Chapter Text
Hans watches Henry from the tower window, sick.
He can barely see him - dark hood, gloves, black coat that falls from his shoulders formless as a shadow. He can see the guards though. One falls, and is dragged by some unseen entity into the darkness. Down goes another. Then the guard by the stables. Finally, the one by the gates.
The hand guiding that blade had been on Hans's back mere minutes ago. He can imagine the bloody print of it upon his purpoint.
A torch flickers to life by the stables. Time to go.
There is little need for him and Brabant to move silently. They pass a man slumped in a pool of blood. They pass the door of the lady of the castle. Hans only notices the red seeping out from under it when his boot sticks to the floor.
Brabant stops when he notices that Hans has. His eyes go to Hans, then to his feet, "You must have realised that this is what you were asking of him, non?"
He hadn't. Because Hans never thinks. "Of course I did," he snaps.
Brabant nods, and they proceed.
They pass more dead guardsmen. Their wounded throats don't gape open, there is no unsightly exposition of flesh. Neat puncture wounds only, no more gore or drama than absolutely necessary. A chill crawls over Hans's flesh.
They flee, and ride like the hounds of hell are nipping at their heels. When Mutt growls and grumbles behind them, the resemblance is close enough that Hans prays for his stolen mare to go just that little bit faster.
Eventually, they slow to a trot, the horses' nostrils are flaring and Mutt pants from attempting to keep up with them.
Leaving Brabant trailing behind, Hans draws his horse level with Henry.
A smear of blood cuts a trail across his chin, barely visible through the dirt he's used to disguise the brightness of his skin. Hans suddenly wants nothing more than to lean over and wipe it off. To him out of the clothes that are surely soiled with more of the same and into a clean linen tunic, bright, unsullied hose.
"Not far now, Sir," Henry says lowly. "You'll like where we've been staying. Plenty of women and booze to keep you busy."
Of course, because the silly nobleman can't possibly be trusted with something so hazardous as an unoccupied second.
"And what will you be doing whilst I distract myself, hm?"
Henry casts him a shifty look out of the corner of his eye. At least he knows what he's done. "I'll be helping Zizka I expect. But thinking about it, I reckon he'll have tasks for you too."
Hans nods, which seems to satisfy Henry, although in truth, Hans didn't care for much right now beyond the cool air on his cheeks and the knowledge that, should he so choose, he could go racing off into the woods flanking them and there would be no sword at his neck to keep him back.
"Is that what you've been doing then? Helping Zizka?"
"Aye. Although I've been more focused on getting you back."
Hans's breath catches in his throat. Henry is his squire. It is only right that he prioritise Hans, but it's still… wonderfully novel.
"I'm only sorry it took us this long," Henry continues, "I won't bore you with the whole story, but there were… more steps than anticipated."
"You succeeded though, which is what matters. Obviously," Hans sniffs, "One more moment and I might have lost my mind. Did you see the size of the room where they were holding us?"
Henry snorts. "You should've seen the dungeon where they had us."
The reminder is deeply unpleasant. It isn't the first time he's thought about what might've befallen Henry and the others. In truth, it's haunted him. Being starved had been bad enough. He fixes his gaze on the road ahead. Any other way lies madness.
Something flashes in the corner of his eye, and he turns his head sharply - but it's only Henry. He's wiping a dagger on his coat. It starts out crusted red, but then it comes away clean and Hans is reminded abruptly of the cost of this freedom.
Henry notices him watching, and frowns. "Something wrong, Sir?"
"No," he says quickly. It will not do to question him now.
Henry puts the dagger back in its sheaf, and he must recognise some minutiae of expression that Hans isn't able to suppress, because he says, "I only killed those I had to, sir. You were under heavy guard. If I let them live, they'd have raised the alarm, and like as not we all would've been killed."
"I know," Hans says coolly. He doesn't mean to say it coolly. It was him that commanded this of Henry, after all. And he is grateful, truly grateful.
But there is a woman's blood on his boots.
"The— the lady of the castle?"
Henry's expression flattens, and something in Hans's chest clenches. It isn't the expression of a man whose hand has been forced to something terrible. It is the face of a man who has long since accepted the terrible thing within him.
"She would have raised the alarm," he says, and the terrible something leaks out just a little, staining Hans's hands too.
"I understand," he says. "And you're alright?"
Henry seems to be genuinely perplexed by the question. "Of course I am, Sir. I've killed before."
"I know. But…" But this time Hans saw. This time, it was for him. "It's a bad business."
Henry shrugs, "It's war, Sir. It's all bad business."
They stop to rest a while, some time between the pitch black of midnight and the promise of dawn, just after the birds awake and begin to sing through the forest. Henry slinks away as the first brushes of sun creep over them, showing the dried, rust coloured patches on his clothing.
When he comes back, his face and hands are clean, and he's changed into a fresh gambeson from his horse, a steel breastplate catches the gleam of their torches.
