Chapter Text
Hynce first found out about Henry when he was eight years old.
Having only recently learned how to read, he’d been working his way through every book and manuscript he got his hands on - be it a selection of poems or a manual on horse gear maintenance – with varying success and understanding, but undeniable persistence.
One rainy day, curiosity drove him to foray into his father’s study in search of a reading. He didn’t mean to pry into Father’s private belongings, but while browsing the contents of the bookshelves for an interesting enough work, he came across a prettily painted wooden box and, well, he couldn’t not open it.
And, after seeing that it contained a stack of letters penned undoubtedly by Father’s hand, he was going to close it and return it to its rightful place, genuinely. But then he caught a glimpse of his own name in one of the letters and, well.
He just wanted to take a peek.
The letter was addressed to a Henry and dated from a month prior.
Some of it covered mundane, everyday affairs; who arrived in the castle, who left it, some gossip about people Hynce didn’t know.
Big part of the letter was about Hynce himself though.
“Hynce is truly a natural with a sword. I wish you could see him. Old Bernard seems to have gotten soft with age and praises him in a way I’ve never been praised – at least not to my face. Though, now I’m finally beginning to see things the way my parents and uncle did. If they had been too generous with their praise of my skills, I would have turned out a much worse brat than I did. I wonder if you could bear my presence so easily then?
I do not think that would be a problem with Hynce though. The boy inherited more of his mother’s virtues than my flaws, thank the Lord. He’s obedient and smart, he reads everything he can get his hands on and has an impressive memory. That might yet prove the death of me, because too late did I realize I was sometimes too open around Hyna with my various opinions of this or that so-called nobleman who, coming here, deprives a village somewhere of its idiot. That little devil is picking up everything he hears and repeats it at worst times possible. Right now, it’s easy to laugh it off, especially since he has the face of a cherub, but I fear in a few years’ time, his mouth will get both of us into trouble – is it not amusing, how the tables have turned?”
Then came a paragraph or two about political matters Hynce had little interest in. The letter ended with:
“Time and time again, I wish I had you here with me. We faced so much trouble and turmoil together, why can’t we share times of reprieve from those too? Will it take another war to bring you to me?
God be with you, Henry.
Yours,
Hans”
“Henry,” Hynce murmured quietly.
The letter sounded as though it was penned to a close friend, yet Hynce has never heard of a Henry.
And, most importantly – why wasn’t it sent?
The boy leafed through the letters – there were around thirty total, the oldest and most paled with a date from over six year prior.
All started with “My dearest, Henry”. They varied in length – from barely a page to a few of them, filled with tightly packed verses. Sometimes they were written within the span of months, sometimes weeks.
Hynce bit his lip. This was as far as he could go in good conscience; he looked at the letters, he didn’t read them, save for just one. If he were caught, or if Father ever asked, he wouldn’t be able to justify reading through the rest of the... correspondence?
Well, that was not much of correspondence if it wasn’t sent. By the looks of it, they were more like an epistolary log, addressed to a mysterious friend... or someone. It would be even worse if he read that.
Decisive and proud of his conviction, the boy put the letters back inside the box in same the order he found them in, closed the beautifully painted lid and put it back on the shelf. He left his father’s study with a richly illustrated guide to grassland herbs.
He came back a week later.
In these few short days, the mystery of the letters was eating Hynce alive.
Who was Henry? Why has Pa never mentioned him? Why was he still writing letters to him? Why did he never send them?
So, while one day Father went out for a whole day to visit old sir Divish at Talmberg, Hynce slipped into his study and took out the box that had kept him from focusing on anything properly for the entire week.
He read one letter after another, carefully placing them on a pile in the correct order, starting from the oldest ones.
Hynce was delighted to find that the first letter – written when he himself was less than two years old - treated almost entirely of him.
“The little devil is growing fast and getting quite lively too. Thank the Lord he cannot walk all that well yet – I dread the day when he will be capable of freely roaming around on his own two legs. Or, worse, running.
He has a head full of curls the colour of dry hay. We thought his eyes would get lighter in time, but they still remain dark brown, like his mother’s.
Remember how little he was when you first held him and he easily fit in your two hands? Remember how scared we were that Hyna would remain small and scrawny? Well, that is not a concern anymore – that child is outgrowing his clothes almost overnight.
