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Half a heartbeat—that was all it took. 

The battle was nearly finished; the siege, at last, reaching its final sunset. The cavalry, led by Kobyla on his noble steed, rained down upon the enemy camp like hellfire: among the dooming thudding of hooves on hard ground and the rustling of Rattay caparisons in the wind, the fast silence of blades put an end to all Praguer screams. 

In the inner courtyard of Suchdol, beyond the crushed walls, the Devil’s pack—shoulder to shoulder with Pisek’s men—fought off the last of Markvart’s soldiers, in a blur of starved rage. On the bailey and under the walls, over the wooden fences and on the steps of the stone stairs: bodies upon bodies, crimson waffenrocks torn and soiled, mouths agape and clouded eyes. The suffering of the wounded, hushed, intertwined with grunts and curses as final thrusts of swords finished off the last straggler throats. 

A body, limp and gored, fell from the fortifications; raised a cloud of dust and bled into the dirt right next to some other corpse. A guttural scream cut through the air as another Praguer rolled down the wooden steps; the third one, by the well, did not even have a chance to make a sound before he was crushed, a spring of blood spewing from underneath his kettle hat.

Hans looked up at the figure cutting his way through the soldiers, vision hazy with exertion and hunger—but he would have known who it was even if both his eyes were taken from him. A glint of the longsword, reflecting the last of clouded sunlight as he sheathed it—the cold ring of his plate armour as he stood by the raised portcullis, surrounded by broken bodies and broken arrows. He lifted the visor of his bloodied bascinet, his bright eyes scanning the ruined courtyard in utmost focus: searching for the one whose name was the only sound on his lips through all this violence and fury. For the briefest of moments, a shadow of fear across his face—and then, as his eyes finally found Hans, the glow of relief, brighter than any sun and any flame. 

The long, horrid days filled with hunger and hopelessness, and the short, sleepless nights haunted by nightmares—a thousand feverish prayers when he was alone, mauled by doubt and yearning, as he asked God to let Henry find his way back to him, and a thousand curses as he drove his sword into the flesh of their enemies, knowing each one could be the last word he utters—it all melted away. Entirely irrelevant; a blurry memory, faint and faded as last year’s snow. Nothing mattered, at all: just this one pair of eyes finding his. Just this one man, in the middle of all that death, suddenly smiling softly as he looked at him across the corpse-strewn courtyard.

“Henry!” Hans’ voice nearly broke as he called out to him—but it was joy that choked him, and relief, and gratitude that spread within his chest hot like wood in the charcoal kiln. If God himself parted the clouds in the skies and showed his face to him, it would not fill him with even half the awe—half the holy love he felt. 

And Henry smiled: his mouth opened, ready to finally utter Hans’ name, not as a fearful, longing whisper, but as a rapturous cry of victory. No force in the world enough to keep them apart any more. 

Safe, at last—his, at last. 

And half a beat of his rejoiced heart, tolling in Henry’s chest like a bell, was all it took. 

As Henry raised his head to look at Hans with reverence—relief washing over him in a blissful wave—somewhere by the bloodied wall a shaky hand of a dying man pressed the release on his crossbow for the final time. A bolt, like a doomed, vicious bird, cut through the air.

The golden joy in Capon’s chest did not even have the chance to dissipate as it was joined by sharp panic; and then, quietly, by the dark, crawling beast of despair. Before he could understand—before his mind could grasp it—his world ended, abruptly and without a sound. 

Henry was still looking at him—but his armoured hand shot up, reflexively, to the soft spot in his neck between the heavy mail collar and the raised bascinet. Confusion on his face, for a mere second, as his fingers found the bolt in his throat.

Then, bitter shock, as he desperately held Hans’ gaze still: but his chest already heaved in a struggling, garbled breath. His mouth—Hans’ name on the tip of his tongue—already filled with the sudden pouring of blood. Henry choked, crimson bubbles on his teeth; a trickle down his chin. 

He was still looking right into Hans’ eyes as he fell to his knees—cloud of dust rising under the weight of it—he was still half-smiling as his head dropped to his chest. Hans ran, faster than ever throughout his cursed life, and closed the distance between them just in time to catch Henry as he collapsed forwards, to the ground. He groaned with the effort, his exhausted and starved muscles howling under Henry’s sudden weight. He dragged him onto his knees, the hard heaviness of his cuirass crushing his legs. 

“Henry, Henry,” he whispered, Henry’s head on his knees, blue eyes looking up at him, wide in mortal disbelief. Hans felt like laughing as he sneaked his hand into the crook of Henry’s neck, his fingers bloodied, assessing the damage. And the damage was so clear and obvious it felt like fates themselves wanted to spare Hans the pain of any hope. 

He felt like laughing: it was so ridiculous. Was that it? A serrated bolt through Henry’s throat, ripping through it, through the airpipe and the artery, through the muscle—was that it? The end of it all? A bolt—a single bolt?

Henry wanted to say something—finish what he was about to utter before. But he couldn’t get air enough to speak; he couldn’t get all that blood out, as it poured back into his throat. Around them, Dry Devil and Zizka finished off the last of the Praguers—and then, unmoving, fell silent as they realised what happened. The rest of the company understood soon after; none dared move. They just stood there, at a distance, watching the scene unravelling before their eyes—paralysed in something between horror and respect. 

Hans wanted to rip Henry’s bascinet off: free him from the armour to steady him more on his knees, to hold his head without that barrier; touch his hair, smelling of smoke. Still, there was no way to do it without ripping the bolt out. So he just cradled him, looking down into Henry’s eyes. He really wanted to laugh, even as he felt his eyes burn with tears as if someone put a torch to them; even as he felt his heart break. 

“This is nothing, it’s nothing,” he whispered. “You’re alright.”

Henry just looked at him, unable to speak. Blood bubbled up from his mouth—still half-open in a smile. 

“You’ll see,” Hans said, hunched over so close that he was the only thing Henry could see. “Tomorrow, you’ll feel better, and we’ll ride out, like I promised. We’ll take Pebbles and we’ll go, to that meadow by Wysoka. You remember?”

He felt his hands shake; his chest filled with a low, desperate sob, heavy like a stone. All he could do was look into Henry’s eyes—those clever, bright eyes, veiled with the thin glimmer of tears—and press his bloodied palm to his cheek. He didn’t want to be scared.

He didn’t want Henry to be scared. 

“We’ll sit in the grass,” Hans whispered, thumb brushing against Henry’s face, feather-light. “We’ll weave wreaths, like we talked. Rosemary and dandelions, and meadowsweet, and hyssop,” he repeated the plants just as Henry taught him, in those small stolen moments between all their tasks and battles. “The sun will set over the forest, and robins will sing.”

The corners of Henry’s eyes narrowed slightly in what Hans knew to be laughter: As if you knew what a robin’s evening song sounds like, my lord. 

“The night will be warm,” Hans whispered, trying to blink the tears away. He felt them on his neck, down his collar—on his hand as they dropped from his face. “It’ll be just the two of us, eh, Henry?”

Hans’ voice broke as he spoke his name. 

“The night will be warm,” he repeated, in a whisper so quiet it was nearly silent. He raised his hand to brush Henry’s hair from his forehead: caked in blood and sweat. “And you’ll hold me until dawn breaks over our heads.”

Laughter in Henry’s’ terrified eyes gave way to a sudden softness: relief. The sacred comfort of deepest gratitude.

Love.

“The night will be warm,” Hans said for the third time; a prayer bordering on the blasphemy of a village magic charm. He pressed his palm to Henry’s cheek again, and his breath hitched in his throat as it felt colder beneath his fingers. 

He looked into Henry’s eyes—those beloved, loyal eyes—as they softened further, focused on his face and his face alone. And then, for another half a heartbeat, as the clouds parted, the sun shone down on them: blooming behind Hans’ head in golden glow.

Looking at his beloved Hans as if he was the sun itself, Henry of Skalitz took his final breath, and gave his soul to God. 

✶

Hans did not move. He kept looking into Henry’s eyes even as they stilled—as emptiness came over them, quiet and merciless. They were still blue like the skies over their heads—they were still Henry’s. Henry. His Henry. His Hal. 

Oh, Jindra.

It was Kubyenka who approached him first: slowly, carefully, as if he was approaching a rabid dog or a spooked horse, arms outstretched in caution. He leaned over, reached out to touch Hans’ shoulder, hoping to get the young lord to look at him; but to no avail. Hans was unmoved as if cast in stone: cradling Henry’s body and looking at his face. He tried again—but Hans was entirely blind to the world: his eyes so numb and empty that Kubyenka, far from God-fearing, made a sign of the cross and took a step back. Zizka caught his gaze and slowly shook his head: Leave it. There’s nothing you can do.

Silence fell on the courtyard like a mourning veil: heavy and cruel. No words were spoken—only a myriad of small sounds echoed through the fort: Dry Devil spat onto the ground, in barely contained fury; Katherine squeezed Musa’s shoulder so hard the fine fabric of his robes nearly tore. Janosh leaned against the stone wall, clearing his throat—he feared grief, in that second undeserved wave, would close it and choke him dead, too. Godwin’s crossbow fell to the ground with a muffled thud.

