Chapter Text
It’s impossible to block out the din of merrymaking coming from the courtyard of the Devil’s Den. Henry can hear laughter, swearing, men fiercely denying accusations of throwing loaded dice. He wonders if he should join in, if it would be a relief after the waking nightmare that he narrowly survived this morning. A reminder that life goes on – even if it won’t for the townsfolk killed by Sigismund’s soldiers in their brutal assault on Kuttenberg’s Jewish Quarter.
He yawns, stretches. Gives Pebbles a soft pat on the neck before turning his attention back to hitching post in front of him. He finishes tying the grey mare to the wooden stake, double checks the water level in the trough. She nickers, and Henry digs through the overstuffed pouch on his belt for a slice of dried apple. He speaks quietly as he feeds it to her.
“Beautiful work today, my girl. Wouldn’t have made it back here without ya. You rest up now.”
Rest. Maybe that’s what he needs. Is it hopeless to imagine he might be able to sneak through the crowded inn, to his room on the second floor, unseen?
A familiar, shrill bark interrupts his thoughts. He spots a glint of white fur in the last rays of light from the setting sun. When he recognizes Mutt, Henry smiles for what must surely be the first time in days. He lowers himself until he’s sitting cross-legged on the muddy ground, arms wide.
“Good doggy! What have you been up to, eh, boy? I missed you!”
Mutt flings two paws into Henry’s lap and licks his cheek, reveling in the road dirt and sweat. Henry’s face contorts into a half-smile, half-wince, but he doesn’t pull back, instead burying his fingers into the short fur covering Mutt’s sides. He feels a slight pudge there, and wonders if Mutt has been doing less hunting, and more begging for kitchen scraps in Henry’s absence.
“What are they feeding you, boy? Need to get you back on the road with me, huh? Isn’t that right?”
Still, he’s grateful, at least, that Mutt wasn’t with him in Kuttenberg. There would have been no way to guarantee his safety in the chaos of the morning, and Henry can’t stand the thought of losing another precious thing to that red-haired usurper.
“A loyal companion. It’s a rare thing in these dark days. Hold onto him.”
When he hears the deep voice of Jan Zizka, Henry stands, brushing the dirt from his knees and straightening his riding waffenrock. He gestures for Mutt to heel. So much for slipping to bed unnoticed.
“Evening, Captain.”
Zizka has removed the cloth bandage from around his face, giving Henry an unobstructed view of the angry red gash across his right eye. It seems to be healing well, but that doesn’t stop a pang of guilt from coursing through Henry. He wonders if that feeling will ever fade.
Stepping in front of him, Zizka gives Henry a friendly tap on the shoulder.
“Henry. It’s good to see you. Kubyenka has already returned, and I gather it wasn’t a pleasant morning for anyone.”
Henry heaves a sigh, casts his eyes to the ground. He was hoping to get at least a night’s sleep before reliving this battle. Something to put a little distance between him and the terrified shrieks of fleeing women and children.
“It was a massacre, sir. Unarmed peasants getting cut through with swords, hit with flying arrows. Fire everywhere. Just like Skalitz. And despite all that, we were actually lucky. We got to the gates in time to drive back some of Sigismund’s men. Kubyenka fought like hell, I had no idea he had that in him. Samuel went to see some of the survivors to safety, but he should be back here soon. Only wish he had more of his people to escort.”
Zizka listens without interrupting. Henry knows a lifetime of battle has hardened him to stories like this, made him numb. He silently prays he’ll never completely understand that feeling. Zizka gives him another comforting clap on the shoulder before replying.
“I’m sorry, Henry. It’s something no man should have to experience. Still, you saved lives today. The people of the Jewish Quarter were fortunate to have you fighting by their side. Take some solace in that, if you can.”
Henry bows his head, grateful for the kindness. He’s had precious little of it since the attack on Nabokov.
“We’ll meet in the morning to discuss our next move. Wash up, eat. Rest. I expect you’ll need it.”
It’s sound advice from Zizka, and a smart man would take it. And Henry is a smart man – clawed his way back from less than nothing, taught himself to read. But, perhaps, he should have paid more careful attention to the lesson in one of the first parables he learned to decipher. What was it, something about a golden goose and the dangers of temptation?
“Thank you, sir. Umm… Have you seen Lord Capon?”
Zizka looks wholly unsurprised by Henry’s question. His lips purse almost imperceptibly, but he points to the far side of the Devil’s Den, where the noise is coming from.
“Round the corner. Drinking with the Frenchman again, I expect.”