He is not fond of sleeping at all. He drives the nursemaids insane. I sometimes take him with me while walking around the castle. He is the calmest when we visit the stables – and if that is not a sign of him becoming a fine horseman in a few years’ time then I don’t know what is. I shall have to find him a suitable horse soon. I heard some trader recently managed to bring a couple of those short, sturdy wild horses from Masuria – I am told they are mighty tough and strong, if nowhere near as tall as a proper warhorse. Just right for a boy – not too high to fall down from.
I have shown him the sword – I swear his eyes lit up a little bit and it seems to his taste. And I mean it in a quite literal way – he immediately tried to start chewing on it. He is not yet done teething, you see. That is also what makes him so moody.
I wish you were here to see him grow. When you first saw him, you swore him your fealty – that should he ever need aid, you would be there to provide it. A babe cannot possibly grasp the weight of such promise, but a growing boy surely would. I wish he had you by his side – my heart would be at ease if I knew you were there to watch over him if something were to happen to me or his mother.
I miss you, Henry. It has not even been a year since we parted, but it feels like a century at least. Since you left, I feel as though a part of me went with you. Which, I hope, you know is true.
I also hope the letter reached you at least – I hope you read everything I wasn’t able to say. If not, that is alright. I know you understand. You always understood me, sometimes even better than I understood myself.
God be with you, Henry, wherever He chose to lead you.
Yours,
Hans”
Hynce stared at the page. He was right to start from the oldest one.
For one, he learned that Henry a real person – something he hadn’t previously been entirely sure of. He did wonder if it was maybe not a friend at all – perhaps a saint or some patron his father prayed to in a form of a letter.
Not only was Henry an actual person – Hynce met him! Or, well, as much as being held by him as a baby counted as a meeting.
Secondly – Henry was alive. At least, Father thought him alive at the time of writing the letter. That cleared another of Hynce’s doubts – if the letters weren’t written to a deceased friend, a threnody of sorts.
But, apparently, the situation was different – Henry was around until Hynce was a few months old. Then, for whatever reason, he left and Father didn’t know where to find him.
Hynce reread the last few paragraphs.
Father’s words did not seem angry – Hynce doubted whether he and Henry parted on bad terms. It seemed more as though some sad necessity forced the two apart.
What else was there... oh, the sword!
The sword has been hanging proudly on the wall in Hynce’s chamber since forever – Father said it was a gift for his first birthday and that, in time, Hynce would grow into it.
Roughly once a month, the boy dragged the sword off the wall to see if he already possessed the strength and size to wield it yet. Usually, he later needed help to put it back up.
Father mentioning the detail of Hynce trying to bite it truly sounded like an amusing little anecdote one would include in a letter to a friend, fully intending to send it.
Whatever scruples Hynce might have had while walking into the room were gone after reading that one letter. He hurried to read the next one and the next ones after that.
Two things remained constant – the first one were extensive descriptions of Hynce’s milestones as he grew up:
“...Hynce spoke a full sentence today!...”
“...Hyna rode a horse on his own for the first time this week. I knew he would be a natural! As much as one can gather that from watching a boy walk a horse around the paddock a dozen times. But he holds himself as though he was born in a saddle...”
“...His hair is still so bright. And curly! And there’s more and more of it by the day. Walking around the castle, you usually see it before the rest of him shows up. I only wish he were not so averse to brushing it!...”
“...Hynce managed to lift the sword a little today! Any day now, he shall start swinging it around! God help us all!...”
“...Ran into a wall at full speed today and suddenly at least half of his milk teeth are moving. Truly, this child!...”
“...I had a toy bow made for his birthday and almost paid for that decision with my eye as soon as the boy got a hold of it. I am both scared for my life and impressed with his aim...”
The last few sentences were always addressed directly to Henry.
These varied in tone. The oldest ones were full of bitterness and almost angry, while the more recent ones turned resigned and wistful, as though Father grew used to the state of things, still without fully accepting it.
Hynce was so enthralled in the letters, he wouldn’t have noticed if an armed garrison rode horses right to the very door of Father’s study, and later he thanked God in his nightly prayer that Father himself haven’t discovered him either.
For the next few weeks, Henry and the letters occupied his mind, leaving little room for other topics. All his toys lied abandoned in the corner, as he sat looking out the window and imagining what Henry might be up to now and what kind of adventures he and Father shared back in the day, each vision more fantastical than the previous one.
***
Over the next few years, the mystery surrounding Henry grew together with Hynce and accompanied him at all times. Not being able to gather much about the mysterious man from the letters, his main entertainment became filling in the gaps with theories of his own.
