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The first night, Hans dreams of his mother, tucked away in Polná. Once he wakes, for the life of him, he finds he can’t remember her face. He knows he has her hair, but what color are her eyes? What is the shape of her nose? He does not mull it over long, the dream already washing away as he takes in what is to be his prison for the foreseeable future.
Otto von Bergow has dropped the diplomatic airs he put on back in Trosky. Hans is treated as befits a noble in captivity, no outright harm done to him. But smaller graces, things that are unremarkable enough, are denied to him. For a short period of time, the cook “forgets” to send up his dinner. An accident with the laundry left him to wallow in his own sweaty underclothes for days, the grime making his skin itch. Still, Hans would give nothing to von Bergow. The accumulation of inconveniences were a trifling mind game that Hans would not back down from - his only means of offense.
Captivity becomes an exercise in distraction.
What he can escape in the waking world comes back tenfold in his dreams: the groan of broken wood, the choking dust, the squeezing in his lungs - all working together to recreate the horror show of Nebakov in new, creative ways each night.
Sometimes, a wooden beam pierces his abdomen and he snaps awake. He tosses and turns for the rest of the night, but he’s grateful that these spare him what has become more frequent in recent days.
Sometimes, Hans digs and digs through the broken wood, the metal of a gauntlet shining faintly before becoming obscured again. Other times, Henry is pulling him out of the rubble, arms straining, before a specter appears behind him: von Bergow’s chamberlain placing a noose around Henry's neck, Istvan Toth sliding a dagger across his throat, even Hans himself, pulling Henry away and under the murky water, a cloud of red billowing in his vision before he snaps awake.
He’d never be allowed a knife to carve with, so Hans is stuck either rolling dice with the Frenchman, rereading the sparse selection of books they've provided, or writing his own thoughts down, which he's careful to dispose of lest von Bergow find something to use against him.
There are also the thoughts he won't risk writing down, captivity or not. They are just as hollowing as the dreams, but he allows himself the indulgence - there are so few here.
Henry's easy laugh at the Rattay baths, the brush of his foot under the water, his face contorting in anger when confronting Arse'n'balls. Just weeks earlier, that anger had been directed towards him, towards the world. Somehow, somewhere in between, Hans had earned a spot on Henry's good side. Though perhaps he was simply acting in his best interest; the drowning of a lord in the baths is a scandal even Henry would have trouble talking his way out of. Regardless, whatever he'd done or hadn't done, he was eternally grateful for it. Closing his eyes, he can smell the steam of the baths and crushed flowers.
He finds another memory to study. Seeing Henry's fat head pop up from the loft's staircase, he had barely held back a groan. Of course that yokel found his way into the wedding. He wasn't surprised at his resourcefulness; Hans had plenty of resourcefulness of his own. Rather, he braced himself for the pontificating sure to follow. Seeing Henry's blue eyes widen upon recognition should have morphed into relief instead of the annoyance he found there. In his indulgences, Hans imagines a lightness in his eyes instead. A brief clasp of hands, shared laughter, and a night spent indulging in wine, women, and song.
In what comes after, Hans brushes through those hours spent waiting. These too feature in his dreams, and he staunchly avoids thinking too hard of them so as to not tempt a reappearance tonight - he already knows he will wake up scrubbing the imprint of these walls from his vision for years to come. He focuses rather on Henry's presence afterwards: their shared snark of the chamberlain, watching Henry spar with one of von Bergow's knights, Henry standing up for him at von Bergow's table.
“And you have my word as a blacksmith that I'll stand by you.”
Hans can still feel the cool breeze that had swept across Trosky that morning. Henry looked dead on his feet, having spent however long running himself ragged to heal Captain Thomas and have him testify their story. Still, with his eyes drooping and a smile on his face, Henry had spoken that vow with such sincerity Hans was certain he'd never forget the words. He felt something settle in his chest then, light as a feather and strong as a vice.
