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Chapter Text

The sun beat down ruthlessly upon the Rattay castle courtyard, casting blinding reflections from the helmets of hopeful tourney newcomers and old veterans alike. Heads of spears and tips of longswords turned to white flame while the participants sweated like pigs beneath their armour and padding.

The crickets chirped noisily, the tourney ground was clogged with dust, and Henry was quite pleased to, for once, be above the whole situation, a cold mug of beer in hand and pleasantly shaded by the castle walkway. Looking across the grounds, he caught Hans’ eye.

His tourney gear was borrowed and ill-fitting. His helmet, just a little too large, sat at an awkward angle, making Hans’ frustrated pout look more childish than threatening. Hans shot a rude gesture Henry’s way, and he tipped his head back and laughed. He’d later have to deal with Capon’s whining, but for now, he got to enjoy the rewards of winning last night’s bet.

It wasn’t very hard, Hans was shit at dice after a few drinks.

The announcer began to call the tourney’s start and Henry settled himself against the Castle wall, the cool stone was refreshing against the heat of the day. The clang of steel on steel formed a rhythmic backdrop which took him back to his boyhood, sitting outside his Father’s forge in Skalitz, hearing him hammer away at whatever piece he was working on. Steady and even.

His eyes almost slipped closed, but then the hairs on the back of his neck stood up and he sensed someone next to him. He jumped, and his hand was halfway to his sword before he remembered where he was. There were no bandits or Cumans in Rattay.

“I’m sorry about that, you just startled me,” Henry chortled, waving at the newcomer. “Uh- My Lord,” he added a moment later, for the man clearly was one, by the fine cut of his brocade coat and the heavy golden chain around his neck.

He was an older gentleman. His hair had gone mostly grey with but a few hints of honey blonde peaking through like the sun on a cloudy day. His cheekbones were sharp and his dull blue eyes even sharper. A short, well-trimmed beard clung close to an angular jaw, and he tilted his head, looking down at Henry in a way that felt oddly familiar.

The man stepped a little away from the wall, Henry watched him quietly. Then he took three steps backwards, and Henry met his gaze the whole way. As he finished his strange little dance, the nobleman’s eyes widened for a moment, then he took careful steps back to Henry’s side, settling himself in the shade.

“Who are you, boy?” The man asked. More of a demand really, but the nobility didn’t really have to ask for much.

“I’m Henry, of Skalitz, My Lord,” he inclined his head in deference, “uh-son of Sir Radzig Kobyla,” he tacked on hurriedly. His Father had announced their relationship publicly, and he’d been encouraging Henry to do the same. It still felt a bit odd though.

“Radzig’s boy, really?” the man carefully smoothed back an errant hair, and that gesture was familiar from somewhere, “You may call me Jan.”

“Jan…?”

“Just Jan,” Jan snapped, “I lost my castle some years ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Henry replied automatically. Of course he’d go and shove his big blacksmith foot in his mouth. “Have you any thoughts on the tourney,” he tried for a change of topic.

Jan turned that sharp gaze to the grounds, looking over the combatants, “I’m here to watch my son, I’ve not had many chances to see him fight,” he said quietly. That seemed odd, surely a Father would have plenty of time to watch their son practice. Henry had even caught Sir Radzig watching him swing a sword about back in Skalitz more than once.

“Forgive me if I’m overstepping, but why is that?”

“After the loss of my castle, he was raised by his relatives,” Jan replied sharply. Henry knew better than to push a nobleman when they were feeling cagey. Hans could rant like an old fishwife about disrespect.

Perhaps some of Hans’ antics would be just the thing to lighten the mood, “well,” Henry said, “I’m here to watch Sir Hans Capon fight,” he pointed to his friend as he stepped into the ring and gave a flourishing bow towards the crowd. He’d tried to nag Henry to get him some roses to hand out to the fairest maidens in the crowd, but Henry had shut that idea down quickly.
Purely because it’d annoy Sir Hanush otherwise, he told himself. Nothing to do with the way he couldn’t help that weird, squirming, annoyance that lingered in his mind whenever Hans took to serenading bath wenches, or giving local girls expensive gifts, or when he got Henry to cover for him when he was gone all night with said girls.

“Is he good?” Jan asked.

“He’s a fine swordsman. Proved himself a dozen times over at the siege of Talmberg,” he leaned in close to Jan to whisper, “but he did take an arrow to his noble seat.”

He’d expected some laughter or at least a chuckle, but Jan just went still at that.

“Sorry, my Lord, didn’t mean to make light of that,” it was easier to do so. To pretend the clawing panic of having Hans slung over his shoulder, bleeding out, never happened. That he didn’t risk his friend’s life because he was too mulish to back out when things went sideways. “I got him out safely,” Henry told himself.

Hans had recovered well, and it didn’t so much as inconvenience him in giving the local catchpole a thrashing in the ring. In less than a minute the match was called in Hans’ favour.

“I’m glad you did,” Jan eventually said, Henry almost jumped at the man’s voice again. He went oddly still for so long that he could have been mistaken for a statue, “A young man like Sir Hans could use someone to pull him out of life threatening situations.”

“Hopefully there won’t be many more of those in the future though!”

“By what I know of Sir Hans there might well be,” Jan remarked lightly and Henry’s hackles raised.

“Look, I know Hans hasn’t got the best reputation. But, as his page, I have to say that he’s got a least a bit of sense in that head of his. Even if it is mostly filled with thoughts of wine and women.”

“Young men always think themselves immortal,” Jan’s gaze turned to Henry and he felt cut through somehow, as if those blue eyes were boring deep into his heart, “he’ll get in trouble, as will you, probably.”

You don’t know the half of that.

Jan’s hand clamped over Henry’s arm. It was cold and clammy. The nobleman leaned in close, and his voice was thin and desperate as he spoke, “Don’t let him die. That’s your duty, that’s your vow. Do you understand?”

“Of course I-”

“Henry, so this is where you’ve been hiding,” Jan’s grip melted away at the sound of Hanush’ boisterous call, and Henry was relieved to be able to turn away from the strange Lord and his cutting gaze.

“Sir Hanush! how are you, My Lord?” he asked.

“I’m doing well my boy, very well indeed,” Hanush cackled softly and rubbed his palms together, “I don’t know how you got my Nephew to get off his arse and into the ring, but I owe you thanks. It’ll do the people some good to see that their future Lord at least knows how to swing a sword.”

“It was nothing,” Henry batted away the compliment, “just had to win a game of dice. If Hans had won then I’d have had to try and swim across the river.”

“Did you cheat?” Hanush leaned in with a conspiratorial grin.

“Only a little,” Henry murmured and the Lord slammed his hands together with a pleased clap and Henry found himself mirroring Hanush’s toothy smile.

“Wonderful, but what are you doing, hiding here in the dark? You should join your father and I upstairs. There’ll be a much better view of my Nephew rolling in the dirt.”

“Well, if you insist, My Lord. I’m sorry Jan, but I must-” Henry cut himself off as he turned to look for Jan. The man was gone. Henry spun on the spot, but couldn’t catch a glimpse of the noble anywhere in the courtyard.

“Lost something?” Hanush asked.

“I was just talking with someone, but he’s gone.”

“I didn’t see you talking to anyone,” Hanush said, “Perhaps the heat of the day has got you seeing things.”

“Maybe. Or maybe you missed him in the shadows,” Henry replied.
“Either way, it’s nothing a few more good drinks won’t clear up,” Hanush clapped Henry on the back, before leading him towards the stairs.

Henry hoped that Jan hadn’t actually left. It’d be a shame for him to miss out on watching his son fight. Then again, he was pretty certain that he wouldn’t be a match for Capon. Arse that he was, he at least knew how to swing a sword.

It didn’t matter too much either way though, he supposed. An estranged father would probably be happy to see their son, win or lose.

Chapter Text

“Henry, Henry!” Hans called, imperious and strangely eloquent for his current state of drunkenness.

“What?” Henry groaned. He was doing little better and his head swam and swirled like the bathwater the two were lounging in.

“I need some of the good wine, some of that stuff from that monastery… what was it again?”

“If you can’t remember the bloody wine I can’t get it for you,” Henry shot at Hans across the tub.

“I know it,” Hans grumbled, kicking at Henry, “it’s just the name is on the tip of my tongue. It’s got this weird smoky taste. It’d be perfect for tonight. You agree, don’t you Zdena?”

“Whatever his Lordship says,” Zdena murmured. The poor girl sounded like she was about to pass out. Then again, Henry was pretty sure it was far closer to dawn than to sunset.

“Leave off Hans, we’ve got good stuff here, it’s red… I think.”

“No, I’ve got a craving, and I must share this wonderful wine with you to prove that it’s exactly what we need! Now go to, Henry, fetch it,” Hans splashed weakly at Henry and he winced at the lukewarm water in his eyes.

“You don’t have to splash me.”

“Apparently I do. I must motivate you to go to the Rathouse and fetch me the wine.”

“Fine, fine,” Henry braced his arms against the edge of the tub, and tried to push himself upright. As he did so, he felt the sea in his head turn stormy. The world spun, and he ended up toppling face first onto Hans, sending a wave splashing over the bathouse floor.

His hands drifted through the water, and he absently brushed one against Hans’ leg, releasing a giggle in a stream of bubbles as he felt the leg hairs tickle his hand.

“Jesus Christ, Henry!” Hans’ voice was muffled and distorted by the water filling Henry’s ears. A pair of soft, but sure hands grabbed Henry by the shoulders and lifted him out of the water.

His head flopped back and he found himself gazing into Hans’ blue eyes as he spat out a mouthful of water.

“Henry, you’re … you’re a mess,” Hans snorted an undignified laugh, “don’t worry, I’m going to get the a-poth-a-car-y,” he sounded out the world carefully. “You’re gonna be alright Henry.”

Henry leaned his head against the wall of the tub as Hans sent the water sloshing while he clambered out.

“Just once I find some pants, I’ll get you help.”

“I think I’m dying, Hans,” Henry groaned, the water was stuck in his ears and in his head, and his stomach was gurgling traitorously.

“Fuck! You hang on! I’ll get us help, and get us wine. That’ll fix you up,” Hans stumbled towards the door, and Henry watched him go through blurry eyes. A faint, foggy fear lodged itself in his heart at the thought of being left alone.

“No, Hans, I won’t make it,” he pressed his palms to his eyes but the world wouldn’t stay steady, even with the pressure.

“You won’t die! That’s an order!” Han’s voice was far away, then cut off by the slamming of a door.

“Ohhh, I’ll never make it… I’m gonna die, I’m gonna drown…” Henry kept his eyes shut tight, as he tipped the back of his head over the edge of the tub. He felt water slowly drip over his face and down his hair in a sluggish stream, creating a pitter-patter on the floor below.

He tried to breathe, to just keep himself breathing. Hans said he wouldn’t die, and Hans wouldn’t lie about that. But then again that Jan fellow said that Hans thought he was immortal, or something like that.

He swore the water was climbing up his body, like the great flood in the bible. It crept a little higher with each breath, an inevitable doom.
He was being crushed by the water. Each breath was a struggle against the growing pressure, he never learned to swim and he cursed himself for that. Just when he swore he couldn’t draw another breath, he felt a grounding touch on his head.

Fingers, soft and sure, threaded through his hair in long, gentle strokes. He found his breaths synchronizing with them. Each was a little easier than the last. Zdena, he thought, she wouldn’t allow him to drown in her baths. That’d look terrible for them.

“There you are, my silly boy,” through the water in his ears, Zdena almost sounded like his mother.

“I’m not silly, I was drowning,” Henry grumbled.

“Your head was above water the whole time. I swear, you never got this drunk back home, even when you were out with Bianca,” there was a strange fondness in the admonishment.

“When did I tell you about Bianca?” Henry asked.

“You never had to tell me, you’ve never been much good at keeping secrets.”

She sounded so much like his mother. Henry kept his eyes closed. Even if it was just his imagination, he wanted to hold tight to it, and he feared the moment he opened his eyes it’d melt away like morning mist.

“I miss her,” Henry whispered. He rubbed at his finger where her ring normally sat. He’d taken it off for the bath and he longed for the familiar touch. “And I miss you, and Pa. And Stibor and the butcher, and even fucking Deutsch!” he slapped at the water, “It wasn’t fair what those bastards did.”

The hand in his hair pulled back for a moment, then moved to his face, gently wiping away the tears that leaked through his closed eyelids.

“We’re all here with you Henry, and your father and I are so proud of you. You’ve grown into such a brave young man.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about Radzig?” He asked his mother.

“I…” Of course, she had no answer. It was just Zdena pretending to be her, after all, even if the voice made it easy to forget. But then, against all reason she spoke. “Your Father and I wanted you to have a peaceful life… a happy life. In Skalitz you had your friends, even if I wasn’t always too fond of them. You had Bianca and Theresa. If people knew you were Radzig’s, the expectations placed on you would be much higher… people would treat you differently.”

“Hans doesn’t,” Henry immediately protested, “And, and Theresa doesn’t either. And I’ve got Mutt.”

“You’ve made some good friends then,” His Mother said with a soft laugh. “That’s good to know,” she ruffled his hair and he flailed his hands at her.

“Leave off, Ma!”

“Is there anything you’d like me to tell your Father?” She asked quietly.

“Tell him,” Henry swallowed.

I’m sorry I let Toth get away. I should have paid more attention back in the forge. It feels so strange to call Sir Radzig ‘Father’ and I can’t help but feel I’m betraying Pa. Some mornings I wake up and forget that I’m not in Skalitz anymore. I feel like there’s a hole in me and I don’t know how to fill it anymore.

“Tell him I’ll get his sword back.”

“Oh Hal, I don’t think Martin cares about the sword that much,” she laid a soft kiss to his forehead.

The hands left his hair and he was left in silence, but for the slow dripping of water from his hair to the floor. He opened his eyes and stared up at the rafters of the bathhouse. He felt cleaner somehow, like a snowmelt stream had run through his soul.

“Thanks Zdena, I needed that.”

He heard only her soft, rhythmic breathing in response. He turned his head slowly so it wouldn’t spin, and saw her fast asleep at the dice table, her head resting on her folded arms.

“Hopefully she won’t remember that in the morning, it was a little embarrassing,” Henry murmured to himself right before the door swung open wide.

Hans stood proudly in the doorway, silhouetted by the first rays of the rising sun, with a bottle of wine clasped firmly in his hand.

“Henry! My quest was successful! I have reclaimed the wine,” Hans crowed like a cock.

“I thought you were going to get me an apothecary.”

“What? No, you’re fine. In fact, let’s drink to your health,” Hans stumbled into the room, raising the bottle high.

Like a dishevelled, drunken saint, Hans had returned. His Ma was right, he had good friends. And even though the thought of drinking anything more made him feel sick in more ways than one, he couldn’t help but grin at Hans’ triumphant return. The good feeling lasted for close to half an hour until the matron awoke and shooed the two of them, shivering and drunk, into the morning air.

Chapter Text

Henry always appreciated the ride out of Rattay. Even if a journey took all day, those first few minutes were always comfortable and nostalgic. Pebbles set into an easy walk down the hill and past the bathhouse. Henry pointedly averted his gaze in case he saw Zdena there, he still felt a little embarrassed with how carried away he got the last time he and Hans visited.

Mutt circled around Pebbles’ hooves in wide, excited loops, tongue lolling between cheerful barks at the notion of stretching his legs on a longer journey. The winds were strong that morning, they sent the bushes beside the road rustling wildly and Henry had to reach up more than once to keep his hunting cap firmly planted on his head.

He couldn’t help but watch the bushes as he rode by, the Black Peter incident hadn’t totally faded from his mind, and he remained wary of a potential attacker, foolish as it sounded. So when Mutt halted his circling and turned abruptly towards the bushes hugging the path, Henry was quickly on alert.

He pulled Pebbles to a stop and slowly swung down from the saddle, one hand hovering near the hilt of his longsword. Mutt paused by one of the bushes, sniffing at the ground before perking up. He bounced up and down, tail whipping back and forth furiously as he barked at the bushes.

“What, who’s out there?” Henry relaxed at Mutt’s excitement, but a smile found its way to his face at the familiar voice. A moment later, Theresa emerged from the bushes, twigs stuck in her hair and leaves clinging to her sleeves. “Well, hello there, Mutt,” Theresa leaned down and gave the dog a scratch behind the ears.

“I’m here too,” Henry protested light-heartedly. Theresa leaned up from scratching the dog and planted her hands on her hips.

“Hello to Mutt’s pet man as well,” she teased.

“I don’t know about that.”

“I caught you feeding him fresh venison last week, Henry.”

“Well, I’d been out hunting with Hans, and there was a lot of Venison,” Henry explained haltingly. Mutt had helped catch the deer, it only seemed fair that the dog got a share of it, “Besides, I brought you and Peshek a share too.”

“I suppose you did at that. So, where are you two off to this morning?” Theresa asked.

“We’re just headed to Ledetchko, Sir Ra- err, Father had the tailor there working on some hose,” he left out that they were hose for him. With his move into Pirkstein a more ‘appropriate’ wardrobe had been declared necessary. He was still getting used to the feel of it all.

“Must be very important hose,” Theresa replied with a knowing look. Then she glanced back towards the bushes and her playful boldness seemed to melt away, “actually, if you’re heading that way, could you keep an eye out for a red cap?”

“Lost your hat, have you? Was that why you were climbing through the bushes?” Henry asked.

“It’s not mine, it’s Sammy’s,” all at once the sunshine felt a bit less warm, and the breeze a bit sharper, “I was doing some washing and I thought I’d clean it. I’d not had the heart before now. The wind took it while I left it to dry. I know it’s just a hat, but-”

“Theresa, no,” Henry was at her side in a moment, he layed a comforting hand on her back while she wiped away a few building tears, “It’s your brother’s, I understand how much a little keepsake can mean.”

He thought of his father’s sword in Toth’s slimy hands.

“Right, just keep an eye out, and tell me if you find it. Hopefully it hasn’t gotten too far.”

“I will, I’ll make sure I find it,” He promised her, “You keep looking around here, I’ll search the far side of the mill.”

“Thank you,” Theresa said softly. Henry held back the branches as she scrambled back into the bushes, then he pulled himself back into the saddle. Pebbles flicked her ears impatiently and Henry patted her neck in sympathy.

“I know you want to go for a run, but we’ll need to have a little detour first.”

–#--

An hour later, Henry found himself squelching through the shallows of the river, his boots had been left by the shore under Pebbles’ watchful eye while Mutt splashed along beside him without a care in the world.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying this,” Henry grumbled as he pushed his way through the reeds. He feared it might be a lost cause. If the hat had fallen in the river, who could say how far it would drift?

Mutt barked at him happily, and splashed his tail through the water.

“Silly doggy,” Henry muttered fondly, reaching to give Mutt a pat. Then his dog’s nose twitched and his hackles raised. A low, rumbling growl came from his chest and Henry’s hand froze mid-air.

He tried to keep still. If Mutt had scented an attacker, they might not have noticed him yet. They might pass him by still. Then, Mutt shot off like a bolt from a crossbow.

“Mutt, heel!” Henry hissed, but his dog was running full pelt towards the bridge down the way. Caught between his own safety and Mutt’s, he found himself splashing awkwardly in pursuit of his hound.

When he reached the bridge though, he didn’t see any attacker; no brigands or Cumans. Not so much as a cutpurse. Instead, Mutt was crouched low in the stream, water lapping at the bottom of his jaw as he growled up at another dog sitting on the bridge.

“Was this what got you worked up?” Henry waved a hand at the dog, an incredulous laugh escaped him as Mutt slowly pawed his way towards the unconcerned pooch. “I thought it was something serious.”

The other dog looked quite a lot like Mutt, to be honest, but a few shades lighter. Its spots were more of a creamy yellow than Mutt’s warm brown. It looked a little like the miller’s old dog in Skalitz. For a moment Henry felt a wild hope that maybe he’d somehow survived.

Theresa would be overjoyed, he thought. But then the cold wash of reality reminded him of Tinker’s fate, killed by the same bloody looters that almost did Henry in.

Mutt burst into a wild series of barks, furious and loud, like a guardsman chasing a thief in the night. Henry had to hold him back by the scruff to stop him from jumping at the other dog.

“What’s gotten into you, Mutt? Down! Heel!” he shouted over the barks, he had to repeat himself a few times, but eventually Mutt calmed himself a little and settled back into a threatening growl.

Henry had never seen him get so worked up about another dog before. Maybe it was dog mating season or something. He’d heard that dogs sometimes got wild when they were looking for a mate. “We’ll see if we can find you a nice lady dog soon, Mutt,” he promised, Mutt just continued growling.

He looked back to the other dog, who sat calm and unconcerned on the bridge, its tail thumping against the wooden planks intermittently as it quietly watched Henry. As he caught its eye, the dog hopped down into the river and Mutt backed up a few steps.

Unconcerned, the dog stuck its head under the bridge and nosed around for a few moments, before giving a soft bark. Then it emerged, with Sammy’s red cap dripping water between its jaws.

“Well well well, aren’t you a clever thing? Can you hand it over?” He asked softly.

To his surprise the dog walked right up to him and dropped the cap in his outstretched hand. That sent Mutt barking up a storm once again, and Henry had to turn back to his dog to shush him and calm him down.

He’d barely taken to cajoling Mutt when the dog abruptly calmed down. He raised his head and looked about the river before releasing a single, happy bark, and lapping up a few mouthfuls of water.

“What has gotten into you today?” Henry looked down at the cap in his hand. It was a lucky find, he doubted he’d have searched under the bridge if that other dog hadn’t been around.

He turned around and started patting down his pockets. He was pretty sure he had some dried beef stored somewhere, and the clever dog could do with a treat. But when he finally located the beef and started looking around for the dog, he couldn’t see it anywhere.

He felt a strange sense of deja-vu at the disappearance. He couldn’t puzzle over why a wild dog would help him find a hat, and then run off. But, he supposed, he’d be better off spending less time asking after the motives of dogs, and more time returning Sammy’s hat to Theresa.

Chapter Text

Radzig couldn’t consider himself a man of strong faith. He believed well enough in the Lord almighty, his son, Jesus Christ and the Saints who carried out his good will in the world. But after many years, in his experience, men tended to either cling zealously and jealously to their faith, or allow its hold to loosen as the innocence of childhood gave way to the weary responsibilities of adult life.

He’d long since learned that far too many evils of the world were perpetrated by the hands of men, and that divine protection would only extend so far.

Still, Henry had a journey ahead of him, and negligent as he had been as a father, he wouldn’t allow his son to go without at least a prayer for his well being.

“Grant him the wisdom to keep himself out of danger, and the courage to face it should it find him nonetheless,” it was hardly a proper prayer. But the Rattay church was empty save for him and Henry, who was busy mumbling his own prayers, eyes squeezed tight and crinkled at the corners as he stumbled over latin.

It seems that time in the monastery taught him more than just how to catch a killer.

“Please, God almighty, grant us an end to this war, that we might live to see our children and grandchildren prosper,” he’d not allowed himself such a hope before, but Henry was of marrying age, perhaps he’d be blessed with a family of his own soon. Although with his wanderlust, Radzig expected he’d need to wait a few more years.

“Amen,” Henry said, finally snapping his eyes open, “a proper prayer for our sendoff. I had to check over the words with Father Godwin,” he admitted, “but I want all the good luck I can get.”

“It’s just a message, my boy. You’ll be fine,” Radzig clapped a hand over Henry’s shoulder. He hesitated for a moment and met Henry’s gaze. He wondered if he should pull him in for a hug, but in the indecision, the moment was lost.

“I’m sure we’ll be fine until Capon falls in love with one of the Trosky maids,” Henry joked with a faint strain in his voice. No doubt cleaning up after Capon’s capers was wearing on Henry. “Anyway, I’d best head back to Pirkstein. I want to check on Pebbles before we ride out.”

“Very well, I’ll meet you there shortly. I just wish to spend a little more time in prayer,” Radzig cast his gaze upon the murals of Saints and angels as he listened to Henry’s receding footsteps.

When he heard the quiet thump of the church door he finally found his voice again, “Please, help me learn how to do this. I’ve barely seen a fraction of the boys’ life. Even if I bear the title of Father, I know I’m hardly worthy of it.” Martin had raised him, seen his first steps and heard his first words while Radzig was busy at court. Henry had made friends and found his first love while Radzig managed affairs of state. He wanted to teach the boy to read, but it seemed he didn’t even need his father for that.

“I should have told him years ago, had his parents there with me to help him through the shock. For my cowardice and complacency I ask forgiveness. But please, let us be a family, or as close as we can manage,” he could never replace the one Henry had lost. But perhaps, they could make something else. Something new.

He lapsed into silence, his hands clasped in a silent prayer. He listened to the faint chirping of crickets outside, and the croak of a frog somewhere in the distance. Then strangely, he heard a laugh. His son’s laugh.

Radzig unclasped his hand and turned towards the door. As he crossed the church, he heard the distant murmur of Henry’s deep voice. He must have crossed paths with a guard, there’d be no one else out at the church at such a late hour.

Slipping through the doors, Radzig looked about the churchyard for his son, and spotted him a few steps away from a grave. He paused for a moment, unsure if Henry knew the unfortunate soul buried there.

Then Henry laughed, a deep belly laugh, quite inappropriate for a graveyard.

“I’ll have to share that one with Lord Capon, he’ll enjoy the bit with the goat,” Henry told the grave. Then he paused for a few long seconds. “Oh he’s not so bad once you get to know him. Of course I wouldn’t recommend the same route I took for that,” There was another pause, “Well, it certainly keeps me busy, I’ll tell you that much.”

Henry wasn’t speaking to the grave, he was having a conversation with it. An icy hand of fear gripped Radzig’s heart and froze him in place. He’d heard of such mania before. Men who saw things that weren’t there, and heard phantom voices. He hoped that perhaps Henry had hit his head somehow and just addled himself for a moment. Yet he feared and suspected that perhaps the whole affair with Toth had taken a strain on the boy.

He had a good heart, and a sense of honour, and the things that one had to do in war often tortured both. Good men were broken by it, and he’d sent Henry off into the jaws of danger time and again whilst he was still reeling from the tragedy of Skalitz.

Henry turned to Radzig, and a bright grin lit up his face, he looked so guileless and pleased in the flickering torchlight, yet it cast eerie, uncomfortable shadows over his face. Radzig tried to echo his smile, but his own attempt felt brittle and slippery as a frozen lake.

“Father, I was just talking with Lev. He says he’s just moved to Rattay,” Henry huffed a laugh, “can you believe he was just taking a nap in the churchyard? Some people have odd ideas,” Henry glanced at the grave for a moment, then rolled his eyes, “well, you were-”

“Henry,” Radzig cut off his son, “You said you wanted to check on your horse,” he prompted.

“Aye, right you are. Well, I hope you have a good evening Lev, and get indoors for the night. I’ve no doubt the priest won’t be pleased with you taking a nap in his graveyard,” Henry wagged a finger at the grave, which predictably did not respond.

He then set off, and Radzig fell into step beside him, only taking in every second word his son said as he rambled on about the journey he and Hans would be taking. He sounded just the same as he did talking to the grave.

–#--

Later that evening Radzig found himself before the door to Capon’s bedroom. He’d sat up for some hours mulling over his feelings over a goblet of mulled wine, and come to the conclusion that nothing drastic needed to be done quite yet. Even so, he thought it for the best that he stay informed.

He rapped his knuckles upon Hans’ door and waited a few seconds before repeating the gesture, a little louder.

“I’m coming! I’m coming,” Sir Capon’s slurred words came from within. There were a few staggered thumps that Radzig listened to eagerly, then the door swung open.

Capon stood in the doorway, sleep mussed and eyes half-closed as he looked over Radzig, a faint puzzled frown on his lips.

“Radzig? What do you want at this time of night?”

“I needed to speak with you about Henry.”

“Henry? Can’t that wait until morning? I’m sure we’ll have time for a proper send off.” Hans slowly started to close the door, but Radzig held it in place with a steady palm.

“I’m worried about him. I fear he might not be well.”

That seemed to wake up the young Lord. his gaze sharpened and the slump left his shoulders, “has something happened? He seemed fine at dinner.”

“He did,” Radzig allowed, “But after dinner, he and I went to pray for your journey. After that I found him… talking to a grave.”

“Ah, was it some friend of his?” Hans asked quietly, and with an unusual wariness.

“No, he was talking to it, like it was a person. Like it was holding a complete conversation with him.”

“Come now, Radzig. Henry’s not some lunatic. He was probably just playing a joke on you.”

It was a convenient excuse, and a comforting thought. He should have asked Henry if that was the case, but if his son said no, then there’d be no more uncertainty to hide behind.

“I need to be certain. So I must ask you, while you’re travelling with him, to keep an eye on Him. If you see him doing anything like this again, let me know.”

“Well, what do you plan to do with him if I do?” Hans challenged and for the first time Radzig felt a small amount of admiration for the young man. He’d set himself firmly and proudly, chin tilted up so he could look down his nose at Radzig for daring to doubt Henry.

“Nothing. I should hope. Perhaps we can quietly find some help, or figure out best how to conceal this… quirk, should it continue,” he didn’t need to lose his son to an overzealous Inquisitor who might decide he had a demon inside him.

Hans stared Radzig down for a while before he jerked his head in a shallow nod. “Alright, I’ll keep an eye on Henry. But you’ll see there’s nothing to be worried about. Henry was probably just yanking your pizzle earlier.”

Despite the unfortunate implications of such a turn of phrase, he hoped Hans was right.

Chapter Text

Bozhena may have known her business, but just because Henry wasn’t dying of his wounds didn’t mean he didn’t feel them. Each step along the road sent a jolt of pain through his shoulder, the arrow wound pulling and stretching beneath its bandages. At his side Hans puffed though his own injuries, hand drifting to his ribs occasionally.

It was strange to see Hans out of his golden pourpoint, the man seemed unable to dress in anything that wasn’t at least a little yellow. Now he looked more the part of wandering vagabond than noble lord. He snickered at the thought.

“What was that?” Hans asked, arching an eyebrow and letting some of that noble hauteur of his shine through.

“Nothing, nothing, was just clearing my throat,” Henry excused himself.

“No, go on, I want to hear what was so funny,” Hans pressed and Henry was struck by the sensation of walking onto a frozen lake.

“Well, I just had a thought,” he started haltingly, “I imagined you as a bit of a wandering vagabond. Poaching game, robbing carriages.”

“Charming every innocent young maid that crosses my path,” Hans flashed a dazzling smile at odds with his grimy getup.

“Well, hopefully not that,” slipped out of Henry’s mouth.

“Oh, and why not? You have some grudge against my charms?” Hans asked and Henry paused for a moment. He didn’t quite know why the thought irked him so much.

“Well, if you were charming every maid, then I’d never be able to get any sleep with the noise you made all night,” he settled on, “and, and! Their fathers would all come to me with the complaints and I’d have to bail you out.”

“Hah! So you’d be in my band of outlaws as well then, eh Henry?” Hans shoved playfully at his shoulder and Henry held back a gasp at the feeling. Hans had stuck his hand right over the healing wound and by the sudden, astounded expression that fell over Hans’ face, he realised his blunder as well. “Shit, didn’t mean to-”

“It’s nothing,” Henry said through gritted teeth, “You didn’t mean any harm. I know you didn’t.”

Hans fell silent for a moment as they plodded slowly onwards, then his head snapped up and he nodded to himself decisively, “we need a rest,” he declared.

“You sure?”

“Completely. Trosky isn’t going anywhere, and we’re like to spend half the day walking. If we don’t take a break now and then, we’re likely to keel over dead,” Hans glanced at the bindle Henry had slung over his good shoulder, “besides, it’d be a shame to let the lunch Bozhena packed for us go to waste.”

“I do feel quite hungry,” Henry admitted. They were on a pleasantly even stretch of road, and the weather was clear and warm. It would almost feel peaceful enough for Henry to slip off for a nap, if he hadn’t seen the folly of that just days ago.

He looked a short way up the road, and nestled between some trees at its side was a burnt out firepit, with a few rough hewn logs scattered around it. A nice enough place for a meal.

“What about over there?” He pointed out the campsite to Hans, who gave a relieved sigh at the site of it.

“That’ll do nicely,” he agreed as they continued towards the camp site, “That Bozhena really was a godsend, and I’d have to say that Pavlena was quite easy on the eyes. I think I saw some archery targets set up around their hut, perhaps she’d care for some of my expert guidance.”

Hans prattled on about his plans as they continued, and Henry tuned him out, looking far more forward to putting his feet up for a little while, but as they approached the camp, he noticed someone sitting on one of the logs. Then he stopped dead in his tracks as he recognized who it was.

“Hans,” he whispered, his voice barely escaped through his tensed jaw.

“And really, I was hardly seen in my best light-”

“Hans!” Henry hissed a bit louder. He staggered forward and grabbed Hans’ arm, pulling the young Lord off balance and wringing a yelp from him.
“Henry, what’s gotten into you?” Hans swiped at Henry’s bone-white fingers.

“It’s Oats.”

He was sitting on one of the logs, staring into the firepit, and holding his hands before him as if trying to warm his bones on a fire long dead. His clothes were unruffled, his hair barely askew and the only sign of distress was a slightly disconcerted furrow to his brow.

But Henry had seen him die. He’d seen him run through by bandits while he and Hans hid naked in a lake.

“What are you talking about?” Hans asked, shaking his arm until it slipped from Henry’s numb fingers.

“Don’t you see him? He’s right there, by the firepit!”

Hans took a long, slow survey of the campsite. He went so far as to strut around the firepit, throwing his hands to the side as he went. Oats perked up in his seat as Hans walked by. He flinched back from Hans’ hands as he flung them wide, staring at the young Lord with nervous incredulity.

“Nothing here, Henry. Nothing at all.”

“Sir Capon,” Oats said softly, he reached for his hand but Hans swanned out of reach, then he craned his head to stare owlishly at Henry. “Henry, what happened to you two? You’re dressed like beggars.”

“Us? What happened to you? I thought those bandits killed you,” he rushed forward towards oats, to embrace him in relief, or even just steady himself in the giddy headiness that started to fill him up.

But Hans stepped between them.

“Who are you talking to?” he demanded.

“What do you mean, ‘who am I talking to?’ Oats is right there and-”

“Oats is dead!” Hans snapped. Henry took a half step back at the shout and tried to look around Hans. Oats was staring helplessly at his back. “Look, I know it’s been hard,” Hans deflated and ran a hand down his face, “we’ve been through some shit. But, you’re just seeing things. You fell off a cliff, Henry. Before I got you to Bozhena, you were calling for your parents. You thought you were back in Skalitz.”

He could hardly remember that, more a sense of desperate panic and a haze of pain. The only thing that stood out about that night was Hans fighting off the bandit that came for them. His heart had climbed up his chest, into his throat and choked the breath out of him. He was supposed to be Hans’ bodyguard, yet he’d had to rely on the young Lord to save his life more than once.

“But, he’s right there,” Henry said, no longer quite so certain of what he was seeing. Maybe he was suffering some aftereffects, or the medicine was making him see things.

“My Lord, please, I don’t know what happened,” Oats pleaded. Henry had never seen the man so lost.

“Come on Henry, we’ll stop for a break elsewhere. There’ll be a better spot just down the road,” Hans threw a hand over Henry’s shoulder and began to steer him away from the camp. Henry tried to twist his neck back to look at Oats, but Hans just hurried him on faster.

“Listen, it’s perfectly normal to see odd things after a bad injury. But there was no one there, do you understand?” Hans was firm, but the corners of his mouth twitched the way they always did when he was worried.

“I… understand.”

“Excellent! We’ll get to Trosky, have a nice warm bath, a good meal, get some clothes that aren’t full of fleas,” Hans shook his leg for effect, “and you’ll be feeling better in no time, just you watch.”

“Audentes fortuna iuvat?” Henry suggested.

“Hah! Precisely,” Hans poked him playfully in the chest. His good mood was almost enough to make Henry forget about Oats, “Your Latin wasn’t even too horrible there. We’ll make a nobleman of you yet, Blacksmith’s Boy.”

“God preserve me,” Henry chuckled over the fading pleas of Oats, drifting on the morning air.

Chapter Text

Hans would have loved the party for Marika’s return. Good cheer, song, free flowing drinks and a bevy of beautiful women. Henry had already been dragged to the dance floor by at least three different partners. After spending the day trekking back and forth across the region he almost felt like his feet would drop clean off his ankles.

As his latest partner span him back to his seat before skipping off to find another man to dance with, he took some time to massage the ache building in his poor feet. It was a good ache, at least. He’d reunited a family, done everything he could to brighten their lives. Even so, he’d hoped for some sign of Hans whilst travelling through the region, yet he’d heard little but vague rumours.