Bits and pieces from the letters allowed him to guess that Henry was a master swordsman, so he pictured him as a mighty knight of great stature, donning a shiny armour and wielding a heavy, two-handed sword. He rode a huge warhorse, white as snow, and as fast as wind. He was as tall as Pa, maybe taller, and his shoulders were as wide as the castle gates. His face... well, he had a face, definitely. A knightly one too.
When Hynce was bored or couldn’t sleep at night or got in trouble for one reason or another, he grew accustomed to imagining sir Henry magically appearing and chasing the cause of his troubles away.
He fought off bandits and dragons alike and Hynce liked to make believe Henry was secretly watching his fencing practice or archery training and was impressed by what a fine warrior the boy he’d last seen as a small baby proved to be. Hynce imagined how proud his father would be if he knew Henry could see his achievements.
The fact that he knew close to nothing about Henry, save for how much he meant to Pa, only allowed his imagination to roam all the more free, akin to a horse with reins let loose.
Henry could be anything and everything Hynce hoped he could be. He could be a hero from a foreign land or a knight from a mysterious and secret order; a mere human or a mythical half-giant.
And it was both exciting and disappointing to know that his theories and guesses will never be proven neither right nor wrong. That Henry was to forever remain a legend, a mystery – little more than a figment of Hynce’s imagination.
***
Hynce was twelve when his mother died.
It happened on one of the hunting trips she enjoyed so much. A cheerful party of nobles and soldiers led by Hynce’s parents left early in the morning, while the boy was in his room, suffering from an upset stomach, and came back a few hours later, when Hynce was up and ready to catch up.
Later he learned that while the party was cheering for the first prey of the day – an impressive boar – a second animal, previously unseen, charged out of the bushes at the scattered company; Mother was standing right in its path. She earned a couple of deep gashes before the rest of the hunters managed to subdue it.
The procession that hurried through the gates in Rattay in front of Hynce’s eyes was the stuff of nightmares.
Everyone in panicked disarray, Father covered in blood, supporting Mother barely clinging to consciousness on his saddle. One hound was carried in his master’s arms whining in pain; there were a couple of torn clothes and hastily bandaged wounds.
Hynce remembered the events of the next few days with a feeling of complete detachment, as though all that was happening did not concern him at all – as though he wasn’t even in his own body and merely watched from a distance, like a carnival play on stage.
He saw Father carrying Mother to their room, shouting for a medic. Then Hynce was sitting by his mother’s bed, holding her hand while she assured him everything would be alright. Then, he was being ushered out of the room, one of the servants hugging him to her side.
Then, he was walking in the funeral procession, holding Father’s cold hand. He watched the family tomb, where Mother now rested, decorated with flowers. Father wrapped his arms around Hynce’s shoulders and led him back to the castle for the wake.
Suddenly he was sitting on his bed, staring at the fire dancing in the hearth. He was still wearing his formal clothes.
Someone knocked on the door and after a moment it opened with a creak. Father entered, also still dressed the same as he was for the funeral.
He didn’t say anything, merely perching on the bed next to Hynce and putting an arm around him.
Hynce gratefully leaned against his father’s side. He knew they both experienced a similar feeling; that they should say something yet didn’t know what or how.
He didn’t know when he fell asleep. Hynce woke up under the covers, still in the same clothes, but with his shoes put away neatly by the side of the bed.
Glancing at the window, he realized he woke up at the same time as usual; that despite the fact that his mother was gone, he still woke up at the same time, as though nothing happened.
The next few weeks passed in a similar daze. Hynce wandered the castle like a ghost, responding to greetings, but rarely seeking contact or activity.
A few days after the funeral, his classes resumed and he was actually grateful for something to occupy his time – he assumed this is what Father might have had in mind, having him attend his lessons again. When he struggled with transcribing a poem or defending himself against Captain Bernard’s attacks in the training arena, for a moment he was distracted from the giant hole that his mother’s absence left in his life.
All the time, he expected the pain to finally break the numbness; to crash into him like a charging horse, as the realization settled in.
But nothing of the sort happened. All he felt was emptiness – both inside and around him, in the place Mother was supposed to be.
He noticed Pa’s concerned glances cast his way, but neither he nor Hynce had any illusions regarding the answers he might have. Hynce didn’t mind; he wouldn’t even be able to say what he wanted to hear from his father.
