoke of memory.

Without a word, Henry brought the horse to a stop beneath the linden’s canopy.

Hans’s fingers found his hand, a silent touch of reassurance. “It’s alright,” he murmured, brushing his thumb in slow circles against Henry’s skin. “You don’t have to forget them to keep moving forward.”

Henry glanced over his shoulder, eyes softened by a sadness that had settled over time but never quite faded. “I still wonder… if they’d be happy, you know? Seeing where I am now.”

Hans leaned in, his voice low and sure as his lips brushed near Henry’s ear. “They would be proud of you. You’ve come so far. And they’d be glad you’ve found happiness—with someone who loves you.”

A breath escaped Henry’s chest, slow and steady. He leaned back slightly into Hans’s embrace, letting the moment hold him.

“Ma. Pa,” he whispered, “I’m with Hans now. And I’m—No. We’re happy, so I hope you two are too.”

Hans wrapped his arms gently around him from behind, holding him close beneath the tree’s quiet shade.

For a long while, neither of them spoke. The wind moved through the leaves, a soft hush, like nature holding its breath with them. There was no need for more words; they sat in stillness, wrapped in memory and presence.

At last, Hans shifted slightly, his tone warm and coaxing. “Come on. We’ve got the whole day ahead of us. Let’s make it count.”

Henry lingered a moment longer, then smiled faintly. The ache in his chest hadn’t gone, not entirely—but it was lighter now. Easier to carry.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Let’s go.”

As they rode off together, Henry couldn’t help but glance back at the linden tree one last time, a small, content smile tugging at his lips. There was still a part of him that carried the past, but now, with Hans beside him, he knew he could keep moving forward—together.

<<Where the World Ends in Blue>>,

They reached the coast of Poland just before dusk, the scent of brine carried on a stiff breeze. The sea opened before them in slow, silver-blue waves—vast, moody, and unreal.

Henry stopped and stared out at the vast horizon. “That’s… that’s something,” he murmured.

Hans stood beside him, quiet for a long moment. “It looks like the world just… stops,” he said softly.

The sea stretched out before them, the tide brushing against their boots, as the setting sun bled into the water, casting everything in warm, fading light.

“I heard,” Hans said after a while, his voice distant, “there’s more beyond it. Lands that no one’s dared to reach. Places where birds don’t fly and trees bleed. That’s what that sailor said yesterday.”

Henry smirked. “Did he? My Polish isn’t the best, but I think he mostly said kurwa.”

Hans chuckled, shaking his head. “Yeah, he was definitely drunk.”

“And missing an eye.”

“Right. So, clearly an expert.”

They both laughed softly, the sound mingling with the quiet rush of the waves.

They sat in the sand, the wind biting at their coats. Henry leaned back on his hands, eyes half-lidded against the golden light bleeding across the water.

Beside him, Hans had gone quiet. Then, wordlessly, he reached beneath his coat. His fingers closed around the familiar weight at his chest—a locket on a leather cord, its gold dulled by time. The Capon family necklace, passed down from his great-grandmother. 

Hans drew it out and held it toward Henry, resting it in his open palm.

“I want you to wear it,” he said, voice low and a little uneven. “If you’ll have it.”

Henry stared at it, then at him. “Hans…”

He then laughed softly. “Gods. I remember when you tried to give this to the butcher’s daughter.”

Hans groaned. “Don’t remind me. I was young and stupid.”

“And now you’re just stupid?”

Hans laughed, a little red in the face. “Alright, alright, enough. I’ve grown since then.”

Henry’s smile softened. “That you have.”

Hans exhaled, his amusement fading into something quieter, weightier. His gaze dropped for a moment to the locket again. “I know we can’t get married,” he said, quieter now. “Not really. Not in the way people do, with bells and witnesses and priests in a church.”

He hesitated, then added, more gently, “Sometimes I feel… bad. That you’ll never get to have that. The real thing.”

Henry’s brows furrowed, just slightly, and he reached out to take Hans’s hand. “Don’t be stupid. I don’t need some stiff ceremony. I want this. Just you. Just us. If this is how we say it, then it’s real enough for me.”

Hans blinked a few times, eyes a little shiny, but he smiled.

Hans released Henry's hand, the necklace now resting on Henry’s palm. “But if you’ll have me—for the rest of our lives… if this can be our way of saying it—then I want to.”

Henry was quiet for a heartbeat. Then he said, a little hoarsely, “As if there were ever a world where I wouldn’t.”

Hans smiled. “That’s true.” He nudged Henry gently. “Then let’s change it up a bit. None of that death-do-us-part business. You’ll just have to come find me again in the next life.”

Henry met his gaze, steady and sure. “I will,” he said softly. “I’ll look for you. Over and over again.”

He didn’t speak right away after that. Just stared down at the locket, then slowly curled his fingers around it, holding it like something fragile and irreplaceable.

“I’ve nothing to give you in return.”

“You’ve already given me more than anyone ever has,” Hans said. “That’s enough.”

Henry leaned in and kissed him. Slow, sure, and a little breathless—the kind of kiss that said yes without needing the word.

When they parted, Hans rested his head against Henry’s shoulder, and they sat there, quiet and close, watching the last light spill gold across the ocean. For a while, neither of them spoke. The waves glittered in the setting sun, stretching endlessly toward a horizon they’d never reach.

Then Henry asked, barely above a whisper, “Do you think we’ll ever see it? What’s on the other side of the ocean?”

Hans followed his gaze—out over the darkening water, where the sea met sky in a haze of firelight and fading blue. His smile was soft, tinged with sadness, but steady.

“Maybe,” he murmured. “In our next life. After you come find me.”

