Chapter Text
It's a quiet, grey autumn morning. Lower back aching and still shivering from the nightmare he woke up from, Henry tugs Mutt closer to his side in the bed and scrolls down on his YouTube feed. Looking for a specific man with a charming smile and magnificent blue eyes.
Ah. There he is.
The intro to the video begins with Lindsey Stirling-like violin and dubstep, a few seconds with the channel's motto appearing in stylized, medieval-like font:
"AUDENTES FORTUNA IUVAT!"
Despite his gloomy circumstances, Henry already has a soft smile on his face. When Hans, or by his Twitch handle HansCoupon appears on screen, Henry's heart dances with warmth.
After a glance at the time, Henry contentedly notes he has around half an hour of lazing around to himself before Ma would knock on his door to rouse him from bed. He has time to watch the new video and maybe the highlights from yesterday's stream. By now he has figured out a way to hold his phone in his mutilated, bandaged right hand, balancing it with his remaining three fingers and the heel of his palm. As Mutt gently rests his head on Henry's shoulder, the man adjusts his hold on the device with a little aid from his left hand.
Today Hans is wearing a comfortable, knit woolen turtleneck in a natural, dirty-white color. It gives him a soft yet radiant look, complemented by his golden hair kept in an intentionally messy style. Without noticing, Henry's gaze lingers on Hans's clean shaven, handsome face and wonders if his hair is as silky to the touch as it looks like. Must be. Hans radiates divine perfection simply by existing.
The community's inside joke of Hans being a nobleman gracing his audience with his presence must have some roots in real life, Henry wonders. Hans is undeniably handsome. Striking, with his high cheekbones, his sharp jawline — which today has the finest dusting of golden stubble. He has no business looking as breathtaking as he does, so effortlessly. He is highly educated, plays the violin and even when he is angry he speaks with the kind of dignity and sophistication that comes from within.
"Good morning peasants! I'm Hans, your resident history major Twitch streamer! Link to my OnlyFans—"
Henry scoffs a chuckle, slightly jostling Mutt. The dog casts him a judgemental look while on Henry's phone screen, Hans is delighted to tell the audience,
"—just joking, haha! Today, we will be diving into a topic I thoroughly enjoyed researching! Would you have survived a medieval battle?"
Sinking deeper in the covers, Henry lets a familiar wave of calm settle over his mind. He knows Hans has no Onlyfans, it's part of the running joke that as a history major with Latin specialization his prospects on the job market are rather limited. He also knows Hans must have poured dozens of hours into making this video and listening to him, in this instance talking about the horrific ways people used to die in medieval times, helps Henry take his mind off the reality he has to live every single day.
Some days are better, some are worse. Today, Henry's recovering body hasn't yet decided which one is it.
Ever since he found Hans's channel, it has been easier to deal with all of it. His right hand is nearly non-functional due to his loss of two fingers and severe burns, his left hand similarly burnt to the degree it might take a year to use it in a meaningful manner again. The skin grafts on his neck and face are still healing.
Still, Henry has hope. The doctors are hopeful too. He has his parents to aid him through his recovery. Not to mention Mutt.
After watching the medieval battle-related video, he taps on the one featuring yesterday's stream highlights. It starts with Hans exclaiming happily,
"We are alive, chat! WE! Are! Alive! Praise be!" He laughs then, "if you scraped your knee and you're still alive, that's an achievement! And what a glorious day it is, you are here, thirsty for knowledge! Today, we will continue our journey in Ghost of Tsushima, zero deaths, mind you—"
Henry's chest vibrates softly as he chuckles at Hans's intense look in the camera.
"— so you are here for moral support, my lovely subjects, and in the meantime we will be looking at the historical accuracies or mistakes, misconceptions about Japan in the Kamakura period!"
Watching the chat, Hans pauses for a moment and reads,
"My Lord Coupon, would you consider doing a movie review on The King?" Then looks at the viewer again, "yes! I will consider it but you cannot assume to influence the mind of nobility. Maybe in the future when I am not swamped with projects, it is a good idea nonetheless! Now, let's see where we stopped last time…"
As it usually goes for these things, Henry stumbled upon Hans's channel by complete accident. He was scrolling down recommendations and didn't feel like watching yet another true crime doc or a mini-essay about current advances in warfare technology. His feed has been steadily recommending him videos about topics in history lately, medieval warfare and lifestyle in particular.
Truth be told, he was looking to find a podcast he could fall asleep to.
