Chapter Text
And I looked and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was D̶͕̿͑̃́͐́ē̶͖̘͗͒̿̀̀͠ͅă̸̦̦͜ͅt̴̢̧̢̫͇͍͍̐̎͊̽̄̕͠͝h̶̨̢̭͔͎͚͍̓͂͌͛̊̒̀ͅ, and Hades followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth
Revelation 6:8
Henry was tenebristic, a schism unto himself. As if woven by the filaments of the sun’s rays he was the highest of highlights, a radiant presence wherever he went, he shone like the most luminous star hung high within the firmament, and his brightness was only made brighter by the stark contrast of the surrounding darkness, his deepest and most obscuring shadows. Hans had witnessed it many times since their first meeting. In battle he could only watch as Henry repeatedly lost himself to the demon that lay within–too many times for Hans’ own sake–and pray that Henry would once again find his way back.
Though when Henry’s darkness, his demon, did overtake him, in those moments he became Hans’ sole eschatology. Henry was cataclysm, the world moved only by his command. He became a portent of the apocalypse. He became Death incarnate—a deity that Hans had become all too willing to prostrate himself before.
Henry’s worship, exigent.
—
The rope binding Hans is shockingly tight, so much so that the rough cord cuts harshly into his wrists, he can’t see the extent of the damage with his hands bound around the back of the tree but he can feel how his flesh has abraded, the jagged pain interrupted only by a slight tickle as a drop of blood runs down his palm. He focuses on that minute discomfort, putting as much mental energy he can onto that small part of his body, hoping that it will distract from the pain screaming at his side and in his skull.
Having lost track of time long ago, he has no inkling of how long the Cumans have had him bound to the tree. His throat is raw and parched, the consequence to his relentless stream of insults and aspersions that he had hurled toward his captors during the earliest hours of his imprisonment. He had screamed until he was hoarse, his only way of resistance after his capture, but he had also lashed out with the dull hope that his voice would carry through the forest, a summoning for Henry to come to his aid, but the man was nowhere to be seen.
The sun sinks lower and lower beyond the horizon and with it Hans feels exhaustion settle into his bones. A pall of acceptance shrouds him as realization dawns that this may very well be his fate, to die undignified at the hands of a few rogue Cumans, a result brought upon him by his denigration and alienation of the sole person who could save him. Henry obviously loathed him, he had likely just returned to camp, or even Rattay, leaving the lord to his own devices, his kismet.
Mimicking the setting sun, Hans slumps forward, his full weight collapsing onto his bindings, no longer caring for whatever pain the action sparks within him. He can only glare at the Cumans who sit a short distance away by the fire, eating some freshly poached game, their cruel mouths glistening with grease as they speak low in their guttural language. The forest transforms quickly, the evening’s darkness creeping into the trees surrounding them, the only light source now left being the Cuman’s fire which casts flickering shadows in the surrounding foliage, it makes the trees come alive as if devils were dancing just out of sight.
One of the Cumans rises from his place of rest to plod his way towards their prisoner. Unfazed, Hans remains as he is, staring daggers at the Cuman while he passes. The Cuman doesn’t even spare a glance toward Hans and instead just passes him by, stopping only a few paces behind the noble. By only his ear Hans tries to track his movement, he only hears shuffling of armour and cloth then the blunt sound of piss hitting soil, the Cuman’s action confirmed by the rancid stench that wafts back to engulf the captive noble. Hans turns his head as much as he can toward the Cuman, opening his mouth to once again shout abuse at his captor, but the action only invites the stench to settle on his tongue; not the first time Hans had come to regret opening his mouth, though a first before he could even utter any words.
While the Cuman is still relieving himself Hans’ attention becomes drawn to a shape taking form on the edge of the camp. With a fogged mind Hans’ gut instinct is to first believe a devil is actually emerging from the shadows, tired and hungry from its cavorting, hunting for its next meal. He wasn’t completely incorrect.
