Chapter Text
Summer days trickled lazily in the Devil's Den, life slowly fell back into place following the siege. The breeze of liberty in everyone's sail made everything unreal. Outside the Den, nothing existed; No war, Sigismund, time, no marriage.
So far away from Rattay, one could forget everything. Hans had officially lost his "lord" title among the pack. He was just Hans… Or Capon, if Zizka was in a sour mood. Throughout his noble life, the Devil's Den marked his most carefree days. No Hanush breathing down his neck, no common peasants looking at him like scared dogs ready to bolt, just… friends. People who cared about what he had to say.
And of course, there was Henry.
They hadn't spoken about what happened in Suchdol since the end of the siege, none too sure what more to say. Rattay and the marriage felt far away; They took the days as they came. Over the weeks that passed, a language formed between them, made of silence. Hans would be drinking with the pack and see Henry cross the room with a greeting, shooting him a knowing glance before heading upstairs, and somehow Hans understood it — a greeting just for him.
On sunny days, Hans would lazily read somewhere outside, hear the birds sing, the wind rustle the trees, Zizka cursing at the Dry Devil any time he joked about the eye he shot, and it felt right.
He wondered if a commoner's life would be so different; Open air, easy laughs, friends. Was a noble life really what he wanted? His gaze would stray from his book, linger on Henry across the clearing, picturing what both lives would offer them, and Henry would walk up to him, pat his shoulder warmly, and move on. Did he dream of those lives, too?
On stormy days, they'd all rush back inside, chased away by rain and thunder. Katherine would lament at the puddle of water they'd drag inside with them, and they would all group around a table with booze and drink until the weather cleared, or until night fell. Henry would tell stories about Martin to Samuel, because they always came easier with a little alcohol coursing through his veins. Godwin tried to find his Latin at the bottom of his cup, sparing some wisdom between jugs. Katherine would drag a hand on Zizka's shoulder as she passed, her own way of checking on the man, and Hans' gaze would find Henry, wishing he could do the same.
When everyone retired, one by one, leaving only Hans and Zizka standing, the man would stare at Hans intensely. As if trying to break through his mind with a stare. He would conclude with a sigh, stand, and offer a cryptic remark before his exit.
'Be careful out there, Capon.'
'I hope you know what you're doing.'
And then Hans would retire to his bedroom. Henry was either sleeping in his own bed already or reading a book he found God knows where.
Behind closed doors, Hans would walk up to Henry and plant his hands on the man's shoulder to study the book in his hands. Teasing remarks about what the man was reading slipped easily from him, parried quickly enough by Henry's astute remarks on Hans' own tome collections. That god-awful poetry book would chase Hans to the end of his life now, Henry made sure of it.
Hans' chin would find the top of Henry's head and rest there, small droplets of rain wetting his chin. When Henry yawned more than he read, Hans would pry the books from his hands and guide the man to one bed and squeeze himself into the small remaining space. He'd blow the candles and lie awake, wondering about a million things he never found the answers for.
The fated letter arrived on a sunny morning.
Everyone was outside; Katherine was buzzing around Zizka to inspect his eye and how it was healing, while the man grumbled, reluctant. Samuel was talking with Godwin, asking how lenient his God was to sin, given everything about Godwin. The older man laughed but didn't give a straight answer.
Hans was training with the Dry Devil, having been teased this morning about "going soft" if he didn't. So, he intended to make the man swallow his words and pride.
The sound of hooves made them all perk up, the den was remote, and all members accounted for, no one was expected.
The lone rider emerged from the dirt path in a blur of yellow, Leipa's colors. They all stilled as they saw the messenger guide his horse to the side of the building to dismount, all of them exchanging looks before looking toward Hans.
Reality had come crashing in.
Hans had frozen too, training sword still in hand, as all eyes fell on him as if he had gotten caught stealing sweets from the kitchen.
He sought Henry's presence like a sailor would a lighthouse, a reassurance he wasn't going to crash onto the unforgiving rocks of the bank. The blacksmith stood on the second floor, leaning on the railing pensively until he saw the rider barge through. Now his eyes bore into Hans, the million questions they never spoke since Suchdol barely contained between his lips. Henry took a deep breath before pushing himself from the railing to join the others downstairs.
Hans abandoned the training pen, planting his wooden sword in the ground. Despite wanting to run to the woods, he walked to the messenger. The man handed him a letter with Leipa's coat of arms on it and stood waiting. Hans broke the seal and read through it quickly, as if reading it thoroughly would burn him. He looked up at the messenger with a raised brow.
"What did my uncle say?" He asked, hoping the messenger's words would disprove the letter.