A month and a half after the funeral, Hynce’s legs carried him to his father’s study on their own and the boy realized how long it’s been since he last checked the box for new letters.
The letters... He almost forgot about them.
That finally sparked a bit of interest in him. He hadn’t thought about Henry since Mother died; imaginary friend was of little help against real grief. But now, he suddenly felt the need to read the letters once more.
So he entered the room and with great surprise found his father sitting by the desk. In his own study.
Ah. Hynce was so overcome with the thought of getting his hands on the letters that he forgot to make sure Pa was occupied somewhere else.
Father looked up at him from the desk and didn’t even scold the boy for entering without knocking. Instead, he smiled happily, as though nothing could delight him more than Hynce barging into his study and interrupting his work.
“How are you, little chick?” he asked. “Did you need anything? A book?”
“Uh...” Hynce hesitated. “Yup. I mean, no. I just... Wanted to see you?”
“Oh?” Father turned fully towards him, his smile growing a bit worried.
Hynce walked to stand in front of him. When Pa was sitting, Hynce was already a couple of fingers taller than him.
“I guess I just wanted to ask how you are doing,” Hynce lied bravely.
“Me?” Father blinked.
“Uhm.”
The man breathed a quiet laughter.
“I should be asking you that,” he said, reaching out to take Hynce’s hands. “You don’t talk much these days and I don’t even know how you are holding up. I should... I should be asking you that. I’m sorry I didn’t”
“It’s fine,” Hynce murmured, squeezing Father’s hands.
They fell quiet for a few moments.
“She was very proud of you, you know that, right?” Father said finally. “She loved you so much and knew you’d grow into a fine young man. So do I”
“I know,” Hynce murmured, “I just...”
What was he going to say? That he missed her, but in the same way he used to when she went on a long trip to visit friends or relatives? He missed her as though he expected her to come back tomorrow or the day after at the latest?
Father must have realized Hynce wasn’t going to finish the sentence and didn’t push. Instead, he pulled Hynce into a tight hug, which the boy graciously accepted.
As he rested his head on Father’s shoulder, his eyes caught sight of the page lying on top of the desk, almost entirely covered in text.
Hynce’s eyes darted to the very top of the page.
“My dearest, Henry...”
The verses below were packed too tightly for Hynce to make out and before he could even try, Father released him from the hug and held him at an arm’s length.
“You have grown so pale these past few weeks,” he said quietly. “The weather is so nice, you shouldn’t stay indoors all the time.”
Hynce looked aside. How was he supposed to explain that he found it almost insulting how spring made itself at home, causing everything to bloom and come to life, while his world was shattered. How could the skies not weep for Mother? How could the flowers blossom as though nothing happened?
“What say, we go for a ride tomorrow, you and I?” Father asked. “We could ask for some food to be prepared, have a picnic? Maybe drop by Neuhof to look at the foals?”
“That sounds great,” Hynce smiled.
A few months ago, that would sound like the best day possible. Now, he only felt mildly enthusiastic at best.
“It’s a deal then,” Father smiled.
Hynce nodded and bid him goodbye, casting one last glance at the letter.
***
Normally, he’d wait until an opportune moment, when Father was busy somewhere else, preferably outside the castle, but this time Hynce felt he couldn’t postpone reading the letter. As though it would contain some answers. As though it was Henry who spoke through it, not Father and as though his words had a power that could somehow make things better.
So, for the first time ever, Hynce snuck into Father’s study at night. The secrecy of it all – the need to tiptoe around the castle and conceal the light of his candle – excited and pleased him; Hynce felt as though he was a hero in a story, sneaking around on a dangerous mission requiring utmost stealth and skill.
The letter was no longer on the desk, so Hynce headed directly for the painted box. His heart pounded madly when he opened it and there it was! A letter, dated for today.
“My dearest, Henry,
Jitka passed away a few weeks ago.
I wish I could say it was a peaceful death, but instead she went down like a warrior.
I mourn for her in a way I had not thought myself capable of, certainly not all those years ago when I was given news of our engagement.
There was a brief time I wrongfully resented her for being chosen as my wife, as though it was her fault somehow. Be at ease. I am not a perfect man, but I can swear I never acted on those lowly feelings and attempted to treat her at least decently, which proved easier than I had thought.
If things were different, I think I could have loved her in a way she deserved and maybe hoped for when thinking of future marriage, but even without that I truly feel we both became more content with our relationship in time.
