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The battlefield is never a kind place. Cold and ruthless, it is a place where a person can change in the blink of an eye, and life fading with the snap of a finger.
A brave warrior may find a glimpse of his deepest fear, smothering the courage once burning in his heart. Likewise, a coward may finally discover a reason to stand up and fight. A nobody may turn hero in a day. In return, those renowned and looked up to may meet an end so sudden, the lengthy records of their celebrated lives and feats coming to an abrupt close.
Swords clash against swords. The sound of blades striking metal engulfs the entire plains, louder than the cry of vicious beasts. Spears and arrows zip through the air, piercing flesh and shields. In the year 1419, instead of rainwater blessing the land in abundance, the soils are soaked in cold blood, the Earth drinking from the bodies of departing souls.
Amid the blood-curdling screams and lost steeds trampling all over the battleground, a knight stands in silence. He is holding a sword in his hand, a fine blade surely born from the hand of a skilled blacksmith. Blood splatters stain his handsome face, the smell of rust and dirt coats his armor in filth. Tragic as it seems, still none compares to the look of desolation in his eyes as his head hangs low.
At his feet, another knight lies bathing in blood, his golden hair now smeared in crimson.
In the past, those strands of golden hair once shimmered under the sun, basking in the wind as they raced on horseback.
In the past, those bright blue eyes once sparkled in mirth and mischief, carrying the spirit and recklessness of youth.
Those torn lips once held the flavor of fine wine, conveying words sweet and sharp, orders both thoughtless and selfish. They chanted poems of flings and shallow affairs. Behind closed doors, those lips once said a confession so desperate they trembled in disquietude. And they have kissed him with love, regardless of status and opinions of the masses.
The knight kneels by the side of the fallen. How he wishes to find the ones delivering blades into the flesh of this man. How he wishes to avenge the suffering of his precious, inflicting on them a pain worse than death for the transgression they dared carry against his liege.
Yet as he holds the body unmoving in his arms, a voice rings in his head, reminding him that no longer has he the right to become his sword and shield.
After all, they are standing now on opposing sides. The lord he once served and the man once his friend have now become the enemy he must slay; the banner he waves is what draws the blood of his beloved.
The wind carries the distinct chirping of nocturnal insects coming to wake. As the day grows colder, Hans Capon is roused awake; his eyelids tremble slightly and flutter open.
He finds the rickety beams of a low ceiling, the humble roofs made up of flimsy thatch, and half-decaying wood barely holding up the walls — a hut so modest he can almost see the burden of age gnawing at the structure.
Twilight has descended upon the land. With the sun soon ceasing to shine upon them, an old fireplace nearby becomes his only source of light and warmth, a tiny spark of comfort amid the pain encroaching on his being.
Sir Capon, body in agony but his mind aware, forces himself to wake. Before he can make any sense of the situation, however, his eyes suddenly catch the presence of another beside him.
“–Who’s there?!”
A chill runs down his spine. Has that person been hiding himself so well, or has his instinct been dulled so much by injury? Hans immediately reaches for the sword at his waist, yet grabs nothing but air. It is then that he realizes he is no longer clad in his armor. His upper half and arms are wrapped in blood-soaked dressing. Lying on a wooden divan, a thin blanket is placed over his body.
Panic quickly grows within him. In contrast, however, the other person speaks to him calmly, as though merely discussing the weather.
“You’re awake,” he says, “I thought you wouldn’t survive the night. I’m glad…”
The words convey nothing but relief, yet the voice reaching out to him sends the nobleman frozen in place. Is it a hallucination born from his worsening injuries? After all, how is it possible for that person to be here with him?
“My apologies. I must’ve surprised you.” As though having read his mind, that person makes himself known once more; tenderness and amusement both are carried in his tone. “It’s me. I mean no harm.”
A name emerges in his head and rushes to the tip of his tongue, but Hans cannot bring himself to say it aloud. He doesn’t even dare to meet the other’s eyes, for he feels that the ground will crumble beneath his feet, and he will have nowhere else to stand.