"That the arrangements for the marriage have been made and that you should depart as soon as you receive his letter. Any other details could wait until your arrival in Rattay." The man repeated, with fewer niceties, what the letter had stated. A heavy silence fell on Hans' musings. He spared a glance at Henry before turning back to the messenger.
"We will depart immediately, then." He stated, the messenger nodded, and without further delay, returned to his horse.
"I'll get our packs ready," Henry said without prompting to the unmoving Hans. The man answered with a low 'hm' and Henry left.
He felt his heart lodged in his throat; He could probably claw it out through his mouth if he tried, and no matter how many times he swallowed, it didn't seem to fall back into place. His body felt like Nebakov itself, closing in on him, crumbling.
An arm around his shoulder startled him, followed by a deep laugh.
"Let's get you something to drink before you piss yourself on the spot!" the Dry Devil screamed, snapping Hans back into himself.
Hans drank, perhaps more than he should have, considering they should depart soon, but then he fought in Rabosch in a worse state. Henry kept passing by, busy with their packs. Sorting through their chests what was worth bringing over to Rattay, what to leave behind.
He packed half of the herbs he'd gathered recently and left the rest for the others. His clothes, the few books he hadn't yet read cover to cover three times over, his suit of armor and sword.
Hovering over Hans' chest was another battle entirely, unable to decide what the man deemed important. He packed clothes first, followed by his suit of armor and weapons. Debated at length what books to keep until he reached the bottom of the chest and found with the collection of bawdy poems. He stood up, setting the book aside on the table for now before leaving the room to tend to the horses.
When Henry arrived, the horses, restless from a lack of exercise, stomped around.
After a few reassuring pats, he bent to examine their hooves and shoes. He brushed them both before tacking them up. He ran around to make sure everything was in order until he sat on his bed, bawdy poetry book in hand and with the last weeks neatly packed into saddlebags at the opened door.
Knuckles rapped against the threshold. Samuel leaned on it, a pint in hand. He nudged the saddlebags with one foot before walking into the room at Henry's silence.
"Do you always go silent and work like a maniac when something bothers you, or is it just when Capon is involved?" He asked before plopping on the bed next to Henry. The blacksmith shrugs. "Elohim shbeshmi'im, you're both as stubborn as the next mule. Perhaps it is good we only met now, or I would have strangled you before the first hair grew on your chin. Were you always like this?"
"Pa said I was a blue-blooded idler," Samuel cackled loudly, bending forward.
"You? I think we'd have to put you down like a dog before you took a break." He took a sip of his pint, a smile carving itself on his face at Henry's reluctant huff. He passed his pint to Henry without a word, the man took it and drank. "Should I get more, or will one be enough for you to talk? I can tell something has changed since Suchdol, you know. I had to weed out spies from my streets, remember?”
Samuel rose an expectant brow, waiting for the man to crack. Henry's eyes lost themselves in the cup, silent but not unresponding — considering, thinking — so Samuel waited patiently. Henry sighed before rubbing his face.
"When I came here, I knew why I was there: I wanted to avenge my parents. Now that it's done, I don't know what I'm supposed to do. My parents are still dead, Skalitz is in ruins, my father is… trying."
"And Capon is getting married." Samuel added, Henry nodded. "He'd still need you, I'm surprised he can even clean his own arse with all the work you do for him." Henry gave another reluctant huff.
"I suppose it's just that I feel like a stray dog tagging along since I left Skalitz. My father, Hanush, Hans. I'm just realizing there's nowhere for me to call home."
"I know Zizka offered you a place among the group." Samuel said, prying back the pint from Henry's hand to get a sip before the man finished it all. Henry fiddled with the book he was holding, then shrugged.
"I couldn't serve Hans if I did." His hand passed over the cover of the book.
"His Lordship might never recover."
"He's my friend," Henry said in a mumble, like a scolded child.
"Uh-uh," Samuel let out. He eyed Henry carefully with one raised eyebrow, scanning the man. Samuel hoisted himself up from the bed, his free hand landing on Henry's shoulder to shake him gently. "Well, your friend is drinking himself into a stupor. If you want him fit to ride today, you'd best get his ass on the saddle now, bruder."
Henry gave him a small smile before pulling Samuel into a tight goodbye hug, promising to visit in Kolín or back in Kuttenberg soon enough.
Samuel watched Henry leave the room, saddlebags in hand. When he heard the door leading to the inside of the inn close, Samuel's eyes searched the bottom of his cup for the answers Henry had been looking for earlier. He found nothing and instead drank the tepid ale that remained, then glared at the book Henry had abandoned on his bed.