She had desired this union no more than I did and that, ironically, became our common ground and a source of understanding. We had no illusions for prospects of romantic love, which gave us a lot of freedom, in a way, not placing any expectations on one another. In the end, I think I can say we became good friends, good partners and good parents for Hynce.
Being able to love him and care for him together with Jitka gave me more happiness than I thought was within my reach when I first learned I was to share a life with a woman I hadn’t met, let alone loved.
And now, she is gone. And I feel that loss more acutely than I had expected. I suppose, it would be hard not to, having shared a life for twelve years.
I shall try not to pity myself too much, but you always had an abundance of patience for me, so here I feel entitled to pour out all my woes. I am overcome with unfairness of it all. First I lose you, then Uncle, now her. And for what?
All that is keeping me afloat is the awareness that this time I was not the only one to lose someone dear. Hynce lost his mother and, Hal, I have no idea how to help him.
How can I assure him that, in time, the pain dulls, things get better and more people who will love him shall come into his life, when all I can feel is how it all leads to more loss and pain?
He is a smart lad and a sensitive one too. When he looks at me with her eyes, I know every comforting lie and platitude I could provide him with would be seen through immediately.
Time and time again, I wish I had you by my side. Now not only for myself, but for the boy.
Jitka was everything a child could hope for in a mother and now all Hynce has is me. I don’t want to fail him.
I do not think I ever needed you more than now, Hal. I bet you would know what to say, how to help him, how to show him that there is a point in all of this. You were always better with words than me.
But, alas, I am not the selfish, spoiled brat I once was, believe it or not. I would no longer permit myself to ask you to drop everything and come to my aid. Wherever you are, I hope you have a life you are happy with, and a lovely wife, and a beautiful house, full of kids and Mutt’s puppies.
I hope we will see each other again someday, if not in this life, then the next one and drink to the old days. Maybe a Sylvan Red?
If I could have one last wish to come true before I bite the dust, it is for you to see Hynce wield the sword you gifted him. So you know they are worth one another.
Yours,
Hans”
Hynce was kneeling motionless on the floor, its coldness seeping through his nightshirt.
He allowed himself a second to acknowledge that maybe this was the one letter he shouldn’t have read.
Alas, Hynce shrugged, the harm is done.
He ran his eyes through the text once more.
Hynce felt sorry seeing how scared Father was of failing him and struggling to help. If he could, he’d go straight to Pa’s room to tell him that it’s alright; that Hynce knows he is doing his best. But... he wasn’t yet ready to come clean about poking his nose into Pa’s affairs.
Finally... Henry.
How could he not be here if Pa needed him so badly?! How could he not realize how much Pa missed him?! What could have kept him away for so long, without giving a sign of life?!
The thought of finding Henry has crossed Hynce’s head multiple times in the past, of course it did, but it struck him as looking for a needle in a haystack. He could go around asking after a Henry who used to be Pa’s close friend a decade prior, but if even Father didn’t know where to find him, how could anyone else?
But now... Now Hynce received a piece of the puzzle that might allow him to start tracking down Henry.
The sword. His sword – the weapon he looked at every day and even managed to wield with more and more ease. He hadn’t known it was a gift from Henry.
That fact brought him some odd satisfaction and Hynce smiled.
Henry gifted him a sword. He didn’t even know Hynce – he knew he’d never have a chance to, and he gave him a sword.
Such a gift had to be custom made – Henry had to commission it at a master blacksmith. It could have been sent straight from his workshop to Rattay, but Hynce doubted a man would let such a valuable gift be sent straight to the recipient without first examining it himself. Which meant, if Hynce found the blacksmith who made the sword, he might know where to look for Henry.
Hynce’s enthusiasm dulled slightly when he realized that there were hundreds of blacksmiths across the kingdom, each one as probable a choice as the next one.
Well, he’d have to start somewhere – first, he’ll go to the local blacksmith in Rattay – perhaps he’ll be able to learn something from the sword – some mark only recognizable to those dealing in blacksmith’s trade or... or something like that.
The excitement that had faded a moment ago reappeared, as Hynce finally had a clear goal ahead.
Find the blacksmith. And find Henry. And get him to come back to Pa.
His plan didn’t go further than that. Finding the mysterious friend was already such a fantastical goal, so improbable that anything seemed possible if it was achieved – even the idea that, somehow, after finding Henry, things will be alright once more.
“We need you, Henry,” Hynce murmured towards the letter, “and I will bring you home.”