Henry turned his head, watching him with something tender in his eyes. The wind caught Hans’s hair, shimmering gold in the dying light, and for a moment, Henry just looked at him—like he wanted to remember him exactly as he was in this second.

“It’s a promise, then,” Henry said quietly, his smile warm and aching all at once. “Wherever you are… I’ll come find you.”

Hans’s fingers brushed his. “And I’ll wait for you.”

They sat like that until the sun slipped below the sea, wrapped in quiet, and something that felt—softly, surely—like forever.

There were countless, countless, chapters still unwritten, each one stitched with quiet love and the promise of forever.

But to tell them all would take—well, quite literally—a lifetime.

They were filled with ordinary days and extraordinary moments—

quiet mornings tangled in warmth,

fierce laughter beneath open skies,

fights that hurt, and the silences that healed them.

There were seasons that slipped by unnoticed,

and some they would carry with them forever.

But that is the nature of a life shared, isn’t it?

Not every moment fits neatly into a story.

And perhaps it doesn’t need to.

It is enough to know that they happened—

that through it all, they stayed together.

Through the highs, and through the not-so-highs.

In the end, their tale belongs to them.

We are but quiet observers,

invited to witness the pieces they chose to share.

And now, as all stories must,

this one too draws closer to its end.

But not quite yet.

There is still one last stretch of road,

one final thread to tie,

a few last words to say before the curtain falls.

So let us walk with them a little further.

Let us linger in this fading spotlight.

Or—if your heart would rather keep them as they are,

alive in love and in the fullness of their days—

you may close the book here.

They would understand.

But if you are still with us—

if you are ready—

then turn the page.

Just once more.

Chapter Text

In 1434, the Hussite Wars came to an end. The moderate Hussites, in an unlikely alliance born of compromise, had joined forces with the Catholics—united to defeat the more radical among their own.

How exactly things reached that point is a story for another time. After all, that is no longer the tale we are here to follow. This is no longer a chronicle of war and politics, but of two lives, quietly and irrevocably bound by the red thread of fate.

For now, it is enough to know that the battles had faded—and somewhere in the stillness that followed, their story reached its twilight.

The village had been quiet as dusk settled in, the sky washed in grey-blue, clouds thick with the promise of rain. Earlier that day, they’d heard the news shouted down the lane by a town crier—Bohemia’s wars had ended at last. A fragile peace, struck between unlikely hands.

Now, in the stillness of the inn’s upper room, the only sound was the soft patter of rain against the ground outside.

Henry sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders slightly hunched, hands resting between his knees. Hans sat beside him, one arm braced over his knee, his other hand absently rubbing his side. Henry didn’t say anything about it. Not yet. He only watched, heart sinking a little more with each stifled wince, each motion that wasn’t quite as smooth as it had once been.

“So,” Hans murmured after a long silence, “it’s over.”

Henry nodded, though he didn’t look up. “Seems like it.”

There was no joy in it, no celebration. Just a quiet kind of finality. An ache, almost—like the closing of a book they’d both forgotten was still open.

“Hans.”

“Hm?” Hans tilted his head slightly, eyes catching the lamplight as they flicked to Henry—bright blue with curiosity, soft at the edges.

Henry hesitated, his fingers curling loosely around the stick. His voice dropped low, barely more than a whisper. “You’re hiding how much you’re hurting.”

Hans didn’t answer at first. He shifted slightly where he sat, the motion careful, instinctively guarded. His gaze dropped to his lap, avoiding Henry’s.

The years had carved themselves into him in quiet, unkind ways. The wound he’d taken all those years ago—healed over in name only—never truly let him go. It flared now with a deeper bite, the dull ache sharpening into something that stole his breath when no one was looking. And try as he might, even Hans couldn’t fake the ease with which he used to move. Not anymore.

“It’s getting worse, isn’t it?” Henry said. “The marigold decoctions aren’t helping like before. You try to keep it quiet, but I see it—the way you wince getting up in the morning. How you sleep less and ride shorter stretches, even if you won’t admit it.”

A silence settled between them, soft and fragile.

Hans turned his head, their shoulders almost touching. His smile was faint, tired around the edges. “Can’t hide anything from you, can I?”

Henry let out a breath, more sigh than laugh. “Not from me.”

Hans twiddled his thumbs, gaze low. “I didn’t want to worry you. Or… hold you back. You always loved the road—maybe more than I ever did.”

Henry shook his head. “I love you more than any road.”

Hans gave a faint, crooked smile. “I know. But still… I can manage. I’m not falling apart just yet.”

“Maybe you can.” Henry looked ahead, voice steady, quiet. “But we’ve seen enough of the world, I think. More than we ever thought we would. And now that the fighting’s done… maybe it’s time. To go home.”

Hans didn’t speak, but the quiet that followed was listening.

Henry glanced at him. “We always talked about it. That little cabin in the woods. Just the two of us. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere we don’t have to keep moving. Where you can rest. Where we both can.”

A pause.

Hans’s voice, when it came, was soft—barely more than breath. “I think I’d like that.”

Henry smiled. “Then we’ll find it. We’ll make it.”

Hans’s mouth twitched with the ghost of a smirk. “God help you, you’ll practically have to build the place with your own two hands.”

Henry leaned in, their shoulders pressing together, eyes warm. “Better than trusting you with a hammer.”

Hans huffed a quiet laugh, then turned toward him, eyes soft with something unspoken.

Henry leaned in and kissed him—gently and surely, an act they’d shared thousands of times before—and would share a million times more.

The road back to Bohemia was easier than the road to stay. It had been over a decade since they’d left, and time had not stood still. The scars of war were still visible across the land—old fields abandoned, roads grown wild—but the healing had begun. Villages rose from ash and ruin. Laughter returned to town squares, and the sound of hammers meant building, not breaking.