He sighed at the thought, Hans had blamed Henry for his life going to shit. He wanted to do the same, call Hans a spoiled, stuck up bastard. It was his bloody attitude that got the both of them clapped in the stocks. But he couldn’t. The world never seemed so dark or hopeless with Hans around. Even when he was dragging them both into trouble, it somehow felt like an adventure.

“Your thoughts are heavy, Henry.”

He looked up from his feet to find Aranka settling in beside him. She carefully pulled her dress around her as she settled to stop it from catching beneath her.

“Ah, don’t worry about me, you should be out there dancing,” He waved at the blazing bonfire and the couples dancing around it.

“Hah! I’m no young thing anymore. And my husband is far too busy dealing with ‘important business’ to dance with me like all the young lovers out there,” She gave a soft laugh, yet Henry thought she sounded a little weary.

“By important business?”

“Yes. He’s drinking and dicing with a few of the older men in his tent.”

It seemed that from nomads to nobles there were some gripes that were universal.

“Perhaps the kind young man who helped put our family back together would offer an old woman a dance?” She asked playfully. As she tilted her head in the warm light, it caught her features in a striking way, and Henry realised she must have been an exceptional beauty in her youth.

“I’d be happy to, but just in a little bit. I think the holes have worn through my boots right to my feet.”

“Well, I’ll take what I can get,” She sighed softly as her eyes lingered on Tibor, dancing with a young, dark haired woman. Henry watched him too, he stepped lively and quickly, sure as he was on horseback, his partner was just as nimble, her dark curls bounced with each lively step.

He watched the dancers for a time, the joyful music drifted idly through his head, and the pleasant warmth from the wine he’d drunk filled him with a soporific contentment. But he felt a familiar prickle at the back of his neck.

“Of course he’s sitting in my spot.”

Henry jumped at the voice, he turned to it and found himself locking gazes with a familiar set of eyes. One he’d only ever seen slack and cloudy with the veil of death.

“You, you’re dead.”

Gejza was dead, he’d cut down his body, and carried it to his grave. He’d seen him buried. He was dead. As certain as all the Saints were in heaven, Gejza was cold and in the ground. Yet he was sitting right beside Henry, a slight glower on his face.

“Henry, who are you talking to?” Aranka asked from his other side.

“No one, no one,” he said hurriedly, staring down at his lap, “just had a bit too much wine, I’m speaking nonsense.”

“Rude bastard. You steal my spot and then lie to my mother. I may be dead, but at least I have manners,” Gejza poked him in the side and Henry flinched at the cold touch.

“What was that?” Aranka asked.

“Nothing. It was nothing,” Henry repeated. “Do you want to dance now? My feet are feeling much better.”

They weren’t, but he’d take sore feet over sitting next to a hallucination. He offered a hopeful hand and a strained smile to Aranka. She just looked at him with her clever amber eyes, they glinted with reflected embers and Henry felt her see through his charade like a church window. He thought perhaps there really was something to her magic.

“You said someone was dead. Who was it?”

“It was no one, I swear. I just-”

“Do not lie to me. I’ve raised three children, and the way my boys get… got into trouble,” she sighed, “I’m not so easy to fool.”

Henry glanced around, to check if anyone was listening, but besides Gejza, it seemed everyone was too involved with the party to pay him and Aranka much attention. Henry leaned in close and whispered to her.

“Gejza. I thought I saw him sitting beside me … He said I was in his spot.”

Aranka leaned away from Henry, her cutting eyes narrowed and he feared she was about to scream that he was a lunatic for the whole camp to hear. But then she spoke, quiet and slow.

“You are.”

“What?” Henry flinched back.

“I told you,” Gezja said over his shoulder.

Henry had to bite his tongue to stop himself from firing back a retort. But his head still twitched towards Gejza on instinct.

“He never cared much for dancing, his brother always tried to show off, he said. He’d sit and drink like a sullen boy all night. I had to ask him to dance myself if I wanted him to get off his… oh,” Aranka’s voice faltered and hitched as a few tears crawled down her face, “I do not know if you are being honest, if this is some miracle or a trick that Tibor asked you to pull but… I want to believe it is so, that he has come to see his family, one last time before going to be with the Lord.”

“Have you… ever heard of something like this?” Henry cautiously asked her. He shuffled a hair closer to Aranka.

She gave a short nod, “Old stories that my mother, and her mother told me, of wise men who could commune with those long gone.”

“I could hardly call myself a wise man,” Henry gave a flat laugh that didn’t catch on.

“Perhaps, a test. To be sure,” her voice grew steadier as she spoke, “I had a name for Gejza, when he was a boy, if you are truly speaking to his spirit, then it will know it.”

Henry looked to Gejza, who had gone strangely silent. His hands were folded in his lap, fiddling with the end of his belt.

“What was the name?” Henry asked him.

“What does it matter? I don’t know how long I’ll be here, or why I am. It’ll just make her miserable to know that she can’t even speak to me.”

Henry reached out, slow and unsure, but then folded his hand over Gejza’s, holding them in place. They felt almost solid in his grasp, but were cold and smooth, like ice that hadn’t quite figured out its shape yet.

“I lost my parents, and if I could speak to them again, I’d take that chance. Maybe she wants to say goodbye.”

Gejza stared down at their entwined hands for a while, Henry heard the musicians finish their song and the applause and drunken heckling that followed, but it all flowed by him as he watched the dead man.

“Little Ducky,” Gejza muttered just as the last of the voices faded.

“Little Ducky?” Henry repeated and Aranka gasped behind him.

“That was it!” Henry found himself shoved to the side as Aranka moved into Gejza’s spot and the dead man snickered at Henry’s unmanly yelp. She waved her hands through the air, a few times, Henry saw them unsettlingly pass straight through Gejza who winced at the first touch.

“My Little Ducky, my Gejza, you are here,” Aranka whispered to him. “I wish I could see you, that I could feel you in my arms again.” Her hands froze midair, then with a shuddering breath she lowered them, “but I won’t.”

“He’s still there, he can hear you. I suppose I could translate, if you’d like,” Henry suggested as he pushed himself up from the dirt.

“You’ll be stuck with her all night,” Gejza teased.

“I don’t mind.”

“If you do not, then I will accept your kind offer,” Aranka replied, “I believe we should tell Gejza of what he has missed,” Aranka sucked in a deep breath, snotty and wet from tears, but resolved and happy, “I fear you may be here all night.”

“That’s alright, it’ll be easier on my feet than dancing,” Henry cracked a crooked grin, and this time his terrible joke did earn him a laugh.

“Well then settle down,” Aranka patted his knee, “We have a lot to go over.”

Henry was more than aware, he’d walked and bled each step of the way. But somehow the second time over it all felt easier, more exciting. Perhaps, he wondered, that was why Hans always liked to tell his stories. It made a person feel like a hero in hindsight.

Chapter Text

As Henry worked on earning an invitation to Semine’s wedding, he had a lot of time to think. His Pa once said that whenever he thought too hard he was sure to get himself into trouble. But that was more Fritz’s fault than anything.

This thinking though, led him to some uncomfortable places, and notions he’d rather forget. If Gejza had really been dead and talking to him, then that meant that Oats probably was too, and he’d left him alone, confused and afraid. And the dog that helped him find the hat for Theresa might not have just looked like Tinker.

How many more ghosts had he met? What about that dream of his Pa? Was that just a dream, or was he really watching over him? The idea that anyone he met could be dead gave him shivers, and set his teeth on edge.

It seemed like the sort of thing a sorcerer would do, speaking to dead people. But Henry didn’t feel like much of a sorcerer. They always seemed like the type to skulk about in basements, or high towers filled with books, cutting open goats to divine the future and the like. The closest thing Henry had done to that was cut open a sheep to get some lute strings made.

He really hoped that song didn’t catch on.

He began to dread meeting with Hans as much as he longed to see his friend again. The thought of seeing Hans, finally reuniting, only to find him cold and confused as Oats had been. To never have the chance to finally reconcile, only some hollow reunion sure to melt away like winter snows. He spent far too many nights thinking on what he’d say should that happen, and found no words really fit.

At Semine’s wedding he finally had the chance to face his fears. He’d been relishing the rich wedding food, snacking on some salty roasted piglet and sweet pastries when he caught sight of some familiar golden hair out of the corner of his eye.

He tried to ignore it, sure that it was just some serving maid or visiting dignitary with particularly lovely hair. He focused instead on his aching toes from Doubravka’s atrocious dancing, and keeping drinks out of Vostatek’s hands, but then as he was passing the barn he heard a high, obnoxious, familiar laugh.

He almost tripped over himself, and had to steady himself on the barn’s doorframe. He took a deep breath, then slowly, oh so slowly, he peered within.
The pourpoint was new, but a brilliant shade of yellow that’d look ridiculous on anyone else, yet was somehow so comfortable on Hans. His hair was a little longer and his boots a tad more worn than Henry had last seen. But the casual grace that he held his goblet of wine with, and the playful derision with which he mocked the pair of unskilled guests putting on a swordfight was all achingly familiar.

It was just like that time they’d brawled in the tavern in Rattay. Sir Hans Capon, the arrogant Lord, infuriating and dazzling as always. But no one was looking at him, and Henry’s guts clenched.

They’re probably distracted by the swordfight.

The idea made sense, but it was hard to imagine anyone ever ignoring Hans. The man seemed to impossibly fill every room he was in. Henry swallowed around the building lump in his throat and forced himself forward on stiff legs. He sidled around a few wedding guests, and hesitated for a brief moment before reaching out and grabbing Hans by the arm.

It was warm in his grasp. Warm and alive. Henry released a giddy breath which turned into a laugh halfway out of his mouth. Hans jumped and the touch, whirling on Henry and sending some expensive wine sloshing out of his goblet to the floor.

“Who dare- oh it’s you,” his indignation melted into practiced derision, but Henry hardly cared.

“Hans, you’re alive! I searched but I never thought-”

“That what?” Hans snapped, “that poor Sir Capon could ever manage without the input of his Blacksmith’s Boy? That I’d go and die in a ditch? I’ll have you know I’m perfectly capable of getting by on my own.”

“You had nothing but the clothes on your back, and the province is overrun with bandits and wolves,” Henry still made no move to release Hans. The touch was grounding, a reminder that he was real, and not some ghost or apparition.

“Bandits don’t much care for someone who looks like a beggar, and wolves are just angry dogs. Hardly something I can’t handle,” Hans looked down at his arm, and shook it, “now let go of me. You’ll make people think you’re mad, clutching me like a swooning maid.”

Reluctantly, Henry obeyed and Hans patted himself down. Then a moment of silence descended.

“I’m sorry,” Henry finally managed to say, despite how apologising rankled, despite how it was Hans’ fault they’d separated in the first place, “I was concerned. I don’t like the thought of something happening to you, that I couldn’t do anything about it.”

“And that’s the problem! You don’t think I can get by. That I’m doomed for disaster,” he swirled his wine and gazed into its depths, “you’re as bad as Hanush.”

Henry grimaced at that. He knew better than anyone that Hans was a capable fighter, and smarter than he seemed. He tried to brush by the comment, to lighten the mood.

“We’re both here anyway, why don’t we try to find Von Bergow together? We can deliver the bloody message and go home.”

“If he ever shows up,” Hans muttered.

A fair point, he’d have expected the Lord hours ago. Who could say how long Semine would hold off the vows for at this rate? The whole thing felt suspicious to Henry.

“Maybe he won’t, but if he doesn’t, surely we’ll have an easier time getting into the castle together?”

“Why this obsession of yours? You’re acting like a lost puppy. First it was Radzig and his bloody sword, now it’s me and…” Hans trailed off, his frustration bled from his words and he looked to one side, then another, carefully. The swordfight had ended and people were drifting gradually back towards the refreshments in the yard, and hardly anyone was paying the two of them any mind.

“What is it?”

Hans breathed a deep sigh, “have you seen… anything odd, since we parted? Any more sightings of our company?”

Any sightings of the dead, he meant. If Hans knew, what would he do? Would he want to cast Henry aside as a lunatic? Would he think he was some kind of invalid, addled by a head injury? Or someone to be handled with care, not trusted with any important tasks let his madness fuck them up?

“None,” Henry answered, “I think my head’s cleared up properly. I spoke with a good herbalist, in the woods near Trosky. He said that head wounds can be funny but I seemed to be recovering,” he tapped on his head with his knuckles, “guess I’ve got a thick skull.”

“That’s good, I’m… glad. Radzig wouldn’t be pleased if you were to return to Rattay a gibbering mess.”

“Hanush wouldn’t be pleased if we weren’t to return together.”

“You… may be right about that,” Hans conceded, he chewed his lip and let out a long, slow breath through his nose, “We can talk more after the wedding, if Von Bergow really is a no-show. I’ve got some matters to tie up, but tomorrow I could meet you at the Zhelejov inn.” He suggested.

“What sort of matters?” Henry asked.

“Private ones. Surely you don’t want to know about everything I’ve been up to in our time apart,” Hans chuckled thinly.

“I wouldn’t mind. You can tell me over a tankard,” Henry shrugged, sincerely hoping there’d be no minstrels about at the time, “I’m certain that the great and noble, Sir Hans Capon, had some interesting adventures.”

“Well, I’ve heard about some of yours. That you’re a fellow who helps his fellow man,” Hans replied with a sly smirk and Henry suddenly found himself envying the ghosts that wouldn’t leave him be.

At least things were finally looking up. Hans was alive and well, even if Bergow blew off the wedding, they’d figure out some other way to meet with him, and maybe Henry could spend a little while when they got back to Rattay looking into the whole ghost situation. Godwin might have some knowledge about it if nothing else.

As there came a call from outside to assemble for the exchange of vows, Henry felt a small weight lift from his shoulders. The world was falling back into place, and everything would be sorted out soon enough.

Chapter Text

Hans recalled, once when he was a boy, seeing a clumsy groomsman take a kick from a horse. At first he’d laughed and guffawed at the fool who’d all but snuck up behind an antsy mare and expected to be fine. It was all terribly amusing, but the man didn’t writhe in the dirt or groan and wail. He just fell down and stayed still. The stablemaster had hurried to his side, ready to berate the fool for his carelessness, but at being unable to rouse him, his nascent anger melted into shock and devastation.

They later butchered the horse. It was an old nag anyway, and it served as some sort of statement or appeasement to the boy’s family. Hanush had largely brushed off the affair as an unfortunate accident. But that was the first time Hans had seen a man die.

As a child he couldn’t comprehend the notion that in an instant all you were simply ceased to be. Your soul would flee to heaven if you were lucky, but your body would be left as a lump of meat. Something for loved ones to cry over, and bury and mourn. If he was honest with himself he’d not really understood that fully, even after killing men at Talmberg.

But standing on the gallows in Trosky, noose around his neck, heavy and certain as the understanding that he was facing his last few living moments, finally made it click. He wasn’t immune to death, sure, in combat he was better trained than most, and he could afford armour that did an admirable job of turning away blades. But there was no guarantee in that.

He’d stood before death’s door, terrified and alone, and Henry; simple, determined, reliable Henry had saved his arse, once again. He wasn’t quite sure how that made him feel. Yet, he found his thoughts drifting back again and again, not to the hopelessness of the gallows, but to the swell of relief at seeing Henry, Thomas slung over his shoulder. And the sheer naked terror on Henry’s face at seeing the noose.

He never wanted to see that look on Henry’s face again. He was a nobleman, it was his job to protect his people, Henry most of all.

God preserve me, I sound like all those prattling tutors.

Yet, he found himself drawn still to the gallows, by some sense of morbid curiosity. He watched them, and despite the warmth of the day, they took him back to that cold lonely feeling that persisted until Henry appeared.

“It’s a grim sight, isn’t it?” Henry once again showed up to pull Hans from his doldrums. His squire stood at his side, arms crossed, and a small scowl on his face, as if he could glower the whole platform into ripping up its foundations and leaving the castle.

“An ugly one too,” Hans replied, “To think they thought of executing me with that. Someone of my standing deserves at least a good beheading,” he tried to chase away the dour mood with some humour, but it didn’t stick until Henry gave a soft, deep, laugh.

“Aye, with drummers to march you up there, and a crier to announce the tragedy of your death.”

“Might as well make a celebration of it. I’ll have it known that my balls will be sent to Hanush afterwards. He’s threatened to have them served on a platter more than once. Only fair that he gets to see it through.”

“I’m sure he’d get them with a side dish of my head then,” Henry jabbed a thumb into his chest, “We’ll be a pair of martyrs.”

“The minstrels will sing songs of our tragedy,” Hans bumped his shoulder playfully against Henry, “Are you ready for the interrogation?” He asked.

Henry’s good mood burst like an overripe melon and Hans found his shoulder bouncing off a solid, tense, wall. Henry turned his eyes towards the dirt at their feet and scuffed at it with the toe of his boot, “I don’t like the Von Bergow wants us to dirty our hands with it,” he muttered.

“Nor do I,” Hans agreed. Nonetheless, he turned from the gallows and started up the hill towards the keep, and the dungeons, “but we need to ingratiate ourselves however we can. If there’s a hope that we can get the League of Lords to be receptive-”

“I know, I know,” henry grumbled, “we could make Sigismund back down.”

More importantly, I can prove to Hanush that I’m respectable enough to take my birth right.

Still, neither of them was fond of the situation, and things only became worse as the silence that blanketed them became heavier and more stifling with each step towards the dungeons. Torture was no appropriate thing to ask of anyone. There were people for that, admittedly, but Hans certainly wasn’t one of them. And Henry…
Radzig feared that the situation of late had taken a toll on Henry, and as much as Hans tried to brush it off, he’d caught Henry staring into space more than once, head cocked slightly as if to listen in on a conversation in an empty room. That wasn’t even mentioning the whole situation with Oats. He feared that his lapse in judgement had only made things worse. The sheer, naked relief and jubilation he’d seen on Henry’s face at the wedding had been gratifying, and satisfying, but it stirred a slimy, weighty guilt in the pit of his stomach all the same.

Who could say what tricks Henry’s mind would play on him if Hans wasn’t around to pull him out of them?

He led the way gamely onwards towards the dungeons where the prisoner from Nebakov awaited them, Content to keep his silence. However, as they began down that last flight of stairs towards the torture chamber, he heard a quiet hiss behind him.

“Stub your toe, did you Henry?” He jokingly suggested until he turned and saw a tight grimace creasing Henry’s face. “Henry? Are you quite alright.”

“I’m fine. Let’s just get this over with,” Henry spat, but he sounded pained.

“Alright,” Hans said slowly, and he took a few more steps. Henry’s footfalls echoed, jerky and inconstant.

“Do you hear anything?” Henry asked, quiet and hesitant in a way that Hans hardly ever heard from him.

Hans paused and strained his ears for a moment, there was a small amount of ambient sound drifting in from outside, a distant, faint chatter of some servants and the muffled barking of a dog, but that was all.

“Nothing in particular. Why?”

“No reason. I don’t hear anything either,” Henry said tightly, Hans looked to find him scowling at his boots, his grip on the banister was white-knuckled, and he almost looked to be quivering.

“Henry, if you’re not up to this-”

“I’m fine,” he grunted, then he abruptly surged forward. He darted around Hans with that stolid determination of his. He stomped down the last few steps and then threw the door to the torture chamber open.

Henry stumbled back against the wall, his hand clutched and scrabbled at his chest. In an instant Hans was at his side, grabbing Henry and holding him up as his legs wobbled and threatened to give way.

“Merciful God, that is-how could they-the blood- fuck me it’s it’s-” Henry’s breaths were coming in short gasp between each babbled exclamation, and he lurched one hand up to the juncture of Hans’ shoulder and neck, grabbing him in a grip tight enough to bruise.

Hans flicked his head back towards the torture chamber that Henry had opened. The prisoner within looked to be in some kind of daze, hanging slack in his bonds and not so much at twitching at Henry’s feverish ramblings. He managed to, with some stretching, kick the door shut. But Henry’s shaking gaze stayed locked on the solid wood while his lungs worked like a pair of bellows pumped by an overenthusiastic smith.

He had to drag Henry backwards up the stairs while he continued to ramble like a madman, and with a horrifying certainty he knew that this was exactly what Radzig had feared. Somehow, it felt almost as paralysing as his own execution.

When they reached the top of the stair, Henry finally fell silent. There was a distant, glazed look to his gaze that Hans didn’t care for one bit. He lightly slapped Henry’s cheek. “Henry come on, stay with me,” he couldn’t help the note of desperation in his voice.

He silently thanked all the saints as Henry blinked a few times and seemed to emerge from whatever fugue had gripped him.

“Hans I… I shouldn’t have… we still need to-”

“If you say ‘finish the interrogation’, you can forget about it. You need to get some rest and clear your head of whatever was going on down there.”

“Right. You’re right,” Henry chewed at his lip, and his fists curled tight at his sides. It was the same look he’d had that night back in Rattay when he’d tried to throw Hans out of the tavern. Like, he was grappling with some choice he desperately wanted to make, but knew was foolish.
“What was that?” Hans asked softly.

“I… I can,” Henry shook himself, “it reminded me of Vranik. When they had me prisoner there, Toth, he-”

“No Henry, I don’t want to hear it,” Hans cut in. If this was all the result of some brutality on Toth’s part, the last thing he wanted was for Henry to lose himself in that moment. He realised with a start, that after his wake-up slap his hand had lingered on Henry’s cheek. He gave it one last reassuring squeeze before pulling back, “I’ll handle the interrogation. For now, you can go and… check to find me some armour. I’ll probably be needing it soon.”

“My Lord, I can… aye,” Henry wilted, and glided back a step from Hans, “are you sure that you can manage this?”

“Easily, I’ve wooed plenty of chaste maidens into nights of debauchery. I’m sure pulling secrets from a bandit will be no harder.”

That uncertain, contemplative look stole over Henry once again, and Hans thought for a moment that he would have something more to say, but finally he gave a short nod and turned on his heel. “I’ll make sure the Blacksmith lines up something worthy of you.”

“Is that a threat?” Hans’ joke as was thin as his voice.

“No. A promise.”

Henry left Hans there, and he waited until he heard the thump of a door closing to fall backwards against the wall.

“Henry, you bloody idiot.”

Chapter Text

Revelations came without preamble or warning, upending life and routine without so much as a ‘by your leave, sir’. This was a fundamental truth that Henry had needed to embrace since Skalitz. Really, he should have seen it coming that Von Bergow had been using him and Hans the whole time. Of course, he’d just been too relieved over Hans’ survival and their reunion to think too deeply into it.

“You’ll hang for this, all of you!”

Henry rolled his eyes and stabbed his shovel into the dirt. He had to kick it a few times to cut through a tough root. If there was one ghost whose presence he could do without, it was Chamberlain Ulrich. He’d hardly had it in him to feel guilty when the old man died in the ambush considering it was his own overconfidence that landed them in hot water, and he’d been far too intent on killing Hans besides.

“Well, then you’ll have plenty of company, won’t you,” Henry muttered, Godwin was busy performing last rights on Zizka’s men, and Henry didn’t have to worry much about his conversation with Ulrich being overheard.

“Bah, I can guarantee you, I’ll have no company from you,” Ulrich jabbed at Henry, but his hand did little more than leave Henry’s chest with a lingering cold feeling. “There’s a special place in Hell for traitors such as yourself.”

He’d never asked any of the ghosts about Heaven, or Hell for that matter. There were some things he’d rather not know. He tried to do right by people, but Henry couldn’t deny that also meant he’d broken the commandments more than a few times. It was best not to think too much on the fate of his soul.

Still, if there was anyone to ask about such things.

“Godwin, can I ask you a question?” Henry spoke up between shovelfuls of dirt.

Godwin continued on his murmurings in Latin for a few more moments before he finally paused and replied, “As long as it doesn’t take too long, I’d rather get these burials done with quickly. It’s been a long day.”

Isn’t that the truth?

Henry could feel a building ache behind his eyes, and a leaden weight in his limbs that made the shovel feel heavier than a warhammer.

“I hope it won’t. I just… Do you believe I’ll go to heaven?” Henry flushed a little as he asked, feeling like a little boy all over again.

“A traitorous, murdering bastard? Unlikely, and the word of no man can change that,” Ulrich snapped. He attempted to kick the pile of dirt Henry had been making into the half-dug grave. Of course his foot just passed right through and he muttered a curse at the soil.

“I’m not the one to decide such things. Only God can pass judgement,” Godwin replied and Henry felt a cold lump sink in his empty stomach, that sounded a lot like a no, “But. I know you’re a good lad. You’ve helped a lot of people, saved a lot of lives.”

“But I’ve stolen, I’ve killed, I… I impersonated a monk!” There had to be something about that in the Bible.

“Well, it could be said that you just impersonated a nobleman,” Godwin replied with a chuckle, “by all rights, your time in the monastery was your own.”

“A fatal sin,” Ulrich hissed at Henry, “it’ll be a pleasure to see Von Bergow end your miserable life and cast you into the pit.”

Damn Ulrich, he was a liar and a selfish weasel, but Henry still couldn’t deny the truth in his words. The prickling fear settled over his shoulders like a mantle of nettles, and he tried to shake it off with an exaggerated shiver. “I’ve broken God’s laws. Johanka sent me on a bloody pilgrimage.”

“Which you saw through,” Henry started at Godwin’s voice. The priest had approached him while he was distracted with Ulrich’s sniping, “We live in trying times. Perhaps the monks would judge us impure for what we have to do to survive, to protect our land and loved ones. But it is far easier to make such judgements when you’re free of their burdens. Perhaps they’re right and we’ll be condemned, you and I, but I’d like to think that God at least has some awareness of the world we live in.”

His words were a balm, and Henry shook off Ulrich sneering at Godwin the way he seemed to at most anyone. The Chamberlain had never studied faith the way Godwin had. Never preached a sermon or tried to protect the innocent from persecution. He just saw fit to sit back and judge.
Henry returned to his digging with some more vigour, doing his best to tune out Ulrich’s ongoing taunts. There was little and less he could do about them. The dead seemed to come and go by some whim completely outside of Henry’s control, so unfortunately, he couldn’t banish the old man from his sight.

It took some time, but eventually he and Godwin managed to maneuver the bodies into the freshly dug graves. They were shallower than a proper gravedigger would tolerate, but Henry hoped it would at least keep any scavengers from feeding on them. He’d killed some of these men, giving them some dignity in death was the least he could do.

Godwin said a few last prayers then picked up a shovel to help Henry cover the dead back over. Henry waited until a fine covering of soil covered the first body before he spoke.

“Godwin, what do you think of… of ghosts?” it was a struggle to spit out the question, and he watched Godwin unblinkingly for his reaction.

“Quite a line of questioning,” he replied with a humph, steadily piling more dirt into the grave, “first heaven and now ghosts.”

“Well, we are burying the dead,” Henry replied.

“Did I even get a proper burial?” Ulrich groused, “I have a plot at Troskowitz reserved, I demand that you have your brigands send my body back.”

The wolves had probably eaten off his fingers already. Perhaps it was unchristian of him, but the thought warmed Henry’s heart after all the Chamberlain's griping.

“I don’t put much stock in ghosts, at least not in the sort you’ll hear talked about by most villagers,” Godwin gave a gravelly laugh, “Did you hear about the revenant people were gossipping about in Ledetchko?”

“Hah, that is absurd,” Henry hoped the obvious lie didn’t show. “But I… I sometimes feel like, like I can hear my Father’s voice, or feel my Mother’s touch, and the idea that they’re still looking out for me, I dunno,” he shrugged and chanced a glance up from his work, “It’s comforting.”

“Henry, you’re not the first person to think such things,” Godwin spoke slowly and carefully, the way that most kind people did when he brought up Skalitz, “But your parents are with God now, I wouldn’t want the dead to hang around to see all this ugliness in the world. Would you?”

“And yet I find myself stuck here with you, traitor,” Ulrich scoffed, “Can you not just send me on my way.”

“I wish that I could,” Henry snapped softly. He froze as he saw Godwin’s quizzical glance, “I uh, I wish they would. Even if the world isn’t pretty. I think it’d be easier to face some days with the knowledge that they’re watching over me,” he explained.

Godwin paused for a moment, and fiddled with a loose string on his gambeson, eventually he spoke his thoughts.

“Before Sir Radzig and Hanush sent me off, your father, he… Have you been feeling overly stressed by your situation?”

“Stressed? Well, it was difficult when Hans and I had to split up. I didn’t know what sort of trouble he was getting into. And you know Hans.”

“Based on what I’ve seen from you two, I don’t think you’re much better at keeping out of trouble,” Godwin said with a smile. “Or have you forgotten that I had to break the two of you out of prison just a few hours ago?”

“Alright, alright I get your point,” Henry held up a hand for mercy, “But, I suppose this is all just… life now,” he said as he pushed the last shovelful of earth over the first grave. “But, you said you didn’t put much stock into rumours of ghosts. Do you think they actually do exist?”

Godwin rested his hands on the shovel and stared at Henry for a few long seconds, he wet his lips and spoke, “Have you been, seeing anything strange?”

Henry felt a shiver across his neck, a warning of trouble that he’d ignored far too many times. Godwin was a good man, kind and clever and a damn fine drinking buddy. But maybe he wouldn’t take the news of the ghosts too well.

The realisation struck then, that he’d been talking to Henry’s father. And he recalled the strange looks Radzig had been giving him the night before they left, after he’d walked in on Henry talking to… to Lev.

God, my Father thinks I’m going insane.

“No, nothing unusual at all. I was just missing my Ma and Pa. Sorry I didn’t mean to trouble you after you’ve gotten away from the parish for a while,” Henry forced a smile and Godwin answered with another that was just as strained.

“Well, if you’re ever looking for someone to talk to-”

“I’ll seek you out. I promise,” Henry cut off Godwin.

“How did you ever trick us into working with you?” Ulrich sneered in his ear. And Henry wished, so very much, that he could punch a ghost.

Chapter Text

“Sir, the other one just came round too.”

Henry’s head was swimming, and a sharp pain pronounced itself at his temple, then hammered away gleefully like a zealous bellringer. He’d tried to make a break for it when they took Hans. Unarmed and all but naked there was never any chance of success, but he couldn’t just sit quietly and be escorted to the torture chambers.

Fire licked up and down his arms and shoulders as his awareness slowly returned. He wondered how long he’d been hanging like a piece of meat. Long enough that he couldn’t feel his fingers at least, he thought as he twitched them feebly.

“Excellent, as soon as we’re done with the Captain here, we’ll turn our attention to him,” That snooty, nasal draw was familiar and it drew Henry’s world into sharp clarity. His feet slid on the dungeon floor as he tried to steady himself. He slipped into a familiar glare as his ire at Toth flared, but as he looked to him he felt the freezing touch of terror as he took in the room.

Zizka was hanging from manacles, much like himself, and Godwin was bound in the corner. Istvan and his lackeys seemed quite jolly with a full suite of torture implements at hand, but that was not what captured Henry’s eyes.

They were not alone.

One of the demons hovered behind Istvan, it looked like a young man once, but its face was a mask of burn scars. Straight, clean lines like he’d been beaten with a piece of steel, straight from the forge. His eyes had boiled out, only thin bits of membrane hung from their empty, bloody sockets as cloudy, reddish liquid weeped from them endlessly. It ran its hands over Istvan face and body, feeling him with broken, twisted fingers but he didn’t so much as flinch.

The second stood near the wall, a puddle of blood slowly forming beneath it as it tilted its head curiously at Zizka. It reminded Henry in a morbid way of one of his mother’s patchwork blankets. Strips of skin were haphazrdly missing, showing raw muscle and fat beneath, wet and oozing. Its hands and forearms were totally bare, showing white bone as it clenched and unclenched its hands slowly. Its ears had been cut off, leaving but a small bit of torn flesh stuck to the head and its legs were bowed outwards unnaturally like its knees forgot which way to turn. Henry watched with bated breath as it left the wall and began to waddly horribly about the chamber.

The last had no hands at all, its stumps were covered in dirty bandages, and its jaw looked broken, hanging loose and limp, showing a stump of a tongue which spurted blood into the air with each ragged breath. There was a deep gash in its belly and its intestines spilled forth like glistening, writhing snakes, and they dragged on the ground as it approached Henry.

Unconsciously he strained backwards in his bonds as it approached him, stumps reaching forth curiously and broken jaw twitching feebly.

“Stay back, stay back,” Henry whispered at it, it was difficult to get more sound out.

“Oh! Radzig’s bastard is already breaking. Shame, I’d expected at least a little bit of a fight from you. You were so much fun back at Vranik.”

Henry couldn’t focus much on Toth’s taunt. Not when the demon was coming for him.

“Don’t touch me. Don’t do it, please,” Henry could scarcely breathe, the motion of each breath sent spasms of pain through his arms. But his words had some effect on the demon.

“Iii Gheee Ush,” it’s voice was a groan and a gargle at once.

“No one sees us,” the eyeless one snapped. For effect it puts its fingers right through Toth’s eyes and he didn’t even shiver.

“You don’t see anything at all,” the flayed one responded. “But he’s looking at us,” It waddled up to Henry excitedly, broken ankles slipping on its own spilled blood. Henry cursed his mistake and directed his gaze to the ground.

“This isn’t real,” Henry whispered to himself, screwing his eyes shut tight, “they’re in your hea-”

He cut off with a wheeze and a grunt as a fist drove into his guts. He twisted and twirled in his binds trying to double over, to find his breath. But he was held up rigidly in his binds.

“Thank you, Ernest,” Toth said cheerfully, “Now, your whole denial and terror routine is very charming, but I need you to listen to me. Where are Jobst and Lichtenstein?”

“Oun an oun,” the broken jawed one droned.

“Look at him spin! Already breaking,” the flayed one cackled.

Then their hands and stumps were on him, running through his hair, poking his sides, trying to find a way into his mouth. He flinched and writhed away from each slimy cold touch, but the demons wouldn’t be deterred. They cheered, elated and ecstatic over his reactions.

“Never had any of them react to us before. Almost like we’re the torturers now!” the eyeless one rasped with a giggle.

Then there was a burning pain at his side as a poker was forced against his flesh. A raw scream ripped from Henry’s throat and he writhed, trying to stretch away from the scorching touch of the metal. His eyes stretched open, and he could see little but bloody, gaping, excited faced between the black spots overtaking his vision. He could feel that siren call of unconsciousness tugging at his mind.

“I don’t fancy being ignored, tell me where Jobst is. What was he doing with Radzig?” Toth demanded, through his wavering vision he could see the glow of a poker in Istvan’s hand.

“You… you don’t see them? Of course, no one does,” a hysteric laugh bubbled from Henry’s throat, he started to droop in his bonds, “Hans didn’t see Oats. Father didn’t see Lev.”

“What in God’s name are you babbling about? How hard did you hit him earlier?” Toth and his crony started to squabble. But there was no relief for Henry.

Eyeless had started poking at Henry’s new burn scar, listening closely to each whimper he gave at the agonising touch. The broken jawed one held its mouth right before Henry’s face, and he could feel each squirt of spectral blood splash over him, even if it left no mark. But it was the patchwork one that scared him the most.

“When they’re done with you. You’ll be our new friend here. I was scared at first, but it’s never boring,” It smiled wide and blood ran between its teeth.

“You shouldn’t be here, none of you should,” Henry grunted through the pain as Eyeless poked him again. “This is sick, it’s wrong it’s-”

“For the love of God, shut him up!” Istvan shouted. Godwin barely gasped out a warning to Henry before he felt a sharp pain in his aching temple and everything went black.

He’d been unconcious before, even that very day, but this time the darkness was not empty. He couldn’t move, couldn’t twitch as cold, tacky hands roamed over him and garbled voices taunted and laughed in his ears. The darkness was full of terrors and Henry wanted to shout out for his Ma and Pa, for Radzig, for Hans. He didn’t want to be alone with them. He could almost feel their hands pulling him into the earth, down into Hell, and its endless flames.

Then the hands left him and there was silence in the empty darkness. Then a faint, familiar noise roused him. It was shrill and inconsistent, yet it cut to the heart of his mind, pulling him back into the waking world. It was the sound of a baby, hungry and wailing endlessly.

He groaned weakly, feeling the searing pain of the burn and throbbing pins and needles of returning circulation in his arms.

“He better wake up soon, I don’t think we’ll be able to carry him out,” That voice, it was Zizka.

“I could give it a try, I won’t leave him here,” Godwin, always reliable.

