Chapter Text
The week after Suchdol had been largely uneventful for the pair—aside from certain nightly activities.
Hans stumbled into their shared room, having barely escaped Kubyanka’s relentless attempts to pour him another drink.
“Where do those men get the energy? Hans groaned, rubbing his temples. “I enjoy boozing more than the common man, but seven nights in a row!?”
Henry followed shortly behind, closing and latching the door shut behind him. “You’ll have to excuse them, Sir Hans. You, of all people, should know what it’s like to have been deprived of life’s pleasantries.”
“Indeed I do, but a man has his limits, and I’ve found mine!” Hans said, exasperated.
He paused for a brief moment before now speaking softly. “And… Drop the Sir, Hal. Not when it’s just you and me.”
His own words made him flush with embarrassment.
Henry took that as his cue, cupping Han’s cheek and stroking it gently.
“Aye, Hans.” He whispered softly, gazing softly at his lover. He hesitated for just a moment before leaning in, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss against Hans’ lips.
Hans responded in kind, their lips moving together in quiet familiarity—until Henry deepened it,
slipping his tongue past the seam of Hans’s lips.
Hans briefly lingered in the warmth of the kiss, savoring the moment, before pulling away with a sigh.
“Not today, Hal, I’m exhausted. We’ve been at it every night. This noble arse needs a break.”
“…Alright. But at least let me check how the wound on your chest is doing,” Henry said, his downcast blue eyes not attempting to mask his disappointment.
Hans smirked. “You dog, you just want an excuse to look at my bare chest.”
“Woof.” Henry made no attempt to deny it.
Still, Hans didn’t protest, tugging off his tunic without hesitation before sitting on his bed.
“But seriously—no funny business today, Hal,” Hans restated, though he didn’t sound particularly convincing to Henry. Henry knew the man well enough to recognize when there was room for persuasion.
However, concern was soon the only thing on Henry’s mind.
Though the nobleman looked much better than before, the lingering effects of weeks of starvation were still visible. His frame, once strong, had yet to fully recover—his ribs still faintly showed beneath his skin. The bandaging across his chest was a stark reminder of his injuries.
“Are you just going to stare, or are you going to get to work?” Hans teased.
Henry snapped out of his stupor, shaking his head. He stumbled over to his storage chest, pulling out some medicinal balm and fresh bandages before sitting beside Hans.
Carefully, he began unwrapping the old bandages. The wound beneath wasn’t deep—Hans' armor had taken the brunt of the damage—but it would undoubtedly leave a scar. The sight of it filled Henry with a burning rage, though he directed it at himself. He had been too late. Too late to protect him. And then, rage toward the bastard who had dared to harm Hans. his Hans.
Henry suppressed his feelings, not wanting to be caught staring again. As gently as he could, he applied the balm to Hans’ chest, causing Hans to hiss in discomfort.
Henry swallowed hard and applied the balm, earning a sharp hiss from Hans.
“Does it still hurt a lot?” Henry asked, voice dripping with concern.
Hans exhaled slowly. “Yes, but not as much as before. It’s much better now. Thank you, Henry. Only the Lord knows where you picked up these healer skills.”
Hans was sincere—Henry truly was a master of many trades, having even crafted the balm himself at the alchemy bench. As if being a skilled swordsman, stealth expert, alchemist, and archer wasn’t enough, now he had to excel as a lover too…
Henry chuckled. “Aye, well, I had to learn. Someone has a knack for getting into trouble. Just don’t go falling into a lake—I won’t be much help there.”
Hans laughed, momentarily forgetting the sting of the balm.
With practiced ease, Henry wrapped fresh bandages around his chest. “There. Now be good, yeah? No getting kidnapped or getting shot by arrows.”'
Hans smirked. “Thank you, my black knight. Here’s a little reward.” He leaned in and planted a soft kiss on Henry’s cheek.
Henry froze, face turning crimson. He clearly hadn’t expected that sudden intimacy.
Primal instincts surged within him, and he quickly adopted his best pout. “Hans… can we really not? I’ll be gentle, I promise.”
Hans scoffed, not buying the act for a second. “That’s a fucking lie. You will turn into a ravenous beast the moment our clothes are off.”
“And can you blame me?” Henry murmured, placing a hand on Hans’ thigh.
Hans swatted it away with a smirk. “No, I do see why you find me irresistible. But my noble arse really does need a break. So go lie on your bed, you mutt.”