But the gentle gaze falling upon him weighs far too heavily to ignore. That person does not compel him to look back. He only waits in silence, patiently waiting for him to spare a glance his way.
“......Henry?”
As soon as the word leaves his mouth, a twinge stabs through his heart as if someone has run a knife through his chest. Hans nearly chokes on his breath. Difficult as it is for him to look that way, now that he has recognized that person, it is no longer possible to continue pretending he does not see him.
Henry Kobyla, the bastard son of the late Sir Radzig Kobyla, watches him with his dark yet warm eyes. He sits on a small chair unbefitting of his stature, facing the bed where he lies. Their dirty, blood-stained armors are discarded in the corner; their swords standing side by side against the wall.
Is it only his imagination, or does Henry look more somber than the person he remembers? Had the battle really taken so much of a toll on him, that even such a robust and steadfast man would be crushed under the pressure?
But when their eyes meet at last, the solemn look on Henry’s face thaws in an instant; his lips curving into a familiar smile.
“How are you feeling?” he asks. “You were bleeding quite profusely before. To be honest, I wasn’t sure if my shallow talent for the healing art was enough to stop you from crossing over to the other side.”
“...Where are we?” Hans can barely keep his voice from shaking. “What is this place?”
“An old shack I found in the woods as I brought you away from the battlefield. I figured some hunters must’ve used it in the past, but from what I’ve seen, it’s been abandoned for some time.”
“And what are you doing here?”
“Well, I can’t just take you here and leave just like that, can I?” Henry shrugs, a hint of friendly laughter in his speech. “You were unconscious for a long time. I’m afraid a bear or other beasts would be attracted to the scent of your blood, and you would have no way of protecting yourself should that happen.”
“So you’re saying that you’re here to protect me?” Hearing that, Hans cannot help but derisively laugh. “Who are you kidding? You know full well that wasn’t the answer I sought from you.”
Faced with scorn instead of gratitude, the smile on Henry’s face dims slightly; his complexion somehow pales in the dim light. He lowers his head, for a moment saying nothing but stares at the broken flooring beneath them.
“...I came across you on the battlefield,” he speaks after a long time. “An arrow has struck you. It seems that you’ve fallen off your horse. I have no idea how many bones you’ve broken. You were covered in blood, yours and others’. When I saw you there like that, I…”
“Why, thank you for your concern, Sir Henry.” Hans scoffs at him. “But if I’m not mistaken, was it not the masterful work of yours and your comrades that I am in this state? In fact, it begs the question of why you did not simply leave me there to die, or raise your blade to chop off my neck. Won’t it make things easier for your side if the opposing force were to be crippled off one of their leaders?”
“Hans, I–”
“What do you intend to do by bringing me here? Do you wish to take me captive, use me as a bargaining chip like Von Bergow did in the past?” The more he speaks, the more bitter he feels. “It seems that years of serving at my side have given you some experience when it comes to war strategies, does it not, Henry? You know now where to strike your enemies at their weakest.”
Hans can no longer stop his mouth from running. His body is in excruciating pain, but the ache in his heart hurts far worse than any wounds he’s ever suffered in his life.
He cannot accept the state they have come to be. He cannot understand why this is how they are meant to be. If the two of them can no longer laugh and embrace each other in camaraderie upon their meeting, he would much rather have this man strike him with a killing blow than save him from the brink of death, only to wake up to the realization that they are not what they once were anymore.
In spite of the complicated circumstances of his birth, Henry has proven himself worthy of praise and respect. He’s gained himself the trust of many, noblemen and vigilantes both. In the span of a mere few years, he has been known far and wide for his noble accomplishments, a force to be reckoned with, a man deserving fear and admiration.
To Hans, however…
“......I cannot stand by and watch you die, Hans.”