“We can’t stick around here long, they could be back any minute,” that was a familiar voice as well, the woman from the pond, the serving woman at Trosky. Katherine, that was her name. As she griped, the crying got louder and Henry finally forced his eyes open.

He was lying on the cold ground outside the torture chamber, the door had been shut tight, but he could feel a dozen small scratches over his back. He must have been dragged out.

“How did we get out?” He muttered, trying to push himself upright.

“Wait a minute, Lad. Just rest,” Godwin placed a hand on Henry’s chest and tried to shove him back down again, but he pushed it away. He staggered up, his head swam and his legs wobbled, but he braced himself against the wall and stood upright. Godwin just gave a tired sigh.

“I’ve seen some interesting strategies to avoid torture, but never anything quite like that,” Zizka observed carefully. There was that same wary note in his voice that he’d heard from Godwin and Hans before. He thought Henry was mad.

“What exactly happened in there?” Katherine asked, “besides the obvious.”

“I played a bit of a trick on Toth,” Henry claimed, smooth as he could, “I made him think I’d gone mad, managed to get out of the worst of the torture, don’t appreciate the whacks to the head though,” he rubbed at the back of his skull, to try and pass it off, as a playful joke.

“Uh-huh,” Godwin said at length, clearly unconvinced.

“Old trick Fritz taught me, although he used it for getting out of paying at taverns. Did Toth learn anything?”

“Ah, that’s… I’m sorry Henry,” Godwin spoke up sheepishly, “He threatened to cut your throat after he knocked you out, claimed a madman wouldn’t be worth much anyway and… I made a promise to your Father.”

Henry’s hand drifted up to his neck. He wasn’t sure but he thought he could feel a faint cut on it. “Thanks for that, Godwin,” he replied quietly.

“They way I see it then,” Zizka spoke up after a moment, “We’ve got quite a bit of work ahead of us. Now Henry, can I rely on you to help set things right?”

Skepticism, Henry was used to. He’d dealt with it time and again when he was in Rattay. No one seemed to believe he could infiltrate a gang, or use a sword, or learn to read, or track down a killer. Time and again he’d faced doubts about his abilities. And every time, he was pleased to say, he’d proved his naysayers wrong. But there was more to this, not just a question of whether he could see a task through, but whether he could be trusted at all.

It was just another hurdle to overcome, but when even Godwin watched him like he was some fragile thing, it was hard to stay optimistic. Still, when he finally noticed the dead guard in the room, he bent down and snatched up his sword. He owed Zizka for the secrets shared on his behalf, and Godwin for the stress he’d put him through. And he owed Toth some payback for all he’d done.

“You can rely on me,” he replied. Proud to be reliable Henry. He just wished that baby would stop crying.

Chapter Text

Henry ran the whetstone down his father’s sword, relishing the clean ring it made with each swipe. It was an assurance and a certainty. He’d killed Toth, for once and all the bastard was dead.

He’d thought that perhaps his father might appear to him, to congratulate him, or offer some guidance, but there’d been silence on that front. The accomplishment didn’t feel so great without him. He expected some great relief of triumph, like he’d felt after the battle in Pribyslavitz. But there wasn’t any. The world was safer with Toth dead, but he just felt tired.

Hans was still captive and Jobst wanted him to leave him in Von Bergow’s hands. As if he’d not sent him and Henry into danger in the first place, as if Hans would be completely fine when left to the whims of Von Bergow. As if Hans wasn’t just in a battle, unaware that Henry escaped, if he was even alive.

“Kurva!” Henry hissed. There was a sharp sting on his palm, and he looked down to see the fresh cut well forth with blood. He placed the sword aside and looked about his room for a bit of bandage, holding his hand tight to the wound while he did so.

Suchdol was well stocked, and he was sure that he’d seen some healing supplies about somewhere. As he rose from the bed and began looking around he heard a short knock at the door.

“Come in, it’s open,” he called over his back. It was probably a servant coming to pick up his tray from breakfast. They were all so oddly deferential. Hans wouldn’t have thought it odd, but he was used to such treatment. Even after being recognized by Radzig, everyone in Rattay always remembered him as Henry the Blacksmith’s Boy.

“I hope I’m not intruding on anything,” Zizka called as he stepped carefully into the room. Henry gave him a wave with both hands pressed together.

“Nothing serious, just had a little accident when sharpening my sword.”

“Sounds like it was sharp enough then,” Zizka stepped around the bed while Henry checked the side table, his eyes finally alighted on a wad of bandages half hidden beneath his dirty plate.

“My Father wouldn’t have made it any other way.”
Zizka picked up the sword while Henry began wrapping his hand. He turned the blade so it caught in the late morning light that shone through the window. “I’m guessing this is your blacksmith father’s work, not your Hetman’s.”

“Aye, it is,” Henry chuckled to cover the grunt of pain as he pulled the bandage tight, “Couldn’t imagine Radzig would be very comfortable in the forge.” He’d hide it well though, Henry reckoned, but that was the way with the nobility, they either covered their discomfort with bluster or nonchalance.

“Will you be alright with that hand?” Zizka asked with a strange amount of caution.

“This? It’s nothing,"Henry replied, waving the injured hand for emphasis and feeling a painful pull as the bandages soaked a little more red.

“Good,” Zizka carefully lay the sword back against the wall by the bed. “I like to know the quality of the men I fight beside, that they can be relied upon. Or if not, that I know when they’ll break, so I won’t be left without warning.”

He paused and looked Henry up and down with his one good eye. Henry could feel the question coming, he’d known it would, but Zizka had been polite enough to not bring up his performance in the dungeon during the trip.

“This is about what happened in the torture chamber. Isn’t it?”

Zizka nodded. “I’ve known good men who broke under torture. There’s no shame in that. We’re fortunate we got out of there alive at all. But… what happened in there, the way you acted. I can’t make heads or tails of it. You faced me and my company down, disadvantaged, and in an ambush without a hint of fear, yet you were weeping and babbling the second you woke up in the dungeons.”

“I wasn’t weeping,” Henry immediately protested, and Zizka raised one brow curiously. Henry bit his lip to pause his outrage, then forced himself to sit on the bed and listen.

“I need to know why exactly you acted like that. You were shouting at the air, flinching and twitching before Toth so much as touched you,” Zizka paced as he spoke to Henry who sat there rooted to the spot like a chained hound.

“If I tell you why, you’ll think I’m mad,” Henry said quietly. His bandage was staining red as the blood worked through the layers.

“I’m afraid that you might be,” Zizka admitted, “But I’ve worked with mad men before, more than once. I just need to know the flavour of insanity.”

Henry barked a laugh at that, “Are you sure you want to know?”

“I need to.”

Henry heaved a deep sigh. He supposed this was as good a point as any to put the truth on the line. If Zizka wouldn’t work with him, then he’d just need to find some other way to free Hans. It was better to know before he got in too deep.

“I can see ghosts.”

Zizka tilted his head one way, then the other in consideration, then motioned for Henry to continue.

“Ghosts? Dead people. I’m sure you’ve heard of them. Sometimes they show up and talk to me. There were a few of them in that dungeon,” he shook his head trying to dislodge the image of their broken, bloody fingers, ruined faces and rasping laughter, “They took a shine to me when they realised that I could see them. When they touch you it’s… it’s like a little part of you dies, just for a moment.”

“Ghosts. Ghosts!” Zizka threw his hands in the air, “Why not at this point? Perhaps you’ll happen upon a dragon next, or Jesus’ crown of thorns!”

“I told you you’d think I was mad,” Henry grumbled. “Just… please don’t go talking about it to any Inquisitors, I don’t want any trouble from them.” Johanka had gotten off lightly, and she’d still be feeling their watchful eyes her whole life.

“So what are these ghosts? Are they all terrifying? Will you fall apart every time one of them shows up.”

“They can be anything. Once my friend’s dog helped me find a hat she lost. Another time I spoke to the dead son of a woman I’d helped. Sometimes it’s nonsense though,” Henry flopped back to lie on the bed, there was something oddly exhausting about coming clean, “Like that baby that starts crying around Katherine sometimes.”

Henry yelped as a strong hand grabbed his shoulder and hauled him upright. He found himself face to face with Zizka. His one good eye was wide, but unblinking as he locked gaze with Henry, his moustache twitched and quivered with each breath and his grip seemed to grow tighter by the second.

“What was that? What baby?”

“I-I don’t know,” Henry stammered, “In the dungeons when Katherine rescued us, I could hear a baby crying, I thought it was somewhere in the castle, but it stayed with us all the way through the tunnel. It eventually quieted down after she fell asleep on the road though.”

Zizka leaned back, but he didn’t release his grip on Henry’s shoulders. Henry waited for the other’s judgement. He couldn’t fathom why the mention of the baby had perturbed Zizka so much. It might have been for the best that he didn’t bring up quite how disturbing the torture victims were to look upon.

“Don’t mention this to Katherine,” he said after some time.

“Why? She seems pretty tough, I don’t imagine this would disturb her too much.” She’d probably just brush it all off as foolish superstition.

“Because I ask it of you. If it’s important enough to speak of, then I’ll be the one to tell her, agreed?”

“So you’ll still work with me to save Hans?”

“If you agree to my terms.”

“Alright then,” with some effort, Henry shrugged, lifting up Zizka’s hands with his shoulders. “Not like I was planning on telling her anyway. Not when people react like this.”

“That’d be for the best,” Zizka finally drew back. He rubbed at his chin as he considered henry, “I’m not saying I believe you. But, if you learn or see anything useful that I don’t, let me know.”

“The dead don’t seem to work on a basis of helping me, but if you insist, I’ll let you know.”

“Good. Now let’s find the Devil, and… best you not tell him either.”

Chapter Text

Henry had spent more than one evening wondering over his Pa. He’d had a few encounters with him, but they were dreamlike and vague. He hoped that it was truly his Pa reaching out to him, beyond death to impart some wisdom, some guidance, but he wasn’t like the other ghosts; he’d never seen him during his waking hours.

So as the sack was lifted from his head in Lichtenstein’s underground hideout, he had to physically bite his tongue to stop himself from calling out to Martin. He looked just as he had that last day in Skalitz, dirty from the soot of the forge and a long day’s effort, but thankfully free of grizzly wounds.

He’d removed his old felt hat and was twisting it in his hands as he stared at the man who’d brought Henry to the meeting. Henry kept expecting his pa to speak to him, to impart some message but he only glanced Henry’s way once or twice, offering a quick, strained smile, before pointing at Lichtenstein in a reminder of Henry’s actual task.

Even if it was for the sake of saving Capon, and even if his Pa was right, he wished he’d show him a little more attention. But, Henry wasn’t the impatient boy from Skalitz throwing shit at his neighbour’s house anymore. He was Capon’s page, a seasoned warrior, and a man who only occasionally had to dig through shit. So he treated Lichtenstein with all due deference and learned of the Ruthards and the next step to freeing Hans.

After the meeting, Samuel retreated upstairs and Martin watched him go the whole way. Henry passed him by as he headed up the stairs and muttered a quiet “follow me,” to his Father’s ghost.

Fortunately, it was the small hours of the morning when he emerged from the underground, and a quick check in the tavern’s kitchen proved it to be empty. Henry entered, then quickly shut the door behind him. He didn’t have the key, so she shoved a sack of flour into the door’s track to hold it shut, before finally turning to his Pa.

“What is it?” He groused, a bit sharper than he intended, but a small bitter part of him thrilled at seeing the hurt flicker across Martin’s face.

“Henry. I… I’m glad you’re… alive,” his Pa fumbled for his words in a way that Henry had hardly even seen. He still held his hat in his hands, he nervously stroked at its brim.

“Aye I’m alive. No crossbow has gotten me yet,” at least, none had killed him. “Pa, why’d you show up?”

“No fond greeting for your Pa then?” Martin asked. He sounded tired and some of the vitriol left Henry at that, “I suppose I’m not that likely to get one,” he spoke to his feet and leaned against the door.

“Look, I’m sorry I… I’ve wanted to speak with you, to know that,” that what I’m doing is right. “That you and Ma are happy, that I finally got your sword back.”

“I know you did. You shouldn't have had to risk yourself for that, Hal. It’s just a bit of metal.”

“It’s a ‘bit of metal’ that we made together,” the last piece of his Pa. “Besides, I still need to deliver it to F- to Radzig.”

Martin’s eyes narrowed with an amused twitch at Henry fumbling his words, then he gave a languid shrug, “If you say so. But after all you’ve been through for it, it may fit better in your hands than your Father’s.”

“Pa, you’re-”

“No need,” Martin interrupted, he stepped away from the wall and approached Henry, slipping the hat back onto his head as he went. “He’s your Father, not me. I can’t claim that particular honour.”

“Pa I,” Henry took a step forward and reached out. He folded one of his Pa’s hands between his own. The touch was cold and made his skin break out in goosebumps at the mere memory of the last ghosts that touched him. But he wouldn’t let that stop him. “You’ll always be my Father, even if we don’t share blood. We shared a roof and a village and a forge. We both loved Ma and I-I wish you were here,” Henry’s voice broke, and Martin reached out for him, laying a hand, cold as the grave, but somehow tender on the back of Henry’s neck, “Everything’s gone to shit. Bergow’s a traitor, Hans is missing, people think I’m losing my mind and… and maybe I am,” Henry felt warm tears track down his face. He took a shuddering breath, pulling the tears back in.

“Henry,” Martin’s voice was soft and sure, and Henry met his Father’s gaze, searching for guidance, “I want you to show the sword to Samuel, and ask him why he was so interested in it.”

“Why would that matter?” Henry’s voice was a dry croak and he scowled at it.

“I’m not certain yet, but I have my suspicions. Please, if you try it. It may make you feel better.”

“Where do you expect me to find-” Henry cut himself off, his hand flying to his sword as the door to the kitchen groaned, and jerked forward against the weight of the sack Henry had left there.

He approached it slowly, careful to keep each footfall slow and silent. He heard some frustrated muttering from the other side, before all at once it was shoved forward and Samuel staggered into the kitchen.

“What in the world?” He muttered, looking to the flour now spilled all over the floor, then to Henry in a half crouch, hand on his sword, “I hope you don’t think to use that on me,” he flicked his fingers towards the sword and Henry released his held breath in a great sigh.

“Sorry about that, I guess I’ve been on edge,” He glanced through the door behind Samuel. He was alone. He released his grip on his sword and his eyes lingered on its hilt, when he looked back to Samuel, he noticed that he was staring too.

“I heard noise down here and I came to investigate. What were you doing and,” Samuel blinked a few times and narrowed his eyes at Henry, “were you crying?”

The blotchiness of his face had given him away, Henry could still feel the lingering warmth and itchiness, “I um… I was praying, for my Pa.”

“Your Father,” Samuel almost echoed in a small voice, he nodded to himself, “I assume that he is with God.”

Martin lingered near Samuel, arms crossed tight over his chest, as if he was bound by chains, he chanced a glance at Henry and mouthed, ‘the sword’ to him. Henry gave a soft huff and shook off some of his lingering melancholy.

“Aye he, he was a Blacksmith. In Skalitz. He died in the attack from Sigismund’s army. They… they killed a lot of people that day, I saw him cut down, defending Ma,” Henry slowly slid the sword free of his scabbard and Samuel’s eyes locked on it like as if it would light with holy fire. “We made this together, the day of the attack, it was… the last thing we ever really did together I suppose.”
“Martin’s work,” Samuel breathed, gingerly he laid a hand upon the flat of the blade and Henry held it steady, “He was your Father?”

“He was. Well, he raised me.”

Samuel shoved the blade back towards Henry, barely avoiding cutting his hand on the razor edge. “You were a fortunate boy,” His face twisted as if he’d smelled a sewage pit.

“He was a good Father,” Henry agreed slowly. He carefully sheathed his sword again.

“A good Father to you,” Samuel said quietly. As Henry heard the damning words, he couldn’t help but twist his head to the side, fast as if he’d been slapped, and he clapped eyes on his Pa.

“What?” Henry asked Martin, but he seemed at a loss for words. Samuel took the initiative.

“He was my Father too, but I was not the son he raised,” he added bitterly.

Henry felt an immediate hot flash of anger, that his Pa had never told him, that he never even thought to share that he’d loved another woman before Ma, had a child with her even. He wondered if Ma knew, if she ever suspected it at all. At that though, the anger turned to something colder: pity. Pity for Ma, but more so Pity for Samuel, who’d never known a father while Henry had known two. But then came the truth.

“A brother. I have a brother,” Henry tasted the word on his tongue and there was something joyous in it. A small laugh escaped him, he looked back to Samuel, who stood tense and ready, fists clenched nervously at his side, “Christ, I never thought that I’d have more family,” Henry stepped forward, but Samuel held out a hand forestalling him.

“Stop. I,” he drew a deep, shuddering breath, “I have a lot to consider. A lot that I need to think about.”

“What’s to think about? We’re brothers!”

“And you were the one he chose,” Samuel snapped and Henry backed off a step. Samuel slowly stepped away in turn and ran a hand through his hair, “I must speak to my Mother. She should know about Martin.”

He began to slip out the doorway, but Henry reached out and grabbed his arm before he could leave. Samuel tried to tug his arm away, but Henry held strong and his brother scowled at him, “Look, I understand that this might be difficult, but… I’d like to talk more, if not now then perhaps soon.”

Samuel’s glare eventually softened and he swallowed quite deliberately, “I… okay, another time,” Samuel nodded towards the ground, “Another time.”

Henry released his hold and his brother fled in a heartbeat.

He counted the footsteps until he slipped out of hearing range, then he asked a question he dreaded the answer to.

“Did Ma know?”

But when he looked back, Martin was already gone.

Chapter Text

Zizka didn’t believe the Devil’s Den really deserved its reputation. Well, it did at times. He and Henry had had some truly awful timing to show up right when they did, or perhaps, Zizka mused, it was actually a stroke of fortune. Kubyenka was tough, and a damned good shot, but he didn’t fancy the man’s chances in a three on one fight.

Still, on some nights, after the drunkards had passed out and the innkeep had locked up the pantry, a silence would fall. Soft and reflective but for the buzzing of a few night insects and the gurgling of the nearby stream. The stars would come out, bright and clear as the torches burnt out, and there was a stillness in the world that invited reflection.

Zizka took a small sip from his wineskin, the drink was cheap and sour, almost vinegar. And it’d been sitting in the skin long enough to take on a faint, leathery taste, but there was a comfort in bad drinks from run down inns. When working with the great and mighty one was feted and feasted, given the pick of sweetmeats and fine wines, and each drop and crumb came with expectation and obligation enough to bury a man.

Zizka swirled the foul wine around his mouth as he reflected on what a miserable bastard he’d turned into. He watched as the light of a lantern slowly bobbed towards him along the road. He’d been expecting a report from Katherine on the state of things in Kuttenberg, but with how dangerous the countryside had been of late, he couldn’t deny the pleasant tingle of relief at seeing her approach. Or perhaps that was just the awful wine.

She’d object to being thought of as helpless, he was sure, but he’d be wary himself of walking these roads at night. Her footfalls eventually chased away the silence and her lantern light blotted out the stars as she approached the Devil’s Den. Zizka raised a hand in greeting and she waved her Lantern in turn. As she did, the lantern’s warm light caught across her features and Zizka was struck by the weary cast of her face.

“How’ve things been in the city?” He asked her.

“Fine enough,” Katherine approached him and leaned her back into the wall with a grateful sigh. It didn’t sound quite so exhausted as he’d first thought. There was exhaustion there, but a note of contentment as well.

“Did you manage to find Lichtenstein?”

“Henry’s made contact. Apparently he’s got a Jewish half-brother as well or something,” she smiled, small and subtle, but there nonetheless, “He wouldn’t stop babbling about it.”

“How’d he figure that out?”

“He said the fellah recognised his sword, that he knew his Father’s mark and that got them to talking. It’s strange though, isn’t it? To just run into him, like that,” she shrugged, “well I suppose it doesn’t matter too much. The warning got through to Lichtenstein.”

Finally some welcome news, Zizka thought. He was long overdue for a break. If they could get the Devil’s Pack back together then they might just be in a position to cause some trouble for Sigismund.

“Anything else unusual?” He asked.

“Well, we managed to track down a murderer,” Katherine’s hand brushed over her side where Zizka knew she kept her dagger hidden. She’d always kept that blade close at hand, as long as she’d been at his side. An errant thought crossed his mind, of Henry musing on the sound of a baby crying around her.

A shiver passed over the back of his neck, which he passed off as coming from the cool night air.

“You know, I did hope you wouldn’t go looking for trouble the moment you entered Kuttenberg.”

“You can hardly blame me,” she batted at his shoulder playfully, “Killer was a lunatic, targeting women all over the city, I didn’t want to end up strangled in an alley. What good would that do for the cause?”

“Will this killer be a problem anymore?”

“No. She won’t,” She spoke with a certainty and harshness that he’d come to long recognise as the bitter satisfaction of a just execution. Zizka’s gaze drifted towards her hidden dagger, foolish as it was. He wouldn’t be able to see the blood anymore, Katherine always took good care of that blade.

“She?” He asked.

“A noblewoman. Von Grolle. She didn’t care for her son’s lovers. Blamed the poor girls for his ‘moral decay’,” she scoffed a harsh laugh, “Of course, her murdering them was perfectly fine in the eyes of God.”

“So you took matters into your own hands,” Zizka finished for her. She gave a grim nod in return.

“Woman like that’d buy her way out of trouble, blame everything on a catspaw, then probably just try and kill me as soon as no one was watching,” she scowled at the darkness, “I wouldn’t let her get away with it all.”

“And you didn’t.”

Katherine gave a deep sigh, “I didn’t,” she agreed, “It was odd though, how Henry sniffed her out.”

That strange shiver was back again, a premonition that Zizka didn’t care for one bit, “he helped you with the detective work?”

“Yes. Me, him and this man, Lumir. We were all but certain that the Priest, Father Prokop, was responsible. He was so happy to condemn all the girls who’d died for their ‘lustful and sinful ways’. Seemed the obvious culprit.”

“But you said it was a noblewoman.”

“It was. We were all set to confront him, but then Henry went to go and look at the body of the latest victim, and he came out of the shed all pale. He said it couldn’t have been Prokop, that there was something we were missing.”

Henry had walked into a room with a dead woman and suddenly had a revelation about a series of murders. It was completely possible that he’d merely happened upon some new piece of evidence that pointed him in the right direction, or some reflection had put things into context. But a nagging sense of paranoia suggested there was more to it than that.

Zizka had seen enough of the world that he couldn’t buy into conspiracies anymore, but he’d also seen enough that he wouldn’t dismiss the unbelievable out of hand. There were wonders and mysteries in the world all but beyond the sight of God. And Henry, it was seeming more and more likely, had a habit of drawing them to himself.

He heard Katherine’s baby, maybe spoken to a murder victim, and now Zizka had to wonder just what he’d seen in that chamber beneath Trosky castle. He was used to insanity; Kubyenka’s drinking, the Devil’s lack of restraint, Adder’s self destructive licentiousness and all the other quirks of their band. But dealing with something genuinely otherworldly was a whole new kind of unnerving.

“Are you alright,” Katherine’s hesitant touch on his arm snapped Zizka out of his reverie

“Fine,” he answered, just a little too slowly if Katherine’s concerned glance was any indicator, “Just be careful in future about approaching things like this. We’ve got a mission to attend to.”

“Hah! And let you fellas have all the fun? I’d say I’m a better judge of when a situation is growing too dangerous, or have you forgotten that I’m the only one in this little alliance that hasn’t had to be sprung from prison yet?”

She had him there.

He shook his head ruefully, “just take care, alright?”

“I will.”

He glanced up at the sky and the setting moon, “Do you want to stay here for the night? Might be easier than walking back to Kuttenberg.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Unsurprising, “Not fond of spending a night under the same roof as a bunch of outlaws?”

“I did say I was a better judge of danger than you,” she replied smugly. She pushed herself from the wall and started down the road, before she’d made it a half dozen steps, Zizka called after her.

“And if it was Henry?” She’d surely noticed some of his… eccentricity, he just needed to know how suspicious she was growing.

She looked back at him and pinched her lips thoughtfully, “I think he’s a good man. I feel… safe around him.”

“Safe how?”

“There are men who’ll force themselves on the world in every way. Ruin lives, destroy people for their own satisfaction,” her eyes grew distant and haunted for a moment, cold in the warm lantern light, “and then, there are men who pick up the pieces, who try to brighten up the world a little bit. I think Henry’s the latter.”

“I’ll defer to your judgement then,” Zizka replied with a small bow.

Katherine chuckled as she turned and sauntered down the road. “You’re a smarter man than most, then!” She called over her shoulder.

With all the shit he’d found himself in, Zizka had to disagree.

Chapter Text

Rain was coming. Henry could smell it in the air, and the clouds gathering above looked like foam on a stormy sea. At least, he thought they did. He’d never had the good fortune to see the Sea, but he’d heard Hans describe it in enough terrible poetry to have a fairly good idea.

Mutt gave a plaintive whine as he loped along beside Henry and Pebbles, and Henry tossed the dog a piece of dried beef to calm him down a little, “Don’t worry boy. We’ll be in Miskowitz soon, we’ll find some shelter there,” he told Mutt as he snapped the meat out of the air.

Mutt barked loudly and set off in a run at Henry’s words, and Henry had to kick his heels into Pebbles’ side to spur her into keeping up with the excitable hound. The landscape whirred by in a blur of greenery and shortly after he heard the first rumble of distant thunder, Henry found himself arriving in Miskowitz.

The laundry had all been taken in from its place by the pond, and the streets had mostly emptied, the few remaining merchants were busy shutting up their stalls as the thunder echoed above them. There’d not be many customers braving the soaking rain, he supposed.

Mutt barked and turned towards the inn, his tail wagging excitedly, barely restrained from running off by his sense of loyalty.

“Alright, you silly doggy. I’ll see you there,” he waved Mutt off and before he even finished speaking, Mutt bounded off towards the inn, no doubt to beg for food from the barmaids.

Henry was about to follow him, when a familiar face caught his eye. Someone who knew, quite definitely, was dead. Brother Morticius was rushing away from the pond towards the shelter of the tavern, his cloudy eyes looked about wildly with each pang of thunder and he was half huddled over as if the rain was already pouring over him.

It was an odd reaction. Ghosts had no reason to worry about getting wet. At least, Henry didn’t think they did, he’d never thought to ask. Either way, he needed to have a word with this particular ghost.

He inserted himself cleanly into Morticius’ path just outside the inn’s yard, and the old man had to pull himself up sharply to avoid bumping into Henry.
“Morticius, fancy seeing you here,” Henry said by way of greeting.

Morticius gawped at him for a moment, but recovered quickly enough, “Henry, I was just looking for you. I know you were wanting your reward for all your work with the reliquary and-”

“There’s no need, I know you can’t pay.”

“You… you do?” Morticius tilted his head with confusion.

“I do,” Henry nodded decisively, with a quick glance he found the two of them to be alone on the street. “I know you’re dead.”

“Dead? What? I-”

“It’s alright,” Henry shushed him, “you’re not the first ghost I’ve dealt with. I’m sure it’s all very confusing to you. Some people take to it easier than others. But I hope that by giving your bones some proper rest that you feel eased. That you’ll be able to move on.” Henry felt the first stirrings of pride, solid and bolstering in his chest. He’d not dealt with many ghosts so cleanly as Morticius, and he felt that he was finally getting better at it.

“Look, Henry, I’m not dead,” Morticius insisted, “arranging the bones, it was just a bit of a joke and-”

“There’s no need to make excuses,” Henry fixed him with a stare, firm but gentle, “you’re dead now, and that’s okay. You were a monk, surely you’ll be welcome in heaven.”

“But I’m not-”

“Shhhhh. It’s alright,” Henry held back from touching him, holding his finger a hair’s breadth from Morticius’ face. He wasn’t keen to feel that ghostly cold if he could avoid it. “Just take some time to think, reflect on your life, and I’m sure you’ll be with God in no time.”

The first drops of rain pattered against Henry then, and he looked up at the clouds, startled by how much darker they’d gotten. The rain went from drops to a sheet in a few seconds, soaking Henry through.

“I guess you don’t have to worry about this though,” he said hurriedly as he turned away from Morticius, towards the inn.

‘Morticius’ watched him go, and felt the rain start to weigh down his robes as they clung wetly to his body. That Henry fellow was so earnest, so… sure of himself.

Despite himself, he reached up with bated breath, and pinched at his arm. There was a short, sharp pain. Exactly as he expected. He chuckled at his own foolishness and decided perhaps it would be best to seek shelter somewhere far away from Henry.

–#--

A dragon. A real life dragon. From a distance, Henry could appreciate the sight of it, the bones wedged in stone forming a greater picture, layer by layer as they all came together. A behemoth that would have shook the ground with its footsteps and sent brave knights scurrying for shelter from its wicked claws and teeth. He’d agreed to destroy the bones, to erase the monstrous presence, yet there was something tragic about that.

He touched one of the bones carefully, it was dry and dusty under his fingers, yet there was a surprising solidity to it. He could just imagine what the creature would have looked like, what it would have sounded like, stomping through the woods and bellowing fire into the air.

Every adventurous boy dreams of slaying a dragon, and Henry was no exception, he’d played out such pretend adventures time and again during his childhood days in Skalitz. His Pa had even made him a wooden sword for his games. He’d treasured it for years, until one day he declared himself too old for such fantasies.

It’d been stowed in the house somewhere, a pile of charcoal now, like everything else from those days.

He walked alongside the bones until he reached the enormous head, with a mouth big enough to swallow him whole, and teeth that he didn’t dare touch the edges of.

A thought struck him, foolish and childish and fanciful. Impossible, really, but he’d had his share of impossible luck of late, and what was a little more? He’d seen Tinker as a ghost, so animals could come back just as easily as humans. If a dog could return, then why not a dragon.

He’d never tried to call upon a ghost before, but surely the bones would help somehow. He closed his eyes and spread his hand wide over the skull.

“Come on, dragon. I’m sure you’d like to show up. Go roaring about, showing off your scales,” A stupid grin spread on Henry’s face at the thought. He tried to reach down inside, to whatever blessing or curse allowed him to see the dead. There had to be an energy, or a lever to pull or… something. Yet he couldn’t feel anything.

He sat there in silence, waiting for some telltale tingle at the back of his neck, or a roar in the distance, but the minutes ticked by and more and more he started to feel like nothing would ever happen.

“You wouldn’t do me a favour, would you? I just… really want to see a dragon, and I’m sure you’d be amazing. I’d even have to brag about it to Sir Hans. He’d never believe me, but maybe if I change a few of the details I could make it work.”

There had to be some trigger, some reason. Yet it seemed that Henry had no more luck at summoning ghosts, than he did at dismissing them. They would, it seemed, do as they willed. He started to wilt with disappointment, yet he was reluctant to take his hand away from the bones. It’d mean giving up, consigning this ancient memory to oblivion.

“What the fuck are you doing with my dragon bones?” A voice challenged him from behind.

Henry held back a sigh and slowly reached for his sword. It seemed there’d be no more time to chase after childhood dreams.

–#--

Henry settled himself carefully into his seat, feeling a dozen small aches and bruises flare up as he did so. The whole investigation of the counterfeit coins had been a right mess, one that of course ended up with several armed men trying to beat him to death. He wasn’t sure when that sort of thing became more expected than it was terrifying, but it likely wasn’t healthy that it was.

Regardless, he had the information he needed to rescue Sir Hans, but he’d hardly be much use without at least a little rest. He was worn to the point where he could barely lift his arms, let alone swing a sword.

He’d indulged in a good soak at the Kingfisher, which had worked out some of the kinks in his abused body, but nothing made Henry feel much better than a good meal and a few drinks.

The Emperor Charles was likely the most expensive inn in Kuttenberg, but undoubtedly the best. He had a soft bed and a good night’s sleep ahead of him, but more importantly a full belly.

The outdoor seating was mostly full, but Henry had managed to squeeze himself in at the end of a table next to a pair of smiths who were chattering away excitedly about a breastplate they were working on. Henry listened half heartedly as he sipped at his beer. He’d never practiced with forging armour much, but it might be worth trying out at some point.

Just as the man next to him got onto talking about fastening a hush fell over the tavern, and the tentative twangs of a lute being tuned shivered across the crowd. Henry craned his head across the table to see who’d come to play. A bit of music certainly wouldn’t go amiss, and it’d help take his mind off of his bruises.

“Good people of Kuttenberg, I thought I’d dedicate my first song to a helpful young man, who recently got me out of some hot water.”

The man was familiar, and it took Henry only a moment of searching to recall the dazzling smile and familiar voice. William, the bard who’d been implicated in the killings him and Katherine had looked into. But, the idea of him dedicating a song to someone who’d helped him sent a shiver down Henry’s spine. He’d heard similar words from bards before.

“When it seems you’re out of luck.
There’s just one man who gives a fuck!”

Henry jerked backwards and hid his face in his tankard, praying for the moment to pass quickly.

“A friend who’ll never leave you stuck.
Now who can that friend be….?”

William strummed furiously at his lute, building the tension and Henry took a deep sip of beer, bracing for the worst. Then, there was an answering chorus from all around.

“Henry!”

He choked on his drink at that, yet even as he coughed and sputtered, William went on.

“Henry! Our hero Henry! The fellow who helps his fellow man!” The people were getting into it, clapping and stomping in time to the music, and Henry felt the horrifying realisation settle over him, that the damn song had caught on.

He glanced up from his drink and found that the attention was solely on William as he capered about, playing his song without a care in the world.

Henry looked from one side to the other, and stealthily slid from his seat. He shuffled across the yard towards the door of the inn as the song went on. And as a chorus of laughter erupted at the mention of a sheep’s rectum, he slipped inside.

He slammed the door behind him and leaned gratefully against the wall, breathing a sigh of relief. A polite cough brought his attention back away from the song, rumbling softly through the door as it reached the climax.

“You getting sick of that song too?” It was Havel who’d snuck up on him. The little man tiredly rolled his eyes as the applause drifted through the door.

“Yeah… it’s uh… not to my taste,” Henry replied stiltedly.

“Ain’t that the truth? I’ve heard it from a dozen different bards this week.”

“A dozen!?” Henry choked on his words and his voice broke in a way it hadn’t in years.

“Well, maybe not quite a dozen, but it seems every two bit minstrel out there is dedicating that song to their own personal Henry,” Havel snorted, “guess everyone’s looking for their own hero right now.”

“Guess so, whoever this ‘Henry’ fellow is, he must be quite the man.”

“Don’t think he’s even real. Henry is an idea, you see,” Havel waved a finger at him as he lectured with all the bravado of a master in Prague, “there’s a million Henrys, it’s such a bland, common name. So, Henry could be anyone. Even you could be Henry,” he told Henry, “It’s aspirational.”

“I… see,” Henry replied, wondering just how a song written by a pair of drunken louts had gotten people thinking so deeply.

“If you’d prefer to avoid the music though, I could have one of the girls bring dinner up to your room.”

“Yes!” Henry jumped on the excuse happily, “I mean, that’d be for the best,” he stretched his arms and gave an exaggerated yawn. “I think I’d best get an early night tonight, I feel exhausted.”

“Of course sir, of course,” Havel replied with all the servility of a man who’d already been paid handsomely for his employees’ efforts. “It’s just upstairs.”

“Thanks,” Henry bid the man farewell, grateful to escape anyone bright enough to link him to the song.

As he climbed the stairs, feeling all the day’s aches over again, he knew he had one person that he still had to play the Hero Henry for. And he’d best hope he could get that job done as best he could.

Chapter Text

“And that, my friend, is how I won my very first duel!” Brabant declared, he struck a pose that Hans was sure was supposed to appear heroic and dashing, but looked more like he was tending to a bruised rib.

Sometimes the chatter was comforting, a void of pointless noise to press against the crushing walls that seemed to creep a little closer whenever he wasn’t looking. Right now it just felt more like an irritation. It was getting late and Hans had to work out some more energy pacing if he wanted any hope of getting to sleep.

Seven steps. He counted them as he crossed the room, back and forth. Was it eight yesterday? He couldn’t be certain, but there was a dreaded pit of fear widening deep within him that suggested it likely was. Would it be six steps in the morning? He could already barely breathe but for smelling Brabant’s flowery perfume. He swore that Von Bergow let the Frenchman keep it just for the sensory assault it afflicted on Hans.

“You seem distracted, Sir Capon,” Brabant observed. He took a seat at the table and twirled a leftover chicken bone between his nimble fingers.

“I’m fine, I’m just sick of this bloody room,” he aimed a low kick at the wall which did little more than give him a stabbing pain in his stubbed toe. He pulled back with a hiss and Brabant chuckled at him.