The first video he watched from Hans was about medieval armor smithing. Fascinating topic. Then, blacksmithing. Henry sat through the video, utterly captivated by Hans’s compact yet precise explanation of how swords were forged in the Middle Ages.
The rabbit hole went deep about that one. Hans made video essays spanning for hours, visited legendary forges around Europe to interview experts of the craft. He also showcased his own set of plate armor, complete with a cuirass, gauntlets, pauldrons and chainmail.
Then, Henry went to the next video to learn about the importance of colors and assembled armor pieces on knights. It's how he learned that Hans was also a member of a medieval reenactment group, focusing on the early 1400 Czech history.
Henry was also delighted to learn Hans was also Czech like him, even though he had zero traces of it in his fluent, sophisticated use of English.
He was a natural storyteller, as Henry soon realized. Hans did his own research, edited his own videos and streamed game-play or educational discussions with his fans on Twitch — a site Henry had so far avoided like the plague. Now, he had an account and he was subscribed to exactly one person: Hans. The only one he deems worthy of following.
Listening to Hans and watching him attend medieval fairs and reenactment parks in Europe felt like Henry was by his side, seeing the world together with him. Most days Henry was confined to his house due to his ongoing recovery but in Hans's proxy-company it didn't feel as lonely as it did before. The world didn't feel as confining, as small as before.
The first time he saw Hans wear the full set of armor, looking like a knight from the early 1400s stole Henry's breath. His heart skipped a beat, as cliche as it sounds and he couldn't tear his eyes away. Hans looked breathtaking. Gorgeous. Magnificent. Valiant. Full of life.
Laughing proudly, Hans explained the entire process of donning the armor, bemoaning that he had no loyal squire to call upon so it took much, much longer. He also added that he practiced wearing the chain-mail for a period of two whole weeks to get used to its weight, before wearing it for the first time for a fair.
From that, Henry learned that despite studying Latin and history, Hans had a strong physique under the armor. He took good care of himself. He trained, he jogged, he sparred in educational sword-fights, completely unhindered by the weight of a medieval knight’s armor.
Henry used to be like that. Active. Strong. Capable.
Now, when Mom knocks on his door and helps him get dressed, he feels ashamed. No matter how many times Mom reassures him that it's all temporary, his hands will heal, Henry despises the helplessness of the present.
He can barely pull up a zipper. Can't even hold a carton of milk.
Henry is twenty-five years old, and his mother helps him put on socks when his left hand's fingers decide to act clumsy.
"Who're you watching?" She asks softly while gently easing the sleeve of Henry's pajama off his arm, mindful of the pinkish, healing scars on his hands.
"Hans, he is… he is a Czech youtuber and streamer. Loves history, does videos about medieval times."
"Sounds interesting. We could watch together," Mother suggests but Henry huffs a laugh,
"You might not like his humor."
"Oh, am I too old to understand?" She pouts at him with no real bite in her words.
"We could watch his educational videos, if you'd like. They are in English, though."
"I speak some English," Mother hums to herself, nods and helps Henry get his hands through the long-sleeved plaid sweater. Inch by inch, she pinches and slowly pulls the fabric to reveal the bumpy, thick cover of gauze wraps around his son's forearm and wrist on his right side. The worst of the burns are there, after all.
Despite having done this a thousand times, she still keeps her moves cautiously feather-like, paying close attention to any sign of Henry being in pain. Even the smallest pull of the fragile, recovering muscle, tendon and skin can sting terribly.
"I could translate for you, if you can't catch something," Henry adds gently with a diminutive, kind smile.
"Sounds good, dear. Now, let's get your hands sorted."
In the beginning, that used to be an ordeal on its own. Three times, every single day Henry had to sit in the bathroom, on the edge of the tub and offer his hands and wrists to his mother for her gentle, practiced care. Following the weeks of the accident, she had to unwrap the gauze she herself put on them last night before bed, then inspect the damage, disinfect what needed care and guided Henry through little exercises to aid the flexibility of the recovering muscles and skin. Then, the scar cream and the silicone compression gloves would go on.
Then, the care for the burns on his neck and face would begin.
Henry was in terrible pain throughout. It left him drained, dizzy and the pain lingered like smouldering fire inside his bones, on his barely-there skin, creeping forward and forward until everything below his elbows burned with raging, all consuming heat.