Zizka tried to stop him, but to no avail—Samuel tore through them like a storm, casting his sword to the side violently; in a fraction of a second he was on his knees in front of Hans. He wanted to reach out and touch Henry, but terror stopped him halfway through; he could not move. He wanted to scream— he would not die like this, if it wasn’t for you— but his lungs and mouth refused him; no words could be formed. 

Hans didn’t see him. He didn’t see anything: just Henry. His Henry. He didn’t move.

Samuel’s hands dropped—he couldn’t bring himself to touch Henry, and so he dug his fingers into the ground instead. He shook his head, violently, still unable to speak. Zizka approached: grabbed him, strong, by the elbow and hauled him back to his feet; he didn’t fight against it. Shock shielded him from wanting to return to his brother’s body. 

“Sir Hans,” Zizka’s rough voice rang out, breaking the silence. Katherine flinched, and so did the Skalitz men. “Sir- Capon. Capon!”

But Hans did not hear anything. Did not move; did not turn his eyes, reflective and unmoving as if made from glass, away from Henry’s still face. 

“No, no,” escaped Sam’s mouth suddenly as Zizka pulled him away. “No... No, no.”

The captain looked up, still hauling Sam away—his gaze met Godwin’s, who walked slowly, as if in a sleepwalker’s haze, towards Hans still hunched over Henry’s body. The priest looked beyond, for a second, at the raised portcullis; the silence over them deepened, somehow. Tight and coiled like a noose. 

Two guards appeared there: followed by the noble figure of the Lord of Leipa, sheathing his sword. As Godwin approached Hans cradling Henry’s body, Sir Hanush made it onto the courtyard—and in the briefest moment understood what had happened. Breath escaped from his lungs as the weight of it crashed over his shoulders. He had seen death before—ordered it, welcomed it, ignored it, accepted it. Sometimes, cared very little for it. And yet, there, at Suchdol… As they would call it later on: Judgement Day, it was. That one death, somehow heavier than anything else. 

A sharp motion: quick movement of gloved hand as he gestured at the guard to his left.

“Get a horse and ride to the Praguers’ camp,” he barked the order. How hard it was to utter the next words, only God Almighty knew. He felt his throat tighten. “Get Radzig.”

The guard nodded, swallowing hard at the tone of his lord’s voice—and ran to the horses tied beyond the carnage among the Suchdol fields. 

“Hans…” Hanush started, hushed. He tried to keep his voice soft for the sake of his nephew; still, it was not an easy task, as he himself was overtaken with bitter disbelief and the merciless rush of a thousand thoughts about the consequences of it all. 

Capon did not budge; he did not move and did not raise his eyes. Sir Hanush looked at Godwin, eyebrows furrowed—more in confusion than anything else.

“What is wrong with him?” the lord hissed. “Is his mind gone?”

Godwin inhaled and steadied his hands; God must have listened because they stopped shaking, somehow. God must have listened because Godwin’s heart kept on beating—despite being shattered. Somewhere in the depth of the fort, Dry Devil drove his sword through some Praguer, even though he was already long dead.

Godwin walked up to Hans: stood so close over him his feet nearly touched Henry’s body; he had to force himself not to look down. Spreading his hands in prayer over the young lord’s head, he spoke in choked voice:

“Pater noster, qui es in caelis,” the words tasted bitter in his mouth. “Sanctificetur nomen tuum, adveniat regnum tuum.”

The battle was done; the siege was finished. How could God let this happen—and to no other but Henry? Out of all the people there, why was it Henry’s throat that the stray bolt found?

“Fiat voluntas tua,” Godwin’s voice echoed out, the gloom and weight of it making everyone’s hearts sink. 

Silence as he waited. Hans remained unmoved, still like a pillar of salt. His pale hand, shaking, pressed against Henry’s cheek. 

“Fiat voluntas tua!” Godwin repeated. Please, God, he prayed in his head: bring this boy out of this grief. Do not make us lose them both today. 

They all waited as the words echoed through the bloodied courtyard. 

“Fiat voluntas tua!”

A bird flew overhead—its shadow passing over Henry’s still, open eyes. 

“Sicut in cælo…” Hans spoke, at last, his voice breaking. “Et in terra,” he raised his eyes for the briefest moment—red, glossed over with tears and terror. God was merciful, sending Godwin strength enough not to break down under the weight of that gaze; not to fall down and bawl.

Father Godwin lowered himself, feeling his knee sink slightly into the ground softened by Henry’s blood; he reached out, carefully, to gently pry Capon’s hands away. Henry’s body in his arms was already cold.

“Quia tuum est regnum et potestas, et gloria in sæcula sæculorum,” he whispered as he moved his hand towards the opening of the bascinet—to close Henry’s eyes.

“No, no!” Hans shouted, the suddenness and volume of it making the whole company wince; some haunting shriek more than human voice. He moved, abruptly, nearly lunging at the priest, stopped only by the weight of Henry pinning his knees down. “Leave them! Leave them, leave-”

Godwin’s face contorted in grief; it all threatened to be too much. In a second, Zizka and Katherine were by his side, grabbing Hans’ arms; securing him so he would not hurt himself or anyone else. Then, they helped him to his feet, pulling him away; Godwin held Henry’s head and lowered it, softly, onto the blood-soaked ground. He left his eyes open: looking at the sun. 

Sir Hanush joined Hans in two quick strides, taking him over from Katherine and Zizka—who, in turn, turned to Sam, trying to calm him down. Where the captain was impatient, Katherine was gentle: she knew this grief and this fever so intimately she could feel it in the back of her throat. Samuel was pacing like a madman beneath the southern wall, talking to himself under his breath in a language no one else there spoke but him. Whether he was praying or cursing, no one knew. 

Sir Hanush pulled Hans closer: he swayed on his feet, dazed, shoulders heaving in wild breaths; nearly collapsed into his uncle’s arms as he embraced him. 

“Calm down, son,” Hanush’s voice was quiet, as tender as he could muster. “It is done. It is done.” He pressed his nephew’s fair head to his armoured chest, cradling him. He has never done it before—and he would never do it again, after Judgement Day. 

Hans remained in his arms like a terrified child: shaking and choking, but quiet. Silent as a grave. 

The sudden sound of a frantic rhythm of hooves against the wood tore through Suchdol; a horse hurried to the point of foaming at the muzzle barrelled into the courtyard. In the blink of an eye, Sir Radzig Kobyla jumped from the saddle—dust rose as he landed, heavy with armour— and he ran, feverish, towards Godwin. 

As the priest stood up, slowly, and moved to the side, the lord of Skalitz stopped in his tracks— in silent, nauseating disbelief. Turned to stone, like in some ancient tale, as he saw the body of his son. Stiffened by eternal sleep: blood on his mouth. 

Radzig shook his head, unable to do anything more; a wave of pain ran down his spine, as real as if someone split his back with a sword. He shook his head again; and again. The battle was over. The fort, taken back. If God was loving, how could he abandon them at the very end of the line? Was it divine greed, to take something back—the price of their success? 

The most horrid price; impossible to forgive. Dies irae, sinking into the dirt in tandem with Henry’s blood. 

“Oh, Henry,” he managed to whisper at last. “My boy.”

No one dared move or speak; the only sounds were Hans’ inconsolable sobs, muffled by Hanush’s coat, and Samuel’s muttered, muddled words; then, the exhausted and uneven grunting of Radzig’s horse. All quieted down after a dozen heartbeats. 

“My son,” Kobyla’s voice was low and bitter as he realised how shamefully short this thread was cut; mere weeks separating the time he dared utter that word first from when he was, now, allowed to say it for the final time. If God is merciful, Radzig thought, he will send me straight to Hell once my wretched time comes. So I won’t ever have to look into his mother’s eyes again. 

Sir Hanush gestured at Pisek and his men, commanding them to take him and his nephew inside, to whichever room was still in condition good enough to host them; just to get away from the heartbreak still playing out in the courtyard. There were limits to what grief he could witness himself, too—limits to the depth of horror he was able to accept while looking into Hans’ eyes. The boy didn’t cry when his father died; cried only once as he buried his mother, and then never again. But now— and Hanush felt fear run down his sides like a shiver—Hans could not even breathe. He was silent, tears running down his face in quiet, relentless streams; his eyes still and glassy as if he himself was dead. Hanush feared his mind was gone, entirely. 

“Get that Jewish boy, too, before he rams his head against the wall,” Hanush ordered his retinue in a hushed tone. He knew what was coming: what wave of furious, crushing grief would roll over Radzig—what horror would grasp him as he feared he trespassed, lethally, against Martin once again. The last thing the Lord of Leipa needed was to add to that with the blacksmith’s bastard perishing as well; and so, even though he cared little for him, he resigned to keep him safe as well.

Anything to escape the repeat of misery that played out in Rattay at the brink of summer: as Kobyla wept—the bitter and unseemly tears followed by days of utter silence—over the fate of a village blacksmith and his wife. As he raged against the truth of whom he sired; feeling like he did not deserve, for even a second of his wretched life, the loyalty and love of the brave peasant boy. 

As they dragged both Hans and Samuel inside, the rest of the company following them, only Godwin and Radzig remained on the courtyard. Silence fell again. 

The glorious, feared and revered Henry of Skalitz, corpse-still; armoured rich like Galehaut himself, in the middle of the fortress, looked blindly at the sky. Beneath that steel, just a boy who always laughed a bit too loud. Frozen, with the final softness of his love for young Sir Hans Capon of Pirkstein across his face. 