When Hans had stood above Nebakov's gate, feeling the drying blood start to itch, he'd thought of them again. The sun was setting, his head still pounded, and they were alive. Henry had tried cheering him up with that fact; when Hans failed to respond, lost in thoughts of their retinue, Henry stumbled through a butchered, “audentes fortuna iuvat!” That sincerity again broke through the melancholy and compelled Hans to drag Henry to the farkle table, get thrashed, and do his best to put a smile on Henry's face as well.
There's a brief stab in his heart. They should've left for Rattay that night. They shouldn't have rested at the pond, they shouldn't have trusted von Bergow, they should've just walked back to Rattay with their tails between their legs.
Hans' memory of the cart ride from Nebakov towards Trosky is sparse - he remembers low voices, Henry's baritone rumbling through his chest like distant thunder. He thought then, in his delirium, that their hearts must be connected, to feel him so intrinsically. A cord wrapped in knots, pulling taut at their imminent separation. As he’s led off, he wonders if the cord will soon snap and he will bleed out before anyone could stop it.
Hans learned later what their fate was: Tortured by Istvan Toth, the swine who, at Nebakov, had declared in front of all who could hear that he had to settle a score with Henry. No doubt this meant Henry would've undergone a great deal before he -
Stop.
Hans interrupts himself, heart too heavy to continue. The last of his retinue, the man who'd vowed to stand by him, his best friend. Henry's death is his failure.
Go back.
The wind in his hair, the beat of hooves in the dirt. “How could I refuse you anything?”
The flashes of sunlight through the canopy above filtered down in a haze of green and yellow. The air was thick with humidity and birdsong, their brief race ruffling his hair and causing pieces to fall in his face. He brushed them back up and aside as he congratulated Henry on a well-deserved win. Henry’s trusty Pebbles gave as good as one of von Bergow’s horses; proof of Henry’s love and dedication to her. She had blossomed under his care, her coat shiny and her eyes bright. She would gladly carry him until her legs gave out or she fell beside him in battle.
Did Henry march to Nebakov on Pebbles?
Is she rotting on that road?
Is Henry rotting below Trosky?
Once Hanush pays the ransom, Hans will go back to Trosky and bring Henry home. If he has to go under cover of night, dig up whatever surely unconsecrated pit they threw him in or cut him down from being crow feed, he would do it. Bellator, indeed.
Hans shakes his head. It seems his mind is determined to not grant him reprieve tonight. Dinner is delivered, thankfully sparing him from further flying down that path. Hans picks at his food half-heartedly, listening to Sir Brabant wax poetic about someone's wife who'd fallen in love with him. He's brought out the dice, and the chicken Hans eats tastes like ash. As Hans is about to refuse a game, his ears pick up a light noise.
Metal on metal, tinkling slightly like raindrops on an old helmet. Not the heavy clank of someone turning a key - someone was picking the lock.
Hans shushes Brabant, who takes a moment to catch on. With a shared look and no weapons to defend themselves, Hans and Brabant dart to the shadows. To make it so far into the fortress without the shout of a guard floating up towards their window or heavy footsteps on the stairs, whoever was at the door now must be an experienced infiltrator. It briefly occurs to Hans to ambush this bandit and take advantage of the situation, but the lock has been picked and the door is opening.
A dark figure lightly steps into the room, glancing quickly around. Brabant pops his head out, deciding to confront the intruder head-on.
“What is happening? Who are you?” Brabant demands.
The man unsheathes - a longsword? - and slams the Frenchman against the wall. “Quiet! If you make a peep, we’re done for!”
That country lilt. That gait, those hands, that stature. Hans' heart is beating out of his chest, feet stepping forward and name torn from his throat before he can make the conscious decision to do so.
“Henry?”
This time, as Henry lays his eyes on Hans, they do shine with relief.
His joy is so overwhelming, he stumbles forward, the weight on his heart lifting and his feet walking on air. He falls forward into Henry’s arms, the momentum raising him onto his toes briefly despite Henry’s shorter frame. Clutching onto his dark pourpoint, it strikes him how warm Henry is. The heat he can feel on his face from where he’s pressing against Henry’s neck is almost scalding.
