Chapter Text
Commotion wakes him. Thinking they must be back already, Hans dresses swiftly and runs out. The courtyard is alive with purpose, soldiers and hands hurrying back and forth.
“What’s happening?” he asks of a soldier struggling under the weight of three saddles.
“Talmberg is besieged, my lord. Enemies took the castle during the night. Lord Radzig and Lady Stephanie were taken captive. The lords Hanush and Divish are setting up camp. We’re to provide supplies and soldiers.”
Hans itches to ask for Henry, but a half-noble bastard would never be deemed important enough for a nighttime messenger.
“Kurva,” he swears. Hans takes a saddle from him, and joins the preparations. Saddling horses, loading saddlebags, carrying crates and sacks of food onto a wagon. By midday, sweat is running down his back in rivulets.
Between them, Oats and Nightingale are doing a fine job keeping the activities coordinated and the soldiers in hand. However, they need a true commander.
Puffing up his chest, Hans stalks over to them. “I will take command of the caravan.”
The men exchange glances. “My lord, Sir Hanush said—”
“They took the finest when they left for Vranik. What’s left here are men untrained in warfare. They need skilled warriors. They need a commander to rein them in.” Nightingale inhales to protest again, but Hans continues. “And when my uncle isn’t present, I am in command. Of Rattay, and every man in it. I will ride with them.”
“Very well, Lord Capon,” Nightingale concedes. “We’re almost ready. Armor up.”
After Nightingale stalks off to inform the soldiers, Oats claps his shoulder companionably. “Well handled, Sir Hans. I’ll never forget what a little rascal you were, but now you’re a man grown into his boots alright.”
Hans turns to see pride twinkling in his wrinkled eyes. It makes his throat thick. “Thank you, Oats.” Then, his stomach rumbles. “I never had time for breakfast—could you spare me something?”
Oats sneaks him some dried beef he gobbles up while gathering his armor. Without a squire at hand, Hans asks the help of a young soldier, a pleasant enough lad named Lukas, whose mouth runs nervously and hands shake as they close every buckle, tighten every strap. Even Henry would have made faster work of it. But for once, Hans doesn’t complain, mind firm on the task ahead. The poor lad probably imagined all his days whiled away patrolling Rattay — not to be sent to battle. He offers some words of encouragement before dismissing him.
His sword. His bow. A quiver chock full of arrows. That’s all he needs.
When mounted up, Hans turns Aethon to face the party behind him. “Listen up, men,” he calls loudly, pleased but startled when all their eyes snap to him. It makes his voice carry with growing confidence. “I don’t expect any trouble, but bandits and Cumans are roaming everywhere lately. Stay vigilant. Even the slightest curious thing, you let me know. Alright?”
With the mounted soldiers he rides, while Nightingale and the footsoldiers stay with the slower carts of supplies. Scouts gallop ahead to survey the roads. Hans longs to run with them, to feel Aethon bounding beneath him, to be the first to arrive at Talmberg like the knight in shining armor he is— but a display of foolish extravagance wouldn’t do it. Riding amidst the soldiers like he’s one of them, the discipline of a knight— that’s what would impress Hanush.
The ride is peaceful compared to the bustle that awaits outside Talmberg. Three whole camps are under construction. Hans rides into the first, asking where the lords are and where the supplies should be delivered. He’s sent to the next, atop the hill behind Talmberg; the supplies to the riverbank camp.
Lord Hanush’s face lights up when he spots the soldiers; darkens when he recognizes Hans in the crowd. When he dismounts, the angry storm approaches, followed by Sir Divish at a more leisurely pace, a hand over a bandaged shoulder.
“What the fuck are you doing here, boy.”
“Greetings, uncle,” he says calmly, loosening the saddle girth and leading Aethon to the water trough before giving Hanush his full attention. “I am here with soldiers and supplies, as requested.”
“You,” Hanush spits, finger pointed accusingly, “were not requested. You were ordered to stay—”
“That was yesterday. Today, the situation is changed. The men you called to arms are unseasoned. You know it as well as I. They needed a commander.” Hans straightens to his full height, shoulders rolled back. “I stepped up.”
“Insolent child,” Hanush grumbles, face growing red. “You are to get your arse back to Rattay, immediately.”
Hans’ calm demeanor is close to breaking. His voice is shaking with restraint as he continues. “We need as many soldiers as possible if we’re to storm the castle. I am far better trained than most men here. Uncle, see reason.”