“If God-” Radzig started, and then stopped. Bitter bile filled his throat. 

Whatever he was about to say, Godwin, in his heart of hearts, agreed. 

The skies dimmed, overwhelmed by clouds. A skein of wild geese flew over Suchdol, oblivious to the end of the world. 

✶

The Devil’s pack, all of them—whether they agreed to that banner or not—sat in the basement of the Suchdol fortress, silent. Janosh watched, cautiously and quietly, as Samuel swayed softly to the rhythm of his sudden mourning; a guardian angel who knew the sharpness of loss a little bit too well. Among the broken wine barrels and tables overturned in hungry fury; among the splinters of wood and bitter tar from torches that did not get to see a flame. Among the words unspoken and the shared, sour grief— so they sat, outcasts of the world. 

Not all of them. Not all of them, any more: Adder’s body, thrown over the walls of the Italian Court, rotted softly into the Kuttenberg grass; and Henry’s body, cold and still, lay in the middle of the courtyard just outside the wooden doors. Witnessed only by the skies, endless and unmoved, and the birds in their eternal flight. 

There were no words to utter. There were no things to be said as they sat around one table—united in the brief moment of lonesome respite. Was there any cruelty, worse than this, that could fall upon their wicked heads? Was there divine punishment more severe than the bright, brave boy, dead in the yard—his throat torn? 

So many prayers flowed, hushed and hidden, towards the vast and endless skies: to God Almighty, Holy Trinity—to Yahweh of the chosen people, feverish; and then, to Allah, quiet as dusk spread over Suchdol. Prayers so honest and innumerable you’d think at least one of the Absolutes would take pity on them, and cast breath back into the bloodied chest of Henry of Skalitz. 

Still, no divine mercy came. 

Upstairs, Hans sat at the table—a couple of paces across the room where, that fateful night, he dared to bare his heart to the dearest, bravest soul. The only one who ever understood him—the one who, disbelief in his eyes, cradled him in his arms throughout the dark and horrid night. Who kissed him, in devotion as deep as it was dangerous, among the hunger and fear. Who laughed, sweetly and innocently, as he cupped his face in his hands: Do not fear, my lord, he whispered. I will always come back to you. 

Was it a nightingale, that sang now through the night? Hans didn’t know. 

There is no force strong enough to keep us apart, Henry whispered against his forehead, as he found his way between the soft flesh of his thighs.

The night will be warm and we will sit in the meadow: our hands weaving flowers instead of laying any siege, instead of cutting any throat. 

And you’ll hold me, until morning? Hans asked, lips quivering. A month before he’d fear this; he’d fear being so honest, so open—so himself. 

I will hold you until Judgement Day, Henry chuckled, softly, planting a kiss across the nape of Hans’ neck. And then one day more.

One day more. 

“We need…” Radzig’s voice rang out through the room, choking; so sudden it made Hans recoil. “We need to take him back to Rattay.”

“Aye,” Hanush nodded, goblet of expensive wine in his hand. It tasted like soil—like iron and grief and shit. 

“Godwin will… Godwin w-will,” Radzig cleared his throat. “You will help us consecrate the ground, will you? At Skalitz. Where his parents are buried.”

Father Godwin raised his gaze, shaken and unfocused.

“Of course,” he replied, having no idea what he was being asked. He wasn’t listening. It all seemed so distant: so foreign, so strange. As if it was happening to someone else. He cared very little about what was being said: in his head, the bells of Uzhitz rang out for Sunday mass and Henry stood there right in front of the church, laughing loudly, telling him some wild tale again. 

“Underneath….” Kobyla stood up and turned his back to them; he looked through the window, at the silver moon. “Underneath that linden tree.”

“Of course,” Godwin repeated, reaching for the wine as well. In his head, Henry was sitting right across from him, head propped up drunkenly by his hand holding the tankard. In just a moment, they would raise another toast—the two of them; the lost priest and the blacksmith’s boy. 

“That sounds like just the proper spot, Radzig,” Hanush said, downing another extensive sip of the wine. 

For a couple of seconds, nothing was said. Wind ran wildly through the fort’s corridors, let in through the ruined walls; Death sat by the outer bailey.

And then—through that momentary, uncomfortable silence, heavy with grief—golden laughter rang out across the room, like a little bell.

“Ha!” Hans threw his head back. His eyes were closed. “I think you’re insane! Insane if you think, even for a second, that Henry will lie at Skalitz. In some fucking backwater.”

Hanush looked at his nephew in shock; taken aback to an extent where he really did appear, physically, as if someone punched him violently in the ribs above his heart. Both Radzig and Godwin froze, looking at the young lord across the heavy wooden table. 

“Hans-” Hanush started, clear warning in his tone.

“He is going to Rattay, where he belongs,” Hans spat out, suddenly opening his eyes and looking straight at Kobyla standing by the window. “I don’t want to- I don’t want to hear another word about any fucking linden tree.”

“Hans!” Hanush’s voice was sharp and harsh. 

“In no way,” Radzig uttered, deathly quiet, through gritted teeth, “is this decision up to you.”

Hans snorted, waving his hands in a vague, dismissive gesture. He wanted to say something, mockery already finding its way to his throat—but the lord of burned Skalitz, standing in front of him, was quicker.

“In no way are you the one who decides anything,” he inhaled, “ anything, about Henry.” Moonlight cast grotesque shadows on Radzig’s face, twisted even further in a pained grimace. Hanush shifted in his seat, brows furrowed.

“You both need to stop,” he lifted his arms. “You hear?”

“Oh, yes?” Hans hissed, leaning on his elbow and looking at Radzig in the most obscene way he could. “Who are you to him, eh? A stranger. A man who fucked his mother and left her, off to his goddamn castle. Gambled with the life of his bastard a thousand times, too weak to even admit he sired him, and-”

Hanush stood up—loud thud as the motion of it pushed the table, wooden legs dragging across the stone floor with a sharp creak. 

“You will stop, both of you. Right the fuck now!”

Radzig took a step closer, his hand reflexively hovering over the hilt of his sword. 

“Both his mother and his father, they wanted to be buried under that linden tree,” Radzig said, piercing Capon with a gaze carrying the fury of ten men. “That is where he belongs.”

Hans laughed, again, leaning back in the oak, ornamented chair. It was a scary sound—a laughter you’d hear at a crossroads, under a hangman’s tree, and turn on your heel to run for your life. 

“In your domain, no? Of course,” Hans shook his head slowly. “Under a fucking tree, like a dog?”

“As God is my witness, you need to stop right now, Capon,” Radzig said, clenching his jaw. He tried to slow down his breathing; took three steps back from the table, forced his hand to let go of his sword. The moon, high in the skies, looked down upon them in mourning.
“I swear, by anything you deem holy or sacred,” Hans said as he stood up, leaning on the table on an outstretched arm, “if you try to even touch him… If you try to take him, Radzig, I will chase you to the end of the wretched world. I will do whatever is in my power to throw you to the wolves.”

“Hans-” Godwin spoke up, worry on his face.

“I will fell,” Hans hissed, jaw clenched and tears in his bright eyes “every last linden tree in Bohemia.”

Radzig took another step back, shaking his head. Whatever rage there was that boiled within him—whatever sudden desire to lash out, to put Capon back in his place—dissipated as the boy stood in front of him, chest heaving with uneven breaths. 

“Every linden tree,” the young lord repeated, “so there is nowhere else for you to bury him but where he belongs. In Rattay.”

Hans was feverish; his eyes were unfocused, glossed over with grief. Standing before Radzig, it wasn’t the future Lord of Pirkstein, cruel and mocking, trying to establish some horrid dominance over another noble. Nearly coming apart at the seams, pale and flushed and shaking, it was just a horrified boy who lost someone he loved. 

Who knew he was entirely alone now. 

Radzig simply shook his head again. He took another step back, letting go; looked at Godwin.

“We need to go-” he started, and wavered. “We need to go and prepare him.”

The priest nodded, getting up from the table slowly.

Hans wanted to follow them, mouth already curled to throw another cruel remark—but Hanush stopped him, heavy hand across his chest. 

“You forget yourself, boy,” the Lord of Leipa said, towering above him. “There is no place for him in Rattay. Sir Radzig, as his liege lord and his father, is the only one to decide where Henry’s mortal body lies.”

“And it’s Skalitz,” Radzig added, standing in the door; a doomed silhouette, shoulders hung with the weight of the world. “It’s Skalitz.”

Hans laughed. What else was there—but laughter? 

✶

They all carried him inside: laid him down on the wooden table, in the shaking light of torches. Henry was so heavy—his body and his armour, and somehow the weight of all their grief. And if it wasn’t for the blood on his mouth, they all felt like he would just wake up any moment: sit up, rubbing his eyes; laugh at them for thinking something so small and so stupid could take him away from them. 

They gathered there; the small musty room suddenly turned chapel. Not all: the two Rattay lords still sat upstairs. Hanush silent, swirling the last of the wine in his goblet, and Hans—looking at the moon, laughing from time to time quietly under his breath. Kobyla was somewhere in the stables, tending to his horse; packing, to make sure they could leave for Skalitz at the break of dawn. Pisek’s men were cleaning the hay wagon, preparing it for the journey. Where Samuel was, no one knew; no one checked. 