By the time Mom unpacked a new stack of gauze and begins wrapping his hands, Henry was on the verge of tears. He had trembles wrecking down his body, eyes pleading his Mom for respite but she soldiered on with a concerned yet steely expression that caused Henry's heart to ache and constrict for her. Her quiet, unyielding courage stung yet eased his agony.
Of course Mom would be there for him.
She had been there for him from the very beginning and has diligently tended to him without missing a single re-wrap, a single string of physiotherapy exercise. She never missed a doctor's appointment with him, helped him dress, washed his teeth and performed tasks she hadn't had to since Henry was a baby.
The memory causes a shiver run down his spine. It was all so, so humiliating sometimes Henry wished the earth would open up and swallow him whole. Even now, with little and weak movement in his left hand, he needs assistance to apply repair creams, moisturizers and scar oil on his neck and his face.
The ritual never fails to leave him quiet and withdrawn, retreating once again into his own mind. Like burying himself along with his shame under a barrow, pretending none of this is happening and once he returns to the present, all will be fine. He will be healthy and whole again. No missing fingers, no missing skin, no patchy scars.
He wants to be Henry again, not just for himself but for his mother and father too… but it's been heartbreakingly difficult. It seems impossible. A mountain that cannot be conquered.
"Let me fetch your phone, sweetie… and you can watch more… what was his name?"
"Hans."
"You can watch more Hans videos. We could put it on the TV."
"That…" the suffocating lump in his throat eases somewhat. "That would be nice."
Downstairs, Martin greets the pair wearing his signature yellow plaid button-up, sleeves tucked up at his elbow as he eats his bread. Already salivating at the sight, Henry spots the plate full of strips of pork belly, spring onions, tomatoes, freshly baked bread slices with delicious butter in front of his father and sends pleading, sad puppy eyes at his mother.
"Mam…"
She pats him on the shoulder, urging him to sit. "I know, darling, I know."
"Good morning, Henry," Martin greets him by reflex, then he spots Henry's brinched brows and asks, "is it a good morning?"
To cheer him up and coax him into talking he lifts a mischievous gaze at his son while popping a piece of cut pork belly into his mouth. Taking pity on him, he pushes his plate towards the middle of the dining table. "Have a bite, son."
Henry would love to. He—he really wants to. But his hands are wrapped in silicone compression gloves and he can't get them fatty and sticky so he ends up staring helplessly at his father, sitting still, hoping he gets the message.
I can't. I simply… can't.
"Oh for the love of…" Temper rising, Mother swoops in to place a second, smaller plate beside Martin and sweeps some of the onions, tomatoes and cut strips of meat onto it from his, before scolding her husband. "Look at him, Martin! He can't get his hands dirty— give him a fork at least!"
"Ah, sorry," he ducks his head sheepishly and makes a mischievous, placating face at Henry. "I'll cut you some bread."
"Thank you."
"There you go," Mom puts a fork in front of him, then settles down herself to butter the bread Martin is slicing. "Let me see you use it!"
Unsure, Henry eyes the fork like they're about to enter wartime negotiations. Where to begin? Which hand to attempt using? Right hand with three fingers or burnt-to-smithereens left hand?
The fork remains, seemingly innocent, still on the tabletop. Just there. A stainless steel piece of silverware, just passing the time while Henry's mind goes into insane four dimensional chess battle with it. The analogy fits: not only does he have to consider the physics and effort of lifting the fork and piercing a piece of vegetable with it, he also has to factor in the pain and discomfort.
Mom's calming, warm palm is bliss on his shoulder.
"You can do it, Henry. Slow and steady."
For her sake, he tries.
“We are HERE! We are HERE, chat!”
“Oh, that’s him? Handsome young man!” Mother takes a seat beside Henry on the couch, getting comfortable while also spreading the blanket over his curled feet.
“We are here! We are queer! Get used to it!” Hans laughs, clearing his throat with the smallest flush. “We are here at the one and only Corvin Castle, in Hunedoara, Romania! Magnificent! Look at this view! Aahh, I can’t wait to tell you all about this castle!”
Life looks infinitely less dismal when Henry watches Hans’s videos. The lingering pain fades to the back of his mind as he takes in the sight of the castle’s towers and ramparts while Hans tells them about the area.
“This has been on my bucket list since forever. I can’t believe I’m finally here!” Breathless, eyes glinting with unbridled joy, Hans flips from selfie-mode to say, “Audentes fortuna iuvat! We made it, chat! This castle has so much history, and just standing here on the bridge—it’s unbelievable! Look at those gorgeous bastions!”