Hans’ eyes widened, nearly falling out of his skull as Henry–blacksmith’s boy Henry–creeps his way silently over the underbrush approaching the unsuspecting Cuman still at the fire. As he reaches his target Henry shows no hesitation as he fluidly reaches up and around the seated Cuman, covering his mouth with a dirt stained hand, while his other deftly plunges a dagger into the meat of the Cumans throat. Hans’ gaze locks on Henry’s hand firmly wrapped around the dagger’s hilt, beholds as the blacksmith tightens and adjusts his grip to force the dagger deeper within the Cuman. Entranced, Hans watches the bones move in Henry’s hand, how they shift beneath thin skin and prominent veins as the dagger they hold penetrates past the gentle give of the Cuman’s throat and into his core. Hans’ already parched mouth grows dryer, he swallows heavily, unable to tear his eyes away from the scene before him. The Cuman spasms in Henry’s embrace but he holds fast while he waits for Death to finally claim the offering.
Henry lowers the limp Cuman corpse to the ground, his gaze is focused, eyebrows drawn in concentration, his profile hardened in the harsh light of the fire. Hans’ eyes return to the dagger as Henry unsheathes it from the Cumans neck, its blade emerging wet crimson into the firelight, leaving behind the ruptured throat to slowly weep blood into the forest floor. Henry quickly flicks the weapon away from himself to rid it of excess foreign blood before tucking it into his belt, swapping it for his longsword which he fluidly draws as he stands to his full height, turning to face Hans, blade raised.
With the fire at his back Henry’s face is completely cast in shadow, shrouded in darkness his expression is unreadable, his target unknowable. Hans’ breath comes shallow and quick, his heart hammers behind his ribs, convinced that the blade is meant for him. Sure, of course Henry disliked the noble, Hans was aware that he had only mistreated the blacksmith up to that point, but he didn’t think it had warranted anything beyond their quarreling and fisticuffs–maybe the man really had become possessed by a demon in the darkness of the forest.
The self-imposed tension snaps as an incomprehensible battle cry shouts out from the trees at Hans’ back, causing the lord to echo with a cry of his own as he nearly gives up the ghost in the shock of the moment. The formerly pissing Cuman surges forward from the bushes, rushing Henry and striking at him with an upward slash of his blade. Henry blocks the blow with his own sword, the steel singing as it clashes against its kin. Henry shifts to the attack, striking relentlessly on the Cuman with hard and heavy blows that overwhelm his opponent. The fight is quick, climaxing as an attack from Henry glances off the Cuman’s chest plate redirecting up and across his exposed face. The razor sharp blade slices past skin and muscle and bites harshly into bone as a gruesome gash appears in its wake, splitting the Cuman from chin to cheek. Falling to the ground the Cuman clutches at the mutilated lower half of his face, his flesh rended and bone shattered, a garbled wet cry the only thing that can escape from what’s left of his mouth.
Henry, towering over the kneeling man, raises his foot and kicks the Cuman to his back. He lifts his sword, tip pointing down–its shape a mock facsimile of the Holy Cross–and plunges the blade into the Cuman’s chest, finishing the kill. Hans isn’t sure if the crunch he hears is from armour or the Cuman body caving to the weight of the blacksmith’s final blow. There is no spasming this time, no wait for Death to arrive, Henry hovers over the corpse, hands gripping tight to his sword’s grip, leaning into where it remains buried in the Cuman’s sternum. His shoulders heave with laboured breaths, his eyes wide with what Hans can only imagine is dawning horror at what he has just done, the realization cresting on just who exactly he was becoming, where this path he had only recently chosen will lead him.
Hans takes a breath to steady himself, forcing himself to calm before speaking past dry lips. “What are you doing, Henry? Untie me for God’s sake!”
Startled by Hans’ plea out of his macabre reverie, Henry snaps back into himself. Before moving to his lord, Henry works to dislodge his sword from the Cuman and as the steel passes from the deceased flesh it creates a sickening schlick through the now quiet night. Henry sheathes the weapon as he walks behind Hans, once again drawing his still crimsoned dagger to cut his lord’s bonds, his hands delicate while they work. Hans waits in silence as Henry grants him freedom, unsettled by what he just witnessed but all the more grateful for Henry’s heroics.