“You will be out of here soon enough. Your Uncle will pay your ransom, yes?”

Hans nodded. Hanush would pay, and then he’d never let Hans hear the end of it, even though it was he who’d sent him to parley with a traitor for a doomed alliance.

“Then rest yourself, relax. We have soft beds, good food and wine. You’ll not see such luxuries should you head back out on campaign. Treasure this moment of peace.”

“Oh yes, such peace I’ve earned!” Hans snapped, rounding on Brabant, “my uncle will think I’m an idiot forever, who’s cost him a tidy sum in ransom. I’ll never be allowed my inheritance and I’ve killed my best friend!”

Brabant favoured him with a pitying look, then poured two goblets of wine. He took one for himself, then pushed the other before an empty seat at the table, indicating for Hans to sit down.

“Come then, we shall drink to your Henry. Tell me some story of him, and we will keep his memory alive.”

There was nothing else to keep alive. Last Hans had seen of him, he’d tried to rush the guards when Von Bergow had been dragging Hans away, still half out of his mind from the explosion. The damn idiot had no weapons of armour, and Hans was snapped out of his stupor at the time by the sight of a club smashing into Henry’s head. He’d screamed for him at the time, but of course it made little difference.

Either he was killed by that club, or he’d been dragged off to be tortured to death by Toth. He hoped it was the former. He could at least tell Radzig that his son had fallen in battle then, it wasn’t too far from the truth.

Brabant coughed into his hand indiscreetly and Hans realised he’d been staring at the goblet for a bit longer than was reasonable. He gave a frustrated groan and sank into the chair opposite Brabant. He picked up the goblet and swirled the wine, staring into its murky depths as if they contained the answer of how his life had become so fucked up so quickly.

“Right, a story about Henry,” he thought for a minute, searching for the right one for the moment, eventually he settled on an amusing one that he hoped wouldn’t ache too badly to share, “Shortly after we’d met, a most disastrous first meeting I’ll remind you, Henry was sour with me. Cross that I’d beat him in an archery contest,” Hans lied smoothly, “So when he was given the job of closing up the taverns by the bailiff, he decided to order me, me to leave a tavern in my own bloody town,” he chuckled at the thought. Henry had looked so bloody proud of himself at the time too. A blacksmith’s boy in truth, no warrior yet. His borrowed helm drooped over his eyes and he’d stood so awkwardly at attention while telling Hans with all the false courtesy he could muster that he simply had to leave the tavern. That he took no joy in kicking Hans out.

“A bold move,” Brabant observed, prompting Hans to continue.

“Bold and stupid in equal parts. But that’s… that was, Henry,” He corrected himself with a pang of disappointment. His throat felt tight but he pushed onwards, “He wouldn’t back down and we got in a fight over it. I don’t remember he threw the first punch, but we were soon rolling on the ground like a pair of dogs, trying to beat each others’ faces in.”

“A friendship forged through fire then. I’ve had my fair share of those. There was this one time with Count-”

“Allow me to finish,” Hans cut in before Brabant could start on one of his rambling tangents. “My Uncle didn’t care for me getting into fights. Honestly, at the time I couldn’t see why it mattered. Henry was clearly in the wrong.”

Of course, he reflected, that was all before Henry’s heritage had come to be public knowledge, which put a lot of the strange, preferential treatment he received from Radzig and Hanush into context.

If Radzig hadn’t bothered with the charade, if Henry had been raised by his father, then Hans would have known him all his life. They’d have sparred as boys, gone on their first hunt together. No doubt they’d have been in a contest to be the first to seduce a lovely maiden. Everything would have been so much more fun with him around. Prone to exploding in a cavalcade of shit, but exciting and bright and exhilarating in a way Hans had hardly known for most of his life.

And now he was dead, most likely. Tortured in some dungeon until he bled out. He’d nearly fainted like a damsel at the mere sight of the place and he’d been locked in there. Henry deserved better than that.

“Mon amis, are you alright?”

With a start, Hans realised that he’d been staring into the air for quite some time. He took a deep, bracing sip and forced a carefree smile onto his face.

“Fine. Where was I?”

“Your Uncle did not appreciate your brawling.”

“Ah yes, well. He forced me to take Henry out on a hunting trip the next day, as a sort of forced bonding experience, I don’t know. It turned out to be quite a bit more than that. Whilst I was chasing down a boar that I’d fatally wounded with an arrow–”

“Are you certain of that?” Brabant cut in.

“What?” Hans snapped, hackles rising at the interruption.

“Boars are hunted with stout spears, and dogs. An arrow will just enrage the creature,” Brabant explained. He scratched at his chin in thought for a moment, “Perhaps a crossbow might work, but that hardly seems sporting.”

“A bow works just fine, if you’re a good enough shot. Which I am,” he added quickly before Brabant could interrupt him further. “Anyway, I found myself running into a patrol of Cumans. They caught me off guard and I was soon lashed to a tree. But then Henry he,” suddenly it was quite hard to speak.

Life had been simpler before Henry. Simpler and safer. He’d not feared for his life daily, fought in wars and wet his sword with blood. The biggest threat he faced was angry fathers of deflowered daughters. If he’d gone hunting alone, been without Henry, then the bastards may have killed him. They didn’t speak his language, he couldn’t communicate that he was a nobleman. They didn’t think of ransom or political gain.

“He saved my life,” Hans choked out. A wave of impotent frustration rose in him. He was tempted to throw his wine across the room, but he’d be dealing with the smell for days then. Instead he slammed his fist into the table hard enough to rattle the plates and leave the seed of a throbbing bruise on his hand.

“He sounds like a rare, and brave man,” Brabant said haltingly, he reached a hand hesitantly towards Hans, but seemed to think better of offering comfort, and instead diverted himself to the pitcher of wine, refilling his cup.

“I just… part of me expects that at any moment he’ll somehow come crashing through that door, covered in mud and blood with some absurd escape plan,” he gave a short laugh, “But I’m just kidding myself, I suppose.”

He’d have to wait for the ransom, then endure the indignity of it all for the rest of his days. Worse still, he wouldn’t have Henry’s teasing to balance it all out.

“Wait, do you hear that?” Brabant grew serious all of a sudden, his eyes sharp and his voice soft, yet commanding.

Hans tilted his head and listened. Distant, but growing closer, was the sound of footsteps of stairs.

“I wouldn’t expect a servant until morning,” Hans muttered.

“It’s peculiar,” Brabant agreed, and as a wicked grin spread over his face, Hans got a glimpse of the dashing adventurer he claimed to be, “but perhaps an opportunity.”

Hans hesitated for a heartbeat, then downed the rest of his wine in one painful gulp. “Right. I don’t need Henry to save me, I’m Sir Hans Capon.”

“That is the spirit! Now. We prepare an ambush!”

Chapter Text

Von Bergow, Von Aulitz, Erik. Henry’d not been anticipating any one of them being present, yet all three sorely tempted him to try his luck. For Skalitz, for the pain they’d inflicted on him, for what they’d done to Hans. For the way that they talked about him like a piece of meat to keep dogs at bay. Hiding in the shadow of the keep, Henry’s hand flexed and clutched at his father’s sword, leather squeaking beneath his grip.

But… he loosened his hold. They were surrounded by soldiers, at the heart of their territory. Even if he could somehow get to them, he’d be lucky to even get a few swings at one of them before he was cut down. He’d eschewed armour for the sake of stealth, and he was all too aware of how vulnerable he’d be in a straight fight.

So he watched, and waited. He followed their plans, yet he looked away as a messenger arrived through the castle gates. Then he felt the uncanny prickling at the back of his neck. As he returned his attention to Von Bergow and his allies, he noticed a fourth had appeared.

Toth lingered half a step behind Erik. He wasn’t sneering, or preening or gloating as Henry had always seen him. He looked… troubled. His face was twisted with grief and frustration, and he reached out towards Erik right as the messenger announced his death.

Perhaps he was looking so distraught because he knew he rightfully belonged in hell. Some of the dead seemed unaware of what was going on, and if anyone deserved such a rude awakening, it was Toth.

But, Toth seemed to resolve himself. He took a step towards Erik, shook his head swiftly as if he was throwing off water after a bath, and reached out to Erik.

Toth’s hand passed through Erik’s back right as the man froze up. Henry could hear the faint murmuring of his voice, but from such a distance, and from behind, he couldn’t make sense of the words. He half resolved to shuffle a few paces closer when Erik drew his sword in one swift motion.

Henry froze in place, for one heartstopping second he thought he’d been heard, but then Erik swung his sword down viciously at a yapping dog, near cutting it in half.

Henry bit his tongue to stifle a curse and staggered a step backwards. He was fortunate that Erik’s display had drawn all eyes, for his foot slipped beneath him, scuffing in the dirt and nearly tripping him over.

“WHO?!! Who? Speak!” Erik shouted into the shocked silence. Istvan’s ghost had one hand clamped over his mouth, looking as if he was going to be sick. There was some small part of Henry that took a sick pleasure in such a sight, but he far more reasonably knew it was time to make himself scarce.

He fled into Maleshov’s keep with Erik’s desperate vows of vengeance biting at his heels.

“I swear by everything that is holy, I will find that whoreson and rip out his heart!”

Henry remembered, faintly, that when he’d confronted Istvan, he’d not pleaded for his own life. But he had begged for Erik’s.

–#--

Every step of the way through Maleshov had Henry’s hackles raised. Hearing Erik’s vows to kill him and seeing Toth’s disquiet spirit certainly had set things off to a poor beginning, but the way he’d had to blunder around the tower, dodging guard patrols certainly hadn’t helped. He had no clue where they’d be keeping Hans.

Hans had told him before that noblemen generally were treated well as prisoners, so a dungeon seemed out of the question. His Ma had told him stories as a boy of princesses locked in towers, and he’d asked her if he’d ever get to rescue one himself. She’d just laughed and said ‘we’ll see’.

As he proceeded up the keep’s main tower, he supposed he’d get the chance to prove that prediction correct. Although, Hans wasn’t really a princess, and he’d probably resent it more than a little if Henry called him one. Then again, the look of put-out grumpiness on his face might make it worth it by itself.

Near the top of the tower, he found a locked room, and he could just barely make out some faint muttering beyond it. His heart leapt into his throat as he thought he recognised one of the voices. His hands shook and quivered as he fumbled with the lockpick, trying to break past the door that was keeping him separated from Hans.

Eventually he felt the snick and click of lock giving way. Eagerly, his hand fell upon the handle, and he pushed the door open. He peeked his head into the room cautiously, before stepping inside.

The room was dark, but a faint smell of smoke hung in the air, that of freshly snuffed candles. He could vaguely make out the shape of a table and chairs in the centre of the room, maybe some beds against the wall, then he noticed a faint movement in the gloom.

“Hans?” he whispered, right as the movement went from careful to rapid. There was a faint whoosh of wind, then something hard and metallic smashed into Henry’s face.

Pain blossomed from the impact and he felt a spurt of warmth from his nose that dribbled down his face. His eyes welled up with tears and he clutched at his abused nose on instinct

“Kurva!” he hissed through bloody lips, right as he felt a pair of long arms wrap around him, pulling him into an awkward grapple.

“Monsieur Capon! I have hold of the fiend!” Henry’s attacker had a peculiar, thick accent, but he picked out the key word in that.

“Hans! Call off this damned lunatic!” he called as loud as he dared.

“Henry?” A fresh dribble of blood issued from his nose as his heart raced at the familiar voice. He barely noticed how tremulous it was for the relief he felt.

There was a patter of familiar footsteps as the shadowy figure rushed across the room to him. “Brabant, let him go. That’s Henry!”

“I thought you said he was dead.” The gangly arms released Henry anyway, leaving him free to pinch at his bleeding nose.

“Dead? Why would I-” then it occurred to Henry that the last Hans had seen of him, he was being dragged off by Toth to be interrogated.

“You bloody fool, what are you even doing here?” Brabant’s grip was replaced, by Hans’ hands gingerly touching his arms and face, like a panicked drunkard searching for his front door, “You escape from a dungeon and you throw yourself into danger again.”

“Well, I had to save your noble arse, didn’t I?” Henry groused as Hans’ frantic hands finally calmed down, settling over Henry’s arms in a position that seemed somehow familiar. He hesitated for a second before pulling Henry into a hug.

Henry leaned into the touch, and for a moment the darkness, the uncertainty of their escape, and the throbbing pain of his nose didn’t matter. He felt Hans’ forehead settle in the crook of his neck.

“I thought you were dead. That I’d have to tell Radzig what happened, that I’d have to…” Hans trailed off with what sounded oddly like a sniffle, before he swallowed, loud and pronounced.

“Aw come on, I’ll always come back to you,” Henry kept his voice light and placating, yet he couldn’t help but picture that moment of Toth reaching towards Erik. The idea of being stuck as a ghost, unable to speak to Hans, merely left to watch whatever fate had in store for his idiotic friend was abhorrent. He found his arms tightening around Hans at the thought.

Then there was a flicker of light, and the spell of the moment was broken.

“I thought we could use some light to plan our daring escape,” Brabant said. He held a freshly lit candle in his hand, its wavering light cast strange shadows over his face and Henry thought for a moment, he saw something looming over the man’s shoulder. But as he pulled away from Hans, the shadows shifted, and the shape was gone.

“Right, that’s what I was here for.” Henry’s nose finally stopped bleeding and he noticed, with a little embarrassment, that he’d left a wet, discoloured patch on the shoulder of Hans’ pourpoint. “Um, sorry about that.” He gestured to the spot.

Hans glanced down at it, then a look of exaggerated horror came over him. “Really, Henry! Bleeding all over me like a stuck pig?”

“Well, I wouldn’t have been bleeding if you hadn't lobbed a lump of metal at my head.”

“Oh, it was just a goblet, stop exaggerating.” Hans rolled his eyes, and Henry couldn’t help but chuckle at the familiar banter.

“Gentlemen?” Brabant prompted and Henry straightened himself up, trying to look the proper warrior he was meant to be.

“Sorry, Braybent was it? Let’s figure out how to get you two out of here.”

Chapter Text

“Free at last!” Hans’ voice broke over his giddy proclamation as he tipped his head to the sky and flung his arms wide. The dawning sun caught on the gold of his hair, and tunic, making him look as if he was carved of amber and flame, and as he tipped his head, Henry caught sight of the edge of his wide, carefree smile.

He should always look like that.

There’d been a minor snag in the rescue operation. Perhaps for a stranger, Henry would have ignored the objection and forced them through the tunnel. But not for Hans, never for Hans. He’d been imprisoned for weeks, locked away at Von Bergow’s whim, stewing in isolation and fear.

Strange as Brabant was, Henry owed him some thanks for keeping Hans company during his captivity. Finally though, things could get back on track. Hans was safe, and Henry felt quite certain that between the two of them they could figure out how to kick Sigismund out of the region. They’d managed everything else together.

Hans glanced back at Henry and gave him the full force of that smile that he’d declared to be completely irresistible for any beautiful woman.

“You’ll fall off your horse at this rate, you bloody show off!” Henry shouted at him playfully.

“I was born in the saddle, raised for it!” Hans shot back, “I’m no amateur that has to cling to nag’s reins for dear life just because-woah!” His horse swerved around a dip in the road and Hans flung himself over its neck, huddled tight to the reins.

“I can see your expertise, my Lord!” Henry gave a hearty laugh at that and Brabant joined in happily.

The hairs on Henry’s neck stood on end, and that was all the warning he got before he felt a pair of chill arms wrap around his midsection and a half-there chin rested upon his shoulder. He managed to hold himself back from flinching enough to jerk his horse’s reins sideways, but just barely.

“I remember when you looked at me like that.”

That voice, soft and sweet as she was in the small hours of the night. It tore at something in Henry, an old ache that thrummed like a veteran’s scars during a rainstorm.

“Bianca,” he breathed quietly. He wanted to turn to look at her, his old love, the one he’d failed so badly by running away. But they were not alone. As uncomfortable as her touch was, it was a beautiful reminder of her presence, and all he had to content himself with.

“Glad that you remember me. I almost thought that with all your adventures that I’d be left behind,” he felt the chill spread to one of his hands, and he glanced down briefly to see Bianca’s slender fingers glide over his right glove. He’d worn her ring on that hand for so long, but it’d been lost during the ambush at the pond. He’d searched when he later returned to the spot, but he knew it was a lost cause.

“I could never forget you,” he whispered to her, “I loved you. If not for Sigismund and his army, we might have been wed by now.”

Ma and Pa loved her, she was always clever and resourceful. A good, sensible girl was how his mother always described her. He never cared too much about sense: he cared for her laugh when he told a joke, for her smile when she saw him, for the soft touch of her hands, the way they felt in his as he spun her around at an evening dance, firelight in her eyes and the grace of pixies in her footsteps.

“It would have been nice,” her cold chin rubbed against his shoulder as she nodded, “you’d have taken over your father’s forge, given him some time off now and again. We’d have built a home, planted a garden… I always wanted a little girl,” her voice trailed off sadly.

It was a beautiful vision. He could finally understand a little of what Martin spoke of, of the need to settle down, to find a peaceful life. Part of him longed to return to his days in Skalitz. When war was a distant concept and swords were only ever plunged into a quench and not another man’s guts.

But he wasn’t that same Henry anymore, and he knew, deep down, that it wouldn’t be so easy to take up such a life again. He’d always wonder what adventures he could be having with Hans, how they could be changing the world side by side, earning honour and glory, and maybe the occasional terrible song.

“You deserved all of that. And more,” Henry replied, but it was hollow, and they both knew it.

“Thank you, but… I know it’s just dreams. Can I ask you to do something for me?”

“Of course,” he replied immediately. He’d never deny Bianca anything.

“Even with your new love… can you remember me? It may be selfish, but I don’t much care for the idea of being forgotten.”

“New love? What are you talking about? I-I mean, of course I won’t-forget you, that is. But what?” Henry sputtered. Perhaps she was calling him out for choosing adventure over ever settling down.

She let out a long, slow breath, the way she always did when Henry was missing something that she deemed painfully obvious. “You really need to think about what you’re feeling, Henry,” she patted his arm condescendingly, “I don’t think I’m the only one who’ll notice.”

He wanted to demand some kind of explanation for what exactly she meant by all of that, but he found her grip drifting away, and that goosebump-raising touch evaporated with the rising sun.

–#--

Henry felt distinctly grateful that Radzig and Hanush happened upon their little party after their escape, rather than before. Everyone seemed happy enough to brush how he and hans had fucked up under the rug and leave it at that. But he wasn’t sure that he would have had the courage to face them had Hans’ fate still been unknown.

As it was, they’d been able to catch up with only a small modicum of embarrassment, and some lingering regrets of the deaths of their escort. After giving their report, Hans was called away by Hanush to discuss exactly what would happen next and, somewhat to Henry’s surprise, Radzig dismounted and moved a few paces from the rest of his men, before beckoning for Henry to follow him out of earshot.

Henry wasted no time in eagerly following his Father. His presence felt liberating. Henry knew he was no great strategist, and he appreciated having Radzig’s steady hand in the region. He’d surely be able to direct any resistance better than Henry’s fumbling attempts.

“You look like you’ve been through hell, Son,” Radzig said by way of greeting.

“Don’t I know it,” Henry was splashed with blood, mud and grime, and a blooming bruise from a goblet to the face. That combined with the dark, rough cut clothing made him look more like a brigand than a Lord’s bastard. Although, he’d come to appreciate the difference between the two could be fine.

Radzig fished a shiny, red apple from a pocket, and tossed it to Henry. He fumbled with it for half a moment in surprise, but managed in the end.

“I find it’s easier to manage without sleep if I’ve at least got something in my belly.”

“Thanks.” Henry bit into the apple and hummed gratefully as the sweet spurt of juice soothed his dry mouth.

Radzig was staring at him, he realised, and he wiped his mouth, half sure he’d committed some kind of faux-pas in just digging in. “Sorry,” he muttered.

“No. No, it’s fine, you’ve done no wrong, my thoughts were merely… somewhere else,” his Father gave a half hearted wave, as if trying to snare his thoughts in hand. “Amongst all the troubles you’ve endured, I must ask, have you been alright?”

There was a weight to that question and Henry knew that he’d best weigh his own answer in turn. “I… I’ve uh, it’s been difficult. When we were captured, and I got separated from Hans.” He paused, and had to hold back a shiver as the memory of tacky, cold, phantom hands swam through his mind, “Von Bergow was not kind in his captivity. But I suppose I just tried not to dwell on it, Capon needed me.”

Radzig’s questioning look softened and he drew a step closer to Henry. Henry fought against himself taking a step back on instinct.

“I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have had to go through something like that. When we get to Raborsch, we can have a healer take a look at you.”

Henry nodded along but paused at one part of the suggestion, “Raborsch?”

“Of course. Jobst is gathering potential allies for Wenceslas’ cause. We can’t afford to miss such a summit. I daresay it might be a good learning opportunity for you as well.”

“For me? But I need to take word back to Zizka and the others. I, didn’t think that you’d–”

“Henry,” his Father’s voice cut through his concern, clean and sharp as a well honed sword. “We can send a man to let your new allies know your mission was successful, but I want you with me. Can I count on you for this?” Again, there was that expectation, that doubt that Henry had to meet. He supposed it’d be too much good luck for the incident with Lev to be forgotten.

He’d have to own up to the truth of the matter sooner or later. But he didn’t know how to approach it. Instead he nodded, resolute. “You can count on me, Father. And I’ll make sure Hans doesn’t get into any more trouble.”

“There’s a good lad.” The look on Radzig’s face was satisfied, but not quite as steady as it once was.

He missed the way it used to be.

Chapter Text

Henry remembered, once that when he was a boy, Johanka had told him that baby chickens couldn’t swim. Not as ducklings could. He’d thought that ridiculous, if one bird could swim, why couldn’t another? To prove his point, he’d tried putting a chick into a bucket of water. He’d been ready to gloat to Johanka about how wrong she was, but the fluffy little thing had floundered and panicked, its feathers soaked through and weighing it down. If his Ma hadn't heard the frantic chirping from the yard and come to investigate, then the little bird would have drowned.

Henry was starting to understand how the chick felt. His father had clearly been expecting to bring Henry along to Raborsch since his departure. He’d brought along an embroidered coat of deep blue, a soft white shirt and dark coloured hose that fit him like a glove. Still, even dressed up like one, a chick isn’t a duckling. He saw the way his father and Hans, and even Hanush, handled the gathering with confidence and grace, and found himself freezing in indecision.

He’d posted himself outside the kitchens, so anytime a server came by with a tray of food or drink he’d have the first chance to grab a taste. People didn’t seem as keen to talk to someone in the middle of a snack. He was also, conveniently, able to watch the slow trickle of nobles coming to answer Jobst’s call. Hans had stood by him at first, pointing out each dignitary that arrived, but eventually he’d grown listless of standing around and decided to embrace his noble obligations and begin gathering information.

Henry meanwhile watched each new arrival with vague interest, and often found himself watched in turn. No doubt many wondered who had chosen to dress up a servant and play pretend at an important diplomatic meeting.

There was however, one arrival that made Henry choke on a mouthful of tart. As he coughed and wheezed he found an equally shocked pair of eyes upon him. It was his brother. Samuel had arrived alongside an old man in priestly looking robes. They were a little odd and ostentatious, but Henry guessed that must have been a Jewish thing. His brother hadn’t dressed up special at all, and Henry distantly wondered if that meant he was more comfortable than him or less.

Either way, he resolved to speak with him, and he shortly found himself crossing the courtyard towards the pair. Samuel looked down at his approach and began busying himself with his belt’s clasp, as if it were coming loose. Henry faltered for a moment, but just briefly. He quickly forged on to greet the pair.

“Greetings young man,” the priest said, calmly looking Henry over. “It’s not often that I receive such an enthusiastic greeting.”

“Enthusiastic?” Henry asked, before realising that he’d likely overlooked some polite protocol, and that his mouth had pulled itself into a smile at his brother’s appearance, “I’m uh, sorry if I’ve caused any offence, your Holiness?”

He looked to the man for confirmation and he huffed a thin breath that almost sounded like a laugh, “you’ve caused none.”

“Oh good, I just. I wanted to talk with my brother.” Samuel stilled at that. He was still looking down at his trousers, one hand on his belt and a faint furrow in his brow.

“Oh, your brother?” The old man paused and gave Samuel a long look, but he didn’t rise to the bait. “Samuel did mention you. You’re Henry, yes?”

Henry nodded.

“You’ve been working with Liechtenstein as well. A good man is spoken for by the company he keeps, I often find. Would you not agree, Samuel?”

“Zeyde, please,” Samuel said quietly. The old man gave a small smile and shook his head.

“I believe you two have a few things to speak about,” he took a step away from Samuel who immediately perked up at the old man’s retreat.

“But shouldn’t I–”

“I will just find somewhere to sit. I’ll be perfectly fine while you share what you have to say with Henry here.” With that the old man slipped away with surprising speed, heading towards the keep and leaving Samuel pinching his brow in frustration.

“I… get the feeling you’re not quite so pleased with this,” Henry admitted.

“Oh, you do?” Samuel gave a breathy chuckle as he spat the words, “Seems Martin didn’t spare any expense in educating a perceptive son then.”

Henry flinched at the accusation and the bitterness it held. But as he did, Samuel winced in turn. He folded his arms tight across his chest and worked his jaw. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I looked into your whole situation a bit, at first I was angry because I thought that Martin simply abandoned my mother and I for a new family. But he’s not your real father.”

“He’s not, no. But I–”

“It doesn’t make it better though,” Samuel cut through Henry’s protest. “He still abandoned Mother and I. While you had your ideal little life, I had to live without a Father. There was always talk of who he could be.” Samuel let out a breath, long and slow. “Mother wouldn’t tell me for so long, she didn’t want me knowing I was a goy’s bastard.”

A silence fell between the two. There was a distant drift of conversation from upstairs and a barking of a dog somewhere in the night.

“Martin never told me himself… nor did Father. I had to learn it from the man responsible for torching my village,” Henry admitted quietly.

“Shit,” Samuel muttered. And something burst.

Henry wasn’t quite sure why, but he started to chuckle, softly but unstoppably. It was a laugh that left him feeling aching and cold, like falling in a snowbank, but it bubbled from him all the same. What surprised him even more was that a few soft laughs came from Samuel as well.

The strange spell of humour slowly dissipated, leaving something raw and vulnerable behind, like a wound divested of its dressing. “I wish that I’d known,” Henry admitted, “about Radzig, and Martin.” He gave an awkward wave towards Samuel. “About your mother and you. But I suppose Pa knew he’d never hear the end of it.”

“Even if that meant your family was torn apart? If he chose to stay with my mother?” The whole idea didn’t seem very likely to Henry, not because Martin wouldn’t want to make things right like that, but he’d never heard of Jews being very accepting of outsiders. Still, while working with hypotheticals…

“If I could have known you. I always wanted a brother.” He’d looked to the other boys in Skalitz for such a connection, and later Hans, although something in him recoiled at the mere thought of naming Hans his brother. “I don’t have much of a family left. And I know what it’s like to lose one all too well. So, even if it’s not perfect, or what we expected. Do you think we could try? At least for a little while?”

Samuel scuffed one of his boots lazily against the dirt, and watched a pebble as it tumbled forward to bounce against Henry’s fine shoe. “I’m not sure I know how to be anything like that. But, maybe it could be worth a try. If I could ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“Would you tell me a little more about our father?”

Henry smiled, feeling a salve on that open wound. Even if this meeting and alliance fell apart, at least there’d be one small victory to speak of.

Chapter Text

After speaking with Samuel, finding some semblance of peace there, and perhaps, a new familial bond, hanging around a bunch of nobles no longer felt quite so intimidating. Henry managed to exchange brief words with a few and they didn’t immediately pick him out as a blacksmith bumpkin. Sure, being the bastard son of a noble wasn’t that much of a step up, but with Radzig in the same castle, few of them were willing to do much more than screw up their noses in protest.

The negotiations were growing tense though, even Henry could tell that. It seemed like most of the people gathered, despite supporting Wenceslas, would rather stick their heads in the sand and pray that Sigismund would simply get bored of his pillaging and return to Hungary. But then again, Henry supposed that none of them had ever had their village burned down and all their loved ones slaughtered.

It all seemed a bit of a headache to sort out. He resolved to find his father, see if he had any ideas, when a flash of silver, sparkling in the torchlight drew his attention. Then, a deep, tinny voice followed it.

“Espèce de démon! Êtes-vous fier de vous? Siroter du vin et manger des pâtisseries comme un porc?”

The language was unfamiliar, but judging by the fact that no one else was reacting to the shouts, Henry could make a solid guess as to the nature of the speaker. He stepped around a pair of noblewomen and caught full sight of the shouting ghost.

He was a man in full plate, a near giant, half a head taller than Henry at least, and girthier than the average warrior. He loomed behind Brabant, who was enjoying a glass of red wine and oggling the noblewomen who Henry had just passed. Henry caught the Frenchman’s eye, and he gave a wave that was returned right as an armoured hand passed harmlessly through Brabant’s skull.

“Ah, Henri, what a pleasure it is to see you, mon amis! I did not think you’d be invited to such an event,” Brabant greeted while Henry crossed the room.

“I’m surprised you’d be interested yourself, considering how your last battle went,” Henry bit his tongue as Brabant bristled and realised that it might not have been wise to bring up Kuttenberg while the wound was still fresh.

“That, is exactly why I was invited,” Brabant said primly. His head was tilted up so proudly that Henry could count his nose hairs. “None other than I have put up so gallant a fight against Sigismund and his invaders. The defeat was simply out of my control.”

“Ne parlez pas à Vauquelin! C’est un menteur!” The ghost shouted at Henry, and despite himself Henry’s glance darted over Brabant’s shoulder at the incensed knight. The knight noticed Henry’s stare and froze. He swiped a hand in Henry’s direction and on instinct he swayed back to avoid the chilling touch he knew he’d suffer were the ghost to make contact.

“Mon dieu…”

“Henri, what are you doing? Have you perhaps had a bit too much wine?” Brabant asked and Henry shook himself mentally as he tried to flow back into the conversation.

“Nothing, it was just… I thought I saw a bee. It’s gone now.”

“Aggressive little things,” Brabant sniffed, “I do not care for them one bit. Although I had a friend who kept them on an estate of his. The honey he shared was delicious.” he kissed his fingers for effect. “C’est parfait. I do not believe you have anything so flavourful here in Bohemia, all your food is dreadful bland.”

“It’s not that bad, I’m sure. You seem to be enjoying the wine at least,” Henry suggested

“Vous pouvez me voir, sorcier. Ne prétendez pas que vous ne pouvez pas.”

The ghost was rambling at him again. Henry hoped that perhaps if he just ignored it for long enough that it’d assume his actions were a coincidence. It was difficult enough to deal with ghosts at the best of times. Let alone when he couldn’t understand a bloody word they were saying.

“It is overall too heavy for my taste, but it does suffice.” Henry just caught the end of Brabant’s statement after the ghost quieted down for a moment, and he took it upon himself to smile and nod politely.

“Very insightful. I’ll have to take that to heart next time I pretend to be a sommelier.”

“I am… not quite sure what you mean by that Henri,” Brabant paused and rubbed at his chin, “Were you planning to work as a waiter, perhaps?”
“Me, a waiter? Could you imagine?” Henry jabbed a thumb at himself, “Far too much standing around quietly and politely for me.”

The ghost, it seemed, tired of polite conversation, inserting himself between Henry and Brabant. Or, partway through Brabant. Space didn’t mean much to the dead.

“Ne l’écoutez pas! Il m’a laissé pour mort et a volé mon cheval!”

The damned ghost couldn’t take a hint, it seemed. Henry wondered just what in the world he was even supposed to do with a ghost that ranted at him in a language he couldn’t speak. He dealt with enough of that when he spoke with Adder, and he at least had the decency to leave his face uncovered to help with the games of charades.

Henry stepped quite deliberately to the side, and tried to send a reproachful glance towards the ghost. But as he finally caught sight of Bravant again, his right shoulder shoved through the ghost’s armoured torso, he noticed an odd look of confusion on the chevalier’s face.

“Ah sorry, there was a draft.”

“Vraiment? I do not feel much of anything. But perhaps you are sensitive to the cold.”

“Right! Yes, always have been, ever since I was a boy.” Henry seized on the excuse gratefully. “Ma always had to bundle me up in three extra layers before I went out in Winter.”

“Mon cheval, mon doux Papillon,” the ghost said with a hollow hiccupping whine which Henry suspected was going to herald tears. Whatever he was whining about seemed to mean a lot to him.

“What even is a Shevah?” Henry muttered to himself.

“Un cheveux?” Brabant asked, taking Henry’s musings as an open question. “Hair, that is what it is.” He plucked at a strand of his own for effect. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh I… uh, heard someone say it once. But… hair? Are you certain?”

“If cheveux is what you heard,” brabant replied with a languid shrug. “Many are the men who have failed to grasp the complexities of my tongue. You would not be the first to make a mistake. I once met a rather unfortunate fellow who got the words for knife and sewing mixed up.”

“Why would that be a problem?”

“It got him thrown from the tailor’s for threatening the man,” Brabant said dryly. “Really, le couteau et la couture. What sort of fool cannot keep such things straight?”

Henry felt a prickle of annoyance at that judgement. Really it didn’t seem so hard to mix up words in French. Even Hungarian made more sense, especially when some Cumans spontaneously developed the ability to speak Czech.

“Pourquoi le seul sorcier que je rencontre parle-t-il comme une vache espagnole?” The ghost whined in his echoey voice. Maybe if he was lucky, Brabant could give him some sort of clue to all of this. Although, judging by the shouting the ghost might have been holding some sort of grudge.

“Uh, and what is ‘Oon vush espanyoll?’” Henry asked, trying to affect a casual tone.

At his mangled French though, Brabant laughed and sputtered, deep maroon wine leaking from his pursed lips. Henry moved to pat him on the back, but the chevalier waved Henry back and produced a silken handkerchief from some hidden pocket, and delicately cleaned himself up as his coughing subsided.

“That, mon amis, is quite an amusing little thing to hear. If you are saying what I believe you were, then whoever said it was not very fond of you.”

“And what is–”

“Henry!” Henry and Brabant (and the knight ghost by the clinking of armour) all turned towards Radzig as he approached. There was an effortless confidence that his Father seemed to possess at these sorts of events, and Henry tried to surreptitiously to adjust his posture just slightly to match Radzig’s ‘attentive but approachable’ stance.

“Father, is everything well?”

“Well as to be expected when you get a few dozen members of the upper crust together,” Radzig replied with a knowing smile that just barely failed to reach his tired eyes.

“Pardon sir, but I do not believe we have met. Vauquelin Brabant,” Brabant inclined his head in a half bow.

“Sir Radzig Kobyla.” Henry’s father returned the gesture. “I see you’ve met my son.” He gave a brief nod towards Henry who couldn’t help but shuffle his feet a little awkwardly. It got a little easier each time, but being introduced as such still felt a little odd.

“Ah, you are the Sir Radzig of whom Capon spoke. Your name came up many times during our captivity.”

“All in good context, I should hope,” Radzig replied with a light chuckle. “But that reminds me. I was talking with Hanush a moment ago, and it seems there’s to be an announcement.”

“I hope it’s some kind of plan being settled,” Henry said.

“I won’t say for certain, but I’m feeling cautiously optimistic.” There was some spark of amusement in his father’s eye, but Henry didn’t dwell on it too much. Some things like surprise announcements and loud French ghosts would just have to reveal themselves in time.

Chapter Text

“My niece Jitka will take young Lord Capon … as her husband!”

Henry froze up at Lord Botschek’s joyful proclamation. He could hear cheers erupting, enthusiastic clapping, some toasts being started. But it was distant somehow, muffled, like he’d stuck his head underwater.

“What?” The word tumbled from his mouth, heavy and cold as a stone.

Hanush looked at him, that boyish grin still on his face, not so much as perturbed by Henry’s distress. “Exactly, my boy! I couldn’t believe it either.” He turned to Botschek. “Sorry to say but your niece will have her work cut out for her with that one.” The pair of them erupted into renewed laughter.

It was a joke. It must have been. Henry’s head turned, slow and jerky as a gate with a rusty hinge, until he saw Hans. His best friend’s jaw was slack as Zizka shook his hand and the Devil clapped his back in congratulations.

Their eyes met and Henry found his own disbelief mirrored there. He was reminded of Trosky castle, of seeing Hans led up to the gallows while he’d rushed to save him. But he wasn’t so powerless then. If some agreement of marriage had already been reached, then what could he do? What power did Henry have to direct such an alliance?