At this moment, Henry speaks to him. The mere touch of his voice in his ears is enough to send waves of sorrow storming the hollow in his heart that Hans can barely keep his hands from trembling, tears from welling up in his eyes. But Henry continues to speak; in the same voice that used to cradle him to sleep in the rare chances they could lie together, he quietly speaks to him while maintaining the distance between them, as if afraid to cross an invisible line.
“I do not blame you for the choice you made, but I, too, have a reason for deciding to stand on this side — at least, that was what I thought. I was certain I had accepted the consequences of this path I’ve chosen. But when I saw you lying there, bloodied and barely breathing, I…”
Once again, he pauses.
Hans watches him as Henry closes his eyes, shoulders falling when he sighs. He noticed a heave between every sentence when this man speaks, as though even the mere act of delivering words was as heavy as carrying a mountain of sacks on his back.
By the time Henry looks at him again, there is resignation reflected in his eyes, ridicule at the words he himself is about to say.
“I once saw you walking straight toward death. The scaffold was set in place, the executioner stood there to place the noose around your neck. I was dumb and helpless then. I’ve done everything I could to get you out of there, and still all that was for naught. Even now, I still think it was the most terrifying moment of my life.” Henry gazes at him. “But only now do I realize. Being a bystander powerless to stop you from meeting with death is not the most terrifying of all. It is to become the executioner who kicks the stool from under your feet that is the most frightening. After all, I…”
He clenches his fists.
“No matter what difference is taking us apart, how can I ever bring myself to kill you with these hands?”
Henry Kobyla, the bastard son of the late Sir Radzig Kobyla, despite the unfavorable circumstances of his origin, has proven himself worthy before the nobility and vigilantes both. Within the few years his existence came to be known to them, he has gained the trust of many, accomplishing many great things far and wide. He is a man respected by all, someone feared by his enemies and admired by his allies.
To Hans, however, he has always been that adorable young blacksmith from Skalitz, who fought with him in the tavern and was punished alongside him, who rode with him in the wind, stayed throughout the most glorious and foolish moments of his life…and to whom he had once laid himself bare, giving his heart in its entirety in the presence of the crackling firelight.
Fate may have forced them to be apart, just like how it forced into his hands a marriage with another instead of a life of freedom traveling the world with the one he truly loves. But even if a man cannot escape the destiny and responsibility he is born with, can he not at least preserve the memories of his happiest days deep in his heart, locked away in a place only he can see?
“...What do you intend to do now?”
He asks, despite knowing that neither of them can give an answer to that question.
Still, Henry raises his head, smiling at him as he speaks.
“I want to look at you for as long as I can,” he says. “I do not know when we could see each other again, or find the opportunity to sit together with the situation being the way it is. Therefore, I want to stay with you like this and speak with you, even if you have nothing but contempt for me.”
Hans sees the man before him, a gentle smile so familiar on his face yet mist in his loving gaze, years of anguish held back from coming to spill.
How did the two of them drift so far apart? He was the person closest to him throughout countless moments of life and death. They have fought and reconciled, argued and laughed both in victories and predicaments.
But even if they are standing only mere steps apart, it is as though the enormous ridge of Sněžka in its entirety is standing between them, splitting lands and rivers, separating north from south. How can there still be a way for them to overcome this distance seemingly impossible to cross?
“...Heinrich.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Heinrich, that fledgling son of mine.” Hans says, the corners of his lips are tugged slightly into a smile, the first he’s shown today. “Once, I told you he’d surely take after me, performing great deeds like his father. As it turns out…”
A chuckle escapes him. Shaking his head, the Lord of Rattay and Polna, no longer confined in the immaturity of his youth, looks up at the man his heart has once chosen; that familiar face reflected within his blue eyes.
“...He’s become a great man, that Heinrich. Brave, kind, sometimes a bit reckless…just like you.”
Is that a glint of surprise he saw in that man’s gaze? At this point, Hans can no longer tell. Alas, that mist he discovers in the other’s eyes seems to have extended its invisible claws to him, obstructing his sight with a dam bursting so suddenly that his tears begin to fall uncontrollably.