They had returned first to Rattay, where the war had passed like a storm that never quite touched the ground. Thanks to early alliances, the town and surrounding lands had endured. 

Most of the region had forgotten them, two names worn smooth by time—but not everyone. There were sweet reunions, some private and treasured, like those with Hynek and Jitka. The occasional letter had reached them by way of wandering merchants, proof that Hans and Henry were still alive somewhere far from the war. They had never managed to write back, but they had waited.

Theresa still lived in the same cottage—only now, it was filled with warm noise and the scurry of her grandchildren’s feet.

She was stunned to see Henry again, her joy softening quickly into something quieter. Relief, perhaps. Decades ago, she told him he’d always have a home there. And, with a sideways smile, she supposed Hans could stay too—if he didn’t break anything.

The story of how they built a home—of timber hauled through mud, walls coaxed into standing straight, roofs lined against the rain—could fill a chapter of its own. But in the end, it was only a footnote in the greater tale. The quiet labor of building something lasting, while no less important, was merely the hill before the mountain.

With the help of friends, Henry’s stubborn hands and Hans doing what he could, something livable was born. Not far from Skalitz—now standing once more, its old wounds weathered into quiet resilience—a cabin rose in the hush of the woods. And there, beneath the green canopies and the hush of birdsong, they found their place.

Henry had just finished mounting a shelf in the bedroom when he stepped outside to look for Hans. The air still smelled of sawdust and smoke, spring curling gently through the trees. He found him a little ways from the porch, kneeling on the forest floor.

Hans looked up at the sound of his footsteps, his hands dark with soil. Between them, a thin sapling stood, no more than a slender rod with a few pale green leaves trembling at the top.

“What are you doing?” Henry asked, brows lifting in curiosity.

Hans brushed his palms on his trousers, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Planting a linden tree.”

Henry huffed a soft laugh, folding his arms. “Do you even know how long those take to grow?”

“No clue,” Hans said easily. “But one day, it’ll be tall and mighty. Give us some shade, maybe even flowers in spring.”

Henry stepped closer, squinting at the tiny sapling like he didn’t quite believe it. “Where’d you even get that?”

“Theresa helped me, one of her sons brought it by earlier.”

“Glad to see you two are getting along,” Henry murmured, amusement touching his voice.

Hans only smiled in reply, but didn’t say anything else. He turned his gaze back to the sapling—so slight it barely cast a shadow—his fingers moving gently to press the soil in around its base, careful as if tucking in a child for sleep.

It’ll grow slowly, he thought. Even after I’m gone.

It’ll still be here—for him. Its roots deep in the same earth we once stood on. Its branches reaching over him when he’s older, when the weight of the years settles in, when he comes back, maybe alone.

A place to return to. A quiet reminder.

Proof that I was here.

That I loved him.

Even if no one says my name.

His throat tightened, and for a moment he didn’t trust himself to speak. So he kept his eyes on the little tree, blinking once, slowly.

Then, quietly, he said, “It felt like the right thing to plant.”

Henry looked at him, his face softening. “Well, I love it. It’ll really bring the whole place together.”

He didn’t press further. Instead, he crouched down beside him, reaching out to help tamp the earth around the sapling, both of their hands meeting in the dirt.

Henry had always been able to tell when Hans was holding something back—this moment was no exception. But for now, it was enough. Enough that they were here, together. Enough that they had found home.

A few weeks had passed since then.

Henry rubbed the back of his neck, leading Hans inside with one hand, his eyes scanning the space. The cabin still smelled faintly of sawdust and pine, a testament to the work that had gone into making it livable. A small fire crackled low in the hearth, the only sound besides the soft creak of newly laid floorboards.

“I know it’s… barely anything,” Henry said after a moment, his voice almost sheepish. “Just enough to live in for now.”

Hans wandered further into the room, fingers trailing along the edge of the table Henry had built by himself. He turned back with a soft smile, his eyes warm and understanding. “It’s enough. There’s a roof over our heads, a fire to keep us warm, and a bed… where I get to fall asleep next to you. What more could I ask for?”

Henry let out a breath, part laugh, part relief. “I don’t know. Shelves that aren’t crooked? A bed that doesn’t squeak every time you breathe too hard?”

Hans huffed a small laugh, stepping closer. “Charming quirks of fine craftsmanship,” he said, mock-serious.

Henry rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. “You’re too kind.”

Hans’s expression softened as he stepped closer, his hand brushing Henry’s arm. “No, I’m being serious. Maybe you should’ve become a carpenter. You’ve got a real talent for this.”

Henry let out a short laugh, the sound low and amused. “Not sure about that one.” He paused, then added, “It’s still not too late to take up Hynek’s offer to live back in Rattay. I don’t think this humble cabin compares to living in a castle.”

“No. Maybe it doesn’t compare, but this is what I want,” Hans said, his voice steady. “It’s where I want to be.”

Henry looked down, a flicker of shyness crossing his features. His thumb brushed along Hans’s knuckles, a quiet moment of connection. “It’s nothing, really. I’ll keep working on it… make it better, little by little.”

Hans closed the gap between them, his chest pressing gently against Henry’s. “Maybe it’s not perfect, but it’s ours. And you’re here, that’s all I need.”

“Charming, but we’ll see what you say when winter comes,” Henry laughed. Then, he leaned in, his forehead resting softly against Hans’s.

Outside, the wind whispered through the trees, but inside, there was only the quiet comfort of their shared space—safe, peaceful, and theirs.