He does little to mask the disdain in his voice. Whether it’s for Capon or Brabant, Henry can’t say. More than likely both. One doesn’t become a man of Zizka’s stature by approving of idleness.
“Well, I better make sure he’s not getting himself into too much trouble before I head upstairs. Good night, Captain.”
Zizka nods, sets off toward the front door of the inn.
Henry lets out a breath, shakes out the tension he didn’t realize he’d been carrying in his shoulders. Hans is never far from his mind these days, and it’s a great relief to hear that nothing befell him while Henry was away in Kuttenberg. It’s been one separation after the next since Hans was captured by von Bergow’s men in Nabokov. First Maleshov, then Raborsch, now this. Maybe tonight, they’ll finally have time to talk. Maybe they’ll have time for… more? The thought brings another smile to Henry’s face, the slightest blush to his cheeks.
He removes his saddle bag from Pebbles, throws it over his shoulder. Rummages through his pack again to find some jerky for Mutt. He can’t resist tossing him the treat, even though it’s obvious it won’t be his first of the day. As the dog gobbles it down, Henry gives him a final rub behind the ear.
“You go on now, boy. I’ll see you soon.”
He watches as Mutt scurries into the trees, no doubt tracking the scent of a hare or some other unfortunate creature. Then, he takes the short walk from the front of the Devil’s Den to the more raucous side courtyard.
It’s easy to spot Hans’ gold pourpoint in the crowd. Henry found the bright fabric more than a little obnoxious when he met the nobleman in Rattay. Now, it’s like the sun to him, warm and comforting. Hans is still here, still safe. He hasn’t been captured again, or worse. Seeing it with his own eyes, Henry feels a lightness in his steps despite the weight of his armor.
As he approaches Hans’ seat at the far end of the courtyard, he sees other familiar faces. Janosh and Adder. Godwin. Kubyenka, who seems a bit subdued, at least for him. He’s definitely drunk, but not belting out some horrid song about booze or tits. The morning must have taken a toll on him, too. They all call Henry’s name. Henry nods, waves, but heads directly for his closest friend.
Hans’ back is still turned when Henry arrives at his table. As Zizka predicted, he’s drinking ale and throwing dice with Brabant. Henry’s almost beaming as he reaches down to clasp a hand on his shoulder. Hans doesn’t recoil, but he doesn’t return the gesture. He glances up at Henry, looking almost hesitant to tear his eyes away from the game.
“Glad you’ve made it back in one piece.”
It spoiled him, that warm embrace from Hans when Henry rescued him from Maleshov Tower. Henry remembers the disbelief in his eyes, the overwhelming sense of joy. His beautiful smile. The nobleman had already captured Henry’s heart, but that hug made him throw away the key.
When Hans makes no move to stand, he fights back a pang of disappointment.
“Could say the same to you, sir. I see Brabant here has taken his pledge to protect you seriously. You have my thanks.”
He tips his helmet to the bearded man across from Hans, who bows deeply from his seat.
“But of course, mon ami! I am as good as my word. And besides, your lord is the only man in this God forsaken inn who understands the intricacies of chess. Not that his knowledge has led him to a victory over me, mind you. I believe I could live to be as old as Emperor Charles, may he rest in peace, and still never see the day.”
Brabant cackles, and Hans chuckles, seemingly more out of politeness than genuine amusement. He looks back to Henry.
“I’ve hardly needed protecting, although I do appreciate Brabant’s company, of course… But what of Kuttenberg? Are Samuel’s people all right? And Lichtenstein?”
Henry flinches, hesitant to relive the ordeal for a second time tonight. But he shares with Hans a version of the story he told Zizka, adding that Lichtenstein escaped safely, along with his trove of documents.
And I’m fine too, not that you asked, he thinks, a touch bitterly.
“Thank God for that, at least. But I’m sorry, Henry. That sounds awful.”
Henry thanks him. The conversation lulls. It’s… awkward, something he’s never felt around Hans. He’s been flustered, certainly. Those blue eyes, the way the lean muscles of his back tense when he draws a bowstring, have all but stolen the air from Henry’s lungs more than once. He’s been angry enough to run the haughty young lord through with his own sword. And he’s felt so deliriously happy that he could, if not quite forget, at least set aside some of the gruesome memories that haunt his waking thoughts. Never awkward.
But they had left so much unsaid, and the weight of it seems to hang heavy in the spring air. Tomorrow we’ll be home, and tomorrow we can sort it all out. Isn’t that what Henry had told him, curled up, naked, in their hidden corner of Nabokov? What a bloody fool he’d been. Not a damn thing is guaranteed in this war, especially not tomorrow. The next morning, von Bergow’s men attacked the fortress, Hans had been taken prisoner, and that was that. They haven’t had as much as moment alone together since.