Hans’ resolve for a night of abstinence was hanging by a thin thread—and Henry, ever the opportunist, could sniff that out a mile away. He could sense that his following words might be the ones to tip the scales.
“…What if we switched roles?” Henry suggested, a teasing glint in his eye. “Or I could… fondly caress your left ball?”
Hans was flabbergasted. “Do not bring up that poem, Henry. I spent many nights delirious in Suchdol—starvation and horniness do weird things to a man’s mind.”
Henry snickered. “But what about the first part? Are you seriously considering it?”
Hans hesitated. “…You mean switching roles? But this past week, you’ve been on top the whole time.”
“Well… I thought you enjoyed taking it up the ass. You practically offered yourself to me on our first night together.”
Hans sputtered. “No! I mean—yes? I did enjoy it! But there was a reason! That night, you were about to go off to battle, and I was being considerate of your peasant arse.”
Henry clutched his chest mockingly. “Thank you for your noble consideration, m’lord. But truth be told… I’m not opposed to it. I just… y’know, wasn’t sure it was an option. Didn’t want to ruin what we had.”
Hans' lips curled into a slow smirk. “Please. If anything, this would be me returning the favor.” He glanced down at Henry’s backside, licking his lips. “And I do believe you have interest to pay—for how you’ve been treating my arse. If we’re doing this today, I will be in full control, no objections.”
A shudder ran through Henry’s body. He wasn’t sure if it was from excitement, fear, or both.
A lump formed in his throat as he whispered, “May the Lord have mercy on this sinner today.”
The two men didn’t move, relishing the moment, their heavy breathing being the only exception to the silence.
Hans made the first move by pressing his forehead against Henry’s, their breaths mingling.
“You’re mine,” Hans murmured possessively, tracing the curve of Henry’s jaw with his thumb. “And I’ll spend the rest of my days proving it. Lancelot was a fool for letting Galehaut slip through his fingers.”
Henry huffed a quiet laugh, rolling his eyes, but the way he leaned into Hans’ touch betrayed just how much he liked hearing it.
“And the wedding… I’ll find some excuse not to marry that wench, Jitka.”
Henry raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think Hanush will be that easily swayed.”
“Nonsense. If I make enough of a fuss, he’ll eventually give up. Besides, we had a deal—he was supposed to hand over my estate when I came of age, not throw in a wife as part of the bargain.”
“Well… I wouldn’t count on him changing his mind that easily,” Henry said, shaking his head. “But I trust you. And I’ll be there, no matter what.”
Hans smirked. “As if that wasn’t obvious. The only place you belong is by my side, peasant.”
Henry only smiled in response. Hans leaned in, pressing a kiss to Henry’s lips before pulling away.
“Good night, Hal. Sweet dreams. Though if I catch you dreaming of another man…” Hans trailed off, smirking. “Well, I can’t be held responsible for what I might do.”
Henry snorted. “Don’t worry. The only man haunting my dreams is the one currently threatening me in my own bed.”
The following month settled into a rhythm—one that felt so natural it was easy to pretend it would last forever. Days were spent with Hans trailing after Henry as he busied himself helping others, their roles almost reversed from the days when Henry was the one following him. Evenings were quieter now, their drinking kept in check, their dice games played with laughter rather than desperation. The wound on Hans' chest had healed under Henry’s unrelenting care, leaving behind only the faintest scar—one that only Henry would ever notice.
But time was merciless, marching forward without pause or pity.
And now, the moment they had both dreaded—the one they had pretended didn’t exist—had finally arrived.
Hans was to return to Rattay. The wedding was happening.
The news struck like a lightning bolt, even though the storm had been looming on the horizon for weeks. They had known this was coming. That didn’t make it any easier to bear. How does a man sentenced to death prepare for his own execution? And what of his lover, left to stand helplessly by?
Henry was the first to break. He could barely breathe. His vision swam, his chest tightening like a steel trap around his ribs. The room suddenly felt too small, the air too thin. His hands trembled as he pressed them to his temples, trying to steady himself, trying to push back the rising wave of panic that threatened to drag him under.
Hans, in contrast, was almost eerily calm. Too calm.
“Henry.” His voice was firm, unwavering, a stark contrast to the chaos inside Henry’s mind. He moved closer, gripping Henry’s forearm with steady hands. “Look at me.”
Henry shook his head, sucking in a shuddering breath.