The days turned to weeks, then to years. The cabin, once smelling of sawdust, took on the scents of stews and old books, firewood and herbs hung to dry. Peace settled over them like a worn blanket, familiar and warm.

The long days of venturing through unknown places, experiencing new horizons, and the ever-present shadow of war—battles fought and survival clutched in the narrowest of margins—slowly faded into the past, like echoes from a life once lived.

Their lives slowed into a rhythm both quiet and kind. Henry took to the heavier work without complaint: chopping wood, tending the small garden behind the cabin, patching the roof when wind tore through, reinforcing the walls when snow pressed too heavy. His hands remained calloused and sure, always busy, always building or fixing or carrying.

Hans found most of his work indoors. He kept the place clean, humming as he swept; he took up cooking in earnest, delighted by recipes found scribbled in old books. He read constantly, surrounded by growing stacks of dog-eared pages, and when the mood struck him, he’d write short verses or sketch Henry in charcoal while he worked—moments stolen from the present and tucked into paper.

Their friends and family visited often. Theresa would arrive with honey and freshly-churned butter, her smile as warm as the bread she sometimes brought. Hynek came with books tucked under his arm—some he’d read, others he hadn’t, but thought they might enjoy. Jitka always had stories to share, tales of her own or gossip from the townsfolk, her laughter filling the little cabin. Other familiar faces found their way there too—friends who hadn’t forgotten them, and now and then, a lost traveler who stumbled upon their lodgings.

It wasn’t a grand life, but it was theirs. And in the quiet rustle of leaves and low crackle of the hearth, in meals shared under lantern-light and mornings spent watching mist lift from the trees, it was more than enough.

The linden tree stood a little taller now. No longer just a fragile sapling, though not quite fully-grown either. Its leaves had thickened with each passing season, its roots dug deeper into the earth—stronger, steadier, because of their care. It cast enough shade now to sit beneath, and they often did, especially in the gentle hush of late afternoon.

There, beneath its soft canopy, the world seemed to pause for them.

On one such afternoon, Hans sat with his back against the sun-warmed linden tree, the breeze weaving through the branches overhead. Henry lay stretched out across his lap, head pillowed comfortably on Hans’s thigh, arms folded loosely over his chest. His breathing was slow, easy—his eyes closed, lips slightly parted in sleep.

Hans’s notebook rested against his bent knee, its pages filled with weeks of scribbled thoughts and revisions. Now, at last, he scribbled in the final lines. A pause. Then a soft, triumphant breath escaped him—more exhale than sound, but enough.

“Finished,” he murmured, almost to himself, smiling faintly at the ink-smeared words.

Henry stirred at the sound, brows twitching, one eye blinking open as he squinted up toward the filtered sunlight. “Hmm? What’s finished?” he mumbled, voice low and rough with sleep.

Hans looked down, the smile widening. “The poem. The one I’ve been fussing over all month.”

Henry let out a small groan, rubbing at his face. “God, that one? You’ve rewritten it more times than I can count on both hands.”

Hans gave an exaggerated nod. “Only because it’s a masterpiece in the making.”

“Well? Can I hear it?” Henry said, stifling a yawn.

Hans leaned back more comfortably against the trunk, brushing a thumb through Henry’s hair as he flipped to the beginning of the page.

“I suppose you’ve earned that much, sleeping through my genius.”

Henry smirked, eyes closed again. “Try me.”

Hans cleared his throat dramatically, then sang in an overly theatrical tone, “Henry, our hero Henry, the fellow who helps his fellow man—”

Henry burst out laughing, lifting a hand to lightly swat at him. “Cut that out! I said I wanted to hear your poem, not suffer through that again.”

Hans chuckled, catching Henry’s hand into his. “Alright, alright. No need for violence.”

“Then read it. Properly this time.”

He looked down at Henry, his expression softening. “It’s actually a bit embarrassing, you know. Got a little sentimental.”

Henry reached up, taking Hans’s hand in his. “Aye, I’m sure it is. Go ahead anyway.”

Hans took a breath, fingers curling around Henry’s. And under the slow rustling of linden leaves and the golden light spilling through their branches, he began to read. His voice was quiet, steady. Words written not just with ink, but with years—with every morning they’d shared, every touch, every moment spent building something neither of them thought they’d live long enough to have.

“Let me recount the tale of a young lord and his squire—

Not forged in light, but born in fire.

Two men who walked through ash and rain,

Through silence, blood, and shared pain.

Not love at first, nor even trust—

Just sharp words flung, and bitter dust.

But every clash, and every glance,

Bent stubborn hearts toward a second chance.

Ich liebe dich.

As sure as I was once too proud to see my own fall—

when I laughed too loudly, rode too fast,

and believed myself untouchable.

Then came the Cumans.

Ropes on my wrists, blood in my mouth,

and the kind of fear that strips a man bare.

I choked on darkness, certain I’d die alone.

But you came.

Unmoved by fear, untouched by blame.

You came for me.

Je t’aime.

Even when I turned away,

when I let pride build its fortress around my heart,

you looked past every battlement

and saw the boy still hiding inside.

If kingdoms rose to part us,

if oceans tried to drown our names,

I’d still find your shadow behind me—

on every road I ever walked.

Ti amo.

In the hunger of war,

when dinner was broth from boiled leather

and laughter was something stolen between skirmishes—

in the hush before battle stole you away again,

I longed for you.

Before I knew what longing was.

Before I could name it.

And I still do.

Kocham cię.

Seasons withered while we were split.

I bore my title like a chain,

Silk on my back, ice in my veins.

I drove you off, blind to the lie,

Yet your name hummed in every hollow room.

Then you returned.

