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Henry shifted uncomfortably, the unfamiliar armor a heavy weight on his shoulders. Too tight in some places, loose in others. It was a poor combination, one that would hinder him in the inevitable fight, but he was used to settling for less than he desired. At least, where revenge wasn’t concerned.
He adjusted the helmet he’d taken, huffing when it tipped lower, once again obscuring his vision. He started to reach for the door, pausing to remove the helmet, placing it on the floor as quietly as he could. Fuck the helmet-- He couldn’t risk anything getting in his way.
Not this time.
The door opened without fuss, torchlight streaming from within, exposing Istvan’s turned back. If Henry was quiet enough it could be easy. His teeth sank into his lower lip, worrying the flesh there as he thought it through. A kill without honor, it would’ve been. A kill that surely wouldn’t satisfy the bloodlust that had built within him.
It just wouldn’t do.
Henry rose to his full height, the metallic clank of poorly fitting armor signaling his presence just before the clear of his throat could. Istvan turned, his eyes half-lidded, lip curled up as he studied Henry. Looked over the stolen armor, the sword at his side that had seen better (and sharper) days.
“Henry,” Istvan greeted, dropping into what almost looked like a curtsy, chalice of wine in hand. “Have you come to finally end this..” He gestured to Henry, the wine spilling over the side of the cup, splashing against the floor with a quiet splatter. “Little game between us?”
Henry took a step forward, nudging the door shut with his foot. He wanted this to be private-- Wanted there to be no possibility of interruption. “Yes.” It was a simple response to what Henry thought to be a simple question. What more could be said in a conversation between enemies?
“And, have you learned? That honor has no place among cutthroats like us?” Istvan’s smile was not entirely unkind as he set the cup down on one of the carved wooden tables in the room, dragging a gloved hand across the surface as he stalked forward.
Henry scoffed at the sight, shifting so that his feet were apart, his sword now drawn as he stared the man down. “I don’t think you quite understand, Istvan. I want this to be slow. I want it to be drawn out. And,” He spat on the floor, glaring when he looked back up. “I want to do it with my father’s sword.”
Istvan’s eyebrows raised even as he matched Henry’s stance, drawing his own weapon. “Cute, Henry. Truly. But you’ll never be more than Radzig’s bastard.” He laughed, head tilting back as he blocked Henry’s first strike, the clash of blades deafening in the small area. “So set on making your father proud,” He taunted, batting his eyelashes as he blocked another swing, returning with one of his own quick slashes.
Victory, in the form of drawn blood. The cut on Henry’s cheek was thin, just a line of blood beginning to well, but it delighted Istvan. Made him nastier, made him want to dig his teeth into Henry. Or his blade.
Istvan wasn’t picky when it came to Henry.
The wound seemed only to encourage Henry, his strikes becoming desperate as he lunged forward again, and again, and again, until his grip on his sword faltered, his vision blurring as he pitched to the side. Warmth spread through his abdomen, his limbs drooping despite his best efforts to straighten back up, lift his sword again against Istvan.
He was dead, surely. Or-- Would be.
It was sheer luck that Henry didn’t skewer himself when his body hit the floor, becoming deadweight from a mere cut. Istvan pressed the toe of his boot to Henry’s side, prodding him to see if he received any notable response. When Henry’s head only lolled to the side, Istvan snorted, kneeling down so that he was next to him.
“Poison, my dear Henry, will win every time.” Istvan toyed with the plated metal at his chest, letting his touch linger as he began to wrestle him from the armor, his breathing growing hard from the sheer effort that he had to expend. Istvan was no stranger to bodies, had moved plenty of them in his time, but never a man of Henry’s size, and certainly not when someone was wearing an almost full set of armor.
When his task was complete, Henry laid bare in front of him, Istvan sighed almost fondly. The cuts and bruises from his torture were angry, the wounds at his chest just beginning to scab. He used his fingernail to re-open several of them, watching as blood oozed sluggishly to the surface. He looked peaceful like this, without the weight of metal on him, without the angry set of his sharp jaw. He was a boy, really, thrown into a war that he shouldn’t have had any part in.