When the ropes finally give Hans stumbles forward, his legs unsure and unready to bear the full brunt of his weight, but before he can fully lose his balance and crumble Henry is back by his side with a strong arm wrapped around his back, helping to hold Hans upright. They make their way over to the fire where Henry eases Hans onto a log before once again rising to stand awkwardly and unsure before his lord, watching Hans with clear eyes, waiting.
With a grateful sigh Hans settles as comfortably as possible while he speaks. “I’ll have a bronze bust made of you my friend! But where have you been until now?”
“Oh you know, I was picking berries, had a drink of wine, took a little nap…” Henry shrugs playfully, an impudent smile now on his lips. Hans is taken aback by the incongruity, not a trace remained of the cold-blooded and ruthless killer that had just taken out the Cumans, or the eerily quiet Henry who had just freed him. Henry, as Hans had so far known him, was back. With the insolent peasant returned, Hans couldn’t help but laugh. “You lunatic! They almost had me roasting on a spit!”
“I say it looked more like they were about to take your maidenhood”
“Now look here dung-grubber! Is that any way to speak to a nobleman?!” Hans wipes the smile from his face as he speaks, feigning irritation and anger in his voice. It works, Henry’s eyes widen in panic and he scrambles to give a small bow.
“I apologize sir, I’m just glad you’re alright.”
Hans can’t keep up the act, he laughs, having too much fun at his companion’s expense, he waves away Henry’s formality. “I’m yanking your pizzle you dolt! Thank you for rescuing me.” Genuine gratefulness finds its way into his voice as he speaks the last few words.
More than ready to return to their own camp Hans shifts his weight preparing himself to stand, pointedly ignoring the biting pain in his side, though no sooner after he has risen to his feet the world lists and his visions swims. Still quick on his feet, Henry reflexively reaches out to catch the noble, holding secure on his shoulders while his worried eyes scrutinize Hans’ face. “You’re awfully pale sir, I think you should sit down for a while longer”
“Don’t be dramatic Henry! It’s just my blood rushing back to where it should be, I can stand well enough on my own.
“Sir, I really don’t think-”
“Enough, Henry!” That stops him, Henry quickly shuts his mouth and averts his gaze from the young lord’s face, though his hands remain anchored in their hold, sure in their grasp and necessity. Hans hadn’t meant to snap at the blacksmith, not this time, despite his shortcomings he did know how to treat people well, especially toward those who had treated him well. He just wanted to get a move on, craving nothing more than a hot meal and his soft bed back in Pirkstein, just wanting to move on from this hellish hunting trip. He should apologize–
“That wound doesn’t look good Sir Hans” Henry worries, interrupting Hans before can muster the resolve to admit his err. Henry’s eyes were still downcast, focusing lower down Hans’ chest, his voice as he spoke was low and soft, still apprehensive of his lord’s anger.
Hans follows Henry’s gaze to where it is locked on the dark stain blooming through Hans’ pourpoint, the red of his blood stark, yet complimentary to the gold of the garment. Hans had felt the warmth of his lifeblood leeching from his side, the pain of his wound, but had figured it was no more than a cut, inconsequential. Seeing the stain now, the severity of the blow he had received was clear. Hans opened his mouth to say something contrarian but the words caught in his throat before he had time to give them voice. Henry moved swiftly, decisively, forcing Hans back down–not that Hans put up much of a fight, weakness a quick companion to blood loss–before himself sinking to his knees, moving to unfasten the buttons of the pourpoint.
“H-Henry, what in God’s name-”
“I’m sorry sir, but we have to stop the bleeding, otherwise we won’t be making it back to Rattay”
Henry worked nimbly to unfasten the rest of Hans’ buttons. Meanwhile Hans, refusing to watch, chose instead to watch the fire as it burned through its remaining fuel, his gaze tracing the trails of the embers as they spat toward the sky. Henry takes extra care when peeling the thick fabric from the wounded area, old blood having fused cloth to the open wound. Hans winces as the linen undershirt is worked from its marriage to his skin, pain inevitable in the process but he admires the care Henry was taking, appreciating his effort to cause the least amount possible.