Soot on your palms, sunrise in your gaze,

No blame for the man I’d been—

Just a smile, and the staying.

Szeretlek.

For every place you brought me—

valleys where stars touched the ground,

cities loud with color and song,

forests older than memory—

I thank you.

You gave me the world, Hal.

Let me fly where I was once caged.

With you, I was not a lord.

I was just a man.

And for the first time, I was free.

Miluji tě.

In the warmth of shared bread,

in the stillness before sleep,

in the soft weight of your head resting beside mine—

I reached for you in peace

the same way I did in war.

In the hush between heartbeats,

in the rhythm of daily things,

carving wood, hanging herbs,

I found a life I never thought I’d earn.

I love you.

Not just in the chaos,

but in the calm.

In the everyday,

in the growing old.

In every tongue. In silence.

At the tavern where our story sparked,

In this cabin where it might dim.

When you are near, 

and when memory must be enough.

Always.

Forever, and ever.”

Hans put his notebook aside. For a long moment after Hans finished, there was only the sound of wind stirring the linden leaves and a distant birdcall. Henry didn’t speak. Didn’t move. His eyes were still half-lidded, but now wide awake—fixed not on Hans’s face, but somewhere just beyond, as if chasing the memories the words had summoned.

Then, slowly, he exhaled.

His thumb brushed over Hans’s knuckles. “You really wrote all that?” he asked, voice low and hoarse with something too big to name.

Hans gave a self-deprecating shrug. “Told you it was sentimental.”

Henry’s lips twitched. “Yeah. You’re a bloody sap.”

Hans scoffed. “No, I’m just a very noble person, Henry. Deeply noble. Practically tragic.”

Henry huffed a laugh, shaking his head as he let his thumb brush over Hans’s knuckles. “Tragic, I’ll give you.”

He went quiet for a beat, eyes falling shut—not from sleep, but from something closer to reverence. When he opened them again, they were softer. Wetter, maybe.

“I can’t say it like you can,” he said. “Not with all those words that land like arrows straight to the gut.”

Hans gave a small smile, but didn’t interrupt.

“But I know what you mean. I felt every bloody part of that, Hans.” He glanced up, gaze steady now.

He closed his eyes again, searching for the next thought.

“I’ve never been good with poems or speeches or any of that. But I know this—if I had to go back, start again, fight it all from the beginning…”

His voice softened to a whisper.

“I’d still find you. I’d still choose you.”

Hans’s throat worked around the sudden tightness there, but he said nothing at first. Just held Henry’s hand a little tighter.

Henry smiled faintly. “Even if you were a pompous arse half the time.”

Hans brushed his thumb over Henry’s cheek, reverent. “You don’t have to say it like I do. I already know. I’ve always known.”

Henry leaned up just enough to press a kiss to the back of Hans’s hand.

“Aye, but I’ll try anyway. I love you too. Now and forever, just as clumsily, fiercely, and stupidly as ever.”

Hans let out a soft breath, one that caught in his chest before settling. The weight of Henry’s words lingered like the scent of sun-warmed grass—quiet, certain, and deeply rooted.

Henry eased back down, curling into Hans like a habit too well-worn to ever break. His hand remained in Hans’s, fingers loosely entwined, warm and steady.

Neither of them spoke. There was no need.

Sleep came slowly, gently. Henry first—his breathing deepened, thumb twitching once before going still. Hans followed soon after, his head tilting back against the tree, arms wrapped loosely around the only thing that had ever felt like home.

And there, beneath the linden leaves and the soft hush of afternoon, they slept—together, content, and entirely theirs.

But time, as it always does, continued its slow and steady march. Many more seasons passed.

It began with small things—barely noticeable, easy to dismiss. Hans tiring quicker on their walks. The tremble in his hands when he held a quill. He laughed it off, blaming the morning chill or a restless night.

Henry noticed. And believe it when it’s said: he tried. There wasn’t much else to be done.

The cooking grew simpler. The sketches fewer. Books lay open, half-read, forgotten on chairs and tables.

Then came the days when Hans wouldn’t rise until late morning, or when he’d sit by the fire only to drift off before noon.

Henry brought him tea and said nothing of the fear tightening behind his ribs.

When Hans coughed at night, Henry lay awake beside him, counting each breath like it was a thread he could keep from fraying.

By the time the garden bloomed again that spring, Hans had stopped pretending. Or more that he couldn’t anymore.

He stayed in bed more often than not now, his once-careful posture slumping into the weight of quiet exhaustion.

Some days were kinder—he still smiled, still reached for Henry’s hand when he came into the room.

But there was a paleness to him neither potions nor sunlight could mend. A hush in his voice that felt too much like a farewell.

Henry wasn’t young anymore, and certainly not in his prime, but he was still healthy, still capable. He did everything without a second thought—tended the fire, made broth, and helped Hans outside on the good days.

He read aloud when Hans’s eyes grew too tired, often revisiting old favorites. Hans loved the way Henry’s voice softened on certain lines, the way it felt like the words were meant just for him.

Every good day became a keepsake, carefully folded and tucked away in the corners of Henry’s heart.

Outside, the linden tree grew taller with each passing year, its leaves swaying in the breeze like a lullaby.

Inside, the fire had long since burned low, casting the room in a soft amber glow.

“…and they lived happily ever after. The end.”

Henry sat on the edge of the bed, the book closed gently in his hands. He looked over at Hans, who was smiling faintly, his eyes half-closed, his voice barely above a whisper. “That was lovely.”

Henry gave a quiet chuckle. “Aren’t we a little too old for fairy tale endings?”

Hans made a small sound of disagreement, his lips curling slightly. “Not when we haven’t had our own.” His words trailed off as a cough seized him, sudden and sharp. He pressed his hand to his chest and turned away, his breath shallow.