“You’re not the only one, Hal.” Unable to keep his head up anymore, he covers his eyes, voice breaking as he speaks. “All these years, I, too, in all my moments of wake and dreams, have wished for nothing but to look at you again, and speak with you like we used to be, even if you may have nothing more to say to me.”
For a long time, Henry stays still in front of him, and he before Henry. The seconds seem to have come to a momentary stop; the only telling of the passing minutes is the faint chirping of insects in the woods and the snapping firewood in the hearth.
After what feels like an eternity, Henry rises from his seat. He takes a step forward, finally standing in front of Hans, and kneels in his presence. He lifts his hands, yet just as they are about to touch him, he stops.
In a whisper, he softly asks.
“......May I touch you…my lord?”
Hans looks at him, finding hope and doubt both swirling within those eyes. Surely, if he wishes to take his revenge now for all the suffering this man has caused him, all he needs to do is reject him with the coldest words he could muster, and his spirit will be broken beyond repair.
But there are two fools inside this rundown shack and Henry makes only one half of the pair. All the years past he spent yearning for this man he could only love but never have. Now, with the occurring strife breaking the final thread of the bond between them, would he refuse possibly the one and only chance for them to return to the past, to be who they used to be, even for just a fleeting moment?
Without a word, he closes his eyes, and that is all the answer Henry needs to know.
The calluses on Henry’s palms feel rugged against his cheeks. They have lost the warmth they once had, perhaps taken away by the lingering night, yet Hans cannot wish for anything else but for these hands to continue touching him this way, tracing every line of his face.
Henry wipes the tears in his eyes. He gazes into them, for a long time staying still without a word. Then, with the gentlest bump, he nuzzles against him; their noses touching each other’s.
“I love you, Hans.” He hears Henry tell him. “I still do.”
“...Then why did you leave me?”
“I cannot apologize for the choice I already made,” he says, “I can only say that I have my reason to be on this side. Surely, you, too, have a reason for standing on the other side?”
An evident truth, so obvious it does not need to be said. In his head, Hans knows what he asked was a stupid question, but his heart cannot help from wishing otherwise.
“If I’m not a nobleman and you’re not Radzig’s bastard son,” he asks again, “Would it have been easier for us?”
“Aren’t we right now?” However, Henry returns his question. “At this moment, we are only two nameless men stranded in the woods. What status is there for us to speak of?”
“You’re so unfair, Henry. You’re always so–” Unable to say another word, he pulls that man into his arms, holding him as closely as he can. “...I miss you so much.”
The scent of blood besmears them both, sweat and dirt still perch on their battle-worn bodies. In this abandoned hut that may collapse even with the briefest gust of wind, who can tell who is embracing whom?
If he can stop time now, Hans very much wishes to do so. To forget the life waiting for them beyond these shabby walls, to bask in this passion reignited after staying still for so long… When these thoughts cross his mind, Hans cannot help but laugh at himself. If he were ten years younger, surely, this would be the thing he’d choose to do.
Unfortunately, he isn’t anymore. If so…
“No strenuous activity for the injured.” Henry chuckles. Knowing exactly what he intends to do, Henry grabs his arms before Hans can pull him down, a look of mirth in his eyes. “It goes for me, as well.”
“After this night passes, there won’t be another chance for us to see each other again. At the very least, Henry, I–”
Having spoken this far, Hans suddenly realizes the implication behind the other’s words. He stares at his former squire.
Henry only smiles at him and says not a single word in return.
“...What does that mean?” Hans asks him, dread slowly creeping up his back. “What are you talking about, Henry?”
“I mean exactly what I say.” Henry’s composure remains unfaltering. “I’m afraid I do not have the capacity to satisfy you this time, my lord.”
“What? But you’re–”
Hans stops himself. Of course, how can he be so stupid? The two of them came from the battlefield. If even he did not come out unscathed, how could Henry not be in the same boat as he?”
“Where– Where are you injured?” Suddenly attacked with a sense of fear he had never known before, Hans clumsily tugs at the other’s clothes. “Where are you hurt, Henry? Show me.”