“Bad luck,” Istvan whispered as he placed his hands on the inside of Henry’s knees, forcing them apart with mild interest. There were scars littered across his tanned skin, most of them silver with age. He traced every one of them, slow in his admiration of injury. He noticed, with mild interest, that Henry had begun to harden in his braies-- An involuntary reaction at Istvan’s touch, but a reaction nonetheless. Thrill bolted through him, followed by arousal at the sight.
“Naughty,” Istvan admonished even as his touch wandered higher, his hand pressing flat against Henry’s groin. He took his time bringing Henry to full hardness, featherlight touches intermingled with firmer pressure, relishing in the minute changes to Henry’s expression. His lips pursed lightly, his too-long eyelashes brushing the tops of his cheeks. It was addicting, this display of power that only Istvan bore witness to.
But, all fun must come to an end. If he wanted to move forward with his plan to ruin the boy, he’d need to move quicker. The effects of the potion would only last so long.
The braies came down, folded and placed to the side with an almost affectionate level of care. Istvan spat in his hand, working the saliva over his fingers with practiced ease as he considered his options. Just fucking him would be too easy-- If Istvan’s hunch was correct, as it so often was, Henry was used to it, what with being Lord Capon’s page.
Lord Capon’s whore.
Istvan hummed under his breath as he touched the tips of two fingers to Henry’s hole, an unyielding but gentle pressure as he traced the muscle there, studying Henry’s face for any sign of reaction. Nothing. It was almost infuriating how well this was going. None of Henry’s usual bark-- None of the bite that Henry had all but promised him. With a scowl he plunged his fingers in, searching before crooking them against the place that brought all men pleasure.
And still, nothing.
“Fucking hell,” Istvan swore, withdrawing his fingers before rising to stand. The bed in the room he’d taken as his own was small, but the posts seemed sturdy enough upon closer inspection. He rifled through the chest at the side of the room and then the saddlebag he’d taken off of his horse.
Bingo.
It would take time, but he had found enough rope to easily tie both Henry’s wrists and ankles to the bedposts. Getting Henry across the floor was the most difficult part, sweat beading along the ridge of his brow as he dragged the man, gripping him under the arms before heaving him onto the bed. When Henry was in a suitable position, Istvan set to work at binding him properly. Wrists first, tightly enough that it would hopefully inhibit blood flow. It would be harder to attempt escape if he wasn’t able to feel his fingers. Ankles next-- Istvan stepped back to admire his handiwork, his lip chewed pink as he looked Henry up, down, up again. His cock had flagged from lack of stimulation, half-hard against his leg, but fuck it was pretty enough that Istvan’s excitement only grew with each passing moment, each wayward thought.
He’d loosen Henry, prepare him with a fist perhaps until he was wet and ready for what would come next. Istvan bit back a groan as he climbed onto the bed to join Henry, settling between his parted thighs. He renewed the wetness on his fingers, wasting no time before penetrating him again, working him open with clinical efficiency. The light snoring from Henry only encouraged his haste as time continued to pass, the darkness of midnight’s reach fading into grey as the sun started to make its ascent. He’d wake soon, that much Istvan was sure of.
Fluid beaded at the tip of Henry’s cock, smearing against his stomach with every breath, a grimace starting to twist his face as he shifted, his movements still slow and uncoordinated from both the bindings and the Lullaby potion. His dreams had been pleasant, full of faces that were familiar to him-- Even if they seemed to stare straight through him.
“That’s it, Henry. Be a good boy,” Istvan cooed as he rotated his fingers, adding a third, and then a fourth, grinning even as Henry’s lips parted around what sounded suspiciously like a moan. The sounds filling the room were filthy, a testament to how thoroughly Istvan was preparing him-- He didn’t deserve it, not really, but there was no sense in letting Henry break before their fun truly began. This time, when Istvan removed his fingers, Henry remained open, loose and wanting for something he would soon receive, if Istvan were to get his way.
He always got his way.