Without missing a beat, Henry was already moving, gently helping Hans sit up just enough to sip from the water on the bedside table. “Easy now. Drink slowly,” he murmured.

Hans drank, his hand trembling just a little as he lowered the cup. He sighed deeply, sinking back into the pillows. “I’m fine,” he said, his voice quiet, too quiet.

Henry didn’t say anything in response. Instead, he pulled the blanket up over Hans’s shoulders, tucking it in with careful, deliberate movements. “You always say that.”

“And I’m always right,” Hans said with a faint, tired smile—one that tugged at Henry’s heart.

Henry raised an eyebrow, his smile playful, though the worry in his eyes was impossible to hide. “You’re a terrible liar.”

Hans chuckled softly, but it quickly turned into another cough, one that rattled his chest. After a moment, he cleared his throat, his voice hoarse. “Hal… I take it back. I think we’ve already had our fairy tale ending.”

Henry’s heart twisted at the words, an ache threading through him, but he quickly shook his head, swallowing the feeling down. “Don’t say that. This isn’t the end.”

Hans’s gaze softened as he reached for Henry’s hand, his fingers brushing gently against his skin. His smile was tender, but there was a sadness in it, something unsaid that lingered between them.

“You’re a terrible liar too, Hal,” Hans murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

Henry squeezed his hand, his thumb brushing gently over Hans’s knuckles. “I mean it,” he said softly, though there was a hint of uncertainty in his voice. “We’re not done yet. There’s still so much to see. A voyage to the other side of the ocean? We could make that our next adventure.”

Hans’s smile softened, barely a curve of his lips. “That sounds nice… Our own voyage.”

There was a long pause between them, filled with so much that neither of them said aloud. They both knew the truth, even if it was too hard to face.

“But… if that doesn’t happen,” Hans said softly, his voice thinner now, “if I don’t make it… I want you to keep going, Hal. Find happiness again. Let yourself live.”

Henry shook his head before he could stop himself, chest tightening. “I don’t think I can, Hans. Not without you.”

Hans’s fingers curled gently around his. “Promise me you’ll try. Keep living—for me. And when your time comes… then we’ll be together again. But not before.”

The silence that followed felt heavier than anything Henry had ever carried. He couldn’t imagine a world without Hans in it. He didn’t want to.

“I’ll try,” Henry whispered at last, his voice catching as the tears finally broke free. “No—I will. I’m sorry… for not protecting you better. For letting you go ahead alone now.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Hans murmured, the warmth in his tone unshaken. “You did everything you could. Sakra, it’s a miracle I made it this far—we both know I’ve been living on borrowed time.” He gave a soft, tired smile. “We’re not quite old and grey… maybe just a bit old. But we had a good life, didn’t we?”

Henry gave a wet laugh, breath trembling with grief. “We did. God, Hans… we really did. The best damn life.”

“Then don’t cry,” Hans said gently, lifting a shaking hand to Henry’s cheek, brushing away a tear with his thumb. “Be strong for me. Just a little longer.”

Henry leaned into the touch, eyes closed. “Aren’t you scared?”

Hans hesitated. Then, with quiet honesty, “yeah… I am. But I know you’ll find me—wherever I end up.”

“I will,” Henry said without hesitation, voice thick with grief. “I swear.”

Hans’s smile was faint but steady. “Then I’ll be watching over you. Waiting. From above, I hope.”

Henry gave a wet laugh through his tears. “You’ve lived with so much heart, Hans. If Heaven’s not where you end up… then God’s made a terrible mistake.”

Hans chuckled, quiet and dry. “Blasphemy. Maybe you’ll be the one who doesn’t get in.”

“Then I’ll claw my way out of Hell to get to you,” Henry said, brushing his forehead gently against Hans’s. His voice cracked as he added, “I love you, Hans. More than I could ever put into words.”

Hans’s eyes fluttered shut, but his voice didn’t waver. “I love you too.”

Henry pulled back just enough to see him, to memorize every detail of that worn but beloved face. And then, with trembling hands and a heart full of ache, he leaned in and kissed him—slow, steady, reverent. It wasn’t desperate or rushed. It was a promise sealed with years of devotion, of laughter and pain and everything in between.

When they parted, Hans’s lips still held the ghost of a smile.

The words hung in the air, their meaning thick and fragile, like the thread that bound them together—so delicate yet so firm.

The room around them felt quieter somehow, as if the world had held its breath, waiting for them to say what needed to be said. And as the evening stretched on, the soft conversations and hopeful wishes faded into the background, the quiet warmth of their shared moments leaving an imprint on both of their hearts.

But as the days continued to pass, the promise of that voyage, that shared adventure, seemed to slip further out of reach.

The next spring never came for Hans.

Henry woke up beside him one morning to find that the steady warmth of Hans’s presence was gone. The quiet of the room felt different, thicker somehow. His hand reached instinctively for Hans’s, only to find it cold.

When he turned to face him, he saw the faint smile still on Hans’s lips, untouched by time, peaceful. Henry didn’t cry. He’d known, in the quiet parts of his heart, that this moment would come. But that didn’t make it any easier.

It hurt. Deeply. It felt as though the world had shifted beneath him, leaving him in a place he didn’t quite recognize.

He placed one final kiss on Hans’s forehead, soft and lingering, as though he could transfer everything he hadn’t said, everything he felt, into that small gesture.

Henry buried Hans under the linden tree they had so often sat beneath. The tree that had stood watch over their final chapter of love, its leaves now fluttering in the breeze, as if whispering a quiet goodbye.