Indeed, the castle looks spectacular. Henry would love to visit one day—another dream to file away. Hans has given him so many lately that Henry momentarily wonders if he should start a journal about them.
Hans begins the tour by telling his audience about the time period in which the castle was built, explaining how it became the property of the Hunyadi family back in the early 1400s, granted to them by Sigismund of Luxembourg.
“Now, when Voyk got the land, this was just a simple keep. Construction to improve and expand it began later, in the middle of the century after his death,” Hans explains, his gaze intense with the satisfaction of his hoard of knowledge finally finding an outlet. Henry can't keep his eyes away from him. “His brother and his two sons inherited the keep. John Hunyadi used the castle as his home, and it was fortified as such. If you look down with me at the moat, you can see that the entrance gate and this bridge I’m standing on are situated very cleverly over a deep chasm with a creek below—that used to be bigger, actually.”
“Anna, a moment,” Martin peeks his head into the living room and beckons his wife to him. It takes Henry a moment to return his mind to the present and look up, since Mom is extracting herself from her pile of pillows and blankets with small grunts before standing.
“We just started a video, Martin—”
“I know, it only takes a minute.”
“All right, all right.”
By instinct, Henry leans to his right and props his elbow on the couch’s arm, only to remember he can’t rest his head in his palm so he lets the hand drop down. It dangles limply in the air as he returns his gaze to the TV screen. Hans is reading the informative plaque beneath a statue depicting John Corvin. Tuning out, Henry listens to his voice, inwardly trying to stoke his mind and heart into curiosity again.
“We will see the coat of arms of the Hunyadi family inside, in the Hall of Knights. Now let’s turn back to the outer walls and let me tell you!— These are two meters thick on average. Two meters!—” Hans begins walking across the bridge above the moat. “Dense dolomite limestone and pebblestone walls! And as you see, the castle was built on a natural perch of rock formation above the creek. Well defensible is an understatement!”
Henry watches Hans’s radiant blue eyes connect with his through the camera. The faintest smile tugs at his lips whenever it feels like Hans is talking to him directly.
“Now, back in medieval times, this place was surrounded by unforgiving wilderness, with only the occasional settlement here and there. The village that later became this wonderful town, Hunedoara, lay inside the valley.” Hans pauses on the bridge and allows the camera to linger on the view. Henry is somewhat taken out of his immersion by the sight of Soviet-era blocks in the far distance, but he can imagine what it used to look like. “As you can see, the outer wall has one watchtower overlooking the valley. The castle also has ramparts on the same side, left free from further construction to allow an unobstructed view over them pesky peasants.”
Henry scoffs a short laugh at the cheeky addition at the end.
“Of course the castle has undergone renovation—I won’t pretend like, y’know, this is exactly what it looked like six hundred years ago. Obviously it isn’t the same, but the renovation efforts focused on trying to preserve and rebuild what was lost, not what they imagined it to look like. Even as we walk closer, I can’t help but feel a sense of grandeur settle over me. This place was home to a wealthy noble family—one which later had a son who became the King of Hungary. And believe it or not, they have ties to us Czechs as well! Matthias Corvinus, elected King of Bohemia in 1469, was from the Hunyadi family! Now, sorry to burst your bubble, but Matthias Corvinus wasn’t born here—he was, in fact, born in Cluj-Napoca. We will visit the very same house he was born in, but! His mother, the most noble Lady Erzsébet Szilágyi, managed this estate. Since the Szilágyi family were Sigismund sympathizers—”
Once Hans got going about a topic, he couldn’t stop. Henry soon finds himself smiling as he watches the faces of tourists in the background looking at Hans like he’s hosting a one-man guided tour. Hans seems to beeline straight for the Knights’ Hall to proudly show the Latin inscription written on a column.
“Let’s read it together! Magnificus Johannes de Hunyad regis Hungariae gubernator anno domini—” then proceeds to read the numbers in Latin too, the showoff, “mille quadringenti quinquaginta duo, hoc opus fecit fieri. All right, what could this possibly mean, chat? Well, fear not—it’s not your fault you were born peasants who speak no Latin. I’m here, your benevolent Lord Capon, to translate this text for your edu-cation. So, let’s see—”
Mother returns and cocoons herself back by Henry’s side.
“Oh, he’s inside the castle already!”
“You missed quite a lot, let’s rewind…” Henry reaches for the remote and, thanks to its touchpad, is able to tap his left index finger on it to issue the command.
“Thank you, dear.”