With a slap to Henry’s damp stomach, Istvan crawled over his prone form and swung his legs over the side of the bed, rising to stand so he could fetch his instrument of upcoming torture. It would be delicious, the look on Henry’s face, when he realized that Istvan was holding his father’s sword above him-- He’d have commissioned a painter if he’d known that Henry would have fallen so sweetly into his trap.
He dragged one of the chairs to the side of the bed, the sword resting across his lap as he sat back and waited for Henry to wake. If the twitch in his fingers was anything to go by, he wouldn’t be waiting long.
It started with a grunt, the sound stirring Istvan from the space between waking and sleep that he’d fallen into while he’d waited. The slurred words, unintelligible but panicked came next as Henry tested the restraints, pulling with a surprising amount of strength before going limp against the mattress.
Istvan watched, remaining silent even as Henry thrashed from side to side-- As well as he could, at least, without full range of motion.
“Good morning,” he chirped, offering Henry his most winning smile. “You sleep like the dead.”
Henry slowly turned his head to face Istvan, his eyes hardening as they fell upon the sword. His father’s sword, with Istvan’s hand wrapped around the hilt as if it belonged to him. He swallowed around the lump in his throat, wincing at the soreness that followed it. “Toth,” he whispered, clearing his throat until he could speak at a normal volume. His tongue felt heavy and useless in his mouth and his head felt as though it had been stuffed with cotton. He knew that he’d been poisoned, could infer it based on the way he’d gone down so quickly in their duel, but poisoned with what?
The blood drained from his face as he shifted again, the wetness between his legs becoming all the more noticeable as the fog of sleep continued to recede. He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly as he tried to remain calm. The soreness there was indicative that something had happened, but--
Istvan’s laughter made him open his eyes again, Henry’s gaze once again falling on the sword. “Oh, don’t be such a bore. I only used these,” he lifted his hand to punctuate the statement, wiggling his fingers. “But..” He trailed off, shifting so that he was leaning forward. “I think we could do better.”
Confusion filled Henry, his mouth twisting to the side as he tried to make sense of Istvan’s words. He knew that asking questions would only encourage the man’s madness, but he had little other option at the moment. If he could just get his hands freed from their binding..
“Better?” He dared to ask, flinching when Istvan stood, the sword’s sheath dragging against the floor as he approached.
“Let’s make good on that promise to Radzig,” Istvan hummed, touching Henry’s still-sticky thigh with the pommel. The reality of the situation seemed to dawn on Henry, his eyes widening as the muscles in his abdomen flexed, every fibre of his being telling him to get away from Istvan. He couldn’t though, and instead trembled beneath his touch, condemned to cower in the shadow that drew over him.
Henry shook his head, slowly at first, then vehemently as Istvan continued his slow perusal, his slow ruination of the boy before him. “No,” he protested, his voice breaking even on the single word. “No,” He repeated, pleading this time. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what was in store for him, even as his mind attempted to reject the possibility.
“Yes,” Istvan replied, letting go of the sword so that he could retrieve the half-empty vial of oil that he’d found in the chest. Had he been confident the pommel would enter without it, he would’ve forgone the oil entirely. “Will you still want it, after it’s been part of you?”
Fear clouded Henry’s mind, made his thoughts move slowly, as if they’d turned to honey. His jaw worked as he tried to come up with some sort of response, failing miserably in his effort to do so.
Istvan huffed, turning the vial downward so that the oil dripped messily over the pommel, spread down the hilt as if it were a prick. He smiled, amused at the thought as he forced some of the slick fluid between Henry’s legs, up the cleft of his arse, shushing the man when he started to once again protest. “Oh, Henry,” He sighed as he positioned the sword, his own hips pressed to the side of the bed, the slight friction sending pleasure up his spine. “Do it for Radzig.” He finally said, his attempt at sounding encouraging falling flat.
“You’re a bastard,” Henry croaked, his thighs flexing as he tried to bring them together, desperate in his attempt to prevent what was promised to happen. “A fucking monster,” he spat, his eyes once again closing as the pommel pressed closer, harder against his hole, finding no entrance. The sob tore from his throat as Istvan tried again, and again, his relentless assault eventually wearing Henry’s body down.