He’d prepared for this moment—Hans had helped him prepare for it. They’d talked about it once, long before, when Hans had been able to laugh and argue and insist on things in that same pompous tone.

“I want a proper headstone,” Hans had said, his voice teasing, but with an edge of sincerity. “Something befitting of my greatness.”

Henry had raised an eyebrow, but he’d indulged Hans, smiling. “And what do you want it to say, then, oh great one?”

Hans had smiled back at him then, that old mischievous glint flickering to life in his tired eyes.

“Make sure it says: ‘Here lies Hans—man of outrageous ambition and an even greater lover. Audentes Fortuna Iuvat.” Before Henry could speak, he continued, “actually—scratch that. The greatest lover. It should say the greatest.”

Henry had laughed through the lump in his throat. “You pompous bastard.”

Hans only winked. “Go big or go home, Hal.”

Henry hadn’t questioned it. He’d known that was exactly what Hans would want—a touch of pride, a bit of flair, even in the face of death.

Now, he sat with his back against the headstone, knees loosely drawn up, hands clasped between them. The stone was cool against his spine, the grass damp beneath him. Above, the linden tree whispered softly in the breeze—like a lullaby meant only for two.

He looked up at the rustling leaves, then down at the fresh earth before him, and the composure he’d been holding onto cracked like thin glass.

The sobs came hard—wracking, breathless, unstoppable.

“I’m sorry, Hans,” he choked out. “I can’t stay strong. I miss you so much already. It hurts so damn much.”

His shoulders shook, hands gripping tightly at the fabric of his coat as if it were the only thing keeping him from falling apart. He cried for everything they had lost—and for everything they should have had. For the years stolen too soon, for the quiet mornings and late-night laughter that would never come again.

He was breaking.

And then, a small weight settled on his hand.

Startled, Henry looked down to see a bird—tiny, with feathers like gold and sky—perched gently on his trembling fingers. It tilted its head at him, curious. Almost knowing.

He let out a shaky, tear-laced laugh. “Hans… is that you?”

The bird only chirped in response, tilting its head again.

Henry’s smile wavered, still wet with grief. “Gods, this is pathetic. You’re up there laughing at me, aren’t you?”

The bird chirped again, soft and light, and Henry imagined—just for a moment—that he could feel Hans’s warmth in the breeze brushing his cheek.

“I love you, Hans,” he whispered, his voice catching.

The bird gave what felt like an acknowledging trill before taking off, wings catching the golden light as it rose into the air. Henry watched it closely, expecting it to vanish into the horizon.

But it didn’t.

Instead, it fluttered gently upward and settled in the linden tree above—nestling into a crook of the branches, where leaves whispered softly in the breeze.

Henry stared up at it, breath caught in his throat.

A small, broken smile tugged at his lips. “Of course you’d stay close.”

He drew in a long, shaky breath. Wiped at his eyes.

“See you later, Hans,” he murmured.

Not goodbye. Never goodbye.

Just… later.

Henry stood, slow and unsteady at first. He brushed the grass from his coat, then glanced back once more—one last look at the stone, the linden tree swaying overhead, and the quiet space they had made together.

Then he turned toward the path ahead.

And with heavy steps, but a promise folded deep inside his heart, he walked forward—toward the life Hans had told him to find.

The history books did not speak explicitly of the Black Knight’s journey after that fateful day, but the whispers of time left traces of a mysterious figure—one who seemed to appear when least expected, working quietly behind the scenes. The pages of those stories often spoke of a man who brought light into the lives of others, offering kindness, guidance, and joy. Yet, the words never lingered long on him, as if the very ink wished to avoid revealing his true face.

He was a shadow in the background, a guardian unseen, his efforts unnoticed yet indispensable. Some believed he was searching for something—perhaps his own redemption, or a fleeting piece of happiness long lost. Others whispered that he was running from something, though none could say what that was.

The man left no grand monuments, no legendary feats to be remembered. Yet, in every life he touched, in every smile he sparked, there was a feeling—a quiet, subtle trace—that he too was seeking his own peace. Perhaps, in helping others find their joy, he was hoping to find his own.

In his solitude, the Black Knight took on new companions and apprentices—though none ever sought to become anything more. His gaze always lingered on the pendant hanging from his neck, a quiet reminder of a past love, keeping others at a distance.

He had much to offer—swordsmanship, archery, alchemy, herbalism, and a vast array of other knowledge. But there were no expectations, no demands. His apprentices were free to come and go, to learn at their own pace, and to forge their own paths. What they received was more than just practical skills—it was a quiet wisdom, an understanding that the world was not merely to be fought, but respected. Through his guidance, they learned that true strength was not always displayed in the power of a sword or the force of a blow, but often in the restraint, the patience, and the wisdom to know when to fight and when to let go.

Many left his tutelage with not just knowledge, but a quiet peace, their spirits calmer, their purpose clearer. They did not seek fame in his name, nor did they boast of their time spent in his shadow. They carried with them the wisdom he had shared, a legacy of humility, self-discipline, and compassion that spoke more deeply than any swordstroke ever could.

And so, the Black Knight continued in his humble service to those willing to learn, a guardian of knowledge, a teacher of peace. Though he had no desire for recognition, his life became intertwined with the lives of those he touched, passing down not only his skills but the quiet understanding that the world could be a better place through patience, kindness, and the pursuit of inner peace.

He returned often to the cabin, sometimes with company, where the linden tree stood tall, a tombstone beneath it. Its branches swayed gently in the breeze, as if to listen to the stories he had to share. He would speak softly to the tree, recounting the days he had spent helping others, the lives he had touched, the small acts of kindness that had built a quiet legacy. And as he spoke, the tree grew. Its roots burrowed deeper into the earth, its branches reaching ever higher, as if the very life of the land itself was listening, responding to his presence.