Belatedly, he realised that perhaps it was odd for him to think of Hans getting married the same way he did his execution.

Hans mouthed his name, but he couldn’t hear it. He wasn’t sure if that was because no sound came out, or because the world was seeming so foggy. Jobst was saying something else, and a fresh round of cheers erupted. As attention left Hans, Henry found himself taking a staggering step towards him. Hans mirrored it, but then Brabant was between the two of them, raising a glass in Hans’ direction.

And a hand was on Henry’s arm. “Henry!”

“What?” He blinked, and turned on his heel. The distant distortion faded from the world and a clear, sharp queasiness made itself known in the pit of his stomach. His eyes itched, and he blinked them a few times to clear away the feeling. In the sharpening world he saw Radzig, mouth slightly ajar as if an observation was caught in his craw, and a slight crinkle of concern lingering around his eyes.
“I was just going to let you know I’ll be leaving shortly. Seems Jobst doesn’t use the word ‘immediately’ lightly.” His eyes flickered over Henry. “Are you feeling well? You look like you’ve had a fright.”

“Actually, I am feeling a bit out of sorts. Maybe it was something I ate,” he excused, and his father took the explanation with a small nod.

“You did seem to be doing your fair share of sampling earlier,” he teased. Henry wanted to give a chuckle at that, but he couldn’t force much more than a weak grimace.

“When did this all happen? Hans’ engagement?” Henry asked quietly. The blue bloods loved to arrange their weddings young, but he’d not thought Hans had such a future looming over his head. He’d certainly never spoken of it. Unless that was why he’d been so set of making something of himself, making his father proud from beyond the grave.

“That was Godwin’s doing actually,” Radzig said lightly, and Henry felt an irrational stab of fury at that. Surely Godwin wouldn’t be so callous as to sell away Hans’ freedom for a few extra swords. “Apparently he and Liechtenstein were working on this behind all our backs. I’d not expected such statesmanship from him. Hidden depths to that man.” He stroked at his chin.

“So, no one asked Hans. No one asked him if he was ready for this? Or if he was prepared to make the sacrifice for the alliance? They just did it for him.”

“There’s no need for such dramatics,” Radzig pitched his voice low and soothing, and Henry realised he’d been bordering on shouting with his outburst. His jaw clenched tight as he tried to keep his frustration in. “Capon’s hardly going to die. I thought you’d be happy for him. He could do with a bit of stability in his life.”

“But he’s got plenty of stability. He’s got Rattay and Hanush and me. Is a wife somehow more stable than his people and family?”

Radzig paused and licked his upper lip slowly. Henry could all but see the wheels turning in his head as he considered his next words. “The two of you almost died. Multiple times,” Radzig said slowly, “There’s charm and excitement to a life of adventure, but it’s hardly stable.” The words were an echo of those Henry had heard from another father a few months and a lifetime ago. Yet from Radzig they didn’t seem like genuine advice. They were selected to placate, to pacify. Somehow that just made the kernel of rage spark brighter in Henry.

“So what? You’ll be settling down next? Did you and Hanush put yourselves forward to be engaged for this alliance?” Radzig’s conciliatory smile went brittle but Henry forged on. “Will I be called on next? Or am I too unstable for that?” He snorted, harsh and bitter.

The last of the smile fell away from his Father’s face at that and Henry felt the fury burn itself out. He’d almost expected Radzig to shout at him, call him an ungrateful, impertinent bastard, or anything else. But instead a look of concern came over his features.

“Henry, why is this so upsetting to you?” He asked quietly. Whatever bitter remark Henry wanted to throw his father’s way died on his tongue. He’d not stopped to consider it. From the distant anger he could still feel at Godwin, to the sloshing nausea to the slowly descending veil of helplessness, he just felt … overcome.

He’d not been so worked up about anything since those early days chasing Runt. Angry and confused and lost and desperately wanting to break down and weep like a child. But he’d forgotten how to do that years ago. Boys didn’t cry.

“I need to talk to Hans,” he said. He shrugged off his father’s arm, and Radzig let him walk away.

“I’ll be leaving within the hour.” There was an unspoken offer in that, but Henry knew where he was needed now.

He threaded through the throng of celebrating nobility, only pausing to exchange a quick word of thanks to his brother and the Rabbi for their support, although even their good mood couldn’t lift the cloud settling over Henry. He shortly sidled around them, leaving Samuel to his attempt at dancing which made Henry look positively light footed.

Hans was still busy being bombarded by well-wishers and congratulations, and still looking as lost as a trout on a mountaintop. But as Henry approached, he turned away from the old noblewoman tutting at him and his face lit up with a hopeful smile.

“Henry! Thank God you’re here. I hope you’re not here to just offer some blessings on my nuptials as well, right?” He tried to twist it into a joke, but there was a tremor in his voice that Henry couldn’t quite put down to fear or fury.

“Nothing quite like that.” He glanced around at the crowded hall. “I thought you might need some air,” he whispered.
“A wise plan,” Hans agreed, still sounding more than a little unsteady. “This doesn’t have anything to do with you wanting some of that roast pig they’re cooking out there, does it?” Hans tried gamely for the joke. It wasn’t his best attempt. But Henry laughed anyway.

“I have a devious mind, Milord.”

“Shameless peasant. Very well, I won’t see my squire hungry.” Hans slung an arm over Henry’s shoulder, ostensibly to guide him along, but as they walked through the thronging, celebrating blue-bloods, Henry couldn’t help but notice just how much weight was being rested upon his shoulders.

Henry shivered as they emerged into the dusk. Free from the press of bodies and castle walls he could feel the chill of the coming night. Hans’ body pressed against his own was a point of warmth he was grateful for. The yard itself was mostly empty. There were a few patrolling guardsmen, and some grooms hurried towards the stables (no doubt to prepare for his father’s departure), but it seemed almost all the guests had moved into the hall.

Hans took a deep breath and looked to the sky. “It’s a joke, isn’t it? I keep thinking it over and it simply has to be some grand jest played at my expense.”

“I’m afraid it might not be.”

Hans released his breath in a long, slow sigh, “I was afraid you’d say something like that. Come.”

Hans led him up and along the battlements until they reached the corner of the wall, then he finally disentangled himself from Henry and slumped back against the crenelations. He tipped his head to rest against the stonework and Henry paused at the sight.

The setting sun outlined Hans’ tired, hopeless figure, much like after their escape from Maleshov. It lit him up like amber and flame and Henry was struck by a thought that seemed so natural, so obvious, that he’d never stopped to examine it before.

By God, he’s beautiful.

Then Bianca’s words came back to him, ‘I remember when you looked at me like that’. Then his father’s question hit him like a blow from a warhammer. ‘Why is this so upsetting to you?’.

Henry scabbled a hand to support himself against the wall as a furious chorus of denials began to rise within him. He just cared for Hans. They’d been through deadly peril together more than once, but this didn’t feel like comradery. He loved him like a brother, but this was nothing like what he’d felt for Samuel. He simply… was worried about Hans getting himself killed or captured again, why else would his thoughts keep straying to him at all hours?

It couldn’t be anything more. Anything more would be–

“I’m glad you’re here,” Hans said, soft and sincere, so unlike himself that Henry’s spiralling thoughts ground to a halt. “Don’t know how I’d manage this sort of news without you.”

Then his lips quirked, just slightly, into that irresistible, devil-may-care smirk of his and Henry felt like he’d swallowed a whole bottle of the Musk of Infinite Allure. Then he realised just how well and truly fucked he was.

Chapter Text

Henry took another deep swallow of wine. It was cheap and sharp, but it was better than being sober. All the good stuff had been long since drunk, and even the wealthiest of men became a poor judge of wine when sufficiently inebriated.

Henry prayed, desperately, that with each mouthful that the realisation of his… feelings, would vanish from his mind. He’d yet to find a better way to expunge such things than getting well and truly drunk, but this particular tidbit seemed stubborn.

Indeed with each mouthful, his mind became more intent on pointing out every little detail of Hans’ too handsome face. His sharp cheekbones, his cute nose, the way that his hair was just so perfect, even when he was matching Henry drink for drink and well on his way to blacking out, he was perfect.

“It’s just, not fair.” Hans tapped his own bottle sullenly against the wooden walkway. One of the patrolling guards spared the two of them a glance but little more. They’d taken over the corner hours ago and were hardly worth noticing it seemed. “She’ll probably be hideous, or an unbearable shrew.”

“She could be both,” Henry added glumly.

“Thanks for the support,” Hans scoffed, he tipped his head back and took a long swallow from his bottle. Henry forced his eyes away from the bob of Hans’ throat.

“Do you have to, though? I mean, surely something could be negotiated.”

“You heard them in there,” Hans spat, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “The whole bloody alliance is apparently resting on my life being ruined. If I dare and think for myself, then I’ll forever be known as ‘Sir Hans Capon, the selfish shit who doomed his king and country.’”

He may have been right. Henry wished he could go and give Godwin a piece of his mind for what he’d done to Hans, but that’d mean leaving Hans’ side. Drunk, miserable, frustrated Hans. He didn’t think he could do that.

“You could run away,” Henry suggested.

“Ah yes, because that’ll make me look so much better than backing out of the wedding.”

“Well, what if it wasn’t your fault?” Hans gave Henry a curious look, and Henry had to continue, perhaps it was the wine but he was feeling cleverer than usual. “See, I could kidnap you,and then we could run away. People would all say, ‘oh that Blacksmith bastard was a thug all along’.” He waved his finger at the air, imitating a gossiping fishwife. “He went and kidnapped poor Capon. Stole him away from his beloved bride.”

“And then what?” Hans laughed at the ridiculousness of it all. “Would we go travel to France and eat awful cheese?”

“Nah! We’d become outlaws, famous robber barons, and our gang would steal so much sausage from Sigismund that he couldn’t feed his army anymore, and he’d have to take them all home.”

“Ah yes, the classic, outlaw sausage gambit.” Hans flicked Henry’s ear and he gave an exaggerated yelp and flinch. “Seriously, who the fuck have you been talking to about stealing sausage?”

“I think it’s a good plan.”

“You bloody would. With all that sausage you could feed yourself and your dog for two whole weeks.”

They were drifting closer together, with each barb, Henry’s tipsy sway brought him close enough to smell hans’ wine-soured breath and see the building amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“Well I–”

“Hey! Hey! Intruders! Enemies at the gate!” Henry twitched back from Hans at the shout, an irrational guilt and fear nipped at him, at the thought that someone had stumbled across them in that moment, drunk off their arses and talking about abandoning the wedding.

Of course, the reality was not so harmless.

“What the fuck is he going on about?” Hans groused. He supported himself on the battlement wall and rose to his feet. Henry meanwhile scrambled up to look at the courtyard below.

He saw the first men in Sigismund’s colours burst into the yard, and cut down the guards posted by the entry before they could so much as draw their swords. A bellow of “Seize the nobles, kill the rest!” followed on their heels.

“Shit, there’s half a bloody army out there and– kurva!” Hans cut himself off with the expletive, and Henry found his friend’s weight slamming into him from behind, sending them both toppling right as an arrow whistled through the air above their heads.

“We can’t go one day without someone trying to kill us,” Henry grumbled, trying to disentangle himself from Hans, and deliberately not thinking about just where Hans’ thigh was pressing into him.

“I still think you’re cursed.” Hans managed to worm himself away from Henry and yank him to his feet.

The world tilted and wobbled as Henry tried to steady himself, and he cursed himself for his lack of caution. There was a bitter tickle of smoke in his nose, and a bright flare of light drew his attention to where one of the attackers had thrown a torch, setting the castle alike.

He and Hans backed away from the growing flames, but they were cut off by the pounding of armoured feet on wood from behind. One of the soldiers was charging up the stairs of the battlements, sword in hand. Henry instinctually reached for his own blade, but cursed aloud when he realised he’d left it with Pebbles’ saddlebags in the stables.

“Hans, do you have a sword?” he whispered.

“I just got out of captivity, where would I have gotten a sword from?” It was a fair point, and Henry fumbled for his dagger in response.

He held it before the two of them, pointed towards the soldier, and shielding Hans with his other arm. It said something about the situation that Hans didn’t raise so much as a word of protest.

The soldier looked from Henry, to his little dagger, and huffed a soft laugh, then swiped his sword through the air, emphasizing the difference, and advanced. He was overconfident, and that was something Henry could use to his advantage. He had plenty of times before in a fight, but this time he had an extra issue to contend with.

He swiped down towards the soldier as he advanced, but found himself missing, and nearly tipping forward, down the stairs, as his vision wavered and his stomach protested. He grabbed at the railing with his free hand to stop himself from falling, but had to stumble back as a gauntlet fist whooshed through the air, aiming straight for his face.

He barely had a moment to consider it odd that the man wouldn’t use his sword before the hand was reaching for him again. He swiped at it again with his dagger, but once again he missed, then it clamped over his wrist and squeezed hard.

Henry swore he could feel his bones grind together and he gave a yell of pain as he dropped his dagger from his spasming fingers.

“Henry!” Hans shouted behind him as his dagger thumped into the ground. Then Henry was yanked off balance and spun around. He managed to bite back a second cry as his arm was twisted behind his back to the point where he felt like it was going to pop from his socket. But only because he feared that if he did open his mouth he’d vomit his dinner all over the walkway.

The soldier shoved him along a few helpless steps towards the steps. And called out towards the courtyard. “I got one! But there’s another up he–ugh!”

He cut off with a pained gasp and the crushing grip on Henry’s arm abruptly ceased as the weight of the soldier slumped against him, Henry staggered to the side and the man fell to the ground, Henry’s dagger sprouted from the back of his neck like a fresh shoot in the spring. He gawped at the corpse then looked back to Hans who was busily wiping some blood off his hand and onto his hose.

“Well? Grab his sword,” Hans snapped. He moved quickly, unfastening the bow and quiver strapped to the dead man’s back with fingers far surer than they should have been.

“Right.” Henry took his dagger from the corpse with a wet sucking sound, then pulled the man’s sword free in one smooth motion. The blacksmith in him despaired at the dents and scratches in the surprisingly well balanced sword. But he didn’t have too much time to dwell on it as he and Hans moved to assist Zizka and the others in the defence.

As it so often did in a chaotic battle, the world narrowed down to a small, noisy, stinking hell. Henry’s mind was fully immersed in the acts of parrying, striking, blocking and moving without falling over. His delayed reactions and swimming head resulted in more than a few nicks and cuts, and the lovely coat he’d been given was near torn to ribbons. He had a brief moment of worry for his father. That his party might have encountered the Praguers on the road, but he wasn’t given much time to dwell on it.

Yet every time that it seemed his opponents seemed to have the upper hand, they’d suddenly sprout arrows from their torso, or arm, or on occasion their eyes. Henry didn’t think he could make those shots sober, he wasn’t sure what was giving Hans such focus, but he was grateful for it, and privately vowed to himself that he wouldn’t let anyone get to Capon. He wouldn’t let him die.

The attack was eventually broken up by the bright flash of pistoles, and the awful bangs that always left Henry’s ears ringing. Kubyenka led Janosh and Adder in the rescue, and despite how odd the man looked in the brightly patterned garb of a waiter, Henry could have sworn he was an angel straight from heaven.

That was until he shared what he’d learned whilst spying.

Chapter Text

Samuel’s leg bounced impatiently as the cart trundled along. Despite the urgings of the Rabbi, a few horses could only pull them along so swiftly and Henry could see how each moment chafed and pulled at his brother’s nerves. He kept scanning his head around in the pre-dawn gloom, as if he expected Markvart’s men to lunge out the darkness.

Henry’s drunken haze had moved from its pleasantly hazy and fuzzy stage to the pounding after ache in his head, building nausea in his belly, and dryness in his throat and mouth. It was an awful feeling, but he didn’t think it would affect his coordination too badly. They’d hopefully get to Kuttenberg before the sun, with its stinging light, was too high as well.

“We’ll make sure they’re okay,” he said softly. Samuel’s head jerked back towards Henry from its methodical scanning.

“You cannot know that. They may already all be dead, we may return to the Jewish Quarter and find nothing but burnt homes and slaughtered children.”

“Calm yourself, Samuel, have faith. The Lord will not abandon his people so cruelly,” the Rabbi said from the driver’s seat. He shook the reins lightly nonetheless, trying to coax a little more speed from the plodding horses.

“Because it’s never happened before,” Samuel muttered towards his feet.

“No need to get your pizzle twisted,” Kubyenka added from his seat. For his part he looked completely unconcerned and Henry counted his blessings for the man’s unexpected reliability. He wished Hans was with him, even if Liechtenstein was right and it was safer for him to be left behind. He’d know what to say to lighten the mood. “Do you know how long it takes a proper fighting force to muster? No way that Markvart would be able to get them ready for the slaughter before the sun’s up.”

Samuel winced at the word slaughter and Henry gave a warning slap to Kubyenka’s arm. He only shrugged helplessly as if confused by what could have been taken poorly in his words.

“What Kubyenka’s trying to say, is that we’ll have plenty of time. We’ll make sure everyone gets out of there safely.” It wasn’t a vow that Henry made lightly. There were still times when He’d close his eyes and see the ruins of Skalitz, smell the rotting bodies. Feel the shovel in his hands as he dug beneath the linden tree.

“You can’t know that though. And even if we get them out, what then? We will not be left in peace. If we have been marked as Sigismund’s enemies, then he will come for us again.” Samuel shook his head, then his shoulders. “We’ll need to do more than escape.”

“Does he remind you of someone?” It said something of Henry’s growing nerves that he was able to mask his flinch as a reaction to a bump in the road. Most people never got so used to hearing their dead father.

He slowly turned his head to the side, and saw Martin staring at him, then he turned to look at Samuel. Henry twitched an eyebrow in a question that he couldn’t voice aloud with so many watching eyes.

“You know what revenge can do to a man, how it can burn. Can I trust you to make sure it won’t burn him too?”

It felt like conversations with his Pa circled back to this far too often. He couldn’t say whether the idea of revenge was so unjustified as Martin painted it. But when he thought of another Skalitz, of the dead, of the ruined survivors, of the weeping ghosts, he knew that was reason enough to step in. He’d never got the chance to defend his home, and he’d be damned if Samuel suffered the same.

–#--

It seemed, perhaps, that Henry would be damned after all.

The Jewish Quarter was already under attack when he got there, Samuel’s friends had been murdered by thugs and the inn was already ransacked. It was good fortune that his brother hadn’t been there to see that. It weighed heavily enough on Liechtenstein by himself.

But the damage wasn’t limited to the inn and few men.

The streets were full of the wounded, and the dead. The air felt heavy and cloying, despite the bright sun that stung at Henry’s sensitive eyes. The hangover headache combined with the distant banging against the quarter’s gates in a sound reminiscent of demons marching out from hell. And yet, beyond that, there was another noise, thin and high and mournful, but too distant to make out.

And then there was Samuel’s mother. When Henry met her, he was brought up short. He half expected his Pa to make another appearance, but he remained absent. He supposed he’d never hear the end of it up in heaven from his Ma if he went to go and stare at an old flame, especially one who was still alive. There was no easy way to explain his relationship, not when people were dying. So he settled upon calling himself a friend of Sam’s.

They made what difference they could, fighting off the invaders and saving the few people they were swift enough to reach, but they were no army, and Henry doubted that Sam had tested his skills much in real combat. Still he fought with a steely determination that kept at bay at least some of Henry’s concerns.

That strange noise grew louder though as they approached the synagogue, and Henry could eventually make out a little more. It sounded like words, almost chanting, in a tongue he couldn’t decipher. With each step, it grew a little clearer, some grieving cries and sobs were mixed in and Henry feared what was to come.

He dodged around a woman in the street. She was splashed with blood and shuffled slowly forward, in the direction of the synagogue. Henry turned to usher her along, even if she was in shock, she couldn’t afford to slow down. But when he looked to her, he felt the uneasiness in his stomach spike and he clamped his jaw shut tight against the rising bile. She wasn’t splashed with blood, she’d been cut open. Down her front was a deep gash through which he could see the white of ribs and the gentle pulsing of organs through. Blood trailed from her wound in a continual stream.

“Henry, why are you stopping?” Sam snapped him out of it, and he turned from the woman.

“Sorry, thought I heard something.”

Sam cocked his head as they moved. “I think you’re right.”

Henry’s breath caught for a moment as he wondered whether Sam might have the same abilities as him, if perhaps somehow their connection had–

There was a distant crack.

“They’re breaking in,” Sam said grimly. “We must hurry.”

They rushed then, moving into a run, keeping Sam’s mother close between them. It was difficult for Henry though to keep up, more and more of the dead were filling the streets as he went. He must have passed by at least a dozen ghosts, in various horrible states, all slowly trudging along in their direction. He had to weave around most, but some he plunged through, feeling that bone-deep chill as he made his way onwards. There was little time to spare for the dead when the living were at risk.

But, as he moved through one, he felt a swooping vertigo. For a breath they were in the same space, and he felt him. He WAS him. An old man, too slow to run from Markvart’s men. He was struggling to shout for his son and wife to flee as he smashed over the head with a mace. Henry could taste his blood, a bitter spattering of brain juice dribbling from his crushed skull. And for that moment, he understood the chanting.

It was prayers. Prayers and pleading of the dead for God’s mercy, for their souls, and for the lives of those that still breathed. Desperate and heartbreaking. For a moment, Henry knew what it was to live in such fear, to be persecuted. He remembered Skalitz, being beaten by Runt into the cold mud.

Then it passed and he was running again.

For the first few steps he felt the cold hand of death clutch at his throat, and he was struck by a panic and a thought.

I can’t die. I can’t die, Hans doesn’t know-

Then he came back to himself properly. He wasn’t dying, his skull wasn’t crushed and his heart was pumping warm blood. His skin wasn’t cold and his breath came in ragged, exerted puffs. He was wonderously, gloriously alive. With each pounding step the reality sunk in and he treasured it.

Then the steadily building prayers brought his thoughts back to the moment. He was alive, but safety was a distant mercy, for him and all those in the quarter.

As the Synagogue came into view, Henry saw the crowds thronging it. Not just the defenders and Markvart’s men, but also dozens of people, bloodied and beaten, broken faces staring and stumps and hands outstretched in beseechment and supplication. The echoing prayers were everywhere, even over the din of battle he could hear them, Synchronising and building in some unknowable rhythm.
It was a challenge to focus, to keep his mind on the battle, to work side by side with Kubyenka and Sam to keep those fleeing through the tunnels safe. Even as Erik roared vengeance and a seemingly endless tide of men tried to overtake him, his mind still latched on those prayers. And the fear of his own ending seemed so much stronger, burrowing into his marrow.

Would he pass on to heaven, to be with his parents? Would he damned forever to rot with Toth for the lives he’d taken? Would he wander eternally with no end? Would his father weep for him? Would Hans drink a toast to his fallen friend? Would he do so if he knew what Henry felt for him?

His body entered a simple rhythm of blocking, praying, dodging, hacking, stabbing and chopping, while his thoughts spiralled like a swarm of ants. A strange state where his muscles guided him more than his mind. He’d sunk so far that he was shocked when he heard his Pa’s terrified shout.

“Sam!”

Henry was moving before he took in the scene. A soldier was swinging at Sam’s side with a spiked mace. It was in his brother’s blindspot and without armour the blow would pulp his organs to mush, leaving him to a slow, painful death.

Henry didn’t need to think twice. He leapt forward and shoved Sam out of the way. Then he felt the slam of the mace himself.

Chapter Text

There was a time in his life when Hans truly loved being able to sit back and do nothing. A time when he was all too happy to allow the rigours and struggles of the world to pass him by. So long as there were beautiful women, good wine and enchanting songs in his life, all was well. It might have been a selfish way to live, callow, even. But it made him happy enough. He wondered, miserably, when exactly he’d stopped being so carefree. It was probably all Henry’s fault.

Do-gooder Henry who had a bloody awful song written about just how much of an altruistic nuisance he was. Hans sighed deeply as he rested his head against the cool wall of the shitty little inn they’d holed up in. Hans was hardly ungrateful for hospitality, but being sidelined right after a battle while Henry ran off to save his apparent new brother stung a little.

He was too valuable to be put in harm’s way. Sir Hans Capon couldn’t possibly be allowed to risk his life. That had to be safeguarded so that he could be carted off to be married to some abominable shrew.

The mere thought had the lingering headache from the last night’s celebration flaring up angrily behind his eyes.

Perfect, just what I needed. Henry was no doubt faring worse, diving into battle with his own hangover well underway, and Hans tried to take some bitter satisfaction in that. Yet, he couldn’t help but think of the attack on Raborsch. Of the soldier grabbing Henry, twisting his arm until he cried out in pain. They would have taken him if Hans wasn’t there, off to be tortured or executed once they realised that a fancy coat wasn’t enough to merit a proper ransom.

Then again, Radzig might have paid it anyway. Few men prized their bastards so highly, but there were few bastards quite like Henry. Henry, who could be taking a sword through the guts while Hans sat on a threadbare mattress in a dingy inn, feeling sorry for himself.

The bow he’d claimed in Raborsch sat by the end of the bed. There were horses at the inn and arrows in his quiver. He could be mounted up and riding well before anyone had the mind to protest. His hand twitched, longing for a weapon and he pushed himself upright.

Then he heard a chorus of cheers from outside. He ran to the window of the room and poked his head out. A few men on horses were riding up to the inn, but Hans only had eyes for one of them. Henry, armour dented and smeared with blood and grime, swayed in the saddle as Pebbles carried him forth like a king greeting a royal reception.

Hans was running out of his room and down the steps of the Devil’s Den before he knew his feet were moving. As he made his way out into the sunlight, there was a round of cheers. Adder and Janosh were clapping Kubyenka on the back and heckling him gently (at least, Hans thought they were, Adder might have been threatening his life for all he knew). Zizka meanwhile was facing Henry, his hands planted on his hips as Hans’ squire awkwardly disentangled himself from the saddle.

Then Henry fell.

“Henry!” The word left Hans’ mouth in a startled squawk and he found it echoed by another voice. In surprise his gaze swung away from Henry for a split second as Zizka rushed in to catch him, and found his eyes meeting those of Samuel, Henry’s brother. He held the look for but a breath before he was rushing to Zizka and Henry.

“I’m fine, I’m fine, leave off,” Henry groused. He batted at Zizka’s arm, his gauntlet rattling like a drawer of silverware. “Just a bit saddlesore.”

“You sure you weren’t… unsettled by anything?” There was an odd hesitance to Zizka’s question, but Hans hardly paid it any mind, not when Henry still had a sway to his stance, even after Zizka helped him steady himself. It was too familiar, brought back memories of staggering naked through the woods, Henry mumbling like a fever patient with a bolt sprouting from his shoulder.

“Only what happened in the Jewish Quarter,” Henry replied. He then leaned in close to Zizka and whispered something in his ear that Hans couldn’t make out, and to which Zizka replied with a short nod.

Quite done with being sidelined, Hans marched up to the pair of them. “Henry, I let you out of my sight for half a day and you manage to get yourself beaten half to death.”

“Hans!” Henry whirled and flinched, hand flying to his ribs. “Ah! Sorry, got a bit more roughed up than I expected.” He gave a sheepish smile that didn’t quite transition from the pained grimace he was concealing.

“I’m just glad you’re back, I… let me take a look at that.” he gestured vaguely towards Henry’s torso.

For some reason, Henry flushed, and he rocked half a step back. “No, there’s no reason for you to worry about any of that, I can–”

“What? Get the Devil to look at it?” Hans snorted.

“I wouldn’t recommend that,” Zizka added. “That man is not known for his tender hands.”

Henry paused, and went quiet, that stunned fish look of his stole over his face as he tried to puzzle out what exactly to say. Well, Hans had spent plenty of time waiting around for him to return, and he wasn’t going to let Henry die of infection when he could spend a few minutes cleaning a wound.

“Just come inside, you dolt.” He grabbed Henry’s hand and dragged him back into the building. At least his friend had the good sense not to protest any more.

–#--

When he finally got Henry up into his room, he had to shuffle the man to sit him down on the bed. Henry’s head was stuck, staring down at the floorboards the whole way, as if he was ashamed of keeping his injury secret from Hans. His arms were wrapped around his midsection and the bed creaked softly beneath his weight as he rocked back and forth softly.

Hans stood in the centre of the room for close to a minute, waiting for Henry to do something other than act like a boy about to be chewed out by his mother for getting in a brawl, but Henry just sat there, silent.

“Alright Henry, strip.”

“What?” Henry’s voice broke around the word.

“Strip. If you’re injured, I can’t see it through your armour and shirt,” Hans said slowly. He had to wonder if Henry had taken a blow to the head. He had been seeing things since the ambush.

“Oh, yes.” Henry started to remove his armour. He was still moving abominably slowly though, he fumbled with each buckle and strap. Either his injury was paining him worse than Hans expected, or he definitely had taken a mace to the head. He couldn’t see any blood or swelling, but that might be yet to come.

Either way, he grew tired of waiting by the time Henry removed his gauntlets, and sat down beside him. Henry took his help quietly, lapsing into that strange, guilty silence as Hans helped him gradually remove his breastplate and gambeson, careful not to aggravate whatever injury might have been beneath.

Right as Hans got Henry down to just his dark green undershirt, he finally managed to find his words.

“I’ve been… struggling with something.”

“With a few blows to the head I’d say.” Hans pulled up Henry’s shirt, perhaps a little too quickly as his squire gave a short hiss. Beneath it he could see an enormous emerging bloom of dark purple surrounded by angry red. It looked like a blow from a mace right to the stomach. If it wasn’t for Henry’s armour, then he’d almost certainly be dead. “Jesus Christ, Henry. How’d you get caught out like this?”

Henry flinched as Hans carefully prodded at the wound. “He was going for Samuel and Pa didn’t wan–” He gave a sigh. “Pa wouldn’t have wanted him to get hurt.”

“I’m not exactly pleased to see you get hurt.” Hans sat back, taking in the tableau of bruising. It was certainly a nasty wound, but he couldn’t see why Henry would be so squeamish about it.

“Hans.”

“I might not always admit it, but I hate being treated as some precious game piece. Not just because of the marriage, or because I won’t be able to do anything of actual worth with my life–I… I don’t like staying behind while you go and get yourself stabbed by every up-jumped lunatic with a rusty sword. So can you please try and just… jump out of the way next time.” It was a graceless plea. Inelegant and childish, but he’d always found it difficult to hold to his graces when Henry was around, for one reason or another.

“I’ve been thinking about life, and death and things I’d regret if something happened… I’ve been thinking about my time in the monastery.” Henry was staring down at his lap again, hands wound together and fiddling like an agitated spider. “Did I tell you about that?”

“You told me about finding the bandit, and about how you were nearly caught out by your Latin, or lack thereof.” He playfully bumped his shoulder against Henry’s, but didn’t draw forth a chuckle.

“I… when I was in there, I got to know the other novices. Pretty well in fact. I learnt that Siskin didn’t care for his family, and had some pretty light fingers. I learnt that Jodok was a liar through and through, but there was one there, Lucas and I…” Henry trailed off, then huffed a breath sharply through his nose.

“Never mind.” He made to rise, but Hans reached out and grabbed onto his wrist, stilling him.

“What happened with him?” He asked quietly.

“He was a sodomite,” Henry admitted and Hans cocked his head curiously.

“What was he doing in a monastery then?”

“He said he’d never acted on it. He wanted to be cured of his impure desires. I asked and he said that he’d never been able to love a woman.”

An unfortunate state of affairs if Hans had any right to reckon. It was a peculiar thing for Henry to bring up though, unless he was driving towards some greater revelation. So Hans bit his tongue and allowed his friend to speak.

“He was a better man than the circators, more dedicated than any of the other novices. But they’d spit on him for something out of his control, and I couldn’t help but think, even then ‘well, is it really so bad?’ When you’re looking at sin everywhere, when people murder and rape and steal and burn down villages, is it really so awful just to… to love someone.” Henry’s face strained as he said the word, like one does when they pull a thorn from their palm. Painful, yet relieving.

“You sound like you’ve got something to confess yourself there.” It was meant to be a joke, something to burst the heavy air of anticipation. Hans was good at playing the fool when he needed to. But he couldn’t spark any levity in his voice. He drifted his hand over Henry’s, clasping them together to still the fidgeting and twitching.

They sat there for a few long seconds as Henry breathed deep and slow through his nose.

“I’ve been learning a lot about myself. I found a second father, a brother I didn’t know I had, I’ve learned what I’ll fight for and I… I,” Henry’s breath shuddered, and his eyes squinted tightly shut. Hans knew what was coming, what Henry was about to admit to him.

He should be disgusted, part of him knew that. Repulsed by it, by the notion that Henry could love a man like he would a woman. The priests spoke of hellfire and judgement, of sin and degeneracy. But, sitting in a shitty little inn room, all Hans could see was his best friend, who’d taken a mace blow to the stomach without complaint, brought to the verge of tears.

And it struck him, that for all the girls he’d fucked. All the fun little flings, warm mouths and wet cunts. He never stayed for any of them, they were fun diversions. But here, with Henry ready to expose his heart… he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.

Henry steadied himself and opened his eyes, raising his head like a man facing the executioner’s axe. “You may hate me for it, but I think I lo–”

Hans didn’t give him a chance to finish. He surged forward, wrapped a hand around Henry’s neck and smashed their mouths together in the clumsiest kiss he’d performed in years. Teeth clacked, and his breath stuttered into Henry’s mouth. The pressure was awkward and panicked, and Henry almost leaned away from him.

But he felt the moment that Henry realised what was going on, and his squire melted into him. It didn’t last long, someone could walk in at any moment. Just a press of fleeting, hopeful warmth and understanding, and then it was gone.

They pulled a hand’s breath from each other and he was left staring into Henry’s grey eyes, blown wide and shaky. Their hands trembled in each others’ grasp with delight and adrenaline at breaking such a sacred commandment.

“I, uh… I wasn’t expecting that,” Henry whispered.

“To be honest, neither was I. Not until it happened.”

“Can we–” Henry leaned forward again and Hans stalled him with a hand on his chest.
“Later. Tonight, we’ll need to wait for everyone to fall asleep. They’ll be expecting us soon.” Fortunately, Hans was no stranger at concealing illicit affairs. At least until fathers came around whining at Hanush about potential pregnancies. That was unlikely to be a problem here.

“Of course.” Henry nodded along. “I suppose we can’t just… you know.”

“Probably not.” Hans’ eyes flicked towards the door, and he judged it safe enough to press another quick kiss to Henry’s lips. “But we’ll figure it out.”

Chapter Text

It was… different, with another man. Sex, that is, or rather, maybe it was just different because it was Hans. Henry didn’t have a lot of men to compare him to. He probably never would, he’d felt like he was going to vomit the whole time he’d been trying to confess. Anyone he trusted even a little less than Hans and he’d had to have just buried the feelings.

But Hans was eager and more tender than Henry had thought. It was a tricky thing to figure out between them, men didn’t exactly have all the same parts as women. At times Henry moved to grope a soft breast and was met by firm muscle, and that was the least embarrassing of his fumbles. Hans would always laugh, a stifled giggle that his face went red trying to hold in. They couldn’t afford to be loud, the walls were thin and a heavy air of tension hung over them the whole time, that someone would walk in, flimsy inn lock be damned.

It felt so right though, like slipping the guard onto a sword that he’d been labouring on all day, to find that he’d cut it just perfectly the first time. He felt, for the first time in Christ knows how long, complete and content. Wrapped safe and warm in Hans’ arms, as his lord caught a few moments of sleep before fleeing back to his room, he couldn’t help but smile as he softly pressed his face into Hans’ neck.

“I told you we were the same.”

No. No no no no no.

“Leaping into bed with your pretty little lord. Did you take his cock like a good servant?”

Henry pulled his face away from Hans’ neck slowly and carefully, not wanting to disturb him in such a peaceful moment. Toth was leaning over them. Lips pressed together in thought as his eyes raked slowly over Hans’ body.

“Or did he take yours? I wouldn’t be surprised. He looks the type to enjoy a good stiff cock skewering him.” He leaned back with a quizzical eye and looked up and down Henry. “But then again, calling yours a ‘good cock’ might be a bit generous.”

“Get out,” Henry hissed, soft as a breath through clenched teeth. Hans murmured something soft and shifted in his sleep and he found himself freezing up again.

“Or what? You’ll stab me? Shove me out a window? I think not. I think you’ll not do much of anything besides lie there like a boned fish.” As if to prove his point, Toth leaned forward and pressed an insubstantial finger right through Henry’s forehead. It took everything he had to stop himself from jumping at the chilling touch that pressed deep into his skull where he should not have been able to feel anything at all.