Hans all but stopped breathing when Henry finally released the last bit of linen from its coagulated bind, only to immediately hike the shirt up, shoving the loosened fabric to wedge between Hans’ arm and side, anchoring it out of the way while Henry’s free hand came up to meet Hans’ blood stained and now exposed skin. He leans in close, angling to get a better look at the wound, the proximity causes Hans to become hyper aware both of his touch and of Henry’s warm breath ghosting across his skin as he speaks “That’s quite a deep cut sir.”
In his periphery Hans can see that Henry has cast his gaze back towards Hans’ face as he spoke. Henry looks up at his lord through long lashes, hand still placed gently on the noble’s skin, no doubt feeling the effort Hans is taking to keep his breathing even. He prays that Henry interprets it as an effort to mask pain rather than a panicked reaction to where the blacksmith chose to rest his hand. Perplexed by his reactions, Hans has to swallow past the lump in his throat before he could properly speak, his voice sounding more fragile than he would have liked.
“Those Cuman swine really did rough me up quite a bit…” His sentence trails off as he looks down at himself to see the extent of the damage. What he is met with is a grisly laceration marring the flesh above his hip. The gash itself appeared clean-cut, a small mercy, but his time bound to the tree had done him no favours, the irritation and inflammation of wound no doubt a consequence of his own actions, having fought and thrashed against his bonds for so long.
“I will have to clean and dress this before we can go.” Henry removes his hand from where it had rested on Hans’ skin, grunting to his feet before leaving to search for supplies. Henry’s warmth lingers where his hand had laid, Hans mourns the loss of contact before he catches himself, utterly confounded by his queer reactions to the other man’s touch.
Henry scours the camp for the Cuman’s supplies, it doesn’t take him long to locate a small truck which reveals itself locked when Henry tries to open it. Crossing the camp once more Henry stoops down next to the corpse of the Cuman he killed with his dagger, his right boot stepping on the blood drenched dirt, his footfall muted on the wet earth. With rough hands Henry jostles the corpse around, gaining access to the belt pouch trapped beneath. He blindly rummages for a moment–eyes distant and unfocused, more concerned with what he was feeling than seeing–before letting out a small “aha!”. His hand re-emerges holding up a small key, the metal glints in the firelight.
As Henry works to gather supplies Hans closes his eyes, another wave of exhaustion once again settling over him and the adrenaline of his rescue leaves him behind. His head is simultaneously light and heavy upon his neck, he lets it lull back, face now pointed to the sky. The loss of blood mimics drunkenness, Hans’ world spins beyond his closed eyes, his limbs weak, their exact location alien without the aid of vision to orient himself; Hans lets himself bask in the sensation, the corporeal disconnect, however fleeting.
The dusty footfalls of Henry’s return prompt Hans to open his eyes, his skewed self-perception reorienting with the return of his sight. Henry holds a bundle of clean enough bandages in one hand and a round ceramic bottle of spirits in the other. Once again Henry sinks to his knees before Hans, an obscene sight that Hans can’t help but want to etch into his memory. Using the noble's thigh as a shelf for the bandages Henry frees up his hand so that he can open the spirit bottle, its strong alcoholic stench filling the space between the two men. Henry soaks a bandage with the spirit before bringing it up to the wound, hovering a hairsbreadth away from the bloodied skin, “This is probably going to hurt.” he warns.
Hans’ tongue is swollen in his mouth, too heavy to speak, so instead of giving a verbal go-ahead he just readies himself by breathing in deep and closing his eyes, once again tilting his head to face the sky, looking to find that same dizzy dissonance, hoping that the disconnection will numb whatever pain is sure to come. He ignores the anticipation festering deep within him, in a just breath Henry’s hands will be back on him. Hans knows that with his gentle touch Henry will also bring pain, but he still finds himself wanting, craving the contact.