“What did Dad need help with?”
“Just printing a label for a parcel,” Mom says nonchalantly, her eyes remaining on the screen. Henry expects to hear more, which commission, perhaps. Even though he hasn’t actively helped out in the forge since the accident, he still wants to stay in the loop for the day he can pick up the hammer again.
But Mom is quiet.
“Which project?” Henry asks after it becomes clear she won’t say. Her reaction puzzles him; she isn’t one to shrug, but now she does and avoids looking his way.
“Oh, just one delivery to Brno. Nothing special.”
That strikes Henry as odd. No commission, no job is ever described as nothing special by his parents, not when a portion of their livelihood is to restore and deliver historical pieces or sometimes create replicas of existing ones. Although Hans’s video has returned to its starting point, Henry keeps his inquisitive gaze on his mother, waiting for further elaboration.
Mom waves a dismissive hand. “It’s just a package, Henry. Let’s watch the video.”
She won’t tell. Odd.
Nevertheless, Henry starts the video again, and this time, there are no further interruptions.
On the screen, Hans’s unfairly handsome face greets him again with a radiant smile. It’s enough for Henry to forget fussing about the mystery parcel and his mother’s cryptic reply.
“He is very handsome,” Mother notes again, indicating Hans, and glances at Henry with a mischievous glint in her eyes.
“Mom!”
“What? I’m just stating the obvious,” she smirks, then turns back to the screen.
Months go by. Physiotherapy is excruciating. Not just physically demanding no, sometimes Henry wants to punch a wall or cut his hands off out of sheer frustration. He has a soft plastic ball to squeeze, to pick up and balance but even that sometimes seems impossible for his now useless hands.
Progress is subjective. At times when Henry feels like this is going nowhere and he will forever be a crippled waste of space, his parents vehemently refute his self-deprecation.
"Don't you dare talk about my son like that, Henry Kovář!" Mother raises a warning index finger, eyes thunderous. "You buttoned your shirt yesterday, washed your teeth, buttered bread! One step at a time, darling!"
"At this rate, I will never hold a hammer again," Henry's shoulders slump as his gaze falls to the ground. Martin wastes no time to say,
"Then I will duct-tape it to your hand. You will use your hands again son, you just need time. Can't rush these things. Be merciful to yourself."
To be merciful to oneself requires to face one's failures too… to forgive them. But to this day, Henry can't forgive himself for not noticing the faulty crucible's state earlier. He should have double-checked, he should have inspected it more thoroughly. It is useless to lament over what-ifs now anyway so Henry grits his teeth and forces his temper to a low simmer.
Tension in the kitchen seems to gradually ease too. Father sips his afternoon coffee before seeking Henry's gaze again, "I commissioned special gloves for you. Micro-fiber padding inside both and one has no unnecessary, extra…"
He nods at Henry's right hand. Still can't say it.
No unnecessary, extra fingers where there would be none to fill them.
The stumps are healing nicely on Henry's right hand. He leaves them visible now, inspects them a hundred times a day. Still, the scars are gnarly—white and pink from skin grafts and the burns still healing. Where new skin is growing, it looks like cheap plastic foil, clinging to his flesh.
A custom made glove sounds nice, though. A heavy-duty, protective glove to wear when he will return to the forge again. He is fortunate to still have his thumb, index and middle finger.
He is determined and stubborn. Henry knows this about himself.
As the months crawl by, day by day he fights for his recovery. Even if it means he pops painkillers like candy.
And all the while, Hans remains a steady, reliable companion to him. A friend far away, a friend who doesn't know Henry exists but that is beside the point. It goes like this.
Sometimes, Henry watches Hans’s older videos again. Especially the ones filmed in dimly lit hostels or hotel rooms, where Hans rambles off-script about history, random facts or life itself. They feel intimate in a strange way, like overhearing someone talk to themselves but also, somehow, to you.
At first, Henry only watches. He saves some to a private list on his youtube, some he even downloads for safekeeping. One day, he skims through the comments and notices a pattern.
Hans’s community calls themselves “The Court of Leipa,” and every loyal viewer is Hans's loyal subject. The moderators on his stream and in his discord have special titles. Someone is “The Archivist.” Another calls themselves “The Bailiff.” Someone else, “Captain of the Guard.” Hans goes along with it all, responding in jest, speaking like a benevolent, if sometimes bratty liege to his crowd of followers.
Henry doesn’t know when exactly it happens, but he starts to visit the discord server more and more often to laugh at memes. Over time, it starts to feel like he belongs there.