Dry Devil cursed as he stepped back from the table, hunched from exertion; he was the first to leave the room. 

“We need to deal with all these other poor fuckers,” he yelled from the courtyard, standing above the bloodied Praguer bodies. “Zizka, Kubyenka, get your asses here and help me.”

Zizka looked up at Katherine; glimmer of hesitation in his tired eyes.

“Go,” she said, softly, palm pressed lightly to his shoulder. “Godwin, Musa and I, we’ll manage. We’ll wash him… We’ll call for you if we need any help.”

The captain nodded, swallowing hard. He looked at Henry for a short moment and then gestured at the others; corpses of strangers were so much easier to carry.

“Someone go upstairs and get Capon,” Katherine said, suddenly, as she reached for the jug to bring in water. “He needs to get the dog out of here.”

By the table, Mutt sat next to Henry’s right hand. He growled, low and hackles up, each time someone got too close—he’d let people linger but not touch. He allowed Musa to dig out the wounding bolt out of his master’s cold throat, and Katherine to slowly wipe Henry’s face; then, nothing more. As Godwin reached out to take the bloodied bascinet off, the dog lunged at him in warning: the clack of sharp teeth echoing through the room. 

“I’ll go,” the priest said, and his voice sounded like it belonged to someone else. Perhaps, once he returned downstairs, the room would be empty. The stone rolled away. 

It was quiet upstairs. Hanush went out to the outer bailey with his guards, busying himself with assessing the losses on their side; left Hans alone in the moonlight-filled room, unable to handle any more of his grief. When Godwin entered, he could swear the young lord was speaking to someone, despite being alone—feeling his chest tighten with near unbearable pain, Godwin knew right away who Hans was talking to. He knew he himself would keep talking to him, too. 

“Sir Hans,” he said, hesitating for a second. “We require your assistance, downstairs.”

“Huh?” Capon turned to him, slightly absent.

“We need to take Henry’s armour off, and, well, Mutt won’t let us. We’ve tried everything and he just won’t budge.”

“Why would I- What does that have to do with me..?” Hans’ voice was unpleasant. 

“The dog knows you. Other than Henry, you’re the,” Godwin felt his throat tighten. “You’re the closest to him.”

“To Henry’s dog?” Hans asked, mocking laughter filling his chest again. He looked at Godwin, eyebrows raised, shaking his head. “His fucking dog?”

“Hans.”

“Yes, yes,” Hans got up, abruptly and theatrically. “Of course! Let me go and take care of the fucking dog!”

He passed Godwin—would have hit him with his shoulder if the priest did not reflexively step back—and ran down the stairs as if he was running to some feast or to ride out to hunt. Quick, filled with energy, impatient; the thud of his steps loud and fast. 

And downstairs, as Hans opened the battered, wooden door to that small musty room, all that energy dissipated: in an instant, so sudden and absolute it felt as if someone reached into his chest and uprooted his heart, ripping it out. Those inside turned to look at him; he had to grab the door frame so hard his knuckles turned white, just to keep standing. 

In the warm and trembling light of torches and candles, on the wooden table, his dog at his side, there he lay.

His whole world: still. 

Everything dissipated. Nothing mattered. Once his senses returned to him—heart beating so faintly it could as well stop—he called out to Mutt. 

“Heel,” he yelled out, a strange mix of a command and a strained plea; wavering in volume. The second it left Hans’ lips, all he could hear was the rush of blood in his head and Henry’s bright voice. The dog looked at him but did not move an inch. It felt sacrilegious to try and imitate Henry’s tone; he couldn't bring himself to try again. 

Instead, the young lord walked up to the table, nearly as if against his own will; his body reflexively carrying him forward. He did not look at Katherine, or Musa, or Godwin; he just looked at Mutt, right there by Henry’s right hand. 

“We’ve got to get this done, eh?” he said to the dog. The sudden softness in his voice made Katherine leave the room—she couldn’t bear it, and she didn’t want to cry in front of them. 

Mutt still sat, unmoved, but his paws shifted—his tail nearly wagged. 

“Will you let me?” Hans asked, gently, and raised his hands to Henry’s still head. The dog watched him closely—but did not growl. 

And so Hans took off the bloodied bascinet, and the mail collar, and the dog watched his every move patiently; quietly. Then, Hans moved to slowly work the buckles of Henry’s cuirass, and the couters, and gauntlets. Mutt moved a little bit to get closer, fit right between Hans’ knee and the table leg; Capon stopped for the briefest second, and brought his hand to the dog’s muzzle. 

“You’ve watched your master put all of this on so many times, huh, doggy? And take it off… All these buckles…” Hans scratched the side of Mutt’s head. “Now we have to do it for him, you know? One last time.”

Godwin reached out, without a sound, to touch Musa’s shoulder; signalled, with the slow turn of head, that they should both leave. 

And so they left, leaving Capon and Mutt in that small, dark room: within its slightly damp walls, their whole world enclosed. 

Unmoving—gone. 

Hand didn’t know whether he had ever been this tender—to anyone, let alone himself—like he was then, fingers slowly undoing all the fastenings, sliding off buttons and tracing the seamlines. Patiently, softly, taking off the armour he helped Henry put on that strange, beautiful night: as he knelt before him, in that small Suchdol room above, tears in his eyes. Return to me, he whispered then, closing the buckles on Henry’s greaves—and Henry pulled him up, both hands on his neck and cheeks, cradling him. Of course I will. 

I will always find my way back to you.

Hans touched Henry’s face, fleetingly, afraid to press too hard against the cold cheek.

He pulled off Henry’s heavy gauntlets: the tips of his fingers were already turning dark. 

He averted his eyes for a second; walked away, to put the steel on the table by the wall. Those fingers, mere nights ago brushing Hans’ fair hair off his forehead—tracing the line of his nose, his jaw, the bow of his lips, as Henry studied him instead of sleeping. Quiet reverence—commiting each detail to memory, how it looked and how it felt beneath his fingertips: soft like feathers when he fletched his arrows. 

Now, his fingers: still. Cold. 

Mutt nudged Henry’s hand with his muzzle; rested his head against it once he understood it wouldn’t move to pet the fur between his eyes. Whether he understood it would never move again, Hans didn’t know. A loyal dog without his master; a broken boy standing three paces away, afraid to return to his love’s silent corpse. Spooked like a child again; wind rattled Suchdol even worse than it did Pirkstein, back then. 

A wooden creak. Then, a shadow appeared in the open door; stood there, unmoving, for a moment.

“You need to eat,” Sam’s voice was raspy; kept purposefully quiet and neutral, stripped of grief and rage by herculean effort. 

For whose sake?

Hans looked up; it was for his sake, he understood. All the cruel and mocking things he wanted to say died softly and without a sound, like the cygnets frozen in the pond that one fateful Rattay winter. He just shook his head, walking back to the table—trembling. 

“He’d kill me,” Samuel said, chuckling bitterly. “If I let you starve, Hans. You need to eat.”

“How?” Hans asked, simply. The whisper hung in the air of the room as they looked at each other; the honesty of their pain tightening their throats. 

Sam nodded.

“Let me help you with the cuirass. I will lift him and you slide it out from beneath.”

And so they took off the rest of Henry’s armour: mere weeks of loving him between the two of them. Yet, enough to break their hearts—enough to echo, forever, throughout their whole lives further on. A thread, faint and bitter, that would unite them across the lands and years, even though they would never see each other again.

“I’ll get Katherine,” Sam said, at last, the last of steel cast to the side.

“No,” Hans whispered. “Not yet.”

Sam walked to Henry’s body for the final time: reached out, squeezed his shoulder through the bloodied shirt. Whispered something Hans didn’t understand—in a tone of voice that he would never get to use again. 

Then, as he passed him, he laid that hand on Hans’ shoulder, too—briefly—and not a word was said. Another creak as Samuel opened the door, turning his back to Hans; turning his back to his brother, so still. 

“Leave the door open, please,” Hans said, quietly, turning his face just an inch towards Sam—not looking at him. “I want to hear the birds.”

And so they stood: Mutt, sighing quietly like only abandoned dogs know how to, and young Sir Capon, his hands trembling. 

The birds that sang through the dark, he did not know the names of. He leaned over, kissing Henry for the final time.

The night was warm. 

✶ ✶

As the men dug up the hard soil of Skalitz, Hans could swear it smelled like ash and blood, still. Mud and shit, too. 

How would Radzig rebuild it? It all reeked of death; its people gone. Only flowers would bloom with twofold force, feeding off the blood. It was wrong to rebuild the village, Hans thought. Skalitz should fill with flowers instead: marigolds and roses and dandelions, and eye-bright and sage; soft bed of ivy and nettles soothing the memory of carnage out of the pebbles on the path between where houses once stood.

Hans had been there once as a child—could not recall much of it—and knew he would never return there again. No one should return there. There was nothing to return to. No one.

They were already lowering Henry into the unwilling ground as he stood there, looking away from the wretched linden tree; all he could think about was that path, running from the castle and to the smithy, down into the village, past the houses and pens and coops. Looping around the tavern; leading somewhere into the streams and forests, away from people, away from the heartbreak.

Radzig and his retinue stood, unmoving, above the grave—the priest was saying something that Hans didn’t care to listen to. It should have been Godwin, at least, praying as they buried Henry; but he couldn’t. He couldn’t, and no one blamed him, even Hans.