Sir Divish steps closer, clearing his throat. “He has a point. Sir Hans is unblooded, but not unskilled. We need men like him right now.” Hanush’s glare redirects, only barely restrained by the respect the lord deserves. “Besides, he might be a good fit for tonight’s mission.”
“Over my dead body!”
“Unlike the other men, Lord Capon knows Talmberg castle. He’d be an asset to them.” Divish’s hand claps Hanush’s shoulder. Hans is eager to jump on the morsels of information, but he holds his breath, hoping against hope Sir Divish will convince and calm his uncle. “You know it’s true, my friend. At his age, you’d already ridden in several battles. Let the young lord prove himself.”
Hanush glares fiercely between the two of them. “Fine,” he finally concedes. “Don’t disappoint me, boy.”
He stalks off, and all the air leaves Hans’ body in a sigh. “Thank you, Sir Divish.”
“No matter, Lord Capon. I’m glad you’re here. Come, hear our plans.”
So it is he’s ordered to rest, sleep if he can, in a tiny coalburner’s hut. Henry already occupies the other bed when he sneaks in, closing the door quietly behind him. He can’t tell if Henry is asleep or not. The hut is dark save for sunlight breaking through the planks.
Very gingerly, Hans starts undoing his armor, trying and failing to keep the noise to a minimum. With every clank and rustle, he winces.
Henry’s form moves, and he curses softly under his breath. A heavy frown peeks out from beneath the blankets. “Wh’the fuck are you doin’ here?”
“I joined the second party of soldiers and supplies,” he says, unbuckling his armor more efficiently now he doesn’t have to remain silent. “And Sir Divish has asked me to join your mission.” Henry still only stares at him. “Sorry for waking you. I’ll— I’ll just get out of this, and then I’m supposed to sleep, too.”
“‘S fine, wasn’ sleepin’ anyway.” He still stares, watching each gauntlet and brace as they’re set to the side. “What’d Hanush have to say about it?”
“Oh, he was furious.” Hans breathes a laugh. “But Sir Divish spoke my case.”
“So the beast can be tamed,” Henry observes with a quiet chuckle. It feels like before, when an earnest and uncomplicated friendship grew between them, until the sickness of his heart muddled everything. Oh, how he’s missed this.
“Barely.” Hans is struggling with his cuirass— reaching but unable to grasp the buckles furthest up his chest. The straps pinch his fingers against the metal, and he curses every time.
“Here, let me.” Henry groans as he gets to his feet.
“I can do it—”
Henry steps closer and deftly undoes the two bothersome buckles. “Doesn’ look like it, sir.” His hand comes to Hans’ side, turning him to the side for better access. The strong, easy touch makes Hans’ skin itch. Henry undoes every last buckle, then slides the whole thing off.
“Thank you,” Hans says, expecting Henry to step away, but he doesn’t. Henry kneels to work on his greaves. “Henry, I can do it—”
“Jus’ let me, alrigh’?” Henry glances up at him, and his soft eyes take Hans’ breath away. He doesn’t want to order Henry around anymore, but the intent focus wakes something in Hans— to be served, doted on, cared about—
When he’s down to his chausses, Henry’s hand comes to his knee, and he looks up again. “You’ve been avoidin’ me.”
Hans’ heart jumps beneath his ribs. “I have not.”
Henry rises, staring in challenge. They are frighteningly close, so close he smells the stale sweat and blood on him. The lad stinks to high heavens, but it’s comforting. Pleasurable, even. Hans’ mouth is suddenly dry. “You ‘ave. Don’ try to deny it. You won’ greet me. You haven’ been trainin’, not archery, not duellin’. If I as much as pass by the tavern, you flee.”
“I’ve been busy,” Hans mumbles, casting his eyes down. A bad choice, as he’s faced with Henry’s chest, and Lord, it’s somehow filled out even more since he last saw him bare.
“Bullshit,” Henry says, suddenly gruff. “I thought we were friends, Hans.”
“We— we are, Henry—”
“Then why won’t you even look me in the eye,” Henry demands, grabbing his chin roughly and jerking it up.
“I— I can’t say,” Hans whispers.
“Damn you,” Henry barks, so viciously spit lands on Hans’ face, and it makes everything so much worse, because now he can’t breathe, Henry is so close, and the spit, always the damned spit— “I’ve ‘ad enough of nobles and your bloody politics.”