He picks a username: Blacksmith_Squire. Fitting, perhaps too on the nose, but it feels right. Feels close to who he is. He is a blacksmith after all in real life and he doesn't want to pick a title too pretentious either. Just someone who has an honorable trade and is ready to serve in this fictional fiefdom.
His first comment is left on a new upload about the supposed sword of Jan Žižka. Hans made a short video about the sword having been returned to Czechia after six hundred years, even though it sparked debate among historians about the sword's authenticity. As a couch historian himself, Henry also had a penny for his thoughts.
"He preferred a steel mace with flanges. Perhaps the sword was a gift from someone."
It earns two likes.
Then Hans himself replies: “Correct! You guessed the topic of the upcoming video, Squire!”
For a while, Henry just stares at the reply on his phone, blinking. It feels unreal. Hans looked at his reply, from wherever he is in the world right now, and replied to it. Even though Henry is just a nobody, a newcomer in the community. It feels oddly personal when it shouldn't. Hans likes to engage with his audience, he likes replying to comments so why not reply to Henry's?
Nevertheless, he starts commenting more. Slowly at first, then with increasing confidence, joking with other viewers, dropping bits of trivia he knows from his parents’ work, chiming in when Hans mentions metallurgy or weapon forging. The Court begins to recognize him. They reply with knightly banter and give him the title on discord, "Blacksmith of Leipa.”
When Hans starts a live stream for gaming a few weeks later, Henry joins with nervous anticipation. The chat scrolls fast, a waterfall of emojis and excited greetings. He types, “Evening, my lord! The Squire reports for duty.”
A minute passes. Then Hans’s voice, warm and bright, cuts through the air:
“Ah! Our most loyal Squire joins us! Welcome, my good man!”
Henry freezes. Eyes wide, cheeks flushing red. Like a bloody teenager.
He replays that sentence in his mind a dozen times.
For the rest of the stream, Henry’s cheeks hurt from smiling. He laughs so much, Hans's interactions with the chat are ridiculous yet endearing. The pain in his hands doesn’t matter anymore, the stiffness in his joints doesn’t matter. He feels light, weightless almost. Like he could grow wings and lift off the couch. Time loses its meaning and Henry spends hours that evening, just watching Hans and chatting with him and other viewers.
"My Lord, you missed a chest. Turn back."
"If I missed it, it wasn't important," Hans deflects but indeed, he turns back in the game to retrace his steps. "Alright, let's give you an early Christmas, peasant."
Henry snorts a laugh. Then later, when Hans says,
"Forges back then were built in a separate shed, with one wall. How they managed to keep the forge hot with the wind blowing from three directions, I don't know."
Henry knows. So he tells Hans and the chat,
"The forge was deep, deeper than a mason-work bread oven. They built the fire and added coal deep inside, so the fire could breathe but the body of the forge held the heat. Back in the medieval times could heat it up until 1400 C degrees."
His message is picked up by Hans immediately.
"How smart! And 1400 Celsius? That's incredible! Our Squire seems to be a learned man chat, it do make me proud to have such an educated peasant! If you have other interesting bits to share, don't hesitate, my friend!"
While Henry is stuck staring at Hans's charming smile and genuinely impressed expression, his message also gets pinned by another member.
From then on, physiotherapy feels a little different. Still painful, still frustrating, but no longer meaningless.
Every time the therapist tells him to squeeze the ball, he imagines shaping metal again by his father's side. He imagines forging something new, something beautiful. Maybe a pendant, or a small dagger. Maybe something for Hans.
A gift from a nameless squire to his distant lord.
And that thought alone keeps him going.
Seven months have passed since the incident in the forge. Despite dreading when it happens, Henry risks a glance into the bathroom mirror, only to stand stock still after. All previous thoughts leave his head. He just stares at the reflection. Cool, damp chill washes down his spine, his arms.
The young man in the mirror… it is him… but it is not him.
The left side of his face and neck looks like a patchwork of strewn together pieces. The grafted skin has healed but its colors are different than the tanned, natural shade of his neck. Faintly rope-like scar lines stretch lazily now, the fruit of Mom's diligent work paying off in droves. It doesn't feel uncomfortable anymore to turn his head although the new skin protests somewhat fiercely when he does it too fast or too much to the opposite side. Across his jaw and cheek however, Henry can't resist brushing the tip of his index finger over the marble-like rivers, and spots of burn scars. It's not ugly, Henry realizes.