“It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not. If you’re hurt somewhere, we should–”
His voice falters. Despite Henry’s brief resistance, he manages to pull off the loosened collar of his shirt.
On Henry’s shoulder, an arrow wound has carved itself deep into his flesh, the skin and blood around it have turned black.
Even without asking, he already knows what it is — and what it means.
“Henry…”
“I’m sorry.” His former squire smiles. “I couldn’t bring myself to tell you.”
“But this… This is…”
“I know.” Henry casts a glance at his wounded shoulder. “It won’t be long now. By the time I realized what it was, the poison had spread too far in my blood.”
“And you let it be?”
“I'm sorry.” Once again, Henry smiles at him, a hint of regret in his voice. “Truth be told, when I decided to bring you here, I was gambling with myself. I thought…”
He shakes his head, chuckling at himself.
“I thought, when you opened your eyes and saw me next to you, you wouldn't want to have anything to do with me and make to leave at once. That's why I didn't do anything. As I said…”
He holds out his hand, reaching for the dumbfounded look on his lover’s face.
“...I want to look at you for as long as I can…while I still can…”
Words cannot describe the emotions brewing in his heart right now. Hans sits there without a sound, not knowing what he should do, what he should say.
Living in the age of conflict, he thought he had long been prepared to lose his own life or those close to him. Who would’ve thought that the moment would come so soon to his presence? And of all people, the one dying before his eyes is…
“I’m sorry…” The reason for his grave complexion divulged at last, suddenly, Henry looks a shade whiter to him in the firelight. “I wish I could somehow make up for all the troubles I've caused you. As it turns out, I have run out of time.”
“Henry–”
“Though my life is coming to an end, it is a short yet fulfilling life nonetheless.” Saying this, he places his hand on top of Hans’; his palm has grown so cold. “A mere son of a blacksmith like me could never have dreamed of living such a life, feeling the thrill of so many adventures…and most of it…is thanks to you.”
“Henry, let’s… Let’s stop talking, shall we? Surely, there is a cure for you somewhere.” Feeling himself trembling from sheer panic, Hans scrambles to gather his bearings. He looks outside, seeing nothing but darkness beyond the window, and draws his gaze back to the person in front of him. “Y-You’re quite in the know about alchemy and such, aren’t you? Tell me, what plants, what flowers should I look to stop the poison, or at least slow it down until we can get to the nearest town? I can still walk, I’ll go get it right now.”
“It’s alright, Hans. You don’t have to.” Henry shakes his head. The tender smile on his face remains unwavering. In its place, the strength residing in his body, hardened from years of combat and training, is slowly slipping away. “Can you stay here with me?”
“And watch you die before my eyes?! How many more of your selfish requests must I listen to?!”
“I’m sorry…” For the last time, the man who was once his most faithful squire looks up at him, staring at him for a long time, as though taking in the sight of his visage, engraving his image deep in his memories. “I have failed you once more.”
When the words leave his mouth, Henry, no longer having the strength to support himself, starts coughing violently. Hans quickly pulls him into his arms, intending to examine his condition. But something warm spills onto his hands then. When he looks down, they have been stained by the same red as the one bathing the corpses on the battlefield.
“...There’s just one thing, though…” A dying Henry, voice feeble and broken, tries to hold the hands of his beloved again, disregarding the blood smeared all over them. “If you would please…listen to my selfish request…one last time…”
“Henry, don’t… Don’t say that it’s the last…”
“I am content with the path I’ve chosen. However, if there is one thing I have always regretted…” He coughs again, blood dripping down his jaw to the creaking floor. “...It is that I’ve broken my promise to always stay by your side, leaving you to fend for yourself in this ruthless world. Therefore…”
His eyes briefly travel to the sword standing against the wall, in the corner leaning against another blade belonging to his former lord, before returning to Hans.
“Would you allow me…a chance to redeem myself…?”
At this point, Hans no longer knows what to say.
“How?” He can only ask, feeling a sharp pain piercing him in his guts.