Henry releases him and steps away. He can’t go far in the tiny hut— he’s still within arm’s reach, and oh, how Hans aches to reach out.
“It’s not politics,” Hans protests weakly.
“Not politics.” Henry’s laugh is bitter and harsh, and Hans doesn’t care for it at all. “Findin’ some lowborn to do all your dirty work for you? Woo women for you? That’s what you don’ get, Hans—” here Henry turns to face him again, “that all you nobles do is order folks aroun’ jus’ for the pleasure of it, then toss them aside. An’ I’m sick of it.”
“I’m sorry,” Hans whispers, shame burning in his cheeks. “That was not… my intention.”
“But you— you—” Henry comes close again. Hans wants to step back, but refuses to back down. “You also helped me. Was friendly to me. I though’...” Something cracks in Henry’s face then, clean from anger to sorrow. “I though’ you cared abou’ me.”
“I do care about you, Henry.” The words come before Hans can think. His hands come to both sides of Henry’s face. In the low light, his pupils are dilated and large. His mouth is open around heavy breaths, lips wet. “I’m sorry if you thought for a moment I don’t. I see now I’ve been acting an arse. It’s true, I haven’t had time for you lately. I didn’t think it would… affect you.”
“‘Course it did,” Henry mumbles.
“Please forgive me, Henry. You are—” Hans heaves a shaky breath and exhales the admission. “You’re my friend. My— my only friend, in truth.”
The strength seems to drain from Henry then. “Oh,” is all he says.
“Come here,” Hans mumbles, wrapping both arms around Henry and tugging him close. Henry’s arms settle around his waist, and his forehead rests on Hans’ shoulder. Unable to resist, Hans presses his nose into Henry’s curls, finding them surprisingly soft. Even caked with sweat and dirt, he smells strangely good.
Hans can’t remember when last someone held him without being paid to.
Neither seem willing to part. They stay pressed together, simply holding each other and breathing. For far longer than Hans expected. So long he begins to melt into Henry’s chest, because he is warm and steady in that way so little in life is, and Hans is desperate for more of it.
However; if this is all Henry can offer him, he will be content. If all they ever will be are comrades, brothers, friends, Hans will be content. If Hans must live for the spark of mirth between them, the brushes of hands as they walk side by side, a clasp of arms, he will take those moments and hoard them in his greedy heart.
But Henry does eventually step back, with an awkward scratch to his neck. “Thank you, Hans.”
“Of course, Henry.” He clears his throat. “Now, shall we actually get some rest?”
Hans spends most of the afternoon staring at Henry’s snoozing form. When he finally finds sleep, it’s only with his own arms wrapped around himself, missing warmth and steady breaths on his skin.
A complete fucking cock-up, their mission is. Discovered and alarmed by the arrow right in his own buttock. It was all Henry’s fault, for questioning his direct orders. Hans is a lord, for crying out loud; yet here he is, carried like a sack of potatoes over the peasant’s shoulder. Henry’s broad hands are on his thighs, and he can’t even appreciate it for the pain. He barely minds Henry’s complaints as he curses and shouts, rage the only thing holding off sheer panic.
Each rung of the ladder hits his limp legs, sending jolts of agony through his whole body. He whimpers and fists his hands in Henry’s pourpoint. How he could ever mistake a bee sting for an arrow is now beyond him. Henry is shaking and panting with the effort, but they make it down, and Henry gently puts him down, keeping his hands on him.
“Can you walk?” Hans tries putting weight on the leg. He would have crumbled to the ground if Henry weren’t holding him. “Alrigh’. Come along, Hans.”
Heaving Hans’ arm over his shoulder, Henry helps him limp and hop back to the camp. The walk seems far longer now, and they’re both panting as they step into the torchlights.
“What the fuck was that,” Hanush shouts, an accusing finger already pointed at Hans.
“Let me pass, sir. He’s wounded,” Henry says shortly, continuing past Hanush to the closest table, which he gently lays Hans face-down on. Hans groans with relief at the sturdy surface beneath him, too pained to worry with embarrassment for now.
“Serves him right, I’m sure,” Hanush scoffs. “What did you do now, lad? Find some poor serving maid to stick your cock in?”
Hans is too faint to even muster up indignance at the unfair accusation, or a protest when Henry’s hands grip at his poor arse.