The nobleman breaks the uneasy silence.
“So, care to join us for a game? Or a drink? You like you need one. No offense intended, of course.”
Now, a more familiar feeling – irritation. Had Hans really said ‘us’? Us? Why would Henry possibly want to spend another second in this noisy courtyard? Surrounded by men who remind him of all the violence he’s seen, of all the battles yet to come? With Vauquelin Brabant, for God’s sake?
I need you, you selfish bastard. Instead, he forces out a more civil reply.
“Actually, sir, what I need a bath. Might just wash up and turn in.”
Hans nods, puts up no argument.
“As you like. Good night, Henry.”
His quick acquiescence further sours Henry’s mood, and he stalks off toward the trees after replying with a curt nod of his own. Fucking noble arsehole, can’t even pull himself away from the tavern long enough to sort this shite out. He knows his thoughts are unkind, unfair. What did Henry want him to do? Announce to the crowded courtyard that the two men were going to retire to a private bath together? Or fuck him on the dice table, in full view of the Dry Devil’s gang? No, not exactly, but something.
The bathhouse near the inn is still open, even though the sun has already dipped below the horizon line. Henry ignores the well-lit tents and continues further downstream. He doesn’t want unfamiliar hands on him, not tonight. He can only hope that he will again someday, that Hans’ touch hasn’t ruined him for an eternity.
Spotting a bend in the stream that looks deep enough to wade into, Henry deposits his saddle bag on the shore bank. He’s so far into the forest now, he can no longer hear the crowd from the inn. The thick tree cover grants some much-needed privacy.
Next, he begins the task of removing his armor.
He takes off his helmet, his coif. Pulls the waffenrock over his head. Tugs at the leather straps holding his chest plate together. He tries not to remember Hans doing this for him, how gentle he’d been. He fails. By the time he’s stripped down to his braies, a pile of blood-streaked armor and soiled clothes discarded near the shoreline, he’s more than half-hard.
A resigned sigh. Fuck it. Maybe dealing with this will help him think more clearly, decide what to do about this mess half of his own making. He leans a wrist against a nearby sturdy oak, pressing his forehead into it. He spits into his other hand, reaches beneath the thin fabric of his undergarment, grips himself. Closes his eyes. Slowly massages the head of his cock. Of course, he thinks of Hans.
Thinks of his lips pressed against Henry’s neck, against that sensitive spot just underneath his ear. He starts to move his hand, leisurely, up and down. He digs his bare feet harder into the mud, grounding himself.
Thinks of his hands, softer than the blacksmith’s own, but still calloused from long years of training and longer months of battle. He remembers how Hans had wrapped his fingers around him, hesitantly at first but then so confidently. He increases the speed of his strokes, trying to recapture that surreal feeling.
Thinks of his frantic whispers. Eyes squinted shut, fighting to stay quiet, choking back moan after desperate moan. Henry is getting close now, and he can almost hear Hans’ voice in his head, chanting his name, over and over.
Henry, there, right there. Henry, please. Henry, yes. Henry, for the love of God! Help me! Someone! Help me! Henry!
FUCK.
That memory of Hans buried under the rubble in Nabokov, screaming, terrified, forces Henry to stop before he can drag himself over the edge. He breathes deeply to steady himself, his abandoned cock aching. He shakes his head, trying to block out that sound, that horrible moment. He can’t. Instead of picturing Hans’ face, peaceful, head resting on Henry’s bare chest, he can only see him unconscious in that cart, about to be dragged away by armed strangers.
He wonders, not for the first time, if that night in Nabokov would be the only one they’d ever share. If that really was their only chance, would the memory be forever tainted by the horrors of the next morning? The thought makes Henry so angry, so fucking furious. He punches a fist into the tree, hard enough to rip open the skin of his knuckles. Fuck.
Staring down at the blood on his hand, he can feel himself going soft. He lets out a frustrated groan, no closer to any kind of resolution. At a loss, he fully strips and walks toward the stream, hoping the cool water will finally clear his head.
It is pleasant, at least. He devotes himself completely to cleaning the thick layer of grime from his body, emptying his thoughts. He whistles, like he would at the forge, focusing on nothing but the simple melody and the soap rubbing against his skin.