Soon, summer would end—the leaves on the trees would turn golden. It was fall, back then, when Hans travelled to Skalitz as a child—or was it spring? 

As the priest threw the first fistful of dark soil down the grave, all that Capon could think about was that path. He walked that path once, after all; just a small part of it, soft shoes against the dotted pebbles. 

How many times did Henry run down it? And up? And across—how many times did he cut through the fields, through the meadows, through the yards of disgruntled neighbours, shaking their fists at the unruly son of the blacksmith? How many times did they chase each other there, the loud children of Skalitz, before pox came and took some of them, before the winter came and took some of them, before the war tore through them like a scythe through young wheat? 

How many times did Henry sneak out, late at night, giggle muffled in his chest as he tried not to make a sound against the pebbles—adolescent heart beating wild, stolen wine hidden under his shirt? How many times did he kick those pebbles, upset as his father berated him for being lazy again, and how many times did he crouch to pick them up and throw them at his sweetheart’s window? How many times did he walk that path, beaming with youthful pride, lovebites underneath his dirty collar?

The funerary hymn rang out through the air; the wind carried it farther, somewhere far away. Hans did not sing. 

Was it fall or spring, when he came here? Was it after his father died, or before? Was it Hanush who was invited to dine with Kobyla, or was it his mother? He couldn’t recall. 

All he could think about as the gravediggers shoveled dirt back into the heartbroken ground was that path; all those years ago. 

If he stopped on it, back then, for long enough—would he see him, by some chance? Would they meet? 

Hans, just a couple years old, in his embroidered coat, quiet solitude in his small heart—and Henry, his hair tousled and his hands scratched up from playing in the brambles; bright boy, always laughing. Would he wave at the sad, noble child? Would Hans wave back?

And as the sun shined over the blooming Skalitz, caught in the flecked pebbles of the path—would Henry run up to him?

Would they play together? 

✶ ✶

First summer without Henry, Hans woke up early one day: it was hot, despite the hour. Sun, barely risen, was free to scorch everything—not a cloud to hinder it. It wasn’t this warm the day before, when he went by the mill: making sure Theresa did not see him, he sneaked Mutt a sausage lifted from the Upper Castle kitchens; scratched him on the side of the head like Henry used to do.

That early morning, hot, Hans opened a chest, hidden within his chambers at Pirkstein, one that held his old things: toys, clothes, his mother’s gloves, some trite nonsense from his adolescence, his first sword. The red, patched up scarf Henry wore when he first came to Rattay. He pressed it to his face for a brief second, then hid it in his coat. 

With the sun being his only witness—guards sent to the tavern or to sleep—Hans climbed the Pirkstein tower. Found the opening to sneak out into the steep roof. Inhaled slowly; the air was already warm. 

First summer without Henry, Hans tried to take his own life. 

It would be the first and last time he tried it so openly. After that summer, he would often do foolish things, hoping somewhere deep it would bring death upon him; still, he never tried, as brazenly, what he tried that first summer. 

His knuckles turned white as he held to the rough roof tiles, looking down. The rays of the July sun blinded him—burned his forehead and his cheeks, morning-sharp. All he had to do was let go. Just let go.

Was it not the utmost privilege of lovers—to follow? Through that final, indecipherable door? All Hans thought about was that he shouldn’t have waited the whole year; he should have thrown himself from the tower right after Skalitz, or even back at Suchdol. Fall on his sword. Not delay—not falter.

What if he wouldn't catch up with him now? What if he couldn’t find Henry anymore, in the place beyond death? What if that year—that horrid, lonesome, bloodied year—separated them now, damning him? 

What if Henry thought he didn’t love him enough to follow?

The sun was horrifyingly hot, like nettles and flames on his skin. 

Just let go. 

He let go, his hands relaxing; stood, nearly out of balance, at the edge—the eaves right below his feet. He could see the lands stretching before him, spilling out across the great horizon: fields and hills and forests, and villages, and the blue ribbon of water. The sun still burned; he cursed under his breath. 

Morning sun can be treacherous, Henry laughed that one summer, reprimanding him. The memory of that day suddenly spilled within Hans’ tired head. Sunburnt forehead is no fun, my lord. 

I’ve never been sunburnt in my life, I’ll have you know, he answered back then, overtaking him on his steed. 

I wonder why, Henry laughed. 

Oh, that laughter—across those hills and fields and forests, bouncing off the blue ribbon of the river. 

Well, Henry continued, grinning. You’ve already got freckles.

No, I don’t!

Yes, Sir Hans, Henry’s voice was soft as he kept laughing. Three to be exact. He caught up to him, even though Pebbles shook her head against the reins. I counted.

The memory of how Henry smiled at him, back then—as Hans’ ears turned red—overwhelmed him, and burned hotter than the sun. Henry overtook him, then, another wind somehow pushing his horse forward so fast Hans could not catch up. He slowed down, praying the blush would go away; so surprised how hard his heart was beating. He didn’t know it yet, back then—that he loved him.

And Henry turned around in the saddle:

Don’t worry, I’ll wait for you! He yelled back, his voice bright with laughter.

Hans’ fell back, clawing at the roof to hold on.

I’ll wait for you.

He crawled back into the tower, shaking.

I’ll wait for you. 

✶ ✶ ✶

Seasons have passed. Swallows fluttered wildly by the Pirkstein tower—spring rain gathered in the clouds across the soft, morning skies. Hans got up, quietly, leaving his wife still asleep in their marital bed; turned his steps towards the stairs. 

It was rare: for them to stay with each other until morning. Hans has kept to his marital duties faithfully—the weight of responsibility heavy on his shoulders as he remained on the cusp of being deemed fit to, at last, acquire rule over his estates—but they would often part before dawn broke. 

He loved her, of course. He loved her for two reasons. One, Jitka understood: his melancholy, his strange outbursts of misguided anger, the scars on his fingers and forearms that he had dealt himself, and his long hunting trips that she knew not to ask about. 

Two, she was a patient and skilled woman: in their marital bed, masterfully and against all odds, coaxing life out of a dead man. 

There would be no hope for an heir if not for her patient efforts. And then, before dawn would hurry her out of their bed and into her own chamber: each time Hans slipped out, spent, from between her thighs, she would simply let them lie there in soft silence. She wouldn’t ask for anything. She would not scowl. And, putting on her gowns to leave, Jitka would lean over him—and make a small sign of a cross across Hans’ doomed forehead, tenderly, as he cried. 

The air outside was cool as it hit against his skin, still warmed by feathered sleep. He turned towards the church, glad that most of Rattay was still asleep; only guards passed him, nodding their heads in polite greeting. Long gone were the times when he would pass his nights at the tavern, laughing and drinking with his subjects—brawling and gambling, and whoring. Long gone were the times when he would laugh; so gone it seemed as if the last time he laughed was at Suchdol: as his stomach turned inside out with horrid starvation but his eyes narrowed in laughter, as his brave blacksmith’s boy told another stupid joke, even more so than the ones that came before.

Now, the new guards only knew him from these morning walks—each morning, if his duties allowed for it, he would go to the church. Never to pray—but each morning all the same, he would go. Sometimes he would simply stand by the wild nettles biting at the stone wall surrounding the church, right under the windows of the butcher’s house; he’d stand there, quietly, imagining he could still hear Henry sing. 

A commotion by the Upper Castle—the faraway sound of it carried by the wind—made him stop in his tracks. Soon, he saw the horses, the armour catching the rays of morning sun: the reds and yellows of Radzig’s banner. He entered the churchyard and waited there; he knew everyone in Rattay could tell Kobyla where he was, and that he would find him. He knew, all too well, what he was about to ask him, too. 

A rooster crowed somewhere: rough, uncertain of the hour. Hans briefly gazed at the Pirkstein tower, wreathed in the flutter of swallows—he hoped Jitka was asleep, still. 

Radzig entered the courtyard, his armoured shoes heavy against the ground softened by the recent rainfalls of spring. Hans nodded, politely—emotionlessly—and pretended he did not see the man’s fists clenched against his belt as he tried to match his neutrality. 

“Sir Hans,” he said. He hadn’t heard Radzig’s voice since Skalitz; it sounded sadder.

“Lord Kobyla,” he replied. He didn’t want to think how his own voice sounded—how it must have changed. 

That stray serrated bolt, after all, cut through his own throat as well. Tore it out like it did to Henry. Separated Hans’ head from his heart, forever.

“If you’re looking for Hanush, you won’t find him. He’s in Senohrad and won’t be back before the feast of Saint Benedict,” he added, even though he knew Radzig wasn’t there to see his uncle. 

“I’m aware, Hans.”

“Well, then, what can I help you with? I thought you’d still be at Lamberg.”

“I returned once ice started melting over the Oslava river.”

“Mhm.”

“Wanted to be back in Skalitz by Ash Wednesday. See how the restoration efforts are going…” Radzig’s eyes were dark as he looked at him. “Pray over my son’s grave.”

Hans did not say anything; they simply stood in that churchyard, unmoved. Bells would toll soon. 

“Did Sokol-”

“I’m not here to discuss politics with you,” Radzig cut him off. “And I’m not here to fight, either. I’m just here to ask you one question, and I think I deserve the truth.”

A bird sang somewhere behind the church; a thrush, perhaps? In his mind, Hans was somewhere far away and it was the height of summer, and sun was biting at their necks. Henry was pointing at the nest, up there in the green crown of the tree, laughing. 