“He is not to blame. I am.” Henry breaks off half the arrow’s shaft, sending a spike of pain all the way up his spine. “We found the hostages in the shed, but they were only commoners. Lord Capon bid us to retreat.” Henry’s hands are deft and swift as they prod around the wound. “I wanted to search for Lord Radzig and Lady Stephanie. I argued with Sir Hans. That’s what alerted them to us. I am sorry, sir.”
At some point Master Feyfar appears with an armload of bandages and potions. He sets them down and urges Henry to step aside, but he only grunts I’ve got him. His hands never leave Hans’ body.
Hanush clears his throat, rage successfully defanged. Hans is fair game; his fellow lord’s bastard is not. “Well. If you’d gone looking for Radzig and Stephanie, you certainly would be discovered. I know you want your father back, lad, but keep your temper in check.”
“I will, sir. My apologies, sir.” Henry’s palm slides up his back, and he leans closer to Hans’ face. Heavy steps growing quieter; Hans believes and desperately hopes it’s Hanush retreating. “And my apologies, sir. I’ll have to pull the arrow free.”
“No, no, please, no—”
“I’m afraid it’s quite necessary, my lord,” Master Feyfar supplies as he soaks rags in wine. “The sooner, the better. I’ll have a poultice ready.”
“D’you want a drink firs’? Migh’ help with the pain.” Now Henry’s hand is rubbing calming circles between his shoulders. Hans nods, whimpering. Henry gently turns his face to the side, and puts the wineskin to his lips. He drinks so fast he fears drowning, but after, a giddy warmth spreads pleasantly through him.
Master Feyfar plants one hand on each shoulder to hold him down. Only Henry’s hand closing around the arrow shaft has him groaning and clawing desperately at the table. “Try to relax, sir. It’ll lessen the pain.” Henry’s free hand grabs his arsecheek and shakes it, releasing tension and making the muscle jiggle. Hans laughs with the absurdity. “On three.”
“Please, Henry, no, I can’t— please—”
Henry makes it to two, allowing Hans one final plea that turns into a scream when the arrow is pulled free before the promised three. Blood spurts out and dampens his clothes. The pain is so immense he hovers on the edge of consciousness, dizzy with the drop below.
Without preamble, Henry yanks his hose and braies down. “‘S not deep, praise the Lord,” Henry mumbles absent-mindedly. “Only bleedin’ somethin’ wicked.”
Bare-arsed over the table like a child primed for a proper spanking, humiliation creeps up his neck. But it’s not for chastisement, only for Henry to press a wine-soaked rag hard over the sore area. To serve and dote and care. Panting, he rubs his cheek against the coarse wood as if it were the tender palm he yearns for.
Soon the sting of wine is replaced with a cool balm. Henry plants a dollop just shy of the wound, then rubs right into it. Hans shouts again, and Henry mumbles apologies in return.
Why doesn’t he just spit on it? Hans wonders. Henry’s spit would do miracles. He imagines Henry’s mouth over the wound, broad strokes of tongue, salivating into the wound. A sudden manic laughter makes its way through Hans’ throat.
“Fetch some bread, the lord’s delirious,” Feyfar calls. Someone comes with it, and Feyfar rips off small pieces of crustless fill and feeds it to him. He chews, grateful for the distraction, but still he shakes with silent laughter.
“Steady, m’lord, I’m almost done,” Henry says in a low, calming voice. A bandage is placed gently over the skin, then another is tied around his thigh and hip to secure it. The bandage digs into his taint and balls uncomfortably. Finally, Henry gently pulls his braies and hose back up, tying them politely into place.
“A fine job, Henry. I’ll give him some paink—”
“I’ll do it.” Henry is immediately crouched before his face again, another vial pressed to his lips. “Drink, Hans.”
“What ‘s it th’s time, peasant, spit ‘n piss?” Hans slurs, still laughing.
“No wives’ tales this time, m’lord.” Henry’s small huff of laughter soothes him far more than the wound dressing. “Proper painkiller brew. Master Feyfar brewed it ‘imself.”
The first sip has a blessedly empty relief falling over his body, and he mouths at the vial like a babe at his mother’s tit, moaning with pleasure.
“Tha’s quite enough, sir,” Henry says, pulling the blessing away from him. Hans whines and tries chasing the vial; a futile attempt, given how immobilized he still is. “Now all you need is rest.”
