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The sun is radiantly pinned to the sky. Dashing, dancing birds pirouette through the expanse, tweeting merrily. It’s a fine day for a wedding.
Hans turns away from the window and back into the darkness of the chamber. It’s near-empty, save for Hanush and Radzig talking in a corner. As he approaches, Hanush turns to him.
“Where's Henry?” he asks. Clearly, they’ve been discussing his absence.
“I have no idea,” Hans says truthfully.
“He isn't in attendance?” says Radzig. “Unlike him not to be with you.”
Hans makes a non-committal noise. “We had a falling out,” he says. “He left.”
Hanush and Radzig share a look, which Hans ignores. Let them presume whatever they want. It hardly matters now.
“Shall we?”
They make their way down to the great hall below, where Jitka and her rather expansive family are waiting. She smiles sweetly at him, and together - their families behind - they make their way to the church. The walk takes less time than Hans is expecting. He can feel his heart beating anxiously in his wrists.
They’re met beneath the doorway by Father Godwin. He’s staring out across the fields towards the woods, looking distracted.
“Father Godwin.”
He snaps his gaze around.
“Lord Capon,” he bows towards Hans and his would-be bride. “You’re earlier than I had expected.”
Hans gives him a little shrug. What can either of them do about that, he thinks.
It takes a little while for the crowd to finally settle - another blessing, Hans thinks, the time between now and then stretching as long as it can. And then they can wait no longer.
From the woods comes the gentle sound of a calling dove. Hans takes his bride's hands. It is time.
Godwin begins to speak. Hans isn’t listening to a world the old man is saying, just blithely nodding along, waiting. Waiting for it to be over, so he can breathe.
Jitka gives him a comforting little smile. He tries his best to return it.
The screech of a hunting horn cuts through Godwin's sermon like a blade. Every head turns to find the source of the noise as out from the trees, in a cacophony of yelling and roaring hoofbeats, bursts half a dozen men on horseback, armed to the teeth and wearing heavy, distinctive Praguer armour.
“Get him!”
Chaos ensues. The wedding guests - many of whom are elderly, or women, or even children - panic and trample over each other in their haste to escape. Jitka leaps away from Hans towards her father and Uncle, who both step protectively in front of her. Those trained in combat amongst their numbers are almost as poorly prepared, dressed in their wedding finery instead of plate. All save Hans are armed - the display of status required at such an event - but none seem keen to pit silk against steel.
“He killed my son!”
The Praguers charge forwards in a well-practiced assault. Hanush leaps back, wildly and uselessly swinging his sword. The guards present for the event burst into action, but a handful of men on foot are nothing compared to the heavily armoured gang on horseback.
“Stand down,” one of them growls at Hanush. “We’ve no fight with you, Sir.”
He points his sword directly at Hans. His skin goes cold.
“We want him,” he growls. “He killed my son. We demand retribution.”
Hanush snaps into action. “Sir,” he says, “you cannot blame him for an act he took during war, surely there is—”
“Shut your fucking mouth,” the man sneers, “or I’ll shut it for you. You—” he gestures at another rider - imposing and strong on a huge horse, dressed head to toe in heavy armour, a bascinet helm obscuring his face— “get him.”
It all happens in an instant. The rider spurs forwards. Jitka screams, leaping into her father's arms as he thunders past. He skids at Hans's feet, reaches down with a plated arm, and grabs Hans by the back of his gambeson and heaves him onto the horse.
“Put me down, you bastard!”
The man does not listen, kicking the horse into a gallop towards the woods. He's got one hand balled tight in Hans’s hood: even if Hans managed to slip off the horse, he'd strangle himself in the process.
He hears the other riders give chase, and behind them, the sound of Hanush shouting.
“Get after them, you fools!”
Even Hans knows that's not an order easily followed. None of the attending guards are on horseback, and the stables are at the other end of the town. By the time they can mount a response his kidnappers will be long gone.
He focuses his attention on not falling off the fucking horse as they gallop through the trees. The sound of the town and the shouting fades, then vanishes. The only noise is the rhythm of hoofbeats, the clank of the rider’s armour, and the heavy sound of his breathing.
They’re deep into the woods by the time the man pulls his horse to a halt and lets Hans go. He slides off, shakey feet hitting solid ground. For a moment he thinks he's going to fall, his legs turned soft, but the rider thumps down beside him and grabs him, keeping him upright.
Hans turns. At last, his kidnapper removes his helmet.
Henry wipes the sweat from his face. His cheeks are red.
Hans doesn't wait. He tugs Henry into a frantic kiss.
“That,” he says, when he finally releases him, “was fucking brilliant.”
Henry grins. “Anything for my Lord.”
“The others…?”
“Behind,” Henry says. “Everyone went different directions. They’ll be searching for hours.”
“Once they find fucking horses,” Hans laughs. “Speaking of?”
Henry smiles, softly. “This way.”
They pick their way through the trees into a little clearing. A horse tied to a tree looks up as they approach, brown ears twitching. Henry wastes no time digging out a sack from beneath a bush and pulling out its contents: clothes, armour, another helm. He tosses them one at a time to Hans.
“Here,” he says. “But quick. God knows how much time we have.”
Hans doesn’t wait. He hastily strips off his wedding finery, throwing it back to Henry to stuff it back into the sack.
“How did it go?” Henry asks. Hans can feel his eyes on him, watching him strip. If only they had a little more time.
“Good,” he says, cheerily. “Godwin said he'll wait to see what they intend to do and then head to the Den in a few days.”
“Did anyone seem suspicious?”
“Not at all. Went off as planned, as far as I can tell.”
“Did anyone ask where I was?”
“Hanush and Radzig did,” Hans says. “Sounded like they'd been discussing it themselves. I told them we'd had an argument and you'd left, like we said.”
“Good.” Henry ties the sack of Hans’s things to the horse’s saddle. “Christ… I hope they don’t ask too many questions.”
“You’re a good liar,” Hans grins. “You’ll think of something. What’s your plan?”
Henry shrugs. “I’ll wait for word to spread that you’ve been taken,” he says, “then ride back and tell them I’ll find you myself.”
“They’ll believe that, at least,” says Hans. “You’re always getting me out of trouble.”
He pulls the helmet on and unties the horse. He’s about to mount up, when Henry stops him, placing a heavy hand to his shoulder.
“Hans.”
His face is serious. Hans hesitates.
“What—”
“Are you sure about this?”
Hans blinks. He’s never been more sure of anything in his life. “Of course I am.”
“If we— if I go through with this, you’ll be dead. No more money and riches and comfort. You’ll be a ghost.”
He looks so damn worried. That’s Henry: always worrying about him. And Hans can understand that, to an extent. He’s throwing away a life that most people - would crave. Luxury. Protection. But he’s seen that life. Seen it at its sharpest edge.
He lets go of the horse’s saddle and turns properly to face his saviour. Even dressed in the garb of the enemy, Henry radiates a sense of safety. Hans cannot resist now, damn how quickly they need to leave. He wraps his arms around Henry’s waist and kisses him, long and slow. He feels like home.
“I’ll be dead,” he whispers against Henry’s lips, “But Hal, I’ll be free.”
He gives him one last kiss - a fluttering promise of more to come - then swiftly turns and swings up onto the horse.
“Come on,” he peers down at his lover, his liberator, his Henry, then slams the visor of his helmet shut. “Let’s go kill Lord Capon.”