Henry takes his cue to begin his work. Initially, Hans only feels a slight chill as the alcohol soaked bandage is brought in contact with his skin, Henry is starting by cleaning around the wound, prolonging the arrival of the pain as much as he can. Correct in his assumption about the blacksmith, Henry works diligently but gently as he washes away the blood, so much so that Hans almost believes that this won’t hurt as much as he anticipated. Then the pain comes. The alcohol bites into his wound burning through him like acid, he hisses through the pain, his hands clenching to fists where they rest on the log, his knuckles turning white. He conjures every last ounce of his will power not to move, not to squirm away. Henry carries on with his work, aware of but ignoring Hans’ discomfort, he cleans away the clotted blood and grime from the maimed tissue–the only comfort he can provide being a swifter finish.
Mercifully, Henry does his job quickly and soon enough the burn of cleansing alcohol subsides. Hans releases the breath he held lest he show greater weakness before the blacksmith. Henry, still focused on the job at hand, sets aside the spirit bottle and discards the now blood drenched rags before taking up another bandage from the pile resting on Hans’ thigh. He presses the end of the bandage next to the injury, holding it flat to the skin with an open palm while he works the rest of the bandage around Hans’ midsection. The proximal pressure of Henry’s hand rouses an all too familiar feeling in the pit of Hans’ stomach, though he quickly shuts down any dangerous thoughts, dismisses them, chalks the feeling up to residual or phantom pain from the torture he just endured by those same hands.
As the bandage is secured snugly in place, its circumferential compression grants Hans some comfort. He lets out another shaky breath, his blood loss becoming more and more apparent though persistent exhaustion and chill despite the heat of the nascent summer air. He shifts and lets his blood-stiffened undershirt fall back into place, hoping that the cloth may help provide some warmth, but decides against rebuttoning his pourpoint, the required effort too much for Hans to care. Finished tending to the injured lord, Henry braces his hands on his own knees to stand, but rather than remaining on his feet opts to sink into place next to Hans atop the log bench. Leaning forward, his face in his hands, Henry sighs heavily before speaking, voice muffled as his own exhaustion is betrayed. “We should rest a bit before we head back”.
Straightening back up he starts rummaging in one of his pouches, producing a piece of jerky to offer Hans’ way. His tired and earnest eyes meet with Hans, “You should eat something, my lord, it’s a long walk back to Rattay.”
“Thank you, Henry...” Hans reaches out to grab the cured meat, averting his gaze from Henry’s before he continues, his voice hushed. “…for everything.”
“Just doing my duty, sir.” Henry’s reply is quick, curt in his tone. Hans doesn’t understand why it cuts so deep, why the words hurt more than the gash in his side. With nothing else to do he gnaws on the jerky, it's tasteless as he chews.
-
The journey back to Rattay is one Hans barely remembers. Shortly after Hans finished his jerky Henry urged that they should begin their trek back. He went to fetch a torch, lighting it with the dying flames of the Cuman’s fire before returning to Hans’ side, aiding the noble to his feet and buttressing most of Hans’ weight, much to Hans’ dismay and fallacious assertion that he could walk on his own just fine. He couldn’t. His protests became more and more faint the further they travelled. Hans only recalls flashes, they had begun in the depths of the night, his only sensory input being his pain screaming through his body, the warmth of Henry against him, and Henry’s breath by his ear whenever he spoke low and reassuring words to keep the lord going. When Hans recalled the event later he simply blinked and suddenly there was daylight allowing him to watch as his feet scuffed along the dirt road, knowing the only thing keeping him upright and moving forward was Henry. Hans had also recognized the toll it was taking on the other man, Henry’s ragged breathing had mingled with his own, creating a small cacophony of exertion that surrounded them.
Their return to Rattay was nothing but a flurry of movement, yelling, and panic, most of which Hans missed. As soon as he heard the guards announcing their arrival home his body took that as the moment to–at long last–fully collapse, his wavering awareness finally giving way to complete unconsciousness.