“Go ahead,” he heard himself say. 

“When I…” Radzig took a couple of steps closer, lowered his tone so that no one else could overhear. Stood so close he could strike Hans if he wanted to. “When I go to pray for my son… Am I praying over an empty grave?”

Hans smiled, softly—it wasn’t mockery, nor joy, nor disdain. It was relief. Apology, perhaps. 

“Yes,” he replied, nearly a whisper. 

A dozen emotions passed over Kobyla’s face: his eyebrows, first grey hairs in it, furrowed. 

“When?” He asked.

“What good would that knowledge do?” Hans countered, shaking his head slowly. “You couldn’t have prevented it. You weren’t there and I’m not a fool.”

“Aren’t you?” Radzig snapped back; then, quickly, he reined his anger in. Exhaled. “Who knows?”

“Me and you,” Capon felt himself shrug slightly. In his head, Henry and him were swimming in the lake—this didn’t matter, not one bit. “The priest, here.”

“Did you have to bribe him?”

“Whom didn’t I have to bribe,” Hans chuckled, and it was a bitter, faint laughter. “He had to open the crypt.”

“Does Hanush-”

“No,” Hans cut him off and his tone was relentless. The seasons that passed, in grim solitude, truly brought him closer to being the true Lord of Rattay: firm, commanding, unwavering. “And he is not to find out. I hired men from far away to dig and to bring him here. No one else knows, and no one else will find out.”

“Hans…” Radzig said, suddenly, and his voice was unbearably softer than Hans ever knew it to be. “This… Doesn’t your wife know? What will they do, when they open your family crypt, find Henry there?”

Capon flinched—no one spoke his name to him in so long. No one dared. 

“They will only open it once I die, to bury me by his side,” Hans replied, “and at that point, I will care very little what they think.”

“By his side?” Radzig shook his head, voice hushed. “In whose place is he? Yours or Jitka’s?”

“Mine,” Hans smiled. “I would build him his own spot, Radzig, but cannot do it without Hanush finding out. Once the council decides Rattay and Polna are to be finally turned over to me, I will get it made. I will even invite you for-”

“Don’t mock me.”

“I’m not mocking you,” Hans’ voice was serious. “He’s your son. Once Rattay is mine, I will make sure you can visit his grave as you have the right to. I will make sure his name is there, in all the respect and glory it deserves.”

The bells tolled. The town was waking up; the bird stopped singing, chased away by the Pirkstein mouser. 

Radzig inhaled again, trying to calm down. Looking at the future lord of Pirkstein—despite the time that passed and bitterness that aged him so fast—he could see that terrified boy again, on the day that Henry died.

“Hans… You need to…” Radzig didn’t know what to say; how to say it. “You need to let go.”

Hans nodded.

“Of course, Sir Radzig. Thank you.”

“I’m not saying this to be cruel.”

“I know,” Hans replied. “But your words are wasted. There’s nothing you can say that I haven’t said to myself. And none of it matters.”

“You can’t hurt your whole life.”

“Can’t I?” Hans’ blue eyes were dimmed; his mouth curled up in a slight, sad smile. 

Silence fell. Nothing was said—and then, Radzig turned around. 

“Hanush will invite me to Rattay for Easter,” he said, walking away towards his horse. He gestured at his soldier’s from far away. “Find some plausible reason to let me into the crypt then.”

“I will. Farewell, Radzig.”

“God be with you, Hans.”

As the lord of Skalitz rode off, his retinue right behind him, Hans looked up at Pirkstein again: hoping Jitka didn’t spot him from the window. He didn’t want to be cruel either. 

He walked into the church, quietly; then, as each morning since he brought him to Rattay, he sat in the pew closest to the heavy stone plate covering the entrance to the crypt. 

In his mind, they floated in the lake on their backs, looking at the skies above: swallows over their heads, low, foretelling the rain. Henry’s hand found his, sending a ripple through the water as their fingers intertwined. 

✶ ✶ ✶

Hanush was the only one to oppose the name, when Hans’ son was born. It was late at night, and they all sat in the great dining chamber at the Upper Castle, raising a toast to the boy—healthy and beautiful, and strong. 

Hans had some wine, but not much. He knew all too well what would happen if he got drunk; it’s been years since he allowed himself that state. It was Hanush who drank, and drank, half in joy and half in worry: that now, with an heir, Capon’s claim to his estates would be enforced twofold and he would have no choice but to give them over. 

“Can you imagine…” Hanush swallowed down a hiccup. “Today again, there was a woman at the gates, demanding to speak with you. Ha!”

Hans did not say anything: he watched the burgundy swirl in his goblet, dark like dried blood. 

“It’s been months since the wedding and the whole domain knew your wife was with child, and yet these foolish wenches keep coming to shriek their claims.”

“I hope you did not pay her,” Capon said, dryly. “Whatever she told you, it’s not true.”

“Oh, I know,” his uncle laughed. “She didn’t even get past the guards. I instructed the whole of Rattay guard to send them away immediately, and not give them time of day.”

“Good.”

“Good indeed,” Hanush nodded. He looked at his nephew briefly: Hans didn’t know it but ever since the wedding, the guards were instructed to keep a close watch on his whoring. Months passed and they reported he never saw a single woman. Not one, not once. A changed man: a testament to the power marriage held, he believed.

“I will walk you to Pirkstein,” his uncle said, getting up; swaying and staggering. “Guards! Three steps behind us, and bring some of that wine.”

He insisted on walking him inside, right to the door of his chamber. Kept rambling about something; Hans wasn’t really listening. 

“Lower your voice, uncle. Jitka and the baby are asleep.”

“You should have sent for a better wet nurse than the one-”

“It is not a matter you ought to occupy your mind with,” Hans cut him off, “nor have much right to.”

“Seems I have little to say here lately. I would like to remind you,” Hanush muffled a deep belch, “that I am, still, the ruling lord here.”

“Aye, uncle.”

“And let me tell you again, boy… It is foolish to try and name your son how you want to name him.”

“Again, not a matter you should-”

“Yes, yes,” Hanush was getting louder, a bit too agitated. “You just need to let it go. Choose a different name.”

“Your father’s name was Henry. Your elder brother. It is a popular name in courts all over Europe.”

“Don’t make a fool out of me,” Hanush said, heavy hand planted on his shoulder. “You know-”

The door behind them opened—a wooden creak cut through the air. 

“It is the middle of the night,” Jitka’s voice was hushed but firm. Unyielding. “And you quarrel?”

“I was just telling my nephew-”

“I heard, uncle,” Jitka left the room; joined them in the corridor filled with the flickering light of torches. “You were berating my husband, as if he was a child, or as if you had a say in how we name our firstborn son.”

Hanush inhaled, slowly—realised how drunk he was. 

“If you knew…” He shook his head.

Jitka took a step closer; placed her hand on his shoulder, firm against his coat. 

“He is my husband,” she said, relentless, looking Hanush in the eyes with intensity enough to make him hesitate. “I know.”

Hans didn’t know what to say; didn’t know whether he should be saying anything. 

“And now, goodnight, uncle Hanush,” his wife said, her voice not softening. Only her eyes, once the Lord of Leipa left and she looked at Hans, were soft. 

Hans looked at her: gratitude in his blue eyes, deeper than a well. Deeper, perhaps, than the hole in his heart; one that no other love nor joy could patch. 

He didn’t know what to say.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she whispered, turning towards her chamber. “Goodnight, love.” She smiled. “Come see me and Heinrich tomorrow, hm?”

Hans nodded. She disappeared in her chamber.

Rain started falling over sleeping Rattay—it rained the whole night. 

The next day, instead of walking to the church through the muddy Rattay grounds, and sitting at the entrance of the crypt, he went to see his son. 

If he had gone to the church, as he had for all these years, he would find that woman there—the one who was demanding to speak with him. She sat there, smoothing out her skirts, edges of it white with flour. 

All she wanted to tell him was that the dog died the morning prior, and that she buried him at the mill. 

✶ ✶ ✶    

Sasau river froze over fully: the hills and fields were filled with snow, and the cold air was fresh and sweet despite all the smoke escaping the chimneys. Children were playing on the ice as Hans rode into the town, the monastery looming over him—he wondered, for a split second, whether Heinrich would have someone to play with soon. There weren't many children of his age at Rattay, and wet nurses made poor companions for little boys: rarely interested in wooden swords and loud whistles. There was nothing worse than a child haunted by loneliness—feeling unwanted. Always sad. And Heinrich would not have siblings, just as Hans didn’t have them.

Was there a different fate, then, for his son, than for him?

He shook his head to dispel those thoughts, snowflakes falling from the fur cap on his head and into his eyes. 

The truth was that Hans wanted to ride somewhere else that day: but the snowfall was too heavy to travel that far, and he knew very well it would have been a nightmare at night, as howling winds brought more cold with them and the shadows threatened wanderers with hardened bands of brigands.

He made his peace with the fact he would only ride out to Prybislavitz once spring came; it was a bitter peace but peace nonetheless. He would keep dreaming about the walls of their church until snows melted over the lands—and then, one beautiful spring day, hyssop and clover blooming around, he'd get to see them again. He’d get to see him again, the colours  still so fresh and vibrant as if they painted him yesterday.