Everyone followed outside when Henry ripped Hans from the ever-flowing stream of alcohol down his throat, bidding their farewells. They embraced Hans one by one with good words and well wishes for his marriage, while Henry gathered the horses and mounted the saddlebag. He came back with both reins in hand, and it was then his turn to be embraced by the awaiting crowd.
Most wished him fair travel; Zizka insisted if he ever changed his mind, the door was always opened. Godwin implored him to bring Hans back to Rattay swiftly, else they'd both end up jailed once again. Samuel hugged Henry with a good luck wish, then ordered Henry to take great care of Martin's sword, since he intended to inherit it when Hans' antics finally killed Henry. Hans scoffed, throwing a 'I'm right there!' to which Samuel answered with a death glare.
Soon after, they left the Devil's Den behind. A religious silence followed their two men procession, heavy with Hans' furious shifting on his saddle. Henry could only be a witness to it from behind, knowing no words would soften the ire their journey brought.
Instead, he focused on Mutt; The dog was too happy to finally stretch his legs and weave around the two horses like a pup.
But soon enough, Henry's eyes bored holes in Hans' nape again, thinking of what awaited them at the end of their travels.
His hand fell to the pommel of his sword, trying to muster confidence from the conversation he had with Samuel. He'd been sure Henry wouldn't end up like the discarded stray dog pawing at the door he pictured, but he wondered what place would remain in Hans' life after his marriage. Would he haunt the hallways as a guard, only to brush against Capon when they crossed paths?
How much neglect could a dog take before it decided to flee? His eyes fell back to Mutt, no matter how horribly a battle ended, he was always sure to find the beast slobbering on his bed soon after. Loyal beast to the end, even if it meant taking a sword to the gut.
Would Henry wait indefinitely on his cool bed for Hans to return to him? Or would he tire one day, leave without a word? How would Hans react when he'd open the door only to be met with a cold, empty bed? Would he search, thrash, weep? Would he slip into his marital bed as if it never had happened?
He shook his head, dispelling the spiral of doom he was getting dragged into. He'd do as he always did until now; Take the days as they came and deal the hand he was given. There was no point agonizing over a future he had no control over.
The wide dirt paths over open fields let place to narrower forest paths, forcing them to stay one behind the other. Sheltered by the canopy of trees, the lazy wind blew colder, tearing a shiver from Henry as it lapped at his sweaty nape.
Hidden from God's watchful eye, so deep in the forest, Hans' taut body seemed to relax with each sway of his horse. The trees, branches thick with emerald foliage, formed an archway dappled with light and shadow. A sense of peace settled over them, a balm to the anxieties that had chased here, washed away by the slow stream of the river running next to them.
Water, fleeing opposite their march, beckoned them to follow it back, away from their destination. None of them listened and continued forward.
"It's a good thing we left the den; I think another aimless week holed up in there would have made me mad!" Hans suddenly exclaimed, not bothering to turn around to look at Henry.
"Aye, S'good for the horses, too," Henry answered simply, patting the neck of Pebbles fondly. Hans turned around in his saddle, glaring at the blacksmith.
"Are you comparing your Lord to an animal?" Voice high on noble outrage.
"We're all children of God, humans or horses," Henry teased further, regaling in Hans' mood shift.
"Oh, don't start! I thought we left sermons behind with Godwin, we both know you've never cared for it." Hans grumbled, turning back in his saddle with an annoyed flair.
"What can I say, between two abductions of my lord, several inn fights, and a hopeless siege, maybe I need to thank our Maker for still breathing." Henry explained with a mischievous smile on his lips, he'd never been the most devout Christian on Earth — neither was Hans — but with the recent events, it was hard not to believe someone up above was looking out for them.
"True. It has been an eventful summer, for sure." Hans answered pensively, their conversation dying down to the clopping of hooves, then Hans groaned. "I am starving."
"We can stop at an inn when the sun sets and settle there for the night."
"Absolutely not." Hans proclaimed, raising a finger to the sky. "I will not spend the last bits of freedom I have bunking down between four walls; I'll do plenty of that in Rattay, and in a much comfier bed!" He gestured around with his free hand.
"Then we eat at the next inn and continue forward. Since his Lordship prefers to sleep in the dirt."
"You have grown far too comfortable taunting me, blacksmith. Remember what your place is!" Hans said with no venom in his voice. A teasing quip rather than a threat.
Their journey continued until they were met with an inn where Hans complained about the food the whole time, and then some more after when they resumed their travel. When the sun dipped lower and lower, they marched forward, searching for a spot to camp.