“I could not protect you in life. Can you let me…look after you in my death?”
The rims of his eyes are burning. Scars and wounds tear his skin and flesh, but none compare to the pain of anguish clawing his heart apart.
Hans Capon embraces his beloved. He holds the friend once riding at his side, the man once lying with him through quiet nights. In the face of helplessness staring at him like a bottomless abyss, he can only break down in defeat. He wipes the blood on the other’s lips in vain. No matter how much he tries to share his warmth across, Henry’s body only grows colder.
Even after all these years, even after he's grown older, he still cannot save this person.
“...Henry…”
He seems to hear a chuckle from the dying man.
Henry takes his bloodstained hands. He kisses the joints of his fingers — softly, carefully, as though holding the most precious treasure in the world.
“I…care about you…you know?” He whispers. “Please…take good care of yourself…”
“Don’t you know that I also care about you?”
Hans wishes to say, but his tongue has become numb from the turbulent emotions threatening to rip his heart in two. So instead, he kisses the lips of the man lying in his arms, tasting blood in his mouth.
With that, Henry of Skalitz closes his eyes. This time, he never opens them again.
The battlefield is never a kind place.
Here, a brave warrior may succumb to his deepest fear, his burning courage doused to ashes. In return, a coward may finally find a reason to fight, for the first time standing for himself. A nameless warrior may become a hero in a day. Likewise, those illustrious knights and nobles may meet an end so soon, the celebrated feats of their lives coming to a sudden close.
In this cold and ruthless place, a person’s fate may change in the blink of an eye, whether they emerge alive from hell, or their life snuffed out with the snap of a finger.
Following the conclusion of the fierce battle near the end of 1419, Sir Hans Capon, once thought to be missing, returned unexpectedly to Rattay several days later, battered and worn by fatigue. He was riding a horse donning the emblem of the enemy’s force, a mysterious sword at his side instead of his own. The horse, he said, was the mount of a fallen knight from the opposing side. The sword, however, he said not a single word.
Soon after receiving treatment for his injuries, the Lord of Rattay and Polna, against the advice of his family and physicians, promptly resumed his noble duty. While the wounds on his body were healing, however, words had it that from the day he returned alone days after the battle passed, he already looked like a dead man inside, his being present yet his soul had seemingly departed ahead. The light in his eyes was all but extinguished. Like the anguished Galehaut losing his cherished Lancelot, it was as though a significant part of him was lost somewhere in that battle, and only his shell came back exhausted.
At last, by the end of the year 1419, he went to rest and never woke again, only weeks after his solitary return, barely over thirty years old. He was succeeded by Heinrich Capon of Pirkstein, his son from his marriage with Lady Jitka of Kunstadt.
In the final days before his passing, however, it appeared that the late Sir Hans had left a message to his only son, one that his successor dutifully fulfilled.
It wasn’t words of regret, and neither was it despair from someone dying so young.
He only asked for the sword he brought back from the battlefield to be buried with him, placed in the same coffin as he was.
Thus ends the story of Hans Capon of Pirkstein, the young Lord of Rattay and Polna.
The traffic light changes from red to green. As cars and buses come to a stop, people pour out onto the busy street, crossing over the black-and-white stripe.
[“...and that night they let open the tomb of Galehaut, that was the richest that ever might be, and on the morrow they let lay the body of Lancelot thereinto.”]
Hans steps over the edge of the crossing and onto the sidewalk. Going along with the bustling crowds, he takes out his phone from his pocket, turning on the screen.
[“And they let put writing upon it that said: ‘Here lieth Galehaut, the Lord of the Far Away Isles, and with him resteth Lancelot of the Lake.’”]
On the display, the cover of an audiobook in play greets his eyes: “Estoire de Lancelot” with a translation underneath, “Story of Lancelot.”
The chapter is coming to an end as he walks, and Hans pauses the audiobook before it moves on to the next chapter. Removing his headphones, he lets the device hang from the back of his neck, sighing deeply.