“You don’t get to be here, you can’t just barge in on this,” Henry’s teeth chattered and he found himself squeezing Hans tight for warmth.

“Oh, I think you’ll find I can.” Toth pulled his finger back sharply and Henry exhaled an equally sudden breath. “And besides, you never seemed to have much respect for what Erik and I had. Why should I care about you and your pampered fuck toy?”

“Hans isn’t–”

“What? A desperate little bitch in heat? You did want to prove yourself the stronger dog, didn’t you? Is this why? Were you longing to swallow Capon’s sword since the day you met him, or did you only think of that later?”

“Shut up! You don’t get to talk about him like that!” Henry bit his tongue the instant the words fell from his mouth. He’d yelled them out and Hans jumped and flinched in Henry’s grasp, warm bodies split apart and the distance was horrifyingly, achingly cold.

“Shit, Henry! What are you doing? I know you’re almost a virgin, but shouting in the middle of the night, after an illicit affair, is a fucking stupid idea,” Hans whisper shouted into that growing space between them.

Henry’s mouth fell open, then snapped with a shut. He could still see Toth leaning above him, snickering at the little trick he’d played. “Have fun,” he crooned, before disappearing to… somewhere. Henry prayed it was a particularly fiery pit in hell.

“I’m sorry, Hans I- I had a bad dream,” he reached out, slow and hesitant towards Hans, but Hans slapped his hand away with a sour look.

“Well your bad dream could very quickly turn into a bad reality for the two of us if anyone, and I mean anyone, thinks to investigate why you’re yelling in the middle of the night.” Hans swung himself out of the bed and shook a leg nervously as his feet landed against the wooden boards below. “Where’d I put my smallclothes?”

“You don’t have to go,” Henry said softly. He sat up as well and pressed his thigh against Hans’ and was mildly relieved that he didn’t pull away again.
“I really do. The people here are a lot more threatening than the Rattay butcher, and I’ve not got any dolts to sing at them until they get confused and leave.”

“I think my singing is quite nice really. My Ma said I have a lovely voice.”

“Then she was a woman possessing infinite patience and an extraordinary skill at lying.”

Heny crossed his arms sourly at that. Hans leaned in quickly and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I am thankful to her for raising such a gallant son though.”

Henry was dumbfounded for such a long moment that he hardly had time to react as Hans slipped out of his reach and headed for the window, just as a pounding knock sounded at the door.

He stiffened at the sound and slowly craned his head towards Hans, who was already halfway out the window. He made a shooing motion and mouthed, “Distract them.” at Henry.

Henry pushed himself upright in jerky motions that gradually retained some fluidity as no one went so far as to break down his door, while the scrabble of Hans climbing down the outside of the inn drifted through the window.

He took a moment to smooth his hair, hoping that whoever was coming to check on him would take it as being sleep mussed rather than the lover’s messiness that it was.

He braced the doorframe with one hand, and pulled it open with the other, affecting a yawn as he did so.

“Aaah, what is it… Brabant?” He couldn’t keep the incredulity from his voice. The Frenchman was standing, calmly outside his door, fully dressed and quite awake. The familiar, armoured ghost floated behind him, and let out a derisive snort at the sight of Henry.

“Il écoutait à travers la porte. Abominable pervers qu'il est.”

Henry really didn’t have the energy to spare on whatever the ghost was grumbling about, so he turned his attention back to his guest.

“I heard a shout, it sounded as if there was some kind of argument…?” Brabant tried to peer over Henry’s shoulder, but he kept himself planted in the doorway. Last thing he needed was Brabant seeing the open window and putting two and two together.

“Oh that.” Henry ducked his head. “I uh, I had a bad dream… Sometimes all the danger and fighting, it gets to me.” He kept his voice quiet and shy, a shared secret hopefully juicy enough to distract any snoopers.

“Ah, my friend. It is a common affliction of most men to be touched by such trials as we have faced.”

“So you’ve felt it yourself?” Henry asked.

“Me, no! I am made of the sternest fibers. It would take the vilest demons of hell to frighten me.”

“Ou tout épéiste compétent,” the ghost added unhelpfully.

“Of course.” Brabant leaned in and placed a hand on Henry’s shoulder, trying to draw him into the hall. Henry kept himself in place with his grip on the door, but if Brabant felt any frustration he kept it from his face. “If you ever need to unburden yourself, I would be more than happy to share in any secret you may have. I will gladly take it to my grave.”

With the way Brabant talked it seemed likely that most everyone would be taking that secret everywhere. His Ma always said it was rude to pry, and a wicked thought struck Henry that he couldn’t help but indulge in.

“Actually, there is something,” He whispered. Brabant’s eyes lit up and he leaned in close. “It’s about you.”

“Moi?”

“Yeah. I crossed paths with a witch a few weeks back,” Henry explained and Brabant hissed, swiftly making the sign of the cross. “I know, I tried to leave, but she insisted she had something to share. She told me I’d cross paths with a man from a far off land, born under an ill-fated star, and dogged by a vengeful shadow.” Henry let his eyes drift up to the armoured ghost and a tinny, rattling laugh came from its helmet.

Brabant was staring, wide-eyed at Henry. By this point. “What is–”

“But I’m sure it’s not you,” Henry blithely cut in. “After all, you always say you’re so lucky, and who could ever want revenge on you?” He playfully punched Brabant’s arm. “Thanks for checking on me. I’ll try to keep my next nightmare quiet.”

“Oh, uh, oui. I was only doing my duty.”

Henry smiled wide, then shut the door in Brabant’s face. He’d have to tell Hans about the encounter later. He could only hope he’d find it more funny than concerning.

Chapter Text

Fighting the war was so much easier back in Rattay. There was no ambiguity or mystery to it all. Toth and his brigands had been razing the countryside, Markvart Von Aulitz had burned Skalitz in Sigismund’s name. It had only been righteous to track down the bandits, put a stop to their efforts and pursue peace. He’d felt like a knight in battle and a mastermind during his sleuthing. Now though… things weren’t so clean.

He’d pinned a murder on an innocent man. Sure, Grozav was on the other side of a war, and he may have had to die either way, but every mile of the slow, trudging trip back to the Devil’s Den, Henry could hear Chertan’s pleas and objections that they were accusing the wrong man, that Crow was the one responsible, but he’d ignored him. He pretended to be as deaf and blind to the ghost as everyone else in the camp, and a death was left unavenged. Worse, he’d helped make it so.

Every step of the way, pebbles’ hoofsteps formed an offbeat harmony with the trundling wheels that strained beneath the weight of the Finger of God. Liar. Liar. Liar. They said. They asked him just how much further he’d go for the cause, what other crimes might he commit?

And Crow was free, laughing and joking with Jansosh and Adder. A new recruit to their cause. Henry tried not to focus on him too much, and console himself in that he’d at least proved Musa’s innocence. It was a flimsy shield of morality, but it was the best his struggling conscience had to buoy itself with. It was another thing he’d have to talk with Godwin about sooner or later. He had a lot to confess.

But, as they finally caught sight of the Devil’s Den, he saw the other light in his life. Hans had lined up some straw targets outside the inn, and was putting on quite a show for Brabant’s mercenaries, landing one shot after another. Several other men were lined up, but none seemed able to match Capon’s accuracy.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Henry kicked his heels into Pebbles’ sides and launched the horse into a gallop, a few cries of complaint rose behind him alongside some nasal laughter from Adder, but they hardly needed a guard now that their destination was in sight.

“Hans, hey Hans!” He shouted as he rode towards his… he didn’t know what to call him. Lover sounded a bit too scandalous, he wasn’t really his Lord anymore, that was too impersonal. Some poet might have a better word for it, but he was Henry’s Hans either way.
Hans jumped at his shout and his shot went wide, flying off to strike a tentpost right by a sentry’s head. The man squealed and fell over, raising a peal of laughter from all around him.

“Jesus Christ, Henry,” Hans harrumphed and turned to him as Henry pulled Pebbles to a stop with a whine of protest from his old steed. “You can’t just go around shouting like a maniac while I’m concentrating. Elsewise.” Hans made a grand gesture. “You might get someone shot.” The reprimand was soft and by the look in his eyes, Henry could tell that Hans was only mildly peeved at worst.

“Right, um, sorry. Just thought that you might want to know that we got the cannon. So we can…” Henry trailed off as he noticed someone familiar amongst the mercenaries. Grey hair streaked with blonde. A neat, well trimmed beard and sharp blue eyes that were so very familiar.

His eyes drifted away from Jan and back towards Hans, seeing a younger mirror of those features. He swallowed around a building lump in his throat.

“Hello, Henry? You’re not falling asleep now, are you?” Hans snapped his fingers and drew Henry back to the present.

“Ah no, no. I just thought I heard a boar. But it probably got frightened off by your show of marksmanship,” Henry replied cheekily, trying to ignore Jan’s contemplative gaze.

“Oh, ha ha ha. You should be so lucky to see such a thing, peasant. I daresay boar shot by me would be the best meal you’ve ever had the pleasure of tasting.”

It would probably be pretty good, but the best thing he’d ever tasted was stretching the truth a bit. Still, Henry’s gaze drifted to Jan, where he stood near the back of the crowd, watching the playful argument.

“Very well, My Lord. I simply wished you to know that your humble page had returned from his life threatening mission. But I’ll withdraw from my interruption of your display.” Henry slid down from Pebble’s back and affected a bow more mocking than anything. One which Hans happily returned in kind.

“Such kindness from my hapless vassal, I shall remember this most kindly.” There was a playful lilt in Hans’ voice that made something deep in Henry’s guts do a giddy flip, and he barely managed to rein in his foolish smile.

“Ahem,” Hans cleared his throat, “Now, if you’ll kindly watch, I’ll display a true show of–”

“Jesus Christ! Look at that thing!” One of the mercenaries shouted, interrupting Hans’ grandstanding, right as the Finger of God wheeled its way into sight. Hans very quickly found his crowd of fans evaporating into the wind as all of Brabant’s mercenaries, followed by the few patrons still hanging around the inn, rushed to go and gawk at the cannon.

Henry had to shoo away the rising cloud of dust kicked up by dozens of feet, while Hans was left gawping and gesticulating hopelessly.

“I’m a lot more impressive than any bloody cannon,” he griped.

“Well, I’d normally think so. But it did nearly kill us once before, so I’m not quite sure I want to disrespect it.”

“Good to know you’re so sensitive to the feelings of great, bloody, noisy siege weapons.”

“Aw, I’m just joking. If you want to do a few more shots, I’ll be happy to watch. I’ve had more than an eyeful of that cannon anyway.”

Hans kicked sullenly at the dirt, and Henry half thought he’d refuse out of petulance, but he eventually gave a short nod.

“Very well, I suppose I can point out some of the finer points of archery that you’ve likely not been told of,” Hans decided. Henry rolled his eyes and Hans made a rude hand gesture back, somehow leaving them both smiling cheekily. Henry settled himself into a seat on the ground a dozen paces from Hans.

He wasn’t surprised when he felt the telltale tingle at the back of his neck, and the drop in air temperature that heralded Jan’s approach. He kept watching Hans, watched the clench of his jaw as he pulled the strings, the flex of his muscles, the press of his lips together as he focused on lining up his shot, and the way his eyes lit up as his arrow struck the target dead centre.

“Hah! See that!”

“I did! Well struck,” Henry called back. Then, as Hans turned to line up his next shot, he murmured out the side of his mouth. “You’re his father.”
“I am,” Jan confirmed. While Hans’ back was turned, Henry chanced a quick glance his way, and saw Jan was watching Hans just as intently as Henry was. “And you are his…”

“I’m his page,” Henry answered carefully, and suppressed a shiver as he felt the air temperature drop.

“I know what you did.”

Henry swallowed around a lump in his throat, as one hand rose up to clutch at his jaw, as if he was trying to stop anything more incriminating from falling out of his mouth.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” Jan’s voice was cold, but in the two conversations the only time Henry had ever heard him get emotional was when he was demanding that he keep Hans safe.

“Oh, yes!” Hans cheered as his shot landed with a whumph of shredded straw. “Nearly split my own arrow there.”

Henry stared at Hans as he threw his arms wide in a cheer, showboating as he would. Then he slowly lowered his hand.

“I kept him safe.”

“Did you?”

“I did,” he hissed. “I risked everything to save him from Maleshov, and I would again. Because… because he’d do the same for me.”

Jan was quiet for a long moment then, but Henry felt frozen in place, unable to look away from Hans, far too pleased with himself to turn around and see Henry’s dilemma.

“Why would he?” The question wasn’t so harsh this time, it sounded genuine. So Henry answered in kind.

“Because I love him, and I hope that he loves me back. I don’t know how that happened, but, even if you’re his father, I can’t let you come between us… My Lord.” Henry’s stomach clenched and turned heavy as a rock, but then Hans tossed a cheeky grin his way, twirling an arrow between his fingers and Henry suddenly found himself unfrozen.

“Careful not to drop that on your foot!” Hans started at his shout and nearly did drop the arrow as he flinched. He fumbled with it for a few seconds before he managed to steady himself.

“You are the worst audience I’ve ever had!” He sighed dramatically and turned back to his targets.

“I don’t approve,” Jan said in a small voice. Henry couldn’t help himself, he rounded on Jan, a curse on the tip of his tongue, but his hot blood cooled as he took in the nobleman. He was gaunt, and tired, staring with heavy, pale eyes at his son. “There’s no way it won’t end in tragedy.”

“What do you–”

“If he does love you, which I fear is true, then there’s no way you’ll ever be able to be truly happy. Together or apart.” He slowly looked away from Hans, and he held out a hand, slowly passing it through Henry’s own.

For that moment, he felt a lifetime’s worth of hopeless watching, fruitless longing and quiet misery. The death of Jan, watching his son from beyond the veil. Stuck in place, silent and grim.

“If you could tell Hans something, anything, what would it be?”

“I… I would say–”

“Wait,” Henry cut him off, and for a moment, he truly looked like his son, mouth open and eyes wide in affront at the interruption. “I have an idea.”

When he’d passed through that ghost in the Jewish quarter, he’d experienced life as him, just for a heartbeat. So perhaps he could push that connection a little further. Before he could second guess himself, he shuffled quickly into Jan.

The coldness was the first thing Henry felt, all enveloping and cutting straight to his core, like falling in a lake during winter. Then there was a brief rush of emotion and memory, too fast paced and powerful to grasp hold of, a lifetime of duties, woes, triumphs and tragedies assaulted his mind. He felt like he was losing himself, caught up in the current.

Then, his head turned, and looked at Hans, and reality snapped back into place. His legs moved, swinging with a grace more fluid than Henry’s regular gait, and he felt a strange sense of voyeurism as his head swung back and forth, surveying the surrounding tents and his nose sniffed at the scent of grass, spilled beer and road dust that filled the air.

Yet none of this did he do himself, it was like his whole body was a carriage, pulling his mind along where it would.

Then it stopped as it came to stand beside Hans. Right as he landed another shot, perfectly on target as always. Henry felt a doubled flush of affection, and his hand rose to clap Hans on the shoulder.

Hans swung around to face him. He tapped his bow against his leg as he preened at his own aim. “Well, how was that? Better than some bloody cannon.”

“Hans,” Henry’s voice said. He didn’t think, didn’t open his mouth, it just happened. “I’m proud of you.”

“Oh, I see. This is some attempt to flatter me.”

Henry’s body jerked forward and his arms were thrown around Hans in an embrace. He felt Hans freeze up for a moment before slowly, he moved in turn, returning the hug. “I love you, so, so much,” Henry’s voice was quiet, but it broke around the words, rough and hoarse.

“I… you know I feel the same.” Hans replied.

The cold left Henry then, the strange dysphoria melted away in Hans’ arms. And even though he wasn’t the one who began the hug, he was happy to hold onto it for a moment, warmed by Hans’ touch.

This warmth was all he had against the warning from Jan, that no matter what, their love would end in tragedy.

Chapter Text

The night was peaceful and calm. The warm air of summer was slowly slipping away into autumn’s chill, but it was still comfortably temperate. Crickets chirped lazily and there wasn’t so much as a cloud in the sky. It was the sort of night that children would use for stargazing or older boys for illicit rendezvous. Yet it was to be the night of an atrocity, a night of murder.

Henry felt as though he was on a precipice, standing outside Maleshov as the Dry Devil explained his plan. To burn a village as a distraction, to cause another Skalitz.

“This was the way my family was killed… They massacred them! And why!?”

“Kurva! That’s your problem. This is a war! And this is our plan for getting Von Bergow!”

Your problem.

That’s all it was to the Devil, a problem Henry had to get over, one that he simply wasn’t man enough to face. As if butchering a bunch of civilians was the same as gutting a boar after a hunt.

“And we’re no better?” He looked around for support, but the others didn’t seem too bothered by the notion. It sank in then, truly, that this likely wasn’t the first time they’d done something like this, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. Only one person had the good sense to at least look ashamed. “Sam,” He called to his brother, who winced at his name, and ducked his head to the side. “This’ll be just the same as the Jewish quarter. Are you really okay with that?”

Sam sucked in a sharp breath through his nose and his hands clenched at his side. “If this is the only way to punish Von Bergow, then so be it.”

“It’s not though!” Henry snapped. He swung back towards the Dry Devil, who was watching him with a sort of vague bemusement. “I won’t stand for this, we don’t need to kill innocent people to get results.” He jabbed an armoured finger towards the Devil with a faint clatter.

“So you want to be a commander, too? Let’s see what you’re made of then!” The Devil growled, and his hand crept towards his sword, “I can’t guarantee you’ll survive though.” There was an air of self satisfaction to his voice and Henry scowled at it. The Devil thought he was some cotton-headed village-boy who’d give up at the first sign of danger.

Maybe I’m not the smartest man in the world. But I know a thug when I see one.

“I can’t give you any guarantee either.” Henry drew his father’s sword, and he knew in that moment he’d won, for the weight it held, buoyed by expectation and obligation, had never felt so light.

–#--

After all was said and done, Rosa rescued and Von Bergow captured, Zizka called Henry to meet with him on the battlements by the gate. Most of the men were still celebrating their victory, but a few had taken to looting the castle. From above, Henry could see them swarming in and out of it like ants. When that had all started Hans and Godwin had left in short order to celebrate their victory at Suchdol.

Zizka’s back was turned to Henry as he climbed the stairs to meet him. His hands were splayed wide, steadying himself against the wall as he gazed out beyond. The village was waking properly by this time, as Henry came to stand beside Zizka, he could see a crowd gathering in the streets, looking and pointing toward the castle, no doubt more than a little confused at its most recent change in ownership.

“So you took command from the Devil.”

Henry straightened himself up, prepared for chastisement. “I did. I couldn’t abide by what he wanted to do to the village.”

Zizka turned his head, surveying Henry with a lazy look. “Was there the involvement of any… foreign entities in this?”

Henry caught his meaning quickly and shook his head. “No. I’d expect there to be dozens of ghosts lingering around the Devil, but there wasn’t so much as a whisper.”

“Really?” Zizka’s brow twitched. “I would have thought the same. But then again, perhaps it's because he’d just ignore them anyway.”

“So you’d think that if someone ignores the evil they do, then it just won’t touch them?” Henry grimaced at the thought, and eventually Zizka went on.

“The Devil will kill without regret, he really doesn’t care. It’s why Katherine can’t stand him. But.” He pushed himself away from the wall. “That’s what makes him useful. He’ll burn down a village or poison a well without a sliver of remorse. He’d steal from the dead, and torture the living without regret. He’ll do the things that need to be done to win a war.”

“And I won’t?” Henry snapped, he stomped up to Zizka, clapping a hand over the stone of the wall. “I’ll kill, I’ll fight, I’ll lie, but if we throw away decency, if we become just more murderers, then what’s the point of it all?”

“Because wars aren’t won with ideals.” Zizka said calmly.

“And they’re won with atrocities instead? Is that how you build a kingdom?”

“All too often, it is.” Zizka shrugged.

Henry scoffed, his gauntlet scraped against the stone as his fist clenched at the callousness of it all. From the Devil he expected it, but Zizka seemed at least a little nobler.

“You want to fight in this war, you don’t get to hide from the truth, Henry.”

“Oh, yes, Henry the crazy ghost lad from Skalitz, he’s just sticking his head in the sand. Not like I could be right about anything,” Henry snipped at Zizka, but to his chagrin, the man just kept that air of calm.

“You’re right about a lot of things. You’re right to get upset over massacres, to want to help people, to show loyalty to your friends and comrades. To draw a moral line when something goes beyond humane. But that’s not what I always need.”

Henry’s jaw clenched as he looked down on the people of Maleshov, people who were alive because he stood up to the Devil. There was reason in what Zizka had to say, he could understand it intellectually, but that didn’t have to mean he would just accept it, or condone what it meant.

Zizka came right up close to Henry then, shoulder to shoulder, looking over the village. “I’m sure you feel very proud of yourself for this. But good men still died. Men who it’s my responsibility to protect. You talk about ghosts to carry, well now we both have a few more.”

“They were prepared to fight,” Henry refuted.

“Prepared to die though? No one ever is. How many men have you seen meet their end calmly as opposed to crying and screaming and shitting themselves? In a perfect world yes, only soldiers would die in war, or better yet, there’d be no war at all. But we must contend with reality,” Zizka’s voice was still calm and even, but there was an edge to it that Henry couldn’t quite place, a demand for attention that he had to give credit to. He slowly turned and met Zizka’s gaze. It was cold, solemn and stern.

“I don’t want more slaughter. I don’t want any ghosts haunting me, like Brabant has, like the Devil should.”

“Then maybe you’ll need to change how you think. Or step back from battle. Because now, the lives of those men are on me, and they’re on you.”

Zizka pointed one finger, like the accusing hand of death, right at Henry’s chest, and his breath stuttered for a moment. He could almost hear, faint and distant, Toth’s mocking laughter.

Chapter Text

He was home again. Home in darkness and flames that somehow produced no heat, just a sullen, unfriendly glow. He felt lighter, hollowed, the weight of muscles he’d yet to build did not weigh upon him, and worn cloth, not cold metal rubbed at his neck, an old red scarf, not a steel gorget.

It should have been comfortable. But it choked him, like a constrictor snake. Henry coughed and pulled at it, yanking and tugging at cloth that grew rough beneath his fingers. Eventually with an almighty rip it tore loose. His breaths heaved as he looked down at his hands, to find a hangman’s noose in his grasp.

He dropped it with a stifled oath, and his head jerked back and forth as the sounds of screams and terror echoed around him. He was in Skalitz on the worst day of his life. Men and women, neighbours and friends lined the streets. Their bodies twisted and writhed. Slit necks gaped like the gills of fish, dead, glassy eyes rolled in their sockets, and spilled entrails wriggled like nests of maggots.

Then they all stopped at once, and every dead gaze fell on Henry. Then came the screaming. Each snatch of sound echoed through the darkness, from throats seen and unseen. The people of Skalitz were only the beginning, then came brigands he’d killed in battle, a panicked horse shrieking its death throes, the terrified screams of soldiers buried beneath the cannon shot of the Finger of God. His parents joined in last, terrified pleas for help, demanding Henry to save them. To be stronger, faster, smarter, crueler, whatever it took.

He collapsed to his knees, curled into a ball and clapped his hands over his ears, but the noise didn’t abate one bit. It just kept building and building. The pressure in his head was like a river pushing against a dam, and Henry was certain that it would burst any second, his brains left to splatter all over the ground.

But a sound cut through it, and the noise ceased. It was a slow clap, muffled by thick gloves. It was somehow condescending and cruel without words and the unease in Henry’s gut didn’t abate for a moment. He scrambled up again. Somehow he was in armour, sword strapped to his side. He drew his Pa’s blade, and it came free with a grating scrape. The blade was chipped and flecked through with rust.

All around him Maleshov burned, but the dead here did not show their faces. They remained indistinct and shadowed, mere impressions upon his mind that weighed him down with a strange, and foreign guilt that pulled at the depths of his soul.
“Nice work. Nice work indeed!” Henry turned slowly to see Toth emerging out of the shadows. Proud as a strutting peacock, with a mean glint in his weaselly eyes.

Henry stepped on something wet, and faintly yielding. His head jerked down to see a severed hand squished beneath his boot.

“You saved the peasants… but sent your own men to the slaughter,” Toth mocked, somehow from behind him. Henry pivoted, slowly and unsteadily towards him, only to be met with a darkened corridor through which the faint sound of battle echoed.

“You like to keep your hands clean. But war is a nasty business.” It sounded like Toth savoured every word. Henry tried to seek him in the gloom, but the fires burning around him gave so little light, and so much smoke.

“So, who are you going to sacrifice for your conscience next? Your little Jew brother? Capon? Yourself?” Each word was a nail in Henry’s heart. He swallowed down the guilt though. They were alive. He’d know if they were dead. He’d know. “You play the game, but you don’t understand the rules… and in the end you’ll lose.” Toth taunted in his ear.

Henry looked away, looked down, and the corpses revealed themself. Samuel with a dagger in his back, Zizka with his face caved in, Katherine with a red smile, Hans with blistered shackled wrists, reaching weakly towards Henry himself, who lay so still and peaceful he almost looked asleep.

“You learned nothing, you understood nothing. And yet I tried so hard. And yet we share the same fate.”

“Lies!” Henry finally found it in himself to move, he spun and slashed at Toth with his rusty sword, but his feet fell out beneath him and he toppled onto his back.

“My family was slain too. By the Turks,” Istvan planted a foot on either side of Henry’s head. “I felt just like you do. And Erik went through the same thing. That’s why I took him in. We’re one big family… of orphans,” Toth savoured the words, leaning over Henry. A lump was building in his throat and choking out any words. In his periphery he could see his friends still lying there, Hans’ dead hand reached for him still.

“Well, of course you do have a father. Although he’s not gone so far as to give you his name,” Toth laughed at him, like the pathetic, stupid boy he was. And he walked away. But like the screaming, the laughter echoed.

It became a physical weight, crushing Henry’s chest, as bodies piled on top of him. Slit throats and tongueless mouths bellowed with mirth and unrestrained glee. Laughing at Henry’s stupidity, at his arrogance in thinking he was somehow above war.

More piled on and on, and he tried to heave himself free. But he couldn’t. The best he could manage was sticking a single hand out of the mass grave that filled around him.

“Help! Please!” he cried.

He expected none. But then a hand took his. It felt old and frail and cold, wrinkled and brittle. It tugged on him gently, and somehow the weight was gone, the press of bodies evaporated and he was free.

Henry staggered to his feet, and looked around himself. He was in a walled garden. His breath fogged before his face in the drifting snow that fell all about him. A single tree stood in the centre of the small space, surrounded by barren earth, it was leafless and solemn. Small bushes sprouted about here and there like boney, white cages. All was being buried under the slow drift of the winter snows. The closest thing to a point of colour was an old woman in a dull coloured dress, sat upon a stone bench beneath the bare tree. Her gaze was sharp, and fixed on Henry. Something in it pulled at him, like a fish on a line.

Despite his surroundings, he somehow didn’t feel cold. He took a few hesitant steps towards the old woman, the snow squeaked and crunched beneath his boots. As he walked he noticed that the woman seemed oddly tall, then he caught sight of himself in a frozen puddle on the bare earth. Boyish features greeted him, a face still round with baby fat, eyes wide and curious, hair carelessly ruffled and dusted with snow.

“What?”

“Come here, lad. Let me look at you,” the old woman spoke. A soft command, but insistent.

“Where are we?” Henry asked as he took the last few steps towards the old woman.

“In my garden. I like it here. It’s quite peaceful.” She cast a fond gaze up at the skeletal tree.

“Not much of a garden. There’s nothing growing here.”

“You think so? Then what are you doing here?”

“What do you mean? I just got here, you brought me here,” Henry argued. He wasn’t sure how he got from Maleshov to some strange old woman’s garden, but he didn’t pay that much mind.

“You’ve been here for quite some time. Since you were a babe. I’ve seen you grow over these past few months quite quickly.”

“I think I’d remember being only a few months old,” Henry muttered. His voice felt so high, he almost couldn’t recognise it.

“Perhaps not quite how you’d know it. But I’m glad you finally took the time to talk to me. Not many do.”

“Why not? Do you not get out much?” She seemed a little odd, Henry wondered briefly if she was a ghost, but as the snowflakes pattered against her hood he quickly dismissed that idea.

“I do. I’m often very busy helping people, but they never seem very happy with it. Still, that doesn’t mean I’ll give up on them.”

Henry just stared at her, not quite sure what to make of that. With a soft groan the woman rose from her seat and walked up to Henry. He shied back a step as she loomed over him. Then with a cold, firm hand, she gently took hold of his chin, tilting his face one way, then the other.

“You seem so ordinary, but then again, most people do.”

“What do you–”

“Now, Henry of Skalitz, I would like to rest, and I think it’s time for you to wake up.” With a gentle shove from the old woman, Henry fell backwards.

He tumbled through darkness for a few terrifying heartbeats until, with a painful impact, he hit the floor.

“Kurva!” He hissed. He grabbed his elbow, which throbbed and ached from where he’d smacked it onto the ground.

“You alright?” He’d recognized that smarmy voice anywhere. Hans stood, leaning casually against the doorway. Henry took a moment to place himself. By the early morning light streaming through the windows, the fine sheets he’d tangled himself in when falling out of bed and the faint sounds of a castle meeting the morning, he swiftly placed himself in Suchdol.

“Yeah, just… had a weird dream.”

“Right, well, while you were dreaming away the morning, the rest of us were doing important work. Come on.” Hans reached down and pulled Henry to his feet. “I’ll tell you about it over breakfast.”

“Right, that sounds good.” Henry’s insistent stomach rumbled at him, and soon he found the memories of Skalitz burning, Toth’s taunts and the winter garden fading from his mind. But it was quite some hours before the chill fully left him.

Chapter Text

The Ruthard Palace was a definite step down as a base of operations. At least, in Hans’ humble opinion. Sure, it was positioned well, close to the Italian Court in the heart of Kuttenberg, and it was certainly nicer than the Devil’s Den. But most of the place had been ransacked before they arrived, and then far too many men had been crammed into far too small a space. It meant getting even a sliver of time alone, never mind alone with Henry, was nearly impossible.

The kitchens were thankfully deserted in the small hours of the morning though, and Hans paced their tiles uneasily as he waited for Henry to show up.

“He’s probably off helping a widow fix her doorframe, or somesuch,” Hans scoffed as he completed another lap of the room. “The fellow who helps his fellow man, indeed.” He decided that he’d have to give a rousing performance of that song in celebration once they pulled off their heist. Henry would no doubt hate it, and it’d serve him right for keeping Hans waiting.

At least the room was warm, it was somewhere past midnight, well past it were Hans to make a guess, but the cooking fires that Janosh had built took a long while to burn down, and their embers still crackled dully, casting a warmth and faint light over the room. It could almost have made a romantic setting, were it not in the ransacked remains of a disgraced nobleman’s kitchen.

The thought of Ruthard brought Hans’ mind swerving back to Rosa. His steps faltered for a moment as an awful notion made itself known. Henry had been happy enough to help the young woman, and she herself had spoken of his gallantry and good looks (although, Hans couldn’t imagine why his own handsome features hadn’t been brought up as much). Apparently he’d helped her write some sort of book. The girl was all but swooning when she spoke about it.

Henry wouldn't though… he wouldn’t. He’d thrown away sense, decorum, faith and safety for Hans’ sake. What was helping to scribble down a few asinine verses against that? Besides, Hans was quite confident that his poetry was far better than anything that Rosa Ruthard could come up with.

Still, the notion lingered uncomfortably. Henry was late, and by the time he’d circled the room a few more times, the fear that Henry was either caught up with Rosa, or more likely, caught up with another attempt on his life began to choke at Hans’ breath and throb at his nerves.
He paused before the fire eventually, tapping his foot uncertainly for a few moments before, with the distant hooting of an owl, he decided to set off in pursuit. If Henry was in danger, he’d do better with Hans at his side. If he was off with Rosa, then Hans would have to let him know exactly what he thought of that, and if the lout had slept through their meeting, then he knew just the obnoxious song to shout in his ears to wake him up.

Honestly, he hoped it was the last option.

It’d be easiest to check the sleeping quarters first. He stomped out of the kitchen and up the steps to the main hall, only to be caught up short when he realised he wasn’t alone. Zizka was leaned over the dining table, numerous sheets of parchment and scrolls spread out around him. Half a dozen candles were spread around the plans like tributes at an altar. They were burning low, wax running in fat globules onto Ruthard’s table.

Zizka jerked back at the sound of Hans’ footsteps, and the low light cast unnerving, shifting shadows across his stern face. “Capon,” he said as Hans stepped forth. “I didn’t think you were still awake at this hour.”

“Nor I you,” Hans gestured vaguely towards the plans. “We have a few days yet before the infiltration. I didn’t think you’d be up this late working on it.”

“When the first step of a plan goes belly-up, I prefer to lock down the rest as tightly as possible.” Zizka gave a bitter scoff. “With this crew, that likely won’t be enough either.”

With a dead Legate on their hands and Godwin having to step in with his latin, Hans didn’t doubt that. He’d not even had to think about his language lessons in years, and Adder couldn’t even manage Czech. The plan did seem… dicey.

“We could still back out, I suppose. Take a different route.”

“Now you’re sounding like Katherine.” Zizka shook his head roughly. “No, I doubt it’d be so simple. Perhaps before Adder’s little stunt that would have been true. But now we’ve already butchered the pig.” He grimaced at his own vulgar turn of phrase.

There wasn’t much Hans could say to refute that, so he turned instead to the matter at hand. “I don’t suppose everyone else is being kept up by such concerns. Henry would likely sleep through a siege if there was no one to shout at him to put his armour on.”

Zizka gave a light chuckle. “You’d think so, but with the Legate floating around Adder now, Brabant’s old friend and Katherine’s… well, he’s had a lot of noise keeping him up at night. I saw him staggering about the yard looking like death warmed up about an hour ago.”

That explained where Henry had gotten off to, but it raised a more peculiar question.

“What do you mean by the Legate ‘floating around’ Adder?”

“Oh, you know,” Zizka waved a hand dismissively staring down at some of his plans. “More ghosts flying around and now Henry can’t sleep with the noise and–”

“Ghosts?” Hans snorted, “you mean to tell me we’re suffering from a haunting?”

Zizka paused, then looked up from his plans. A faint frown creased his brow. “He hasn’t told you?”

“Told me what?” Hans snapped, an uneasy feeling was forming in the pit of his stomach, vague memories of Henry shouting about Oats drifted to the front of his mind.

“I just assumed since you’re so close–”

“Out with it!”

Zizka’s jaw worked in silence for a few seconds, as if chewing on the thought, before he finally let it slip his lips. “Henry can see ghosts, speak with them too.”

Absurd. He was making up children’s stories to spook him. Hans just wanted to find out where Henry was and Zizka for some reason decided to play a joke on him.

Still… there was Oats, or the dungeon in Trosky, or that way that Henry just seemed to become… distracted from time to time. Hans had noticed before that he’d take to just staring off in the distance strangely, only to be startled by any word spoken to him. Then there was the matter of Radzig. He’d asked Hans, so seriously, to watch out for anything unusual in Henry’s behaviour. Did he know that his son was seeing ghosts? Or hallucinating such things.

“That’s nonsense,” Hans said. “Henry’s no sorcerer, no medium. I mean, he couldn’t even read when I met him, how would he know how to speak with the dead?”

“I would have thought it ridiculous too, but… some of the things he’s claimed, the things he’s heard and seen, there’s no way he should have known about them.”

“So that means he’s been communing with the dead? Look, Zizka, Henry is my page. I’ve known him a lot longer than you, and I daresay, that if anything supernatural was going on in his life, I’d be the first one to know.” Hans tried for easy confidence, but found he couldn’t quite force his voice not to waver with slips of fear and worry. By the stare Zizka pinned him with, he heard the doubt loud and clear.

“If you say so.”

“I do. I do say so. Henry’s not seeing ghosts.” But what was the alternative? He was shouting at the air as his mind slowly unravelled. “I’m… I’m going to bed. When Henry comes back, tell him that I’m very displeased with him for-” He cut himself off before he could say something along the lines of ‘missing our meeting’. “Tell him I’m very displeased with him.”

“I’ll do that.” Zizka replied, unimpressed.

Hans nodded to himself, straightened out his pourpoint and set off up the stairs, trying very hard to ignore just how many things would make more sense if what Zizka said was true, and just how much it stung that Henry didn’t tell Hans himself.