He is not ugly. He just… well. There is no looking at him without looking at the scars too. Whoever meets him next, their eyes will be drawn to the scars and distinctly colored grafted skin regardless. For a split second Henry ponders on asking Theresa to teach him basic makeup skills but dismisses the thought.
This is who he is. Take it or leave it.
His left hand has regained much of its former agility. It is still not perfect, there are some mornings when it's stiff and hurts, feels like Henry is grinding rocks between his joints when there should be smooth movement. Those days, he takes it easy. He has learned to telegraph his movements, do things slower than before so his body, his hand can prepare in advance for the task ahead.
The stumps on his right hand have healed as well. It is odd so see the absence of his ring-and pinky fingers, it will always be odd but Henry takes solace in the strength of his remaining fingers. The rehabilitation exercises left them a little bit warped, his middle finger has developed a much wider range outward. Once the custom made glove arrived, Henry didn't hesitate to put it on and try holding a hammer with it.
He will always remember the moment. Despite the pain and strain, his grip was sure on the hammer. Naturally, Henry needed to adjust his posture and learn how to balance and compensate for the lack of two fingers by using his whole arm and shoulder, angling his upper body too. Unintentionally, the posture makes him look broader and more powerful while working, proven by Mom's swooning when she saw him hammering again.
"My strong, handsome boy is back in the forge!" Hands pressed on her chest, she can't help shaking her head in utter disbelief while Henry's ears turn red and he pretends to be miffed by her reaction.
"Mom… you knew it was a matter of time…"
"I'm so proud of you, Henry! My brave, heroic boy!"
Overhearing them in the office, Martin can barely hold his amused smirk. He emerges from the adjoined room to see his son holding the tongs in his left hand, hammer in the right. When the tongs slip and fall, he doesn't comment, just waits for Henry to pick them up again. His expert eyes sweep over his son's posture and he nods, a bit to the side like he finds it just and just acceptable.
"You will get there," is his final verdict. "Keep at it."
"Lots of… adjusting," Henry's eyes are back on the tongs teeth and he rolls his right shoulder, stretches his arm to the front once. "My grip is closer to the hammerhead, which gives more control aye, but I have to hit from like… back here…"
Despite wanting to come closer to see, Mom keeps her safe distance from Henry and the forge behind him as she circles around for a better angle.
"I don't see anything wrong here," she says, all business, hands coming up on her hips. "You're not standing too close, too far…"
"Well, that's good," Henry hums. "I can work with that."
"How is the grip?" Martin asks then, glancing down at the new protective glove on Henry's right hand.
"Good. It's…" he has to swallow a lump in his throat, to get the words out. "I can work with this."
To show Martin what he means, Henry lifts his right hand for his Father to inspect how he is holding the hammer with three fingers, to see that the handle is comfortably nestled against the heel of his palm, supported by his wrist and forearm.
"Looks good indeed."
Martin's work-phone rings then, and he returns back to the office. Mother can't stop smiling and her joy is infectious. Henry finds himself smiling as well, although it feels a little silly.
Henry can feel it. Martin and Mom are planning something.
It wasn’t tension in the air, more like an excited buzz, a crackle of energy that made it impossible to ignore. They are being ridiculous about it too, failing spectacularly at subtlety. They kept stealing glances at one another like two conspirators waiting for the other to crack and spill some grand secret.
"With your help, I could try making a horseshoe," Henry suggests, once the family is seated for dinner. He looks from his mother to Martin, waiting for their reactions.
Martin nods as he takes spoonfuls of his soup. He won't meet Henry's eyes in such a juvenile manner, like if he did look at Henry, he wouldn't be able to hold back and say what he is hiding. By his side, Mother mirrors his nods of agreement and acts like reaching for the salt is the most important thing in the world, right now.
Henry lets the moment sit for roughly ten seconds before he huffs.
"Alright, out with it."
"Oh, um—" straightening in her chair, Mother looks at Martin with her lips pressed together, hands falling into her lap. She can't keep the excitement from her voice, making it slightly higher, tugging her lips into a smile. "Martin?"
"You should tell him, Anna."
"Okay…" she is grinning now, hands coming back up on the table to turn fully towards Henry. Her eyes sparkle with excitement.
He raises his eyebrows and patiently waits, his soup cooling in front of him.
"So…" Mother dabs her lips with her napkin, dragging out the suspense. "We may have gone behind your back, Henry."