“Hal.” Hans’ voice softened, but his grip remained strong. “You need to breathe.”
“I—” The words wouldn’t come. His heart pounded painfully against his ribs.
Hans exhaled, then without warning, pressed their foreheads together, grounding him. “We’ll figure it out.” His thumb traced slow circles against Henry’s wrist. “I swear it.”
Henry swallowed hard, clinging to the steady warmth of Hans’ touch, to the unshaken certainty in his voice. He wasn’t sure he believed him. But he wanted to.
And for now, that would have to be enough.
At Hanush’s command, Hans was ordered back to Rattay to prepare for the wedding.
But Hans had no intention of making things easy.
“I’ll delay it as much as I can,” he told Henry that night, voice filled with quiet defiance. “And you’ll help me.”
And so they did. Over the next month, Hans found excuse after excuse not to leave. He was ill. The roads were too dangerous. There was urgent business that required his attention. Henry backed him at every turn, playing his part with ease, weaving lies as effortlessly as he had once swung a sword.
But Hanush was not a man easily fooled, nor was he a man who relented on his word.
A month after the first letter, the next one arrived.
An ultimatum.
Return or relinquish your estate.
Unlike what Hans had expected, the old man wasn’t budging an inch. He truly intended to see this through. His word, the promise to join the families, it seemed, mattered far more than what Hans wanted.
And this time, there would be no more excuses.
They returned to Rattay, as inevitable as the turning of the seasons.
Hans continued to insist he would convince Hanush, that the wedding would not happen, that something—anything—could still be done. Henry wanted to believe him. But as they arrived at the castle, settling once more into their old sleeping arrangements, the walls between them grew taller. It would be too suspicious to share a room, too dangerous to let slip what lay between them.
And so, they settled into their routines.
Hans spent his days locked in fruitless conversations, pressing Hanush for any leeway. Henry, on the other hand, found himself wandering outside the castle walls, throwing himself into menial tasks to escape the suffocating reality of what loomed ahead. If he kept his hands busy, perhaps he could forget for a moment. Perhaps if he tired himself enough, he wouldn’t dream of it.
Their nightly rendezvous continued at first—desperate, stolen moments, as though pretending hard enough could make the world bend to their will. But slowly, the weight of inevitability pressed down on them. The visits became less frequent. Then they stopped altogether.
And then came the final blow.
A week remained before the wedding. Hanush was unmoved. It was decided: Hans would depart tomorrow to meet Jitka, to finalize the arrangement.
The eve before Hans’ departure, Henry found himself retracing a path he knew by heart. He had walked it countless times before, each step once effortless—tonight, however, his feet felt heavy, as if weighed down by the words he had yet to say.
He stopped in front of the door, hesitation gripping him. If he walked in now, there would be no turning back. No more pretending. No more delaying the inevitable.
He entered without knocking.
The room was dimly lit, the warm glow of candlelight flickering against the walls. Hans sat at his desk, absorbed in a book. Henry didn’t need to see the title to know which one it was—the tale of Lancelot and Galehaut. A story he had once thought was just a knight’s indulgence. Now, he understood better.
Hans hadn’t noticed him yet. He simply sat there, golden hair catching the candle’s glow, broad shoulders hunched slightly as he read. Strong, proud, disciplined—yet to Henry, he had never looked more vulnerable.
If he were an assassin, Hans would have been dead by now.
The thought made something tighten in Henry’s chest.
He closed the door behind him, the soft click finally breaking the silence. Hans didn’t startle. He only turned his head slightly, as if he had been expecting this.
“Hal. You’re here.”
Henry hated that. Hated the certainty in his voice, the quiet expectation. What right did Hans have to assume he would come?
His fingers curled into fists at his sides. “We need to talk.”
Hans closed the book, his expression unreadable. “What’s there to talk about?” His voice was steady, but his eyes faltered—just for a moment.
Henry felt the first crack in his resolve. He forced himself to stand tall. “You said you wouldn’t get married,” he said, voice raw. “You said we’d figure it out. Was it all a lie?”
“You said you wouldn’t get married.” His voice wavered, but his stance was firm. “You said we’d figure it out. Was it all a lie?”