Slowly and gingerly, Henry and Feyfar manage to slide him off the table. With his arm back over Henry’s shoulder, they hobble together to their small hut. Hans is aware he’s talking, babbling, even, unaware of what he’s saying.
“Nice an’ easy,” Henry says quietly as he helps him onto the mattress. “On your stomach, m’lord, else you’ll be pressin’ on the wound all night.”
Hans heeds the instructions, especially as he’s left in a prime position to stare at Henry. His mouth is running, again, and worry niggles at the back of his mind. A handful of things he remembers with mortification, like telling Henry y’re my fav’rite peasant and thankyou f’r saving me, my noble knight, and simply long, sing-song Henryyyyyys. However, the morning after, Henry gives his delirious rambling no weight; only checks his wound with gentle hands, and brings him breakfast, helps prop him up in bed, even.
As he’s eating, Henry sits across from him, forearms resting on knees. He watches Hans, chewing on his bottom lip under heavy brows, until his head bows. “I’m sorry, sir.”
Hans pauses, spoon halfway to his mouth. “For what?”
“Your injury. Was all my fault. I shouldn’ve questioned your orders.” The tips of Henry’s ears are red, his jaw set.
Hans puts the spoon down, and considers the night critically. “Considering our position, and the guards patrolling the ramparts, we would have been discovered on our way back, regardless of our little discussion.”
“We migh’ve made it to the stairs, ‘n dodged that arrow.”
“Might have, should have, could have, would have,” Hans lists off with a carefree wave of his hand. “What’s done is done. It happened. And thank the Lord you were there to haul my arse out.” He accompanies the words with a laugh, expecting Henry to join him, and the matter will all be settled.
However, Henry still won’t meet his eye. It strikes him then— Henry treating his wound, helping him into bed, bringing him food— it’s not care; it’s a guilty conscience. It reminds Hans that no matter how well Henry treats him, it’s only an obligation. The realization makes the already stale bread thicken and grow in his mouth.
“Hanush was right— you shouldn’ve come ‘t all. Far too dangerous.”
Hans’ blood goes cold. How can Henry take Hanush’s side, after taking his so many times? He draws up, ignoring the stabbing pain in his arse, to sit straight and haughty. When he speaks, his voice is frigid. “In case you weren’t aware, blacksmith’s boy, I have been trained in combat since birth. If anyone should have stayed home, it should have been you.”
That would be enough reprimand, but Hans feels betrayed— like Henry has been befriending him solely to carry out Hanush’s orders, or worse, spy on him. “The only reason you’re here is Sir Radzig’s absurd fondness for you. Don’t think too highly of yourself— you’re nothing but his lap dog.”
Finally Henry looks up at him, and back is the barely leashed rage from their first encounters— the only restraint the formality of their birth, the threat of the stocks.
“Radzig’s lap dog, am I?” Henry’s voice is loud and harsh. “He barely even looks at me, other th’n to send me on new missions. Real fatherly care, that is.” The deep blue of his eyes are turbulent and terrifying. “If anything, I’m your lap dog, Lord Capon. Runnin’ behind y’r horse, keepin’ you outta danger, courtin’ women, forced to dine ‘n drink ‘n bathe whenever his noble arse desires.”
“Yes, you were so hard to convince to come along. Especially when I paid for your peasant pizzle to get wet.” Hans’ voice is lethal now, all the bottled-up resentment for Hanush and Rattay and the King and the fucking war unleashed on the closest target. “Don’t pretend I have been forcing you.”
“Don’ pretend you haven’,” Henry quips back.
“I was trying to be your friend!” Hans all but shouts.
The silence around them crackles. The words from their last conversation in confidence hangs like a threat between them. My only friend. One he’s about to lose, if he pushes harder. One it might turn out he never had.
“Aye.” Henry’s head shakes with a dark and bitter chuckle. “Too bad y’re such an insufferable, spoilt shit you have to pay for them.”
“Get out.” Hans’ whisper is tremulous as he shakes with fear and rage both.
“Gladly,” Henry barks, stalking out without another look.
Hans sinks back into the bed, mind reeling. His hands cover his face, muffling the long groan tearing out of him.
“Fuck!” he yells, grabbing his abandoned breakfast and throwing it across the room. Porridge stains the wall and drips onto the floor.
After hours of stewing, recounting their argument and coming up with savage retorts and insults for Henry, the anger slowly drains, leaving only a pitiful misery.
Please, let me make things right again. I need him. Lord help me, but I need him terribly.