Unless war got in the way. Still, if it did—another battle—he’d take that too. Maybe that time God would be merciful enough to take him.

With Prybislavitz out of his reach, instead, then, he rode to Sasau; the travel there still dangerous if he overstayed past dusk, but definitely shorter and more manageable. He hoped to be back in Rattay right after supper: once everyone was asleep.

Under the pretence of visiting the monastery and paying this or that indulgence, or having complex dealings with the merchants there, the ones who travelled from Prague, he rode to Sasau quite often. Perhaps too often for his own good. There was a young man there, at the baths: quiet, handsome, and discreet—who let Hans fuck his mouth for a couple of groschen, and never asked any questions. 

Bitter laughter bloomed in Capon's chest as he urged his horse to slow down, hooves silent on the snow. Many years passed and no matter how much he desired it and how much it haunted him, he never let another man touch him the way his Henry did. He never fucked another man or had another man bury himself within him; he allowed himself only the Sasau baths, only the warm softness of one stranger's mouth, and no questions asked. No words exchanged. It was sad in a way that made it funny, nearly. So he laughed. 

And then, each time as he left the coin on the small table and turned to return to Rattay, the white neck of the monastery loomed on the horizon: towered above him, bells tolling, as if calling him to repent. And each time, he did not care for any sin or salvation: looking at the monastery, all he could think about was whether its stone floors still remembered Henry's steps.

Even now, as he rode to the baths, coat wrapped tightly around him—not bearing his crest—his mind filled with regret. Not because of the pleasure he was about to receive nor the poor man about to suffer it; simply because he looked at the snow and the frozen river and the evergreen line of fir on the horizon and all he could think about was that Henry and him never got even a single winter together. 

Their summer, in his head, would last forever. But he wished, by God, he wished so hard he could be granted at least one winter with him. At least one winter night—at least one winter morning.

He fought the vision of Henry singing a Christmas carol so off-tune that he had to silence him with a snowball—it wasn’t easy but he fought it off, as each time when he crossed the threshold of the baths. It was crucial. He would think about Henry all the time, each day: with two very important, sacred exceptions. He never thought about Henry when he lied with Jitka in their marital bed—and he never thought about Henry when he was with that Sasau boy. 

It was crucial. Each time he came with them, he thought about nothing.

Each time he came thinking about Henry, he was alone. 

Each time he imagined Henry’s mouth on his body, or his strong hands tangled in his hair as Hans knelt before him, or Henry’s weight on him as he took him—he made sure to be alone. Each time he stroked himself to completion, making sure not to make any sound—even as sometimes the wounds on his hands would reopen, blood mixing with his release as he came, shivering—he would ensure he was alone. He would imagine it were Henry’s hands, bloodied, that wrapped around him and stroked him—sometimes rough and sometimes tender, right after the heat of battle or in the softness of morning, in their shared bed—but he would always be alone. 

As Hans took off his gloves, the steamy air of the baths biting at his cold hands, he tried not to look at the wounds. They were nearly healed; he knew a day or night would come soon that he would open them again, with his nails or his dagger or a skinning knife or the edge of the table in the Upper Castle. It had been many years and yet that was a constant in his life since Suchdol, as reliable as the sun waking up each morning in the east and setting in the west. Perhaps one day the sun would rise somewhere else on the horizon, changing the world, and that would be the day Hans would wake up not missing Henry. 

Nothing now, he thought to himself. Nothing. Think about nothing now. Nothing. 

And so he did—once the young man walked into the heated room and locked the door behind him, Hans thought about nothing. As the young man dropped to his knees, Hans thought about nothing. As he made him hard—a task easy enough, a couple of strokes with the right hand and the left cupping him below—and as he took him in his mouth, the one that asked no questions, Hans thought about nothing. As Hans came, hard and rough against the back of his throat, he kept thinking about nothing, nothing at all. 

As he reached for the coin to put on the table, he was stopped.

“No,” the young man said, suddenly. It had been weeks or months since Hans heard him speak. 

He turned to him, brows furrowed.

“I don’t want your coin,” the man kept talking, looking somewhere to the side, wiping the corner of his mouth. Then, he looked up, right into Hans’ confused eyes. “I want you to stay a moment. Or until morning.”

His voice was shaking a bit—its melody more Moravian than local. Hans never thought about the young man’s voice before but he did so at that moment: because he knew it would be the very last time he heard it. It was pleasant. 

He didn’t say anything. 

“Please stay.”

No reply. Hans stopped himself from leaving right away—he didn’t want to be cruel. He threw the coin on the table anyway. 

“I know… I know who you are,” the man said, looking up at him. His eyes were glassy, on the verge of tears. “And I-”

“Is that a threat?” Capon asked, speaking to the man for the first time in months. His voice was harsh—unpleasant. His hand hovered over the pommel of his sword; a thousand thoughts rushed through his head, and he knew he could not allow this risk. “Do you care not for your life? No one would even notice you’re gone. No one would search for you or find you. And if you truly know who I am, you know I would suffer no consequence even if they did.”

The man’s eyes widened in surprise—in fear. Then, he shook his head, frantically, and the tears rolled down his cheeks. He truly was handsome, Hans thought, as his hand wrapped around the hilt. 

“No, by God, no,” the man whispered. “I only meant… I care. You are not a stranger to me, I-... I found out who you are and I just want to tell you that I…”

“Don’t.”

“You are right, no one would notice, no one would search for me. I am alone in this world. I’ve always been alone, no one else like me… Until you.”

Hans shook his head. He let go of his sword. 

“Take the coin,” he simply said. “And don’t think of me again.”

“Please-”

“This is the last time you see me,” Capon said, “and if I find out you told anyone, you will hang.”

The young man simply looked at him, eyes wide. Hands shaking. 

“No, no, forget it, please,” his shoulders shook, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

The lord was already halfway through the door, not looking back. 

“I won’t survive this winter without you- Your coin. Please, I’m sorry. Come back again. Please. I’m sorry.”

How come he could still feel pain, if his heart had been gone for years? How come that plea made him nauseous with sorrow? Hans thought it all died at Suchdol. 

“You will survive this winter,” he said, a looming shadow in the doorway. “And you will survive ten winters more, or twenty.”

“I’m sorry-”

“And leave the baths. You’re not cut out for this. Go…” Hans swallowed, bitter taste in his mouth. In his head, Henry stood at the other side of the room, against the wooden wall—his eyes, lake-blue, urging him to be kind. “Go to the monastery.”

“I’m even less cut out to be a monk,” the man laughed bitterly through his tears.

“Just go there to pray,” Hans kept his voice soft. “Ask for brother Lucas.”

“Why?”

“He’ll help you,” a step out of the door, never to return. “And you’ll help him.”

“Sir-”

Hans cut him off with a gesture of his hand, back turned to him. 

“Tell him brother Gregor sent you.”

Snow started falling as Hans rode off, hands squeezing the reins hard enough to bleed again.

✶

He shouldn’t have stopped at the tavern in Ledetchko. He should not have drunk the wine; he knew it. He should have just gone to Rattay, through the snow and the wind, before dusk. But the pain was too much. Hans thought nothing could hurt again; but the young man’s tearful plea hurt. His gaze hurt. Knowing he would never see him again—nor any other man—hurt. 

Now, it was night. It was dark, and the winds howled wildly as he led his horse down the treacherous forest path given he could not keep himself in the saddle. He didn’t want to risk someone jumping him and thus he walked without a torch; he knew the path well enough not to need the light. 

Or perhaps that was a lie. 

The falling snowflakes swirled in the air, joining the shaky, trembling lines blurring Hans’ vision. The warmth of the wine still coursed through his veins, venomous, yet to go to his head. It would only get worse. 

A shadow on the path, far behind him. Quiet. 

He wouldn’t have even heard him—he would have been dead, without noticing, if the man decided to strike. But he didn’t; he simply walked, a dozen paces behind Hans, snow muffling his steps. It was only his gaze, piercing his back from beneath the heavy hood, that made the hairs on Hans’ neck stand up. Made him stop in his tracks—hand, wavering, travelling to the sword by his belt. The horse neighed, the sudden volume of it cutting through the cold silence. 

“If it’s money you want,” Hans said, “you will get more if I reach my destination unharmed.”

He turned around.

In the briefest, terrifying second, looking at the stranger, he thought it was Henry. Broad, unmoving, stubborn—standing in the path like a hound, blocking his path. Threatening to lunge, teeth death-sharp, if Hans made a step forward. But it couldn’t have been Henry, could it? There was barely any Henry left in the crypt at that point. 

The silhouette of the stranger, wrapped in a heavy woolen cape—in the glow of a winter night, lit up by the white of the snow snapping relentlessly at the heels of the darkness—betrayed, immediately, two dooming things. One, he was strong. Two, unlike Hans, he was wearing armour, and plenty of it. 

The war birthed plenty of enemies; turned friends against him, turned strangers into companions, shifted alliances, broke promises. Half of Bohemia could have sent an assassin after him—a dozen bishops or dukes could have hired a mercenary to kidnap him or silence him. Hans didn’t care: he was only surprised how hard his heart started beating.

Nausea overcame him as he realised what that feeling was. It was hope. 

His eyes were used to the dark. The stranger drew his sword—slowly, relentlessly, holding his gaze—and the hood fell back, uncovering his face. 