Tears wetted his cheeks as he opened around the pommel, the hot rush of blood between his legs signaling his defeat. Pain found a home in Henry’s body, the tear, the burn settling somewhere deep within him.
The palm against the side of his face, brutal as it was, brought him back from the brink of collapse. He’d been close to fainting, he realized, a mercy that would not be granted by Istvan.
“Look at that,” Istvan murmured, awe filling his voice as he twisted the sword, watching as Henry’s hole fluttered uselessly around the roundness of the pommel. He wasn’t quite halfway in, the oil now pink from superficial tearing as he continued his forceful assault. Henry’s face had paled considerably, his jaw clenched so tightly that Istvan wouldn’t be surprised if he ended up with a cracked tooth.
“--kill you,” Henry gritted out, his hips jerking upward and off of the bed before falling uselessly back against it. “Fucking--” He cut himself off as Istvan forced the widest part through, fresh tears leaving tracks along his cheeks as he whined, shock doing its best to numb the parts of him that needed it the most.
“There you go, Henry, you’re doing so well. I’m sure Radzig would be proud of his favorite bastard, if he could only see this.” Istvan pressed the fingers of his free hand into the divot of Henry’s hip, wrenching a gasp from Henry’s lips. “Working this hard to get his sword back,” Istvan continued, his breaths growing ragged as he twisted the sword, every movement making Henry squirm as much as the bindings allowed. “Working this hard for a man who’s sent him to sacrifice,” he hissed, pressing the heel of his palm against the lowest part of Henry’s stomach, applying firm pressure as he forced the sword further. It made Henry moan, loud and keening as he thrashed, though his stare remained surprisingly empty.
Istvan knew that he hadn’t broken him yet-- His Henry was stronger than that.
He palmed Henry’s now flaccid cock, humming under his breath as he did so. “If,” he started, watching as the boy’s fingers twitched, “you can come from this..” Another twist of the sword, another sob from Henry, “I’ll let you go.” Interest flared, brightly and briefly in that dull gaze of Henry’s, even as he once again shook his head, his eyes red-rimmed and wet-lashed.
The shame of it all was almost too much for Henry-- He felt himself splintering, his mind wandering to that place where he could be without agony. The place that he found himself shifting to when things became too much.
“None of that, now.” Another squeeze to Henry’s cock, and then Istvan was moving the sword, truly fucking him with it now that his body had relaxed-- Had given up and allowed entry despite the sheer and unyielding size of it. “You’ll do well, won’t you? Already are, really. Opened like a bitch in heat,” Istvan praised, his eyebrows raising at the slight jolt of interest that Henry gave. “Oh,” he whispered, dragging his fingers through the mess between Henry’s legs, reaching back up to slick his cock with it. “You like that? Does your Lord Capon whisper pretty things into your ear while he mounts you? Fucks you like the whore you are?”
Henry didn’t bother to deny the accusations-- Regardless of whether they were truthful or not. Warmth rose to his cheeks, the flush dark against his otherwise pale face. It was enough of an answer for Istvan to continue, the swell of the pommel finding home against Henry’s prostate, until he finally swelled to hardness, shame and forced arousal settling hot within Henry’s gut.
The lull in Istvan’s degradation was overshadowed by the slick sounds coming from the sword’s minute thrusts, the punched-out breaths spilling from Henry’s parted lips.
“Christ,” Henry finally moaned, a curse as much as a desperate prayer, hips jutting up as his pre-come leaked from him, spilling onto Istvan’s waiting hand. “St-op,” he managed, even as he clenched around the hilt, his thighs tensing and relaxing as he fought against the pressure building in his groin. His thoughts raced, no longer slowed by the potion that had all but left him, an incessant mixture of ‘it’ll be over soon’ and ‘relax’ and all the other sweet, meaningless lies his body tried to feed him.
Istvan’s laughter, shrill as it was, would become a permanent fixture in Henry’s nightmares if he managed to survive this.
A final thrust, one that threatened to make his stomach swell with how far it had entered him, and he was spilling across his stomach, across fingers that tightened too roughly, his body sagging with the weight of his actions as he rapidly blinked, fighting against the tears that threatened to blur his vision.