Hans stood up from the desks, jaws clenched, he said. “It wasn’t a lie, Henry. Not at first. I truly didn’t expect Hanush to be so—”
“So unconvincible?” Henry let out a humorless laugh, bitter as wormwood. “That’s it, then? It was only ever wishful thinking?” His voice cracked as he stepped forward. “You told me I was all you needed. That I was the only thing that ever truly belonged to you.” He inhaled sharply. “Were those just words? Something to keep me trapped at your side like a loyal hound?”
Hans stiffened, eyes flashing. “How dare you speak to me like that?” His temper flared, but beneath it, there was something else—uncertainty, or perhaps guilt. “What would you have me do, Henry? Give up everything? My estate, my name? Be left with nothing?”
“You’re a fool if you think you’re promised your birthright even if you go through with this.” Henry’s voice rose, thick with emotion. “Hanush will always find another excuse to hold it over you. First it was waiting for you to come of age, now it’s the wedding. What next? You think he’ll finally let you be your own man only after he’s in the ground?” His breath hitched. “You’ll never be enough for him, Hans.”
Hans clenched his fists. “And what would you have me do, then?” he spat. “Throw it all away? For what? To go where?”
Henry stepped closer, desperation bleeding into his words. “Hans… we could leave together.” His voice trembled. “Start over. We could go to Kuttenberg, fire up my father’s forge. I have friends there—we could make something of ourselves. You are more than your nobility, Hans.” He swallowed. “Let Hanush have his damned estate. Let him have his domain. I don’t care about any of that. I just need you.”
Hans turned away. “You know I can’t.” His voice was quieter now, uncertain. “I—I have a duty. A role to fulfill. The people need me. I need this. It’s what I’ve always wanted.”
Henry exhaled shakily. “But I need you, Hans. Please.”
Hans finally met his gaze, his expression unreadable. “You know you’ll always have me.”
Henry shook his head. “It’s not the same. I can’t…”
Hans cupped Henry’s cheek, voice dropping to something almost tender. “We’ll figure it out after the wedding.”
Henry let out a breath, disbelieving.
“It’s just a formality,” Hans continued, as though he truly believed it. “It won’t change things between us.” His thumb brushed over Henry’s cheekbone. “At most… I’ll do my duty. Have an heir. And that’ll be it.” He gave a wry smile. “I’ll even name my firstborn after you.”
Henry didn’t reply. He only looked at him—truly looked at him. There was something painfully final in his gaze.
Hans, either unable or unwilling to see it, smiled faintly. “I know how to cheer you up.”
He locked the door. Undressed. Guided Henry towards the bed.
And Henry let him.
The two tangled together as they always had, but Henry barely spoke. He let Hans take what he wanted, let himself be consumed by it, let himself drown in the heat of it one last time. Other than the occasional soft gasp, he was silent.
Hans thought nothing of it. He believed, as always, that Henry would overcome his anxieties. That the man would come around to understanding reality.
That night, Hans fell asleep quickly, spent and content.
Henry, however, lay awake, staring at the ceiling, lost in the storm of his thoughts.
He couldn’t keep doing this. He couldn’t always be playing second fiddle, a dog picking scraps off the table—even if the master was Hans.
He had made his decision.
He moved carefully, so carefully. Dressing in silence. He turned to look at Hans one final time, drinking in the sight of him—the rise and fall of his chest, the way his hair curled ever so slightly, the way the moonlight kissed his skin.
He was beautiful. He was everything.
And Henry could not stay.
He shut the door behind him, stepping into the cold night.
And he did not look back.
The sun shining through the windows warmed Hans' face, stirring him from his sleep. Waking up, his hands reached for something that wasn’t there—someone who wasn’t there.
No Henry.
An ominous feeling rose in his chest.
Instinctively, Hans sensed that something was wrong. Henry had never missed an opportunity to snuggle with him, laze around in the mornings—one of the rare moments Henry allowed himself reprieve from his duties.
The sun outside the window shone brightly, already well past noon. Hans must’ve overslept.
Henry must’ve gone to feed Mutt. That stubborn but lovable dog ate better than most peasants did.
Hans got dressed and headed to the stables, where Mutt usually slept beside Pebbles.
No Mutt.
No Henry.
Weird, he thought. Maybe Henry had taken Mutt out for a walk. The weather was perfect— clear skies, a cool breeze which ruffled his hair. Yet, despite the calmness of the day, an unease began to gnaw at Hans.
Wait.
It took him a bit to recognise an empty stable, an old but steadfast steed missing from its post.
No Pebbles.
No Henry.
The alarm bells went off in his head.
Wild scenarios ran amok in his head.