They settled down in a forest removed from the road. Henry got to work building a fire immediately, while Hans untacked the horses for the night. When the first embers grew into proper flames, Henry set out to install their bedding.
He spied on Hans as he did so, watching the man pull out some bottles of wine from his saddlebag that Henry hadn't packed. He would never complain about some alcohol on a fresh night, so he stayed quiet. When the moon rose high in the sky, they retired to their respective bedrolls. Both lulled to sleep by the song of crickets and crackling fire. Each even breath from the other pulling them deeper under, like a spell.
Henry awoke to the soft cooing of a mourning dove as the sun rose just above the trees, hiding them from the road. He laid there a few moments longer, stretching like a fat cat who got the cream, then stood up.
Like a thief, he walked in the camp with light-feet so he wouldn't wake Hans, still lying on his bedroll. He walked further still, the sound of rushing water growing louder until he met a small stream, its icy water sending shivers up his spine as he dipped his hand in. Crouching next to the stream, the cold water tore another shiver from him as he stripped naked and quickly rubbed himself clean. He quickly dressed back, chasing the heat his clothes had leeched from him in his sleep.
Hans woke soon after. If Henry was the cat who got the cream, Hans was twice that when he stretched lazily on his bedroll. A display of sleepy grace that was a stark contrast to the bare-thread bedroll he had been sleeping on.
Soon enough, though, as Henry sat at the remains of the fire to eat some bread, that picture of grace shattered as Hans cursed at the cold water. Bare back facing Henry as the nobleman furiously scrubbed glacial water under his armpits before calling it quit, the rest would wait for a proper bathhouse.
Their journey resumed in similar silence to the last day; Heavy and pensive, only forgotten as Henry's wandering eyes took in the sights that passed them by.
Golden fields blanketing earth, slowly sliced away by bent-down farmers under the infinite blue sky. Shrines planted at crossroads next to small stone walls meant to separate properties, the only boundary between two fields. The sun still shied away behind white clouds this early in the morning, soon enough, its unforgiving ire would beat down on them.
Henry and Hans rode side by side on the wider dirt roads this time, silence interrupted by Hans humming some tune he'd never heard.
It died too soon under a mournful sigh. Hans shifted on his saddle, threw a quick glance at Henry, then moved again, threw another glance. Henry looked at him curiously, wondering what had him so high-strung. With no pressure at all, Hans caved.
"So, what… happens now?" He asked, looking straight ahead, fleeing confrontation. Henry frowned in confusion for a split second, unsure what the question was. Then silence answered him, and understanding dawned on Henry.
"I'm fine with what we have. It doesn't have to change." His eyes fell forward, too, unable to answer this face-to-face.
"Really?" Hans' gaze shot to Henry in surprise.
"I've seen what the other option is like with my Ma and father." Henry shifted on his saddle, a sore spot to poke at. "They still loved each other, in a way."
"That's different," Hans scoffed, with no venom.
"Is it?" His eyes found Hans' until the nobleman's eyes darted away. "My mom loved Pa, but I think she always wondered what life could've been with Radzig. Sometimes, I see the same look on him when he looks at me. Wondering what it would've been like if he'd stayed." He explained carefully. "I don't want that."
"Are you sure?" Hans whispered.
"Aye."
"Even knowing what would happen if it came to be known?" Hans couldn't care less about sins, but this one he did.
This one would not only doom him. Hans's mind flashed back to his own terror as he nearly hung at Trosky. But it would be Henry in his stead, hanging. No Von Bergow to save him from a certain death, Hans would have to live in the ruins of that. Of Henry's death, of sodomy, of everyone knowing and gossiping.
Lord Hans Capon, immature and irresponsible heir to Rattay. A child, playing grown-up while his regent toyed with him and his titles. An unredeemable sodomite. Poor Hanush, poor Jitka, poor children to have earned such a lord. Perhaps it would have been divine mercy if he had hung at Trosky.’
"We'd have to get caught first," Henry stated plainly. Like the sky was blue; Only those caught for sodomy could be hanged.
"Well, you might be a master of deception, but I'm far from it, Henry." He answered weakly, doubt gnawing at him.
"Exactly." Hans stiffened. "People know you always run your mouth, they won't expect you to actually hold your tongue!" Henry explained, with a gesture of his hand, like it was obvious. Hans scoffed.
"I must've hit my head; You're actually making sense." He said, chuckling, his doubts melting like snow on a spring eve. Henry chuckled too.
"Fuck off." He managed between two breaths, their eyes met for a moment. Henry smiled; A small, fragile smile meant for comfort. Like a balm to a wound. Hans smiled in return, brighter. Perhaps it would be fine in the end.