“See?” Istvan said, pulling, yanking the sword from within him, his smile sharp and cruel as Henry cried out at the forceful movement. “Knew you could do it, as stubborn and foolish as you are.” He admired the sword, the way that Henry had painted it with a sheen of blood, the oil growing tacky at the hilt. He dropped it onto the floor at the side of the bed, admiring the mess he’d made of a man so strong.
Defeated, Henry stared up at him, his mouth twisting to the side, his lip chewed to bleeding.
“Well,” Istvan started, moving to untie his ankles first, and then his wrists, kicking the sword to the side as he stepped out of Henry’s immediate reach. “I did say I’d let you go, but..” He tapped his bottom lip with his finger, cheerful as ever. “I’ll give you one last chance. Honor, or revenge?” He asked as he spread his arms wide, a target all but painted on his chest.
Henry’s nostrils flared as he tried to sit up, nausea rolling within him at the pain that flared between his legs, agony that would only continue to spread the more he moved. He whimpered, flexing his numb fingers as sensation returned to them, bracing himself against the bedpost as he started to stand. His legs shook, unable to support his weight-- He collapsed to his knees, and still, still moved forward, Istvan remaining still as he watched him.
The sword was now in front of him, glistening with his blood, blood that crept down his legs as he grasped the hilt, choking on a sob at the feeling of it in his hands.
“Honor, or revenge?” Istvan repeated, dropping to his knees as well, arms still spread, exposing his body to Henry just as Henry had done for him.
“Revenge,” Henry grunted, unsheathing the sword, raising it with weakened arms, the point level with Istvan’s gut. It found purchase against his skin, finding home within Istvan’s body as he put his full weight behind the thrust. A killing blow, as much for Istvan as it was for Henry.
Istvan’s eyes went glassy, his smile now taut as blood rushed to the surface of a wound that would never heal. He blinked, once, twice, his lips forming unspoken words as Henry sat back, his head thudding against the wooden bedframe.
He had expected some great pleasure in seeking revenge, as if killing Istvan would heal the parts of himself that had long since been hurt. He stared at his hands, at the way they shook, the lines of his palms stained with the color of rust. Stared at the floor, where Istvan’s unmoving body now laid.
That feeling of relief never came.
Henry eventually managed to redress himself, standing with great effort as he tucked the re-sheathed sword into the belt at his hips, unable to look at it, tarnished as it was. He was sore, ruined even, and had to use the walls of the fortress to help himself walk, the stone scraping against his hands as he limped forward.
And still, he persevered, each step a reminder, each breath a punishment as he made his way back to the dungeon where the rest of his group had been told to wait. He was lucky, he supposed, that they hadn’t come to find him-- The only other person that had bore witness to his shame was dead, a blessing that couldn’t quite overtake the stain on his soul.
Godwin rushed to his side, wrapping an arm around Henry’s back to help support him, the lines in his face growing more pronounced as he frowned, fussing wordlessly over Henry’s appearance.
“Son,” He breathed, searching for an injury he wouldn’t be able to find. “What happened?”
Henry’s throat worked, his Adam's apple bobbing as he did his best to relax into Godwin’s touch, despite his body protesting against it. “Toth,” he managed to say, bitterness seeping into his voice as Katherine started to guide them forward, torch in one hand, Zizka’s hand in the other. “He,” Henry’s voice went reedy as he stretched his leg too far forward, stumbling at the pain it caused. “He’s dead.” He finally said, his pace slowing to a limp, even as Godwin did his best to pull him along.
Godwin nodded at that, something similar to peace crossing his face, too quick for Henry to see or really care about as they descended into the tunnels-- Their exit, if Katherine and Jan were to be believed.
“I’m just-- Hurt,” Henry forced out, his teeth bared as he attempted a smile, his head dropping forward.
“Well..” Godwin trailed off, bracing Henry’s body with his own. “We’ll get you fixed up, once we’re out of this hellhole.” He nodded to himself, needing the reassurance just as much as Henry seemed to.
The quiet conversation that sparked up faded somewhere into the background of Henry’s mind--
The sound of Istvan’s laughter filled the empty spaces left behind.