People didn’t pry; everyone had their secrets, and this was his to keep.

As the years passed and his steps grew slower, he knew that his time was drawing near. The world had changed, and so had he. There were no more quests to embark on, no more battles to fight. His journey had been one of service, of finding peace not in grand accomplishments, but in the simple joy of helping others find their own.

And when the time came—when he felt the weight of his journey nearing its end—he found himself standing once more at the foot of the cabin, beneath the shade of the old linden tree. There were no requests for grandeur, no desire for a towering monument or an elaborate epitaph. Instead, he asked for one simple thing: to be laid to rest beside the one he had longed for, his name carved onto the back of the tombstone already there. It was not a wish for eternity in the spotlight, but to be with him forever, always behind him, as he’d always been—silent, constant, and never again apart.

The linden tree, though, had grown again—its branches now sprawling wide, its leaves whispering softly in the wind, carrying his story into the air. It had become a silent witness to the life he had led.

“Here lies Henry—man of quiet strength and unmatched humility. Second-greatest lover, but the best at bringing hope.”

And so, there he finally rested with his beloved—beneath the shade of the linden tree, where the wind would whisper through the leaves, and the quiet rhythm of his journey would continue on in the lives of those he had touched. The tree stood steadfast, as it had before, growing once again, a reminder that life never truly ends, and that his legacy—quiet, humble, and unwavering, would carry on, like the steady growth of the tree that would keep reaching upward, always.

Under a mighty and tall linden tree, Henry stirred as a warm breeze rustled the grass around him. The world felt still—peaceful in a way he hadn’t known for a long time. He opened his eyes.

“Hal… Are you finally awake, you sleepyhead?”

The voice was teasing, familiar. Henry turned his head—and there he was. Hans, lying beside him in the grass, a crown of wildflowers perched askew on his head, legs lazily kicking at the air like a boy without a care.

He looked young. His face was smooth, bright-eyed. The deep lines of war and grief were gone, replaced with something freer. He wore that ridiculous yellow and red outfit again, looking as bold and out-of-place as ever.

Henry blinked. “Hans… you look stup—younger.”

Hans rolled his eyes, sitting up with a dramatic sigh. “What, did you think I’d still be old and broken in the afterlife?” He stood and spun in a slow circle with a playful flourish. “And speak for yourself! You look like a proper peasant again!”

Henry glanced down and blinked. He was wearing his old blacksmith’s clothes—worn, soot-stained, and patched in places, but familiar as his own skin. The weight of the leather apron, the rough weave of the shirt, the faint scent of ash and iron—it was all there. He touched his chest, then his face, as if to make sure it was real.

“So this is it, then…” he said quietly, awestruck. “The afterlife?”

Hans paused, then gave a small shrug. “Maybe. I don’t really know. Does it matter?” His voice softened. “But really, that’s what you have to say to me?”

Henry didn’t answer. He stepped forward and pulled Hans into a tight embrace, burying his face in the crook of Hans’ neck. “I missed you,” he murmured.

Hans hugged him back without hesitation. “I missed you too, you oaf.”

Henry pulled back just enough to kiss him—slow, steady, full of everything he’d carried all those years. When they parted, Hans let out a breathless laugh.

“I said I’d wait for you,” he said, poking Henry in the chest, “but Gods, you took your sweet time, didn’t you?”

Henry grinned. “Apologies, m’lord. Will you forgive me?”

Hans raised an eyebrow, a familiar glint in his eye. “Hmm… Alright. Only because you’ve always been my favorite peasant.”

Henry chuckled softly, pulling him close. “I took my time, didn’t I?”

Hans rested his forehead against his. “You did. But thank you for doing as I asked—you lived a good life, Hal. A full one.”

“I did, didn’t I?” Henry said with a quiet pride. “So… where’s my reward?”

Hans rolled his eyes and stepped back, feigning exasperation. “Am I not reward enough?” But his smile betrayed him as he reached down, picking up a flower crown and gently placing it on Henry’s head. “Here. Something fit for the hero of the tale.”

Henry grinned and leaned in, kissing him. Hans returned the kiss without hesitation, the kind they hadn’t shared in a long time, but that had waited patiently for them.

A breeze stirred the grass around them, the linden tree whispering overhead as if in greeting. The world felt still—weightless, like a memory suspended in time. When they finally pulled apart, they rested their foreheads together again, hands still joined.

“I don’t know what comes next,” Hans said softly, voice touched not with fear, but with quiet wonder.

Henry took his hand. “Then let’s find out. Together now.”

They turned, the path before them bathed in soft, golden light.

Fingers entwined, hearts steady, they stepped forward—not as two souls adrift, but as one.

Into whatever lay beyond, they walked together.

And as their silhouettes faded gently into the light, it was as if the world itself exhaled, finally at peace—because they had found each other again.

Together again, at last.

Thus ends this tale of Hans and Henry—

one among many, perhaps,

but this time, this was their journey.

Of love dared, pain weathered, and peace, at last, earned.

Other stories may still be told.

New beginnings, new imaginings.

But this one—this tale you’ve just walked—

has reached its end.

So for now, I bid you adieu.

Still, it lingers—

a whisper beneath the linden tree,

a flame that flickers gently

in the quiet corners of memory.

Let it remind you, dear reader:

to love boldly,

to embrace ache and joy alike,

to wait, if you must—

and above all,

to live.

Audentes Fortuna Iuvat.

Fortune favors the brave.

So be brave,

and live well.

For them, if not for yourself—

for the ones who walked before you,

and the ones who still walk beside you.