That's highly unlike them. But since she is smiling, it can't be a bad thing, can it?
"You did? How?"
"Remember the replica sword you made with Martin, the sword of Sir Radzig of Kobyla? Engraved the blade and the cross-guard yourself? We…" she clears her voice slightly, tipping her head to the sides as the confession drags on. "We sent it to a competition. For you."
In genuine surprise, Henry's jaw drops a little. He just stares at his parents, disbelief and the smallest hint of affront clear in his wide eyes and still posture.
"What…?"
"It's… it's for the Royal Silvering festival, in Kutná Hora. This year, they include a blacksmith's forge in the fair and we felt…" Mother has to take a moment to collect herself, reaching out to take Martin's rough, callused hand into hers. "We felt like… it should be you there."
Henry's vocabulary is reduced to single words. "Me?"
The name Kutná Hora alone made Henry’s pulse jump. The festival in Kutná Hora is a spectacular event, a medieval paradise for history enthusiasts like him. The theme is the beginning of the 15th century, transforming the picturesque Czech town into a haven for medieval reenactment enthusiasts, craftsmen and tourists from all around the world. Henry has never been there but he had dreamed about going once— even made peace with his wish to remain a dream. Something always came up, forcing him to shelf the dream away...
"And…" Mom can't help her joyful smile now, she is grinning ear to ear as she delivers the news. Her smile could light the darkest room. "They loved it! They loved the sword, Henry! You won!"
"What?"
"You won, sweetheart! You—well, we are going to Kutná Hora!"
Perhaps it's the waves of pure joy his mother is radiating, perhaps it's disbelief but Henry can only let out a raspy, breathy laugh. Gaze panning from Mom to Martin, Martin to Mom, he has a hard time keeping up and believing it, like if he blinked the magic would be gone.
They sent Sir Radzig's sword to a competition? The sword Martin and Henry made, shortly before the accident?
The sword… won? They won? Henry's work had been judged alongside the best of Czechia and won?
They can go to Kutná Hora this year? The family business, there, among the reenactment crew, the knights, the the royal court, the tourists—
"I got the call in the afternoon," Martin confirms, smirking under his thick mustache. "I'll get the old shop sign and all the old tools from the first forge. We are going all out, son."
Henry can scarcely believe it. "We are…"
… going to Kutná Hora. They will see the proceedings, the fair, the knights' tournament, two whole days of medieval life! There will be falconers, historical crafts and music!
His face hurts from smiling so hard, so much his eyes are getting wet.
"Mom…" he croaks out, wiping at his eyes, "seriously?"
"Yes, darling! You deserve it!"
"Even… like this?" He raises his hands, meaning the scars, the missing fingers.
"Especially like this!" Martin nods warmly, happiness lacing his masculine brogue as well. "We are taking you to Kutná Hora this year, son. You will look every bit the rugged medieval blacksmith of the land, Henry."
Mother laughs, has to lean on her elbow to hide the lower half of her face behind a palm. She then excitedly claps as an idea strikes her,
"We will clean up great-grandpa's leather apron! The ladies will be tripping over themselves when they see you, babes!"
Now Henry is laughing too, joining hers.
"When is it…? I haven't even… checked… "
"In a month!" Mom beams at him, now barely able to contain her joy. She is glowing. "We are allowed to bring wares to sell, as long as they are handmade with traditional techniques. So you can make horseshoes if you want but…" mischief dances in her eyes, she even winks at him. "You could make other things, if you like!"
"Use whatever you need," Martin adds. "And tell me if you want something more complicated, we will make it work."
Holding on to his temples, Henry has to pause to gather his bearings. This is too good to be true. "I can't believe it, hold on, this is…"
This is the best news of the entire year. Kutná Hora. Kutná Hora.
Henry goes to sleep that night, chanting 'Kutná Hora' to himself like a prayer come true, stockpiling ideas and designs in his mind. There's simply… so many things he wants to make! Candlesticks, door handles, door knockers, letter openers, not to mention his pet projects, the decorative animal figurines! Arrowheads, horseshoes, daggers, replacement spear heads!
Like he's suddenly grown wings, Henry can barely keep himself on the ground. So much so, he stubbed his toe on his bedroom threshold, the same threshold he’d walked over for twenty-five years, too distracted by joy to notice. To somehow channel his overwhelming joy, he smothers Mutt with affection.
He never even saw Hans’s community post that night. The one announcing that he, too, would be among the royal guests at Kutná Hora.