No, it couldn’t be.
He would never leave me.
He would never run away from me.
He made his way to the only place he knew to seek comfort.
A small, humble room, filled with trinkets collected from countless adventures. Gifts from grateful people whose lives had been saved. A room filled with love and warmth.
But when he opened the door, what greeted him was an empty room.
No Henry.
The bed, made-up neatly.
No Henry.
An empty storage chest sat at the food of the bed.
No Henry.
Empty shelves lined the walls.
No Henry.
A fireplace in its final moments, the dying embers flickering weakly.
No Henry.
On the nightstand, a letter lay.
Was he in the wrong room?
If his eyes could somehow deceive him, his nose would not. A familiar scent still lingered in the air—the comforting smell of Henry. The scent of leather and steel, of earth and sweat, of the man who had always been there. It was a fragrance that had lulled him to sleep every night, and yet now, it only made the emptiness more unbearable.
WIth trembling hands, he opened the letter, the paper feeling like it might tear under the weight of his touch. He didn’t want to read it-—he couldn’t—but there was never a choice.
He was naive to have ever believed otherwise.
To my Hans. My Galehaut. My love. It began, the ink barely legible as if each word had been written with a shaky hand.
I don’t know when it started, but there came a time when I felt a burning desire to make you mine.
It could’ve been when you dragged me through the forest, risking everything to keep me safe from the bandits.
It could’ve been when you looked at me as if I was the one you were waiting for to save you from the tower in Nebakov.
It could’ve even been as early as when we went hunting in Trotsky, and you were captured—showing a vulnerability that humanized you in my eyes.
Regardless of when it happened, it happened. And that will never change. But I must beg for your forgiveness.
Forgive me for running away, for I am not the strong man you believe me to be.
Forgive me for not being there when you marry Lady Jitka, who I’m sure is a lovely woman, and I hope you treat her with the respect she deserves.
Forgive me for not celebrating with you when your heir is born—your pride and joy, who I know will mean the world to you. Do not name him after me, for it may cause you to look upon him with grief instead.
The ink pooled at the start of the next word, a telltale mark of hesitation—the writer’s hand pausing, uncertain, before continuing.
Do not forgive me for blaming you for my feelings, for it was these very feelings that kept me alive.
The night I left Suchdol, I was ready to walk away from you forever. But with your kiss, you made me yours, and I made you mine. I did not, and will not, regret this. Through it, I found the strength to return to your side, to feel your face in my hands once more.
Lastly, do not hate yourself, as I know you would, my love. Forgive yourself. This was my decision. Lancelot would want Galehaut to live on, as I want you to live on without me.
I would be lying to say I wish for you to forget me, but the shackles of nobility may chain you down forever, and I do not wish to do the same to you.
Always,
Your Hal.
Hans could only weep, choking as he struggled to breathe between the flowing tears.
He had a duty to fulfil. But what was the cost?
With the wedding, he would be obtaining everything he ever wanted—his estate—his birthrights, everything he had been promised his whole life. Everything his younger self ever wanted.
He had never stopped to think about what he would lose.
He had always been selfish.
Things had always worked out. Henry would always save the day. So why would this time be any different?
But who would save Henry?
This time, his own hubris and ignorance had pushed the only person he had ever truly loved away.
After what felt like an eternity, the tears stopped—or rather, they ran out.
He made a resolution. A promise to himself.
He was the reason that Henry had to leave.
Sorry Hal, he would never forgive himself.
Neither would he allow himself the luxury of forgetting his love.
He would, however, move forward.
The weight of his duties would not allow otherwise.
The world had no mercy for a man with a broken heart.
With heavy steps and an unwilling heart, he moved towards the final source of warmth in the room.
The letter, soaked by the unknowing tears of a man forever changed, served as kindling for the dying hearth, words fading away in the flames.
While the heart of one man froze, its final embers departed on a journey.
Out on the roads beyond Rattay, the path stretched endless, leading a man away from everything he has ever known.
The Black Knight, kidnapped by fate, rode alone on his steady steed, loyal hound also by his side.
Henry didn’t look back.
He couldn’t.
If he did, he might falter.
He might stay.
And that would be the end of them both.
Thus ended the tale of the two knights, a tragic and sorrowful romance.
This was the day Sir Hans Capon of Pirkstein died.
Like Galehaut, not by blade or war, but by the loss of his heart.
And Henry was the one to bury him.