Henry loses track of time in the water, and the last bit of sunlight has long since faded when he remerges onto the shore. He digs a fresh pair of braies, leggings and a tunic from his saddle bag, pulls them on along with his boots. He stuffs what armor he can into the satchel, and neatly stacks the rest, preparing to carry the larger pieces by hand. He’s thankful he had the foresight to bring a torch – he’ll need one to find his way back through the woods.
When he reaches the broad clearing that houses the Devil’s Den, Henry tries, truly tries, to slip in unnoticed through the front door. The stragglers in the courtyard are even rowdier now, and if he’s quiet, he can sneak around them. But the torchlight gives him away.
Hans has relocated to a table near the front of the inn, a position that gives him a clear view of the path leading out of the forest. He’s sitting with Godwin. And now they’re calling for Henry, gesturing him over to their table. Henry takes a few hesitant steps in their direction, stopping pointedly a short distance away. Hans looks a little less steady than he was earlier on the wooden bench, swaying, a mug in his hand.
“You’re sure we can’t cajole you into joining us for a mediocre ale, Henry?”
“Not for me, thanks. I’m grabbing a bite to eat and turning in. See you in the morning, my lord.”
He says. Prick, he thinks.
“Oh, you’re no fun. But you have reminded me. The innkeeper mentioned there was an open bed in your room. I claimed it, of course. So. Call off any wenches you were planning to smuggle up to your quarters tonight, you lout.”
That tight feeling again in Henry’s chest, and the sensation of the bottom dropping out of his stomach. He blinks. Godwin makes the sign of the cross, undercuts the meaning a bit by giggling. Henry is quiet for a beat too long before he responds.
“I’d, uh, ask you to do the same, sir.”
“No promises!”
He tips his mug to Henry and turns back to his conversation with the inebriated priest.
Somehow, Henry’s feet carry him through the front door of the inn, into the cramped kitchen. It’s empty, along with the dining room. At this hour, most visitors must be enjoying the late evening air or retired in their rooms.
Now that he’s staring down the prospect of actually seeing his friend alone, he’s nervous. What if Hans wants to forget about everything that happened that night in Nabokov? What if he doesn’t? That puts them right back into the same mess, with no future, always looking over their shoulders, always in danger. Henry doesn’t know what path terrifies him more, and his hand shakes as he ladles stew from a cauldron into a bowl. He curses.
He knows he’s being ridiculous. Henry is brave. He might have doubted it this time last year, but he can’t now. Just hours ago, he stood, longsword in hand, ready to face an army of well-appointed soldiers. He was willing to fight to his last breath to protect the innocent. And now, some spoiled lordling is causing his hand to shake, making his appetite disappear? Out of spite, he stands in the kitchen, forcing spoonful after spoonful of stew down his throat. It sits like a rock in the pit of his stomach.
He’s startled out of his thoughts by a tall figure appearing in the door frame.
“You know, it occurs to me that I’m suddenly very, very tired.”
There’s a slight slur to his words, and he’s leaning against the stone arch way. But Hans’ eyes are somehow as focused they’ve ever been, as if he’s staring down a notched arrow at a roebuck. They’re focused on Henry.
The look robs Henry of what’s left of his rational thoughts.
“What… uhh. Can I. Is that something I can help you with, sir?”
Hans straightens, drops his forehead into his palm. He groans as if what he’s just heard has caused him actual, physical pain.
“Oh, you dense… Bed, Henry! Now!”
That earns him a laugh, a real one. Henry sets down his half-empty bowl, nearly forgets to pick up his armor as he moves toward the kitchen entrance.
“After you, my lord.”
They keep their distance maneuvering up the narrow flight of stairs to the second floor. Henry hasn’t lost all his wits, at least not yet. How much longer that will hold, he isn’t sure. He takes a slight comfort in the thought that Hans must be nervous too, if his quiet rambling is any indication.
“What the fuck were you doing out there, you were gone for ages! Thought I’d inherit my estate before seeing your ugly mug again. I was sitting with Godwin, and he was deep in his cups, and you know how he gets. So… Preachy. Ugh. And while I’m airing grievances, do you have any idea how worried I’ve been about you all day? Not that I could tell you in front of that motley crew. Is your hand bleeding? Henry? Hen… Oh, never mind, we’ll talk inside. Do you have the key?”
They reach the door to their shared room, and Henry encounters a final obstacle.
His damn hands are still trembling, and it’s dark, causing him to fumble with the key. He can feel Hans behind him, fidgeting. He hears his sighs, growing more exasperated with each passing second. He feels lips on his ear, hears a whisper.
For Christ’s sake, Henry, if I don’t have you on your back soon, I’m going to fuck Janosh. He’s been yammering on about sausages all evening.
The lock clicks open.