Chapter Text

“La tua bellezza mi abbaglia. La tua bellezza mi abbaglia,” Henry rolled the words over in his mouth a few times to get a feel for them, as he made his way through Ruthard Palace. He was no expert at linguistics, and trying to learn Italian from a Frenchman while another, much deader, much angrier Frenchman was shouting at you, was no small feat. Still, Henry figured with a bit of practice he could manage a few phrases.

He needed to do something to strike up a conversation with Hans either way. He’d been riding across the city and province for the past few days, doing what good he could, largely as an excuse to get away from Ruthard palace and its abundance of noisy ghosts. Of course, he’d forgotten his rendezvous with Hans until long after he’d missed it. And Hans hadn’t even been willing to come out and greet him as he arrived back.

His Pa once forgot to arrange anything special for his Ma’s birthday, and she made him sleep in the forge for it. Henry found himself understanding exactly why his Pa had taken to slinking about like a beaten dog for a week after that. Still, Hans appreciated a witticism or two, surely a cleverly composed compliment would soothe him.

He managed to spot Hans getting himself ready in an alcove by a window. Even weighed down by ill-fitting and dented armour, there was a certain pride that Hans carried himself with. Henry was half worried that it’d give the game away about their disguises if they weren’t careful.

Hans had his back turned to Henry and was fiddling with a strap on his armguard as he approached. He was preoccupied enough to not even turn around at the sound of Henry’s footsteps. It was a little disappointing, but Henry decided to work with what he had. He leaned casually against the wall in a pose that he reckoned looked quite dashing, repeated the words to himself a few times in his head, then cleared his throat.

Hans gave a soft grunt and turned to see Henry. There was a faint furrow to his brow, and his tongue briefly flicked out to wet his lower lip. “Henry, you decided to show up.”

That beaten dog feeling rose up in Henry, but he tried to shake it off. “La tua bellezza mi abbaglia!” He announced proudly. Quite impressed by his own pronunciation. Hans stared at him dumbly for a moment, and Henry raised his eyebrows expectantly.

Hans huffed a beleaguered breath, “Fine, I can see that you’re desperate to share. What exactly did you just say.”

“I said.” Henry moved in a step closer to Hans, and took Hans’ wrist between his hands. “That I am dazzled, by your beauty,” he murmured into the space between them. Of course from a distance it would look perfectly appropriate, just a page helping his lord with his armour. But Henry felt a flush and a thumping in his chest at the thought of discovery.

“Right,” Hans said flatly, and seemingly unaffected. “I’m sure I look it right now.”

Okay, maybe a more direct route would be better.

“Hans,” Henry said as he moved to Hans’ shoulder, checking the pauldron was secure. “I’m sorry, that I missed meeting with you the other night. I was just,” he searched for a decent excuse, “feeling out of sorts. Didn’t much want you to see me if I was at risk of vomiting my lunch all over you.”

“Is that what you call it? Zizka seemed to think it was something else.”

“You talked with Zizka?” Henry asked, suddenly his pounding heart was driven by fear rather than excitement, now there was a real possibility that something may have slipped. “He doesn’t… suspect anything.”

“Jesus Christ,” Hans muttered, “No, not about why I was out at midnight. But apparently that’s not the only secret you’re keeping.”

Henry paused in securing Hans’ armour and bit back a breath. He looked up from Hans’ shoulder and met a gaze that was equal parts accusing and hurt. An errant memory crossed his mind, complaining to Zizka in the middle of night about how the dead Legate wouldn’t stop wailing and moaning. “I-uh… I can explain.”

“What, that you’re seeing ghosts?” Hans spat.

And there it was, out in the open. A lot of people could call Henry mad, or delusional, and it wouldn’t really matter. But if Hans were to think he’d lost his mind, that he wouldn’t want to associate with some ghost-whispering lunatic, Henry wasn’t sure he could take it.

“Yelling about Oats, flinching at thin air in the dungeons, and what about you waking me up with all you panicked shouting the other day. Who was that supposed to be?”

“Toth,” Henry said with the sullen guilt of a boy caught skipping his chores.

“Toth,” Hans clicked his tongue and stared at the floor, then his eyes bulged. “Wait, you’re telling me, that, if I believe you, Toth saw my–”

“Yep.” Henry interrupted, not wanting to relive that particular conversation.

“Unbelievable,” Hans ran a hand down his face, “absolutely unbelievable.” He paced in a slow circle around the little alcove, and Henry chanced a glance over his shoulder, it seemed like they were unobserved with everyone being so busy. But it didn’t hurt to be careful.

“I should have told you sooner, I just… didn’t want you thinking I was going mad.”

“Well, leaving me to wonder about why you’re talking to the air certainly helped to reassure me of your sanity.”

Henry couldn’t really refute that. He wanted to, but he could tell it’d be a losing battle. His hands were feeling clammy and shaky, so he clasped them together to still them. Just because Hans was having some… difficulty with understanding what he was going through didn’t mean that it was hopeless.

“You were right, by the way, in Trosky about the de–”

Hans shot him a sharp look and he bit off that particular word.

“They were real, but not from hell. People made them themself, down in the torture chamber. They’d been stuck down there for years, maybe decades just stewing in that dungeon.” Henry tightened his hands together a little more, he could feel their cold hands poking at him again and it made him feel faint. His head swam for a moment and he staggered a step towards Hans.

Hans quickly reached out and grabbed hold of Henry’s shoulders, steadying him. And as Henry looked up into Hans’ eyes he saw a little of that skepticism melting away, replaced by concern.

“Henry, your father, Radzig, I mean. Before we left for Trosky, he asked me to keep an eye on you, to tell him if I saw you saying, or doing anything unusual. How long has this been going on for?”

“A few months, I suppose. Certainly not before Skalitz.” Henry managed to right himself, the memories of his home stung, but they weren’t quite so visceral as his torture, and his head cleared as he moved away from those scars. “I don’t know really, the first time I can pin down would be that day when you entered the tourney.”

“After you cheated at dice?”

Henry scowled at that and Hans held his tongue. “Yeah, that day it was your…” He hesitated, puzzling over how to break the revelation of Jan.

“My what? Don’t tell me I did something to start all of this. I know your life must be boring, but surely it can’t all revolve around me.”

“If you’d just let me finish!” Henry snapped, finally earning him a moment of silence. He could still hear distant, plaintive Italian wailing though. “It was your Father. I didn’t realise until a lot later, but he talked about wanting to watch his son in the tourney, then he made me promise to protect you.”

Hans was quiet, his cheek twitched intermittently, as if he was literally chewing over a thought, but he wasn’t looking at Henry’s face anymore, he was staring into space, looking through Henry.

“I should have realised sooner, he talked about watching his son fight, said he was raised by relatives. But I guess I wasn’t expecting a dead man to show up to the Rattay Tourney.”

“Did he say anything else?” Hans’ voice was soft with hesitance.

“He said that he was proud of you. And that he loved you.”

Hans’ eyes flickered close and he let out a long slow breath. Henry watched as he did a slow circuit around the little alcove that they occupied. Henry’s hands hung at his side, and he had to force them still. Hans had to think this through, and he couldn’t shake understanding into him.

Eventually Hans stopped his pacing and looked to Henry. “I told you how much I want to make him proud, how much that meant to me. You’re a dolt and a menace, Henry, but I don’t think you’d lie to me about something that’s that important to me.”

Henry took a staggered step forward. “You believe me.”

“I… kurva, I guess I might. Christ, it sounds insane though.”

A deep breath escaped Henry then, one from his very core that carried the weight of months of uncertainty. It wasn’t as though all his troubles had suddenly evaporated. There was still a war, still a heist to perform, still a king to see freed and a country to mend. But, this little thing, this little problem of his was a far heavier burden than he’d once thought.

“Thank you,” he said softly. He took Hans’ hands in his own and squeezed them tight. He’d do more, but they weren’t exactly in private.

“Next time, just don’t let me find out through Zizka.”

“You jealous?”

“Of him? Hardly. I’m far more handsome, and charming, and a better warrior, and a better leader probably. Really, why aren’t I in charge?” Hans asked with a shit-eating grin. Henry pulled their hands apart to punch Hans in the shoulder.

“Ouch! Assaulted by my own page.” He sobered then. “Now, I just need to think about what to tell Radzig.

Right, Father might think I’m mad too.

“You won’t have to, I’ll talk with him.” If his Father suspected something either way, then perhaps it was best to just come clean.

“And if he thinks you’re mad, there’s always the robber baron plan,” Hans suggested.

“It certainly would make the kidnapping more believable.”

“I’ll practice my handwriting for my tearful letter about how I will sadly never wed Jitka the Shrew.”

They shared a hopeless laugh and a small smile, and for that breath the future wasn’t quite so intimidating.

Chapter Text

All things being considered, the job could have gone a lot worse. Godwin managed to make a convincing legate, and solve a major dispute of the faithful (although, since they learned he was an imposter they’d probably go back to fighting in a few days). Adder had gotten an enjoyable night (although Henry felt more than a little guilty that his advice had seemingly put the final nail in a marriage’s coffin). They’d liberated the hostages from the castle, and they’d managed to steal a whole treasury’s worth of silver. Once it was loaded up and away they’d be home free.

Assuming no other horrible surprises arose. Although, that did seem to be a trend.

One fuck up after another, and somehow, somehow they’d managed to pull off the heist. It’d be the talk of Kuttenberg for months, and with any luck it’d stick in Sigismund’s mind a lot longer than that.

Henry still felt antsy though. Maybe it was pessimism, or maybe it was some kind of instinct, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was coming, a reckoning of sorts. When the thought crossed his mind, a shiver ran across the back of his neck, and the undeniable urge came to sling Hans over his shoulder, grab Samuel by the collar and run back to Rattay.

Still, that wasn’t really realistic. He had a job to finish here, so after checking out the armoury and library, patrolling was the next best way to work out the energy, even if it felt a bit more like nervous pacing than anything so disciplined as a patrol. As he was passing the kitchen on his third lap of the grounds, a sudden cry made him jump.

“Vergine Maria misericordiosa, ti prego, risparmiami dalla degenerazione di questi delinquenti!”

For a moment, Henry feared that one of the guards had gotten out, but then he recalled the voice from his sleepless night in Ruthard Palace. He poked his head through the kitchen door. Adder was moving with a swift certainty about the place, snagging up whatever loose cuts of meat he could find, whole or in pieces, and stuffing them into a sack that he swung back and forth like a mischievous child.

The Papal Legate, predictably, was hovering in the middle of the room, looking from Adder, to the heavens and murmuring prayers to himself between his louder exultations of despair. At least, Henry thought they were despair, you could pick up a lot from tone, but it was difficult to be completely certain.

“Adder? What are you doing here?”

Adder paused in his pilfering, and his sack twisted mid swing, smacking against his side with a wet thump. He looked from the sack, to Henry and back again. Then he raised it and shook it about.

“Janosh chciał świeżego mięsa.Robi kiełbaski,” he said, then he went promptly back to swiping a slab of pork from a cutting board.

“Look, I know you’re hungry, God knows exercise like yours works up an appetite, but shouldn’t you be helping the Devil load up the silver?” Henry suggested. He might have taken his own advice, but since Maleshov it had grown more and more difficult to be in a room with the man. It was probably for the best that he stay on watch instead.

“Znajdziesz tu mnóstwo dobrych rzeczy,” Adder hummed happily as he went about looting. “A także coś dla Twojego psa.” He directed a grin at Henry as he dumped what looked to be some off-cuts into his sack.

“Ladri e briganti! Ero destinato a cose più alte di una simile fine.” The Legate kept whining, floating around Adder with a judgemental cry of alarm. As he went, Henry caught a glimpse of the ruined back of his head, and it diminished any appetite that he may have been developing from seeing all the fine foods in the court.

“Now, Adder,” Henry said sternly. Adder paused and looked at Henry, then had the audacity to pout as he pointed towards the kitchen door. “We need to get out of here sooner rather than later. There’ll be plenty to eat after the heist.”

Adder gave a petulant shrug, and swung his sack over his shoulder. “Dobra! Dobra. Idę, ale nie dostaniesz kiełbasy.”

Henry shrugged off the sour muttering. As long as Adder did his part, it wouldn’t matter much if he was a little grouchy about it. The Legate somewhat belatedly began to follow after his murderer, and Henry had to wonder just why he was sticking around so long. Most ghosts seemed to pop in and out, but this one was really intent on trying to torture Adder. Although it wasn’t him he was bothering.

“Hey, you,” Henry said as the Prelate floated near to him, and the ghost paused. He’d not let slip so far that he could see the unfortunate man, the guilt of the anguish he could have averted was only slightly overbalanced by all the moaning and whining he’d been having to put up with floating through the castle. The crying around Katherine had gotten louder of late too, he wondered if that boded ill.

“Mi parli?” The ghost’s voice quavered and he swooped close to Henry, who leaned back from the cold aura of death. “Mi vedi?”

“Yes, yes. Alright.” Henry held up his hands, trying to ward away the ghost, or shoo him off, but this only served to make the Prelate more excited.

“Dio onnipotente ha esaudito le mie preghiere! Anche se sei uno di questi briganti, sei sicuramente stato mandato a salvare un uomo fedele come me.” He had no clue what the prelate was saying, but the man was ecstatic, gesturing wildly towards Henry who suddenly felt that drawing the ghost’s attention was a very bad idea.

“Look, I don’t know what you’re going on about, but I just wanted to ask you to keep a little quieter with your… your misery I guess.” He felt a little foolish as the words left his mouth, and even more like a dolt as he took in the baffled stare of the Prelate. “Just… keep it down, you know?” Henry mimed the motion of pushing downwards with his hands, as if he was working an invisible bellows.

“Cosa fai?” The Prelate’s eyes drifted to Henry’s hands and a stifled cry burst from his lips, freezing Henry in place. “No, non puoi dire che Dio mi ha rifiutato! Non andrò all'inferno, non posso!”

And he was shouting again. Henry resisted the urge to smack himself in the face at the whole situation. He should have just left alone, surely the Prelate would have gotten bored and gone to heaven in his own time.

But no, you just had to open your big, stupid mouth, didn’t you?

“Let’s just calm down, alright? Calm down,” he said firmly and the Prelate’s gaze locked back onto him and his mouth snapped shut. “Maybe you’ve got some kind of unfinished business, something you want to do, or something. Anything like that?”

“Per favore, lasciatemi andare, non posso restare intrappolato in questa prigione terrena! Se sono morto, lasciatemi ascendere al cielo.” The legate rambled on, raising his hands beseechingly towards the sky.

The pleading was getting him nowhere, he’d have to resort to drastic measures to make any progress.

“Can we…” Henry hesitated a moment, but then struck his hand forth, plunging it straight into the Prelate’s chest. The man gasped at the sensation, but Henry was prepared. He grit his teeth as the emotions washed over him.

Grief for his passing, terror at what was to come, and burning, unyielding rage at the brutes who had done him in for no reason. It was all an accident, really, but Henry couldn’t object to the unfairness of it all. But beyond all of that, for a single shining moment, he understood pride.

The Prelate was a man of importance. People kneeled before him and asked for his blessing, respected religious leaders would come before him with disputes for he spoke with the authority of the Pope, and with heaven itself. He was better than the scum who had killed him, more important, wiser and worldier.

That… that, Henry could work with.

“You’re right,” He said through gritted teeth, fighting against the cold seeping up his arm. “They’re not worth it. You areI more important. You should leave them, leave us all behind and go on to heaven. Surely God has a place for you at his side.”

The prelate’s features twisted with disgust for the briefest flicker, but then settled into a mask of confidence, and finally, calm. “But is it not the duty of the anointed to guide lost souls? Surely I could do no less.”

“Normally yes, but you’ve been trying for days. That more than qualifies, they’re surely not worthy of your benediction,” Henry replied.

He nodded slowly at Henry’s words. “Yes. Yes, you are correct. Why sully myself trying to save the souls of the unworthy. The Lord calls me.”

There was a sharper sting then, like spiders sinking their fangs into his arms, as the biting cold turned hot all of a sudden. Henry ripped his arm out of the prelate with a hiss and a curse, shaking it up and down to throw off the lingering pins and needles. He checked it for damage, and found nothing visible. When he looked up to where the Prelate had been, he saw only empty air and heard blessed silence. But then he turned his head to the side, just a tad, and saw Zizka standing there, arms crossed and tension lining his frame.

“You finished playing with ghosts?” He asked with a bit more bite than Henry felt was warranted.

“Yeah. I was just dealing with the Prelate.” He gave an exaggerated shudder. “That’s one problem out of the way now.”

“Good for you, because we’ve got another one at the gate. Is your sword ready?”

“I, uh… yes. Yes.” Henry came back to himself slowly. Half his mind was still lodged in that egocentric spirit of the Prelate, and he was tempted to snap at Zizka for his curt manner. But as he touched the hilt of his sword he managed to steady himself. “Let’s go.”

“Great,” Zizka said with false cheer. “I was getting tired of listening to you babbling in Italian.”

Chapter Text

“It’s an amazing facet of the mind, isn’t it? That it can build up walls just to tear them down,” Hans mused. Their torches cast dancing, inhuman shadows in the gloom of the tunnel, like a line of demons was marching out of hell. Henry certainly felt like he’d been through it, and were it not for Musa, he might be in it.

“Maybe it’s like a scab. Protecting skin until it heals,” Henry suggested. It was more to fill the silence than anything. They’d made it out of the Italian Court, but somehow a cloud still weighed over him, a premonition of more disaster to come. That cloud really hadn’t stopped swirling for the whole trip.

“So now I’m all tender and pink? A fresh bit of scarring to make it all better?” Hans gave an airy chuckle and his steps almost turned into skipping. “I’ll take it if it means I’ll not be scared of every cave I come across.” He leaned towards Henry and gave a whisper. “They’re good places for secret rendezvous, you know.”

“You’d complain about spiders getting in your hair.”

“That was one time.”

Henry snickered and Hans shoved his shoulder. It was a short moment of levity. The brush with death had Henry’s heart still beating fast in memory, and the close escape had him filled with more energy than a swarm of bees. When it wore off, he’d feel exhausted and want nothing more than a nice, soft mattress. But still, Hans’ face, lit up in the firelight, cheeky and pouting in equal measure… it made Henry want a nice soft bed for a very different reason.

Of course, he wouldn’t be having fun like that any time soon. They still had to get out of the city.

“Hey, you see that?” Hans pointed up ahead in the tunnel. They’d naturally drifted towards the rear. Taking guard, Henry would say if anyone asked, but it gave them a little more privacy to talk, even if they looked like a pair of dawdling idlers.

Henry followed Hans’ direction and saw Samuel a few dozen paces ahead, swiftly rising as he climbed a set of stairs leading out of the darkness of the Kuttenberg tunnels. “We’ll be out soon. And then we can test your cave theory,” he added the latter in a soft voice.

“What are we waiting for then?” Hans grinned wickedly and scampered ahead, leaving Henry to break into a jog to catch up.

When they broke the surface into Ruthard Palace’s courtyard, everything was in full swing. Brabant’s men were loading up chests full of silver. Adder had taken the lead, crowing to the night about their success. It was getting easier and easier to understand him by the day, but that just might be because the man didn’t know the meanings of the words ‘subtlety’ and ‘restraint’.

When Henry looked away from Adder, though, something felt off. That cloud of dread descended again as he saw the worry on the Ruthards’ faces. And then Brabant’s ghost began to circle around Adder.

“Espèce d'idiot, il va te tuer. Il a déjà fini d'aiguiser son couteau !” Alarm bells were set clanging in henry’s mind as he heard that. There was something familiar about the word ‘couteau’, and his muddled thoughts took but a second to straighten out its meaning, as from somewhere in the aether, or from the abyss, understanding came to him.

He’ll kill you. He’s finished sharpening his–

There, in his hand, Henry saw it, a flash of steel. His heart sank and cracked at the sight, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it.

“Hans! He’s got a knife!” It said something about how far the two of them had come, because Hans didn’t waste a second questioning, or arguing. He just brought his bow up in one smooth motion, arrow already on the string. He pulled, and loosed, just as Adder flipped a coin, and Brabant drew his arm back.

Choked gasps came from half a dozen throats, and a stark scream came from another. Brabant yanked his arm back, clutching at the sleeve where Hans’ arrow had cut a deep gash along his forearm while his knife clattered to the ground alongside Adder’s coin.

The ghost turned sharply towards Henry, their eyes met through the visor and Henry gave him a slow nod of thanks.

“I cannot rely on anyone it seems,” Brabant grunted, staggering backwards a few steps. Then he looked up to his mercenaries perched along the balcony of the palace “Kill them!”

Henry scarcely had time to duck behind a pillar before a pair of arrows whistled through the air where he’d been standing just a moment before. He wasn’t alone, Hans too had to scramble out of the way, and Adder fell onto his arse as an arrow pinged off his helmet, before crawling away on his belly with surprising speed.

Is that where he got the name? I always thought it was because he thought with his–

“He betrayed us!” Hans shouted, breaking off Henry’s thought. “Fucking French cunt wants the silver!”

“Right, figured that much. Did you see how many men he had out there?” Henry asked.

“I only counted three archers. Men on foot…” Hans squinted for a moment, “Five or six perhaps. Was a bit focused on the traitor.”

“Allez! Allez!” Brabant’s voice was pitched and furious, no doubt he was smarting from the arrow in his arm, and that brought a smile to Henry’s face despite his rage. But there came an answering shout and the advancing clank of armoured feet.

Zizka clearly heard it too, for he held up a hand for silence, then slowly drew his sword. Henry copied the motion. The others all followed suit. If Brabant thought that sending in a few mercenaries would be enough to flush out their gang, he’d really not been paying attention.

Henry almost jumped and gave away the game as Adder scuttled into their shelter on all fours like a panicked beetle. He was crying out a frantic stream of what Henry could only assume was a mix of profanities and insults.

The first of Brabant’s men entered, hot on Adder’s tail, his sword was raised for a killing strike, but Janosh leapt forward with a cry more ferocious than Henry’d ever heard from him before, and swung his sword in a brutal two-handed cut. He didn’t break through the man’s breastplate, but he did bowl him over with the sheer force of the blow.

There was a whistle of arrows in the air as the archers finally got a target, and Adder sprung up to his feet, swinging his shield in front of Janosh in the nick of time. The rest of the soldiers burst into their cover a heartbeat later, and there was no more time for hesitation. Henry threw himself upon the first man he caught sight of, and a moment afterwards Hans charged in at his side with a voice-cracking war cry.

The difference in skill became quickly apparent. Brabant’s men were good fighters, but the Devil’s Pack were lunatics. Henry was pretty sure that even without him, Hans and Godwin, and Sam that they would have mopped up Brabant’s mercenaries swiftly. But with them all there, they managed to mount a countercharge in less than a minute.

The archers swiftly broke as they saw their front line either dying or fleeing, and they did their best to follow suit on the latter. With only one good arm, Brabant couldn’t even manage to draw the horses out of the courtyard before he was caught up in the retreat.

Their crew had a moment to breathe after Brabant’s lot had been seen off. It wouldn’t last long, Henry knew. They’d be swamped with soldiers before long, especially if Erik got his act together and figured out where they were hiding, but even so, it took a moment to absorb what had just happened.

Zizka pulled his men aside for a moment to discuss their security, or lack thereof. Samuel and Rosa bounced back quicker, and took charge of loading up what Silver Brabant’s men hadn’t already prepared, and Godwin took a moment to speak with the Ruthards about their evacuation. Henry was going to go and help Samuel, when Hans’ pulled him up short with a hand on his arm.

“How did you know there was a knife?” He asked. His grip was tight and Henry took a moment to turn to him, squeezing Hans’ hand in a manner that could easily be taken as a bit of friendly consolation, rather than a reassuring touch. Hans needed it by the looks of things. His eyes were bright and wild, and his shoulders were bunched with nervous tension.

Henry took a moment to check that everyone else was busy before leaning in. “We’re not the first ones that Brabant has tried to stab in the back. One man in particular seems to be holding a grudge.”

“Christ, I was afraid it would be something like that. So he’s haunted? Am I? Are you?”

At least a little bit with the way that Toth likes to hang around.

“It’s not so bad. We’re fine. I don’t think you or I have managed to piss off someone so badly that they’d follow us beyond the grave,” Henry lied. Hans’ boots squeaked as he jittered nervously in them, looking Henry over.

“You’re a shit liar Henry,” he eventually said. Lips pressing into a firm, disapproving line. “But if they say anything useful again, let me know.” He pulled away from Henry then bent down to pick up something from the ground. When he rose, an arrow, its tip splashed with blood and bent out of shape from impact, was pinched between his fingers. “I trust you, alright?”

Chapter Text

“He gets the job done the best he caaaaaaaaan!” Hans belted the last note, kicking over a half full mug of ale as he danced across the table. They’d pulled off the heist of the century, and the mood at Suchdol was high. A time for feasting, celebration and self-congratulations.

“Watch where you’re stepping, you fucking prick!” Dry Devil shouted at him as he righted his now spilled drink.

Hans hardly cared, everyone needed to hear the song, because Henry would loathe the thought of it ever having a chance to make it outside of Kuttenberg. So as his dearest friend and lover, it was Hans’ duty to make sure exactly that happened. The arse deserved it for keeping his damned ghost secret.

He delivered a sweeping bow, knocking half a roast chicken into the dirt with his back foot. Mutt gave a few excited barks before dashing in to claim his prize.

“See Henry, even your dog likes the song,” Hans crowed but as he looked to where Henry had been sat, just moments before, his head cradled despairingly in his hands. He found the spot empty.

Ungrateful lout. I put on a show for him and he runs away and hides.

“I think he’s the only one,” Katherine called back to Hans. She’d been lingering around the edge of the yard, only snatching a mouthful of food here and there since their feast began. Still, the fact that she stuck around proved quite happily to Hans that his musical gifts were at least entertaining enough to draw her out of her shell.

“You do not have a voice made for song, My Lord,” Samuel added more bluntly, to a chorus of cheers from the others assembled.

Hans had to tamp down his rising ire at that, and managed to hop down from the table with a fair share of dignity and grace. “Well, it’s probably the object of the song that ruined the atmosphere. Where is Henry anyway?”

“He ran off with Janosh when you started your improvisational percussion solo,” Godwin said. The old man was nursing his fifth mug of ale, but his eyes seemed if anything, all the sharper for it. At least his tongue had been pleasantly numbed enough that it wouldn’t cut.
Godwin gestured towards the Bailey and Hans took a deliberate bit of effort straightening up his pourpoint then gave a grandiose wave to the assembled rebels. “It seems I must drag our dear Henry back so he can get his nose properly rubbed in the consequences of his own actions. Do try to not have too much fun without me.”

“Oh, we simply won’t know what to do without you, Capon,” Samuel called to him as he left, following it up with an obnoxious chuckle. The man was fortunate he was Henry’s brother. And that Henry for some reason liked him. Hans couldn’t for the life of him see the appeal, and were it not for Henry’s favour he’d certainly have broken his nose more than once.

Despite Henry’s continued rudeness, there was a spring in Hans’ step as he crossed beneath the portcullis and into the bailey. The sun was shining down, they had a basement full of silver, and despite Katherine’s fretting, he was feeling confident that things would turn around. After all, if Sigismund was planning an attack, they surely would have gotten some word of it already.

Even more fortuitously, as Hans spotted Henry by the gate, he spied him and Janosh talking to Kubyenka. He was almost certain that the poor fellow had died, but half the Devil’s Pack claimed they’d seen him live through worse. He’d not have bet on his survival, but it seemed that God truly was on their side.

“Henry! Janosh! You should have told us Kubyenka survived. We raised a glass to him earlier, and now I fear we’ll look like fools,” Hans said as he approached the little huddle. But where he’d expected some good natured ribbing, he just got silence from Henry.

Kubyenka at least raised a hand in greeting after a short hesitation. “I’m glad to hear it. I wouldn’t want anyone mourning me sober. You lot would be crippled by the misery if you tried.”

Janosh seemed less inclined towards good humour. He turned to Hans and huffed a breath through his moustache. “Your friend is being foolish. Talk some sense into him.”

Foolishness was half of Henry’s personality. If Hans were to stop him from being a fool, then all he’d be left with was his mulishness, and charming as that could be, it was far less fun to tease him about.

“What’s he done this time?” Hans tutted and put his hands on his hips on a show of mock-authrority.
“Nothing, I just–”

“Erik has issued a challenge to Henry. He wants a duel,” Kubyenka interrupted Henry’s excuses.

“Well, that’s no big problem. You’re under no obligation to take up the challenge of that lunatic,” Hans said quickly. “Now, come on Henry, I’m just buzzed enough to not care that Pisek’s wine is lackluster. And I’ll soon be ready for my encore.” He grabbed Henry by the hand to pull him back towards the celebrations, but he resisted, feet planted solidly.

Henry’s face was set, jaw tight and eyes downcast. It was his stupid martyrdom face, the one that inspired that blasted song, and it made Hans’ blood boil with the terrible notion that even as his Lord and lover, there were some things Henry couldn’t be talked out of. That didn’t mean he couldn’t try though.

“Janosh, Kubyenka, could we have a moment?”

“Fine by me, I’m saddle sore, footsore and half starved,” Kubyenka said before giving his shoulders a dramatic stretch. “Come on then, let’s see what you’ve cooked up.” He threw his arm around Janosh's shoulder.

“Talk some sense to him, Capon. We’ve had enough close calls,” Janosh told him as they walked away.

They weren’t totally alone. A few guards still walked the walls, and the smith was banging away at something in his forge, the regular clanging sounded like a church bell, or a funerary one. Still, they were alone enough to talk fairly freely.

“You want to fight him. Don’t you?”

Henry gave a small nod, not raising his head fully as he did so. “I owe it to him.”

“Owe it? That bastard torched down villages, he tried to kill us, he beat you and held you captive. You don’t owe him the dirt from the soles of your boots.” Hans reached out and tilted Henry’s chin up with one hand. He wanted to speak face to face, not face to boots. “What’s this about, really?”

Henry’s gaze still dropped away from Hans’, even if his head didn’t droop again. “I killed Toth,” Henry said in a small voice “He’s here, right now, calling me a coward and… other things. They were lovers, the two of them. I can’t blame him for wanting revenge. Like I do for Ma and Pa, or how I would if something were to–”

“Stop, Henry,” Hans said firmly, the notion that Istvan Toth’s spirit was floating around him, no doubt mocking him was disconcerting enough, he didn’t need to hear any absurd, pessimistic nonsense from his squire. “You’re not like him, and you never will be. You’ve faced him before, Hell, you may face him again one day. But it doesn’t have to be like this, not by his choice.”

“Pa would say that a man doesn’t run from his problems, that he owns up to them.”

“And Radzig would say that noble intentions are all well and good, but they won’t let you breathe without a head. Come on, Henry! We stole the silver, we won the day, everyone’s celebrating! We can finally relax and have some fun! Do you want to throw that away for Erik?”

There was a flicker of uncertainty in Henry’s eyes, they darted up briefly to lock with Hans' own, and his heart ached at how vulnerable Henry looked. Hans put his hands on Henry’s shoulders, a grounding touch, and he hoped a convincing one. “I don’t want to lose you to this. I know you’re one hell of a fighter. But this could well be a trap.”

One of Henry’s hands crept up, pressing over Hans’ with a warm, gentle squeeze. His eyes slid shut and a stray breeze ruffled through his hair. The tension drained from his face and for one blissful moment, Hans' spirit soared as Henry looked at peace.

I’ve got him.

But then, Henry pulled away a step, and his face became set with a stoic weight. Hans couldn’t say when he first made that face, the one that suggested that the duty and safety of the whole world might as well sit on his shoulders, but he hated it every time he saw it.

“You won’t lose me. I promise. I’ll come back, one way or another.”

He wanted to shout at Henry to stay, to command him not to leave, like a bratty child whining at their nanny. He wanted to throttle him for his suicidal nobility, for the empathy he was showing towards a man who’d never do the same in return. He wanted to pull Henry close, and kiss him hard enough that the feeling of his lips would linger for weeks and every breath would taste of him.

But there were certain rules of decorum one had to obey, and even if breaking them was something Hans delighted in now and again, he couldn’t do it if it’d drag Henry through the mud as well. So instead of that, he swallowed down his feelings. He kept his rage and misery at bay like a hound on a leash.

“I’ll help you get ready then. Christ knows that you wouldn’t be able to manage yourself.” He was proud of the fact that his voice almost sounded steady.

Chapter Text

Henry was well acquainted with ghosts. Certainly moreso than most people would ever be. He’d spoken with so many: friends, enemies, family. He’d had them within his skin and felt their icy touch chill him to his marrow. So he could say with some certainty that Sigismund’s camp was a ghost in its own right.

The once lively hilltop was stripped bare. Bright pennants struck and died silk and cloth pavillions packed away. The smithy was cold and dead and the old struts of tents reached towards the sky like the bones of a cow, half devoured by maggots and crows. The wind was strong, whipping through Pebbles’ mane and whistling through the slits in Henry’s visor.

Erik was just one man. Bitter, bereft and cruel, yet it seemed, as Henry crested that hill, that he was walking into some final destiny, like Jesus dragging the cross to Golgotha. He wished he’d brought Mutt along. The silly dog would no doubt want to sniff about in every abandoned tent, and scratch through each pile of rubbish. It’d lighten Henry's mood well enough. But he’d seen what Erik was willing to do to dogs.

He wasn’t surprised to find Erik at the top of the hill, right where the commanders’ tents had once sat. He was sharpening his sword as Henry crested the hill, the rhythmic ‘shing’ sound formed an off beat with the steady plodding of pebbles’ hooves.

It always seemed peculiar to Henry that Erik tended towards white armour. The colour was hard to maintain, brightly showing each drop of blood and speck of dirt that smeared the wearer. Perhaps that’s why Erik wore it, so that his deeds would be plain to see. Or perhaps he viewed himself as a noble hero, or perhaps it was simply meant as a counterpoint to Toth. He always dressed in the darkest of colours. And the two of them did form a striking image as Henry dismounted Pebbles and approached them.

Toth was standing just behind Erik’s shoulder, no doubt it’d flush Erik to know his lover stood at his side beyond the grave, so Henry vowed to himself to keep that fact mum. Toth looked up before Erik did, and a thin sneer grew on his face.

“You’re going to die, bastard. I hope you said your goodbyes to Capon.”

Henry ignored him, and steadfastly marched towards Erik. The young man finally set down his whetstone, deigning to look up at Henry when he got within a dozen paces.

“So, I see your comrade delivered the message,” he said. His eyes slowly roamed over Henry, taking him in. Perhaps in search of some weakness.

“I wouldn’t dream of missing such a meeting,” Henry replied.

“Liar,” Toth hissed. “Your little catamite nearly had you running and hiding.”

The leather around the grip of Henry’s sword squeaked as he clenched his hand tight around it.

“I’ve got to admit, you’ve got balls. I was starting to think you wouldn’t show up,” Erik observed, and Henry tore his gaze away from Toth’s smug face, and he realised that despite how contained Erik seemed, he was furious. His eyes were bright and wide and between every word his face twisted towards a snarl. “You think you’re better than me? That I’ve got blood on my hands, whilst you’re some kind of defender of justice? Really? Just take a look at yourself! You’re just like me!” Erik thumped his fist against his chest and Henry stomped down the sensation to shiver at the familiar words. “You murder in the name of revenge, and you don’t care about anyone else!”

“This isn’t about revenge,” Henry said, “This is about closure. By the end of the day, you and Toth will be together again.” Henry’s gaze slid from Erik to Toth, and he gave them both a thin, bloodless smile. “Maybe that’s cruel, but it only seems fair.”

“Or maybe he’ll be smiling down at me, as I cut your head from your shoulders, Bastard.”

Erik leapt forward without any further warning, thrusting his sword straight for Henry’s heart. Henry barely managed to bring up his own blade in time to turn Erik’s thrust and send his sword screeching across Henry’s breastplate. It left a fresh, bright gouge in the metal.

Henry shoved Erik back a step with his left hand, and in the space he gained, swung from the side with his right. Erik blocked easily, knocking Henry’s sword aside and pivoting his blade to chop at Henry from a low angle. Once again Henry parried the strike.

They fell into a simple rhythm for a minute or two, exchanging a few quick blows, occasionally bypassing guards and earning a bruise or two, but little more. It was feints, simple tests of defence and Henry found himself oddly taken back to the Rattay Tourney. In his early days he’d been battered around the ring while Hans laughed at him from the sidelines and Radzig looked on with the occasional sympathetic wince when a blow sent his head ringing.