Years weren’t kind to both of them, it seemed: the scar at the side of his face warped his cheek enough to make it hard for Hans to recognise him at first. Quickly, however, it all clicked: the broad shoulders, the armour—white as the snow around them—and the hateful, loaded look in his eyes. 

“It’s you,” Hans said, hushed, as the man took three steps toward him. “Istvan’s dog.”

“It’s you,” Erik parroted, voice rough and cruel. “Henry’s lord.”

Hans took a step back—nearly fell, his steps unsure and wobbly. His fist clenched around the hilt of his sword, knuckles white, but he did not draw it. 

Erik closed the distance between them slowly—he stood two paces away.

“How does it feel, knowing your master died so shamefully, cracked against the Trosky rocks like a child’s plaything?” Hans asked, mustering cruelty in place of courage. It was a challenge, bitter and venomous; bait that he hoped Erik would take, even though so much time had passed.

“You mock me,” Erik’s voice was raspy but calm. “But I’ve watched you. I’ve waited.”

“You-” The cold air stole whatever words Hans wanted to say. 

“Years, I’ve watched you. Waited for the right time… To kill you, or your bitch wife, or the whelp you’ve sired,” the man took another step, sword slowly raised. “And I realised one simple thing…You’re worse than me.”

The wind howled and the cold sneaked under Hans’ collar; a shiver overtook him. 

“Look at you,” Erik’s tone was lowered, “you didn’t even draw your sword.”

Capon clenched his jaw and unsheathed his sword, the silvery ring of it cutting through the winter air. The man laughed, and it was a terrifying sort of laughter.

Erik charged: in the darkness and the cold, with the wine dulling his senses, it was nearly a miracle that Hans parried the strike successfully. He parried the second one, too, guiding Erik’s blade away and readying for a riposte—but Erik simply received the strike against his armoured shoulder; withstood the force and shook it off. Then, he charged; if he wanted to, he would have sliced Capon’s belly open right there and then, gutting him, entrails steaming against the indifferent snow. 

The horse, spooked, ran away into the dark forest; ice crystals billowing from under its hooves.

“I could kill you,” Erik growled through gritted teeth, attacking again and forcing Hans into another exhausting parry. “God knows I wanted to, for years.”

Another attack. Capon was skilled—but he was unarmoured, and he was drunk, and his heart was dead. Erik was stronger.

“I promised him, you know,” the man said, another strike. Hans realised he was playing with him—forcing him into incessant defence without the desire to end the fight outright. “Last time I saw him… I promised him I’d find you and rip you apart.”

Hans was running out of the strength to keep parrying the strikes.

“Istvan?” He asked, breathing hard, ragged. Clouds bloomed from his lips against the winter air.

“No,” Erik barked out in laughter, “Henry.”

The name alone made Capon flinch—struggle as he parried another hew, switched into a boar tooth’s guard. He was so tired.

“So yes, I could kill you,” Erik’s voice echoed through the night, dripping with cruelty. “Or worse.”

Then, suddenly, he charged with his body more than his sword: the impact of it disarming Hans completely— ramming body against body, his gloved hand shot up to Hans’ neck; grabbed him forcefully by the collar of his winter coat. Erik pushed, hard, making them fall back into the snow; pinned Capon down with the whole weight of his armour and body.

His face, with the scar and the anger tearing through it, inches away from Hans. Eyes fixed on his, relentlessly. 

“Or worse,” he repeated in a whisper, pushing air out of Hans’ lungs. “I could fuck you til you freeze.”

Only one thought, feverish and horrid, ran through Hans’ mind:

Please.

Hans could feel his heartbeat in his throat, on his tongue, in his temples: pulsating, ringing like a bell. He could feel the weight of Erik’s brigandine crush his ribs. He could smell him. 

Erik’s eyes scanned Hans’ face for a short moment, as they breathed the same air; his body pressed against his harder. Hans felt dizzy with disgust towards himself—and want. 

How much cruelty could he harbour against himself—to desire to be violated? To wish for it, in that moment, in that snow, underneath that ruthless moon? To be ripped apart, torn open—possessed—eaten alive? 

Erik’s eyebrows furrowed, for a fraction of a second; indecipherable shadow passed through his eyes. 

“But neither is a mercy the two of us deserve,” he said, quietly, the cruelty in his voice underlined with strange sadness. If Hans raised his hand, he could trace the ragged edges of the scar. 

Then, the man pushed himself off—rose to his feet. Snow stopped falling; faint moonlight got caught in the steel of his sword as he sheathed it. 

“Killing you would spite no one,” Erik said. “Not anymore.”

Hans did not get up—it was hard to catch his breath. It was freezing; he lay in the snow as it bit against his back, and looked at the moon above him. It was so, so cold. He could feel the back of his neck turn to ice. 

“No one…” He whispered, against his own better judgement. The stars glimmered. 

“No one I’d care about spiting.”

Silence fell. Hans felt so cold. 

“War is a strange fucking thing,” the man said. “If we ever face each other on the battlefield, Capon, I will kill you then.”

Suddenly, he stood above him, looking down—blocking out the moon. 

“But if, by some chance, we end up fighting side by side,” Erik’s voice was raspy but controlled; calm against Hans’ ragged, panicked breathing. “Know that I will have your back.”

He reached out, offering him his hand—helping him to stand up. Capon accepted it hesitantly; struggled to get up, covered in snow, frostbitten. 

“Are you trying to mock me?” Hans coughed out, his knees nearly giving out the moment Erik let go. Reaching for his sword lying in the snow, he realised his head was spinning.

“No.”

Silence fell; only the moon was a witness to that strange, confusing scene. 

“We were the same, him and I,” Erik whispered, pulling the hood over his eyes again. “And since he…” He cleared his throat. “You should have died at Suchdol with him.”

He turned away. 

“And I should have stayed and died at Trosky,” his voice barely reached Hans through the cold midnight wind as he walked away. “We’re both dead men. Leftover, broken parts of something that can never be put together again.”

“Wait-” Hans called out, the cold nearly choking him. He felt dizzy. 

As Erik turned around, looking into his eyes for the final time, the winter wind blew his cape away for a moment, baring his throat. Hans could swear he saw the rough scar wrapped around it—from a rope. 

The man simply shook his head, slowly, and walked away. 

The snow behind him looked like endless, white waves. 

✶   

It took him an hour of wandering in the snowy forest, freezing, to find his horse. It took him three hours to get back to Rattay. He was already feverish: shaking, mumbling, flushed. He was already coughing halfway through: it was only thanks to his horse that he returned at all, his mind slipping away. 

When the guards ran out, alarmed, to get their lord down from the saddle, dawn was breaking over Pirkstein. Jitka and Heinrich were still asleep—so were the bullfinches and nuthatches wintering beneath the eaves and rafters. His breaths were shallow and irregular—agonal.

And yet, not enough. Just as Erik, God did not know mercy enough to end it. 

The Rattay guard and servants carried him to his chamber; disrobed him, casting aside the clothing nearly frozen to his back. They massaged his hands and feet, trying to bring back circulation into the cold flesh, slowly turning purple. Brought lukewarm water in, in jugs, like the one they used to wash Henry’s body back at Suchdol. They brought wine and stew. They brought the priest, too. 

Hans didn’t know it back then, but he would never fully recover—ever since that night, he would have to be careful each time he rode out; he would have to often retreat from battle before his men, short of breath, coughing up blood from his damaged lungs. He didn’t know it back then—but that strange night, in the snow, beneath the silvery moonlight, would bring him closer to Henry by years. It sealed his fate, even though neither him nor Erik knew it. 

Hans would die young. So heartbreakingly young. 

Still, he did not die that day, nor that night. Even though he prayed he would; it had been years since he prayed last—but veering in and out of consciousness that night, he prayed. 

It was the priest who noticed it first and went, overtaken by worry, to alert Hanush and Jitka: the lord would make it, most likely, but perhaps his mind was gone? One moment he was praying, in Latin, voice rough and solemn—and the next, he was laughing, singing, swearing.

Because there he lay, in the Pirkstein room he shared with Henry all these years ago—to make sure Heinrich did not see him in that state—on that small bed, and he laughed. Unconscious, feverish—he laughed.

“I didn’t say anything,” he laughed, his cheeks flushed and eyes closed, limbs contorted under the embroidered covers. “You must have misheard, Hal.”

And then, again, as Jitka ordered everyone, including the priest, out of the chamber:

“If you’re looking for a fight, Adder’s itching for one, go to him,” his tone was teasing, even though his chest rose in gasping, struggling breaths. “And only then come back to me! I’ll wait upstairs, once I beat Zizka and Godwin at dice.”

In his head, the air smelled like marigolds and mint, and meadowsweet. Mutt was running in circles around Henry’s legs, and the sun was far from setting: the skies as blue as his love’s eyes as he laughed.

I’ll come to you , Henry laughed, I promise.

I will always find my way back to you. 

✶ ✶ ✶

He counted each summer without Henry. There weren’t that many, in the end. When he died— too young and too broken— and the crypt was opened, Jitka made sure no one noticed anything out of place. 

She made one final sign of the cross over his cold forehead, and laid him down to rest, tenderly—in the same grave as his Henry, in the same coffin.

In their eternal summer. 

Above their heads, as they laughed, the branches of the linden tree swayed in the wind. 

✶