This is a new reunion for them, one he will be able to relive countless times, holding this moment close to his chest. He should've known. God, he should've known. When his heart continued beating - after every dream, every nightmare - he should've known its pair continued to beat too. He almost feels foolish for doubting it.
Henry shares his plan: a secret tunnel leading into the forest, with horses waiting for them at the end. Hans feels a cold rush from the top of his head and down his spine. Not again. He can smell the kicked-up dust, stone pressing on his chest until it bursts. And it wouldn’t only be his doom, but Henry’s as well. He is only recently resurrected. He bares his teeth, a dog threatened and cornered -
“Remember what I said at Trosky?”
You can rely on me. Always.
“I won’t allow anything to happen to you.”
Hans’ hackles lower. Henry’s words are a brief balm, filling his belly and every empty cavity his body could spare. Hans feels full to bursting, almost sick with the flowers that want to bloom from his throat. It only makes him more desperate, unable to stomach the thought of failing him here and now. He puts his foot down, ready to stay in this room if that’s what it takes, maybe it won’t be so bad now that I know he’s alive. Trust me, please -
And he does. Just like that, Henry is placing his faith in Hans like he does in Henry. Already, he is forming a new plan with Brabant, mentally mapping out their escape route. Hans is momentarily stunned with relief, the argument he’d prepared dying on his tongue.
After deciding, Henry hands each of them a weapon, likely stolen from elsewhere in the fortress. Hans squeezes the grip as he watches Henry disappear down the stairs, steps once more silent. Absurdly, he thinks back to having Henry steal the Sylvan red from the Rathaus cellar. Is this how he managed it? Light-footed, light-fingered Henry. He would almost theorize Henry had the hollow bones of birds, if it weren’t for the weight he remembers dragging through the mire to Bozhena’s hut.
Hans shakes his head at the dark staircase. He should be looking for a torch down below, Henry’s signal that it’s safe to follow. His ears stay perked up to listen for shouts or the sound of a horn. Someone’s foot is incessantly tapping, and Hans almost snaps at Brabant for the noise before noticing it’s his own foot. He ceases immediately.
The longest minute of his life passes before he sees a torch lit in the courtyard, then quickly put out again. Hans grabs a torch from the wall to wave and signal back that they were on their way down. He briefly considers setting light to the bed sheets before dropping the torch and bracing himself for a fight, each shadow a potential guard.
Hans leads, careful around corners and listening for the clatter of armor. Fortuna smiles upon him, the guards either asleep or elsewhere in the fortress. Hans doesn’t stop to verify if they really are asleep or dead. What else has he ascribed to fortune that has really been Henry?
Henry’s beckoning hand stretches out of the darkness of the stables. Hans almost slips his hand into it before thinking better - the last few minutes have been spent in somewhat of a daze. He half expects to wake at any moment. But the smell of horses and the danger pounding in his chest feels real enough, so he launches himself onto the horse almost too roughly and maneuvers her towards the gate Henry is unlatching.
Spurring the horse on, he almost can’t believe their mad dash is working. Surely someone on the wall should have seen them leave the stables, or at least hear the gate opening. But as Hans glances behind him, he sees Brabant first and Henry in the rear, both galloping to catch up. No shouts or arrows follow them.
The morning air is unseasonably cool, a mist settling over the fields they pass. Brabant rattles on, finding a new, unwilling audience member in Henry.
Henry. Henry is really here. Not a corpse rotting in the sun. Hans glances over at him, the bright relief bubbling out of his chest in a laugh. Henry rolls his eyes at whatever Brabant is saying, sharing a conspiratorial look with Hans. The gesture is so ineffably easy, feels so alive, as if he hadn’t spent weeks believing Henry to be dead, his spark gone forever.
And here he is now, with both of them falling back into that rhythm. Simple. Hans clutches the reins to stop himself from reaching out to grasp him again.
He doesn’t need to, he reminds himself. Hans feels that settling in his chest again - this time it’s comforting. The slow bleeding from the severed cord has stopped. No matter where he goes, whatever predicament he finds himself in, Henry would be by his side.
A smile blooms on his face. It feels more like freedom than the air racing by.