But he’d learned a lot since then, and he found himself holding even with Erik. Back and forth they danced across the hilltop, kicking up puffs of dust into the dry air while the sun beat down on them and sweat gathered at Henry’s back and ran down his forehead. His breathing was heavy and rattled inside his helmet, but he could hear the same from Erik’s beaked visor.

He was wearing him down, stroke by stroke. Henry had faith in his own stamina. He smiled behind his visor. He’d be back with Hans and the Devil’s pack soon, regaling them with the story of how he bested Erik, sharing toasts and good cheer, and maybe, finally, Toth would fuck off back to hell.

But, just as Toth crossed Henry’s mind, a deathly-cold hand thrust through the back of his neck, and gripped his throat. Henry grunted at the frozen touch, his muscles spasmed and froze, just as he heard Toth whisper in his ear.

“You’ll be joining me soon, Henry.”

Eric slashed at him from the side, and Henry just barely managed to twist his blade into Erik’s sword’s path, but it was still knocked from his hand and sent flying. Erik barked in triumph as his strike followed through, crashing into Henry’s shoulder hard enough to leave a sizable dent.

Henry staggered back a step, looking for his sword, but before he could even catch sight of it, Erik brought his boot up in a clean swing, right into Henry’s groin. Henry’s breath left him and the crushing pain that spread out from the impact found a swirling, throbbing home in his lower stomach.

He doubled over then fell forward. He curled up on instinct to protect his aching privates and innards. But Erik wasn’t done. He kicked at him, again and again.

“You fucking bastard! You murdering shit!” He shouted between kicks that smashed into Henry’s back and side. “How does it feel? How do you like it!? Alone and helpless!” Again and again he rained savage, artless blows on Henry, at times with his boots and at times with the flat of his sword. Over it all, Henry could hear Toth laughing merrily to himself.

“Aim for the head, Erik, he never used it much!”

As his body turned into one big bruise, a terrible realisation fell over Henry as he managed to catch sight of his sword half a dozen paces away.

There may be no way out of this.

But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try.

Henry took a chance, and snatched his hand out, grabbing a handful of dirt.

“The fuck do you think–”

Henry cut off Erik’s shout, by tossing the dirt up into his face. He must have gotten a mouthful of it by the way he choked and sputtered. But Henry didn’t turn to look. He scrambled on all fours towards his sword, his Fathers’ sword. His battered legs and arms ached with each twitching movement, but he pushed onwards.

He was just a metre away when Erik roared and seized him by the leg. It felt like it was being pulled from its socket as Erik yanked him backwards, away from salvation.

“No! No!” Henry screamed as his only hope slipped away from his grasp.

“Enough fucking around,” Erik grunted. He grabbed Henry by the shoulder, and flipped him onto his back. Henry tried to shake his grip off, but his muscles were aching and spasming out of his control, and he soon found himself blinded as the noonday sun poured through his eye slits. Then there was a press of metal below his chin and Henry froze. The words of the Lord’s Prayer spun through Henry’s head as his mind tried to seek out some last second absolution.

“Take off your helmet. I want to look you in the eyes,” Erik said.

That was it then. Henry slowly reached his hands up, ever mindful of the tip of Erik’s sword against his throat. His hands were clumsy and twitchy, but he managed to undo the straps and pull off his helmet. He let it fall from his grasp, and it rolled a short ways in the dry dirt.

Erik looked down at him, dispassionate, yet grimly satisfied as Toth beamed at his side.

“Beaten and bloodied is a good look for you.”

“I did it,” Erik murmured to himself. “I hope you can see this, that it brings you peace.”

Then he pulled his sword back, readying it for a fatal strike at Henry’s head. A thousand thoughts crammed their way to the front of Henry’s soon to be emptied mind, clamouring and shouting at him. He’d never return his Fathers’ sword, he’d never see Theresa at the mill again, never check in on Johanka’s penance, never see Wenceslas freed or Sigismund properly seen off. He’d never give Mutt a scratch behind the ears, he’d never hear Janosh and Addder sniping at each other, never get to know his brother, never see Rattay again. He’d never go hunting with Hans again. Never run his hand through that stupid man’s beautiful hair as he kissed him, desperate and hungry for all of him.

That was a good thought to end on, Hans’ lips against his own, the pair of them breaking into a laugh about something stupid. He focused on that as Erik’s sword reached its zenith and began its down swing.

Chapter Text

“Arrêtez! Arrêtez!”

Erik stopped, frozen at a voice far too familiar to Henry. Henry had not heard the pounding of hooves, caught up in his final moments, but he did hear Brabant puffing and huffing for breath as he ran up to Erik. He stood over Henry, just as imperious as Erik, if a little less composed.

He brushed himself down with a few swift motions and readjusted his cap, while Erik held his sword frozen just a few handsbreadth’s over Henry’s face. For a desperate moment, Henry hoped that perhaps Brabant had had another change of heart, that he’d not found the welcome of a traitor so warm, and he was hoping for some kind of redemption.

“The fuck do you want?” Erik snapped at him.

“He’s wasting time,” Toth muttered, then he looked to Henry. “Don’t worry, you’ll be dead soon enough.”

“I want you to think about the mistake you’re about to make,” Brabant replied primly.

“Mistake? I’m about to rid the world of Radzig’s bastard. He’s been running around causing enough trouble for the cause that I’d think even you’d approve.” He shot a significant look towards Brabant’s arm, following his gaze Henry could see a clean, white slip of bandage poking out from beneath his sleeve.

“This is no mercy mission, I can assure you that much.” Brabant sent a venomous glare Henry’s way, and he scowled in return. “But to kill him now would be a wasted opportunity. Not when he could be much more useful to us alive.”

“Useful?” Erik scoffed, “We tried that once before, hoping for some sort of ransom. I doubt Radzig would have even given us anything for this one.” He waved his sword vaguely over Henry’s face and he flinched back against the ground to avoid it cutting into him.

“Sir Radzig may not. I cannot say much of his disposition. But Sir Capon? C’est une fleur bleue.”

“Speak plainly,” Erik growled. Henry couldn’t say he knew much better what Brabant was talking about. Perhaps that ghost of his could shed some light, but he couldn’t spot him.

“Ah, I forget your tongue is so plain. Henry here, and Sir Capon, are lovers.”

“No!” Henry snapped instinctively, and Erik gave a twitch of his wrist, landing a stinging cut just below Henry’s eye to silence him.

How does he know? How long has he been spying on us?

Erik looked down at Henry coldly, his sword blade dipped to rest against his bleeding cheek. “You’ll keep your mouth shut while we’re talking.” Then he said to Brabant “How do I know I can trust you on that?”

“Hah! I’d say most of their little band already knows. The two of them are not quiet.” Brabant gave a light chuckle then flashed a playful smile Henry’s way, as if the exposure of his and Hans’ relationship was some manner of pleasant joke.

“Well, then I guess I’ll give Capon something to weep about.” Erik pulled back his sword and Toth leaned forward eagerly. Only for Brabant to halt him again with a hand on his arm.

“Or you could give him something to hang himself with. I have seen the lengths these two go to for one another. Dangle Henry here before Capon and he will throw reason to the wind to appear the gallant knight.” Damn Brabant. He’d seen Henry do the same for Hans, and he couldn’t deny that he was right in his assumption. Hans was headstrong enough when Henry wasn’t involved. “Or perhaps he’ll trade himself for his poor squire, then you’ll have the man whose marriage is an alliance’s linchpin–”

“In hand. With evidence of his… degeneracy,” the last word came out slowly and painfully, and there was a small comfort in knowing that Erik at least took some discomfort in calling it such. His sword still drifted slowly back towards Henry’s throat.

“He’s lying,” Henry spat. “Capon’s my Liege Lord, he’s engaged, he-he’s an idiot and a braggart. Why would you even believe there’s anything between us?” He forced a laugh that tickled his Adam’s Apple with cold steel. “Brabant’s full of shit, you shouldn’t believe a word he says.”

Erik regarded him coldly for a few seconds, then turned the point of his sword slowly away from Henry’s throat. He sank to his haunches beside Henry, and Henry had a brief, wild idea to surge upright and slam a headbut into Erik. But Erik was armoured and certainly well enough prepared to fend off something so obvious.

“Why are you eager to die now?” Erik asked quietly.

“It doesn’t matter. Just finish him!” Toth shouted at his lover. His hands gestured wildly at Henry, unseen by the very man he tried to counsel.

“I’m not eager to die, I just… I’ve experienced your hospitality before and I–”

“Bullshit,” Erik interrupted softly. “You’re a survivor. That’s what Istvan said. You’d do anything to save your miserable hide. But the second that I threatened Capon, you changed your tune.”

He snatched out a hand and clenched a fistful of Henry’s hair in his grasp. Henry grunted softly as he pulled and tugged at his scalp, stinging sharply as hairs got caught up between the metal joints of Erik’s gauntlet. His head was twisted roughly so that he faced Erik head-on. He glared into Erik’s grey eyes with all the fire he could muster.

“You’d be letting Toth down if you didn’t kill me now,” Henry bargained. A desperate and stupid move. “He’ll be rolling in his grave if you let this chance slip by.” Istvan certainly was fuming. Henry never thought that he’d agree with the murderer on anything.

“Maybe,” Erik agreed softly. “But you deserve worse than death.” He leaned in close to Henry, and each of his breaths gusted over Henry with a lingering smell of dried meat and stale water that Henry recognised from too many long nights on the road. “I want you to know how it feels. I want you to sit by, helpless, as someone you love dies right in front of you. To feel your world crumble and your heart rip in two. Then maybe, if you beg me after that, I’ll send you to hell to join him.”

The threat was cold and calm, but Henry couldn’t respond in kind. A spike of fury drilled into his brain, and before he knew what he was doing, he was taking a swing at Erik’s face. Erik swayed back from the clumsy blow, and a small smile came to his face. Henry barely had time to realise that he’d made a fatal error, before Erik slammed his head down against the ground three times in quick succession. The first blow hurt, the second blow left him dazed and after the third his head felt like it was going to split in two. He felt a warm trickle down the back of his neck and the fate of the unfortunate Legate staggered to the front of his muddled mind.
A mixture of soft muttering and nasal laughter flowed between Henry’s ears as he blinked dazedly up at the bright sky, trying to clear away the dark spots that crept around the edge of his vision like thieves in the night.

He just managed to pull himself together enough to make out the tail end of a conversation.

“It will not be hard to make space for him.” Brabant. Henry recognised the heavy accent anywhere.

“Maybe, but better to be safe than sorry,” Erik grunted in reply. Henry only had a fraction of a second to wonder what he was talking about before something hard and cold slammed down on his right wrist.

He was brought back to his senses by an explosion of pain, as something cracked and shattered beneath that blow. A ragged scream ripped from Henry’s throat and he rolled onto his side, clutching his mangled wrist to his chest, only to send a few more fever-hot waves of agony through his whole arm as he tried to cover his injury like a wounded animal. He bit his tongue hard enough to draw blood, resolved not to give Erik or Toth any more satisfaction. But it didn’t stifle the steady throb and pulse of pain that shot through Henry with each heartbeat.

“That should stop you from getting any clever ideas,” Erik said, then he followed his declaration by hocking a glob of spit onto the side of Henry’s head. Henry scarcely noticed the indignity. The small splat was lost against a desperate, panicked litany that ran through his head at the notion that his sword hand was ruined. Escape would be the least of his worries if he was crippled for life, and he just had to pray that his wrist would be left alone to heal. Maybe if he was lucky, the bone wouldn’t set too off-angle.

A hysteric giggle fell from him at the hopelessness of it all. He should have listened to Hans, stayed behind and ignored Toth’s taunting, and his own conscience. At least then, he’d be safe for once.

A pair of hands, softer than Erik’s, but still firm, settled over Henry’s shoulders, and guided him slowly, and painfully to his feet. “Come now, mon amis, you’ll be alright if you take a little care.”

If Henry didn’t know any better, he’d believe the false regret that oozed from Brabant. But even being the fool that he was, he wasn’t that stupid.

“Bind him,” said Erik. “Then we can go and pay a visit to his Lord.”

Chapter Text

“I shouldn’t have let him go. I shouldn’t have, I should have ordered him to sit his stupid arse down and just enjoy some drinks.” From the walls of Suchdol the situation looked grim. Despite what Kubyenka had told the Devil’s Pack, it seemed that a new army had coalesced out of thin air. It wasn’t as great a force as Sigismund had encamped nearby previously, but the Praguers outside the fortress still outnumbered Pisek’s piddling garrison five to one. At least, that was Hans’ guess by the number of banners he could see rippling in the breeze.

It was enough to mount an effective siege, probably enough to just take the damned castle and silver if they were to put in a little effort. And Henry was nowhere to be seen.

Perhaps he saw them coming, but was cut off, and retreated. He might be bringing help this very second. Hans’ nails scraped on stone as he slowly clenched his fists in their grip on the castle walls. He knew such reassurances were hollow. Something in the pit of his gut told him with certainty that things had gone awry.

Von Aulitz and Pisek were shouting back and forth at one another, some attempt at parley that was doomed to go nowhere. Perhaps, Hans thought, he should have felt more concern at the idea that they were likely all going to die. But it was difficult to drum up much care when Henry was likely already…

“No,” he said aloud softly. Falling into such fatalism was doing himself, and everyone else a disservice. Henry would want to see the others safe, even his bloody, snotty ‘brother’. If Henry had fallen in his duel, then Hans would do what he could to make sure everyone got out alright before he’d try and face Henry again.

So caught up in his own thoughts, Hans took a moment to react when the rider beside Von Aulitz spurred his horse forward a few steps, and revealed himself as Von Bergow. Samuel gave a furious hiss that Hans barely noticed, and everyone atop the battlements shared uneasy glances, no one quite sure where to throw the blame of Von Bergow’s escape.

“We want that silver! King Sigismund wanted your heads too, but if you behave reasonably…” He trailed off, and Hans scoffed quietly. The man was grandstanding like a peacock. “Think of your castle and your estates, Peter.” He paused once more and pivoted in the saddle. There was a small group breaking from the Praguers in the distance two men, it looked like, astride horses.

They crossed ground swiftly, and Hans’ heart leapt into his throat when he recognised that it was not two men, but three. Erik rode his own horse to the right, his armour barely even duststained, but on the left, the traitor Brabant rode. Trussed up like a roast and pressed against his chest was–

“Henry!” Hans shouted despite himself. Zizka shot him a look and shushed him sharply, but the man looked as perturbed as Hans felt. When he looked back down towards the diplomatic party, he caught Von Aulitz’s eye, and was locked in a too-knowing gaze.

“You have had some trouble holding onto your prisoners, Peter, but it seems your men have taken to wandering off as well,” Von Aulitz called.

Hans drank in the sight of Henry as he closed with horrible fascination. He’d been stripped of his armour and boots, the dark blotches of several bruises were discolouring the skin of his face, and Hans thought he saw some bloodstains on his shirt. He was nearly doubled over the neck of Brabant’s horse, his right arm cradled against his chest. He looked to be flinching with each bouncing step of the Frenchman’s steed.

But as Von Aulitz spoke, some life seemed to surge into, he leaned back swiftly, bumping into Brabant’s chest. Brabant all but fell back off his horse at the impact, yanking on the reins to keep balance and making the beast shy and dance a few steps.

“Von Aulitz, you cunt! I’ll see you dead! You’ll suffer for–” Henry’s tirade was cut off into muffled grunting as Brabant clamped a hand over his mouth.

Von Aulitz himself had paused to stare at Henry during his rant, and in the forced silence that followed he couldn’t seem to find his words. Fortunately for the sake of his dignity, Von Bergow was swift to pick up the duties of ‘negotiation’.

“By his own foul mouth, I’m sure you’re aware that this is Radzig’s bastard,” he flicked a wrist carelessly towards Henry, who struggled against Brabant’s grasp until the traitor latched a hand around Henry’s arm and he went deathly still. “Perhaps, it will be worth your consideration to remember that the life of your friend and ally hangs in the balance.”

At seeing Henry’s treatment, abused and mocked, Hans felt a reckless, furious energy rise in him like a swarm of stinging wasps. Before Peter could respond, he found himself leaning forward over the battlements. “You’ll release my squire this instant!” He shouted down at Von Bergow. “Or I’ll see the whole lot of you flayed and hanged for your abuses.”
“Keep your mouth shut, you damned fool,” Zizka said tightly. He yanked Hans back with a hand on his collar, but the damage was already done.

“I’d be more than happy to release your dear friend, Sir Capon, in exchange for the silver.” Von Bergow had a nasty little smirk on his face, and it felt like a bucket full of ice was dropped down Hans’ back at that.

He couldn’t know. There’s no way that he’d find out.

He stood there gawping like an idiot for so long that he almost missed the soft click that sounded from a few paces to his side. But he turned just in time to see the Dry Devil pointing his crossbow down towards the parley party. He sprung forth, a cry of denial and horror leaping to his lips. If that shot was loosed, then it’d quickly be clear that Henry’s life was worth nothing, and that there was no point in keeping him as a hostage. Or worse yet, it could hit Henry himself.

He was too slow though, his fingers barely grazed the arm of the crossbow, tilting it a faction to the left before the Dry Devil pulled the trigger. Hans’ eyes followed the bolt’s path as time almost seemed to slow, stretching and dilating until it landed in Von Aulitz’s shoulder.

Markvart grunted, cringing and doubling over at the impact, one hand climbing up to clasp at the base of the shaft.

“You stupid cunt, you threw off my shot!” The Devil snapped at him. Hans grit his teeth and he could almost swear his vision ran red. He had no time or thought for well measured arguments, or tongue lashings. The ignorant fucking imbecile shot a man during a parley.

Hans threw himself at the Devil, tackling him to the ground and laying into him with his fists. He got a few good hits off before the Devil got over his shock and started throwing punches in return. Hans was screaming and shouting something, he couldn’t say what, more raw, furious emotion than anything else. He cursed in every language he knew (and a few that he only knew curses from), and the two of them rolled about on the battlements scuffling and scrapping. The Devil hit hard, a headbutt to his collarbone, a fist to his jaw, a bite that drew blood from his arm, but Hans couldn’t pay any mind to it. The fucker thought he could gamble with his Henry’s life, and that pushed Hans far beyond care.

Only the combined efforts of Samuel, Janosh, Adder and Zizka pulled the two of them apart. But Hans still tried to throw kicks and barbed words the Devil’s way, even as he was held back by Samuel and Janosh.

“Enough!” Zizka snapped. He had one of the Dry Devil’s arms in his grasp, and the damned hellion had the audacity to be smiling, wide and bloody at Hans despite what he’d done. “I’ll not have you two trying to kill each other, do you hear me?”

“Why not? He’s happy enough to throw Henry to the wolves? Who can say he wouldn’t do the same with any of us?” Hans growled, he strained against Janosh and Samuel, but their holds were steady and he found some of that rage-fueled strength draining from him as the reality of the situation began to sink in.

“What? Were you expecting we’d give them the silver for your squire?” The Devil’s voice was thick and slurred, and he hocked a glob of blood at Capon’s feet.

“We could have talked! Cut a deal! Stalled for time! Now you’ve doomed Henry and killed all of us as well! He saved your life and this is what you do to repay him?” He looked out towards the siege camp. But Markvart’s party had already retreated, Henry in tow. At least there was some small comfort that they hadn’t slit his throat while Hans was busy trying to throttle the Dry Devil.

“It’s not my fault he got himself captured. I wouldn’t expect him to trade the silver for me either.”

“You wouldn’t be worth it,” Hans snarled.

“Why? Because I’m not taking your–”

“Quiet!” Zizka shouted, cutting off The Devil before he could finish that particular thought. Even if everyone already could see where he was going with it. Hans flushed deep red in rage and shame. “Adder, take Hynek down to the bailey. Capon, you’re staying up here on watch until further notice.”

“But what about–”

“We’ll speak about Henry, and this whole mess soon. I promise.” Zizka’s harsh gaze softened a touch and it reminded Hans uncomfortably of being a young boy and scraping his knee while Hanush couldn’t quite work out how to comfort him. “But not until you’ve cooled off.”
Zizka led the others down from the battlements, a low hum of worried conversation clouded the air, but Hans couldn’t make it out over the shriek of his own fears and horrors. He jumped when he heard a soft voice at his side.

“We won’t let them keep him.” It was Samuel, gentle but firm, felt and steel.

“No,” Hans agreed in a whisper. “We won’t.”

Chapter Text

When Henry was dragged away from the failed negotiations, he’d expected his throat to be cut then and there. If there was no way to get the silver in exchange for him, then he didn’t imagine that he’d be kept around for long, no matter what sick revenge fantasies Erik might have in mind.

But he’d been carried along dutifully by Brabant, who was more than happy to shut down any questions or protests that Henry might have had by squeezing his broken wrist until the bone fragments rubbed together, robbing Henry of any thought or breath.

“Je suis désolé, Henry,” Brabant said half-heartedly as Henry slowly got his breathing under control. He’d tried to throw himself from the saddle as they rode into Suchdol village and gotten another crushing squeeze of his abused wrist for the efforts.

Henry tried to distract himself from the throbbing, and worryingly hot pain in his wrist by taking in his surroundings. If he could glean any information, it could be useful for his escape. Because there’d be a chance, there was always a chance. A lax guard, some saviour or happenstance that came along. It wasn’t worth dwelling on any other alternative.

The Praguers were busy shooing the last few reluctant villagers from their homes. Most were loading up wagons or bags with whatever valuables they could carry. He tried to keep an eye out for Peter and Mlada, he couldn’t imagine the poor man was handling an invading army well, but he didn’t catch sight of them. The few villagers still remaining were rushing to not be caught underfoot or anger the soldiers more than was unavoidable.

“It is truly a sorry thing that our relationship has soured so. I saw something of myself in you, not quite so handsome or clever, but you have a certain pluck I can admire,” Brabant prattled as he took his sweet time riding around the village. Henry could only guess as to where they were headed.

“Pourquoi ne pas utiliser ta magie pour te libérer, Sorcier?” Brabant’s tagalong had reappeared. Not bothering to float around for once, the armoured ghost was slowly walking alongside their horse, quite happy to pass through any buildings or people in his path. Henry glowered down at the ghost, wishing that at least the dead hanging around could be decent company.

He was so focused on the Ghost, and ignoring Brabant’s self-congratulatory rambling, that he almost missed Von Aulitz. He’d left a little ahead of them, right after taking a bolt to the shoulder, but Henry oh-so-dearly wished it could have pierced straight through his black, shrivelled heart. He was riding towards a long, low building and Henry drew in a breath to shout at the fucker, until Brabant gave his arm a warning squeeze, and he thought it best to bite his tongue.

“You have quite a grudge against Von-Aulitz, it seems,” Brabant commented. Then he clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “You would be wiser to try and get on his good side, he holds your life in his hands.”

“I’ll make peace when he brings back my parents, and the rest of Skalitz,” Henry growled. Maybe if he was quick enough, he could throw himself from the saddle, grab Brabant’s knife and cut out Markvart’s throat.

His Pa’s ghost didn’t even need to be present for him to know that was an awful, reckless idea. Still, it was a sweet one.

“Ah, I had forgotten about that. Still, Henry, it is best not to dwell on such things. Little mishaps happen in war all the time. It is not for the likes of us to get caught up on the deaths of a few farmers.”

“My parents’ murders weren’t little mishaps, you shameless cu–aaaagh!” Henry’s protest morphed into a scream as Brabant silenced him through his abused wrist once again.

“Tu ne peux pas cracher du feu ou quelque chose comme ça ?” Henry could throttle that damn ghost. He was fairly sure it was mocking him by this point. But it’d have to get in line behind Brabant.

“I’ll remember that,” Henry promised grimly. “That was the fifth time. I’m keeping count.”

“If you can keep count, you can remember to hold your tongue,” Brabant snipped. He turned his horse towards a barn near the outskirts of the town. Henry racked his brain for what used to live there. Horses? Cows? It didn’t matter much, cows would be butchered and horses commandeered. The whole town was being transformed into a military camp as the soldiers began erecting hasty defences.

Brabant forced him down from the horse as they reached the barn and swung down in turn. Defenceless, disarmed and alone, Henry had little choice but to let himself be ushered within the barn. A rope was roughly wound around his one good arm, and slung over a beam in the ceiling, and another was tied around his neck, and attached to the wall, leaving him standing awkwardly, just on the edge of his tiptoes whilst a slow, but steady ache built in his cramping legs and arm. Small mercy, his sword hand was left untied. It wasn’t good for much, but he was grateful that it wouldn’t be receiving more abuse.

Brabant looked over the handiwork of the soldiers with a satisfied nod, before yawning and stretching dramatically. “Well, it has been a pleasant diversion, Henry. But I am in need of some rest.”

“Peut-être trouver comment se transformer en brume.” The ghost added, quite unhelpfully. Henry reminded himself that it deserved at least a little gratitude for helping to save Adder. He reminded himself quite firmly, because he was becoming more certain that it was mocking him with each tinny word it spoke.

“I’m certain treachery takes it out of a man,” Henry spat at Brabant, metaphorically, before hocking a glob of literal spittle at his feet for good measure. Brabant just gave him a harsh look, neatly adjusted his hat and left.

And Henry was alone, in a drafty barn that’d no doubt become frigid in the night, his only company the murmured conversations of some guards outside the entryway. With naught to do but wait for his own execution order while he developed cramps all over his body.

He blew out a frustrated breath at how wretched the situation was, then tried twitching his fingers on his sword hand. Perhaps, he thought, if a little mobility was possible, then he could undo his binds. He’d escaped captivity before. With even the barest twitch though, fiery pain lanced up and down his arm, leaving tingling numbness in its blazing wake.

He stood there, straining for some time, listening for any hint of information from his guards while wobbling about trying to relieve the stress on his arm and legs. He was forewarned by his vigilance of the approach of an unpleasant guest.

“Sir Markvart!” The cry was hurried and startled, followed by a rattle of armour that suggested a hasty salute. Despite the numbing aches in all his limbs, Henry felt a furious burn spark up in his core. The butcher of Skalitz was deigning to pay him a visit.

Markvart’s shoulder was bandaged, and he held it with a subtle tension that spoke of the tenderness of whatever surgery he’d undergone after arriving. He glanced around the barn with a faint look of distaste, and then his eyes fell on Henry. There was something about being the centre of attention that stalled the venom that came to Henry’s tongue. He settled for a glare as Markvart came to stand before him.

“This is not a proper place for holding a prisoner,” he remarked. That was certain enough by the rope burns Henry could already feel forming, but at least it wasn’t so enclosed as Trosky’s cells.

“I’m surprised you’d bother to take prisoners.”

“I thought you’d be more furious at Erik or Brabant,” Markvart said softly, half to himself. “Why is it my intentions you doubt?”

“I’ve seen your ‘intentions’, seen them with my own eyes in Skalitz,” Henry swayed forward in his bonds, an instinct to leap on Von Aulitz stifled by them.

“Oh, Skalitz,” Markvart stared into his face for some time, “You were the boy who ran away. Erik called you Radzig’s bastard. Yet–”

“You killed them!” Henry shouted. “My Ma and Pa, my neighbours, my friends! Then your fucking Cuman horde chased me down like a dog. I watched my home burn, everything I’d ever known and I-I I didn’t even get time to say goodbye,” his voice grew weak as he went on, and his limbs felt heavy enough that he had to rely on the rope to keep him upright. But Markvart just stared at him all through his tirade.

“Your wrist is broken,” Markvart walked to Henry’s side, but he couldn’t be much bothered pivoting to face the murderer. There was a light touch on Henry’s arm, but he snatched it towards himself on instinct. He then bit back a snarl as the bones in his wrist made their pained protests known.

“It was your thugs who did it.”

“I shall have my physician examine it. Your ransom will be sent to Sir Radzig, and I don’t think he’d appreciate you returning crippled.” Henry twitched away from Markvart, locking him in an uneasy stare.

“Why would you care?”

Markvart gave a small shrug. “Why would I not?” He then turned and left without another word of explanation.

Henry was left hanging there, slack, not quite sure what to make of it, when a physician did indeed come to set and splint his wrist a half hour later. He was left still with that burning question.

Why did Markvart care?

Chapter Text

Three days. Three interminable, tense, monotonous, vexing, infuriating, depressing, endless days. There’d been a few brief exchanges, an infiltration attempt, and the occasional round of exchanged fire, but just enough to keep their gang well and truly on edge. The siege had begun, and Von Bergow and his lot didn’t seem much interested in ending it. But then again, why would they? They had all the time in the world to wait out the garrison and minimise their own losses.

Hans was supposed to be resting, getting a well deserved nap and a share of rations before he’d be needed to cover a section of wall. At least when he was up there, he could pretend to be doing something productive while he searched the encamped army futilely for any sign of Henry at all.

Surely if he was dead they would have told us. Erik would have wanted to gloat about it, probably would have marched all around the castle with Henry’s head on a pike, given the chance.

That was a thought that turned Hans’ stomach, and had him turning over in bed, hoping to shake it off. The mattress was too soft, the blankets too cloyingly warm, the chirp of crickets louder than Henry hammering at some bloody piece of metal and whistling off key. Hans threw the blankets off himself, and jerked upright.

“Stupid damn peasant,” he grumbled. He fumbled for his boots, sat by his bedside and crammed them onto his feet, then he was up and out of bed, ready to pace a hole in the floor, or something equally productive.

He wanted, more than anything, to sneak beyond the castle walls, slip by the guards in the Praguers’ camp like a shadow, and cut down whatever fools were arrogant enough to think they could keep him from his squire. He could picture the scene now, him, bursting into some dingy chamber, Henry, chained helpless to the wall. His eyes would light up and his breath would still.

“Hans, you came! I always knew you would!” Henry would cry.

“Of course,” Hans would proclaim, flicking a lock of perfectly coiffed hair. “You’re my love, my squire, the Lancelot to my Galehaut.”

“My Lord,” he’d whisper breathlessly, straining against his chains, desperate to touch, to hold, to feel.
“Shhh, Henry, you’ll never need fear again,” Hans would whisper, pulling him close, unbinding him with a deft flick of the wrist and a clink of a key taken from a fallen guard.

Hans realised that his fantasy had quite gotten away from him as he found his hand drifting southward. He shook himself and tried to ignore the pleasurable hardness developing down there. A few nights alone and he was already turning into some sort of spoony, lovesick oaf.

Perhaps Hanush did have something of a point with all his whining.

“Come on, Capon, Henry wouldn’t be sitting around whining and feeling himself up if the roles were reversed.” And they certainly had been more than once. It was a time for action, for a plan. Zizka had shut him down every time he’d suggested a sortie to rescue Henry, but perhaps the situation had changed.

Nodding to himself at the wisdom of his own idea, Hans set off in search of Zizka. Despite the late hour, the castle wasn’t properly asleep. A full third of the garrison was up, marching around the yard or along the walls, torches in hand, peering out into the night, hoping for a glimpse of an infiltrator. Hans knew well enough from firsthand experience that they had cock’s chance on a leper of seeing anything out there.

He expected to spend some time searching for Zizka, but he caught sight of him as soon as he left the keep itself. He was in the infirmary, back turned to Hans, and engrossed in conversation with Katherine. Judging by the flush and the furious look on her face he could see in the lanternlight, it wasn’t a conversation he wanted to be in the middle of. But it was likely exactly the sort of one he’d love the eavesdrop on.

Hans crept around the edge of the yard, staying close to the shadow of the wall, until he could just make the voices of the two, tense and sharp, on the verge of shouting. Like the father of a girl he’d fooled around with, who knew exactly what was on the line if he pushed a little too hard.

“I told you that no good would come of this, of the stealing, the silver. You pushed things too far, too fast.” That was Katherine, light spilling from the infirmary painted her shadow on the ground, one finger pointed out, and jabbing viciously.

“And what would you have me do? Sit back and wait for Sigismund to catch onto us? Stand by while he burned down the Jewish Quarter and treated Kuttenberg like his own personal play-yard?” Zizka was sounding no less peeved and Hans began to quickly decide that now might not be the time to push for a sortie.
“I’d have you slow down, wait, plan a little! You’re not a boy anymore! I’d expect that sort of thing from the Devil, or Capon, but you’re supposed to have a better head on your shoulders than to throw us all into danger!”

“This is a war, Katherine. We’ve never been safe, you of anyone should know that well enough–”

“Zizka, don’t you go there.”

There was a brief silence, then a heavy sigh that sat in the air like smoke from a dying fire. Hans was getting a creeping sensation up and down his back, a certain tingle that told him he definitely wasn’t supposed to be listening in.

“You’re right, that wasn’t fair. But the point does stand. It could be any one of us at this point, and much as I wish it wasn’t so, there was no safe path for me to take. Planning would have been safer, preparing a better escape, a cleverer entrance, holding everyone together… I can’t do it without compromise.”

“Well, I’m sure that’s a great comfort to young Henry then.”

“Not you too… I’m getting enough griping from Capon and Samuel as it is.” Zizka clicked his tongue then. “I didn’t go telling him to charge out into a duel. Even then though, I wouldn’t have expected him to be bested by Erik.”

That was a good point, Hans knew well enough that Henry was an uncommonly talented swordsman. He’d managed to best Zizka and the Devil in the past, and perhaps might even be a match for Hans himself, having even won out in some training bouts when Hans really wasn’t feeling properly awake yet.

“He may have cheated, or maybe you lot aren’t so invincible as you pretend to be half the time.”

“I don’t think anyone’s much in denial about that now,” Zizka replied, his voice was soft and regretful. Hans watched carefully as Katherine’s shadow took a careful step forward. Her hand hovered in the air for a moment before falling back to her side.

“I could see if I could sneak out, chances are they’d overlook me in the camp,” she suggested.

“And then what? We got lucky at Trosky, and even were you to make it further out, reach our allies, we have no way of guaranteeing they’ll listen to you.”

“Right,” she agreed bitterly. “Wish we could just give the bloody silver back, see an end to all this. If it weren’t for Hynek–”

“I know your thoughts on that matter,” Zizka grunted, then puffed out a sigh. “I’m going to check on the walls, make sure the men aren’t dropping off to sleep. We’ll discuss our options in the morning.”

Hans flattened himself against the wall, tucking into the corner and hoping that night blindness would hide his indiscretion. He heard Zizka’s footsteps slowly grow louder as he approached, and then soften as he pivoted away from the castle and towards the bailey. Hans slowly crept forth as the sound of footsteps faded, he peered to his left, but then as he swung to look to his right, his eyes landed on Katherine. Arms crossed, a few steps away, and with a thoroughly unimpressed look on her face.

Sir Hans Capon, Lord of Pirkstein didn’t jump in fright at the sight of an angry woman, but he did feel a cold clench in his gut.

“Hello, Katherine, um… restless night?” He asked lamely, stroking a hand through his hair in an almost-casual manner.

“You were eavesdropping, weren’t you?” She asked flatly.

“What? Me? Eavesdrop? My good woman, I am of noble stock and would never–”

“Really? You expect me to buy that shit? I heard you bragging to Adder the other day about pissing out a fire on a hunting trip. I don’t think your sense of propriety goes very far.”

“Well, it was a big fire…” Adder was impressed, probably.

She rolled her eyes, then took Hans gently by the arm and pulled him into the infirmary. The wounded were all fast asleep, or insensate enough from the pain of their injuries that being overheard was a minimal risk.

“You’ve been nagging Zizka every day about wanting to rescue Henry,” Katherine said bluntly.

“He’s my squire, and … friend, of course I want to see to his wellbeing.” She kept her gaze on his face for a few moments, then satisfied, hopefully, at what she saw, she gave a small nod.

“We can’t just hole up in here, sooner of later those walls are gonna fall. We’ve got a few weeks worth of supplies, but not enough for a prolonged fight. Either way, we’re screwed if we do nothing.”

Sound logic, Hans supposed.

“Zizka was right, my word might not be taken at face value, but someone of noble stock...”

“You know a way out?” Hans asked sharply, a flutter in his chest. “A way to get to Henry?”

“Shhh!” Katherine hissed. “I’ve got some thoughts, but we’ll need to wait a little longer, those men out there, they no doubt think a siege feels terribly exciting yet. Soon they’ll get tired, then you and I can get out. We’ll find Henry, then go to your lordly council and promise them a king’s ransom in silver if they come to save everyone.”

Hans gave a dry, quiet laugh. He knew he was lucky, but to have even the seeds of a plan, and a new ally to his gallant rescue was serendipitous beyond measure. He’d almost not lament the loss of his beauty sleep come morning.

“I’m in,” he said quickly, “but there’s someone else that I think will want to be involved.”

Even if that someone was an insufferable little twerp, best not to risk anything for Henry’s sake.