“What am I doing?”
A youngster his age should be spending time hanging out with friends, enjoying life to the fullest before the responsibility that comes with age descends upon them, after which they must say goodbye to freedom. In fact, he has just received an invitation from his classmates to go to a karaoke with other folks from the campus, one that he once again refuses after similar invites in the past.
Instead, he chooses to spend his time wandering aimlessly in the city, listening to an obscure audiobook reciting tales of fictional knights from hundreds of years ago.
It isn’t that he does not appreciate having fun with his peers. Hans considers himself quite the social butterfly; among his classmates, he is likely the one with the most connections with those from other circles, often receiving calls to meet up by different groups from time to time.
But once, there was a night when he lay in bed with nothing to do, scrolling through the vast expanse of the internet without any particular goal in mind. It was then that somehow, some way, he came across a small page on the net posting recommendations of literary works. The cover of this audiobook was among the numerous titles featured on the page. When Hans stumbled across it, he was unable to look away.
From then onwards, all his free times were spent listening to the chapters of this classic, over and over again, to the point that he nearly forgot to stay in touch with his friends. However, he can never bring himself to move past this particular chapter; his entire being seems to be held captive by the final sentence of the tragic episode.
What makes him so caught up in this? Why can he not forget the end of the two knights whose existences couldn’t even be proven in history?
Hans does not have an explanation for his behavior. Though he tried at first, after a while, he decided to give up reasoning with himself, completely resigning to the bizarre obsession taking hold of his mind.
“I'd better get home before the old man scolds me again.”
He turns off his phone and places it back into his pocket — or at least he intends to do. At that moment, someone walks in a rush from the opposite direction, bumping hard into him.
“H-Hey!”
Yet the culprit does not stop, soon disappearing into the crowds, and neither do the passersby around him who take no notice of the trivial accident.
Rubbing his arm that fell victim to the collision, Hans can only grumble to himself. He thus resumes his steps, turning the corner to find his tram stop just a little way further.
There are quite a lot of people waiting there while the car is nowhere yet within sight. Upon his arrival, Hans casts a brief look at the tram schedule posted at the side, reaching for his phone to check the time.
Unfortunately, he discovers with dread that his phone is no longer on his person.
“...Shit! Did I drop it just now?!”
Panic dawns on him at the thought of losing something so important in broad daylight. As he turns around to trace back his steps, Hans can already imagine his uncle’s endless nagging waiting for him when he arrives home later, more persistent than the preaching of his professor.
He soon gets to the place where the irresponsible passerby bumped into him earlier. But no matter how hard he looks, he cannot find even a glimpse of that accursed little phone.
“Fuck me. Someone must’ve picked it up and run with it.”
Hans scratches his head, making a mess of his otherwise pretty golden hair.
At a loss for what to do, a light tap touches his shoulder.
Hans whips around at once.
“Excuse me. You dropped this–Oh.”
There stands a stranger in front of him, a young man around his age. He has short brown hair and a good stature. In his hand, he is holding the very object Hans is searching for, his lost phone with a little crack in the corner.
Hans’ attention, however, falls not onto the now slightly defective item, even though he was looking for it up until a few seconds ago. Instead, he stands still in a frozen silence.
[“...and on the morrow they let lay the body of Lancelot thereinto. And they let put writing upon it that said…”]
The pair of deep blue eyes before him widens slightly. The stranger is petrified all the same, for a moment seemingly forgetting what he originally intends to do.
In his head, Hans can hear the verses of the chapter of the audiobook he was listening to just a while ago. Along with it, images from a life long gone begin to flash in his mind, one after another flipping through the forgotten pages of his memory.
In front of him, the stranger is the first to collect himself.
[“...Here lieth Galehaut, the Lord of the Far Away Isles, and with him resteth Lancelot of the Lake.”]
“... My apologies. I should’ve worded it more appropriately,” the stranger tells him, a familiar smile on his face. “I believe this is something that belongs to you…isn’t it, My Lord.”