This is the Henry that cut the bonds on Hans's wrists when the Cumans too him. The one who risked both their lives to save a woman from far worse. The one who could condemn Hans for poaching and not be the worst kind of hypocrite. This man doesn't kill women in their bedchambers, and it is easier to breathe with this version of Henry riding alongside them than the one who does.
Hans dreams of the Lady of Maleshov castle.
Her castle burns, but she sits, unconcerned as her fingers work clever patterns into a soft woollen hood.
She doesn't stop when the flames catch her dress, and she keeps going when they lap away at her skin.
Muscle and flesh melt away, and she is only bones.
He wakes with a start, sweat soaking through the linen bed sheets in the Devil's Den. He sits up, peering out the window. The sun is just about to rise, there is no point in trying to go back to sleep. By the time he calms himself enough to do so, it will be properly morning again.
Henry stirs in the bed opposite.
He still smells like the smoke of Kuttenberg. It clings to him, to the pile of clothing at the foot of his bed, more surely than the blood he'd been spattered in. When he staggered off his horse yesterday, he'd attempted to fall into bed without even changing. It had been a herculean effort to convince him to do so.
The clothes still stink.
Hans isn't quite sure what it is that possesses him to dress, pick up the bundle, and make his way down to the spot by the river where the women do their laundry. This isn't the work of a nobleman. Henry should have stayed awake long enough to do this for himself.
But here Hans is, holding a torn, bloodstained gambeson under the surface, scrubbing in soap that turns his knuckles red raw and stinging. He stays under until the cold is too agonising to bear, biting and gnawing on his fingers, and then he stays under a little longer.
Still the garment is stained when he pulls it out, but it's muddy brown instead of red, and if he squints he can pretend its mud, not the blood of some man who Henry no doubt ran through with a sword. His father's sword.
Footsteps rustle in the long grass, and Hans looks up to find Henry watching him quizzically. He looks no different to how he ordinarily looks, save the corner of a white bandage on his neck, peeking up over his tunic. There's something wrong about that, but Hans can't pinpoint quite what.
"Is that… my gambeson?" His brow furrows. "No need to resort to theft, Sir, I could have procured you one of your own if you said something. I will be needing that one back, though."
He's kidding, but Hans isn't in the mood for it, so he tosses the whole, sopping wet thing at him, "Here," he says, "Have it, that'll teach me for trying to lower myself in assistance of my humble page."
Henry splutters as it hits him in the face, soaking him through, "Ugh," He grumbles, "What in the hells was that for? I'm all soaked through now. Christ." He peels it off, and hangs it where Hans has left the rest of his clothes out to dry, then does a double take, apparently only just noticing the rest of the clothes.
"Why have you been washing my clothes?"
"You expect a nobleman to sleep in the same room as something that stinks half as much as they did? Seeing as you apparently refused to do it yourself, I had no choice."
Henry's jaw tightens, but then he looks at the clothes and some indecipherable something passes over him. "You didn't have to do that, Sir."
Hans still isn't sure why he did. It certainly wasn't a favour.
"Well I did, so be grateful, peasant."
Henry rolls his eyes, then bows dramatically, "Thank you, My Lord."
"You're welcome. Don't let it be necessary again."
They lapse into silence. There is no more laundry to do, but the clothes are still drying. Henry comes to sit in the grass beside him. He lies back, kicking off his boots and letting his bare feet trail in the river.
In this light, his hair is spun gold.
It's hard to imagine him, eyes half shut, soaking up the early morning quiet, in battle. Which is ridiculous. He and Henry have fought side by side more times than Hans can count. They're brothers in arms before anything else. "I wish I could've gone with you," He says again.
Henry shakes his head, peeling open an eyelid to watch him, "It was a bloodbath. We barely made it out alive." His tone doesn't match his words. He isn't speaking like the survivor of a massacre, he could easily be discussing something as banal as grain prices. In fact, he almost sounds… bored. Disinterested in the topic at hand. As though his mind is elsewhere.
"Are you alright?" Hans asks, desperate for him to just say 'no, I'm falling apart' or some other such emotional nonsense.
Henry frowns, and lifts a hand to shade his eyes from the sun. "Think so," he says.
"Well," Hans doesn't bother trying to not sound sour as he picks himself up and brushes himself off, "I suppose I shall leave you to it then."
He doesn't run, but something in him wants to. Something in him never wants to look back ever again.
"It's healing well. Keep it covered, don't get it wet. It's not somewhere you want to sour."
Hans has walked in on something he shouldn't have.
Henry is sprawled out in the straw in the barn, propped up on the heels of his palms, whilst Godwin fusses at something on his neck.
It's too late to back out now, Henry's seen him, and his eyes are wide. "Sir Capon!" His hand flies to his neck, and even Godwin is eyeing Hans with suspicion. He definitely wasn't meant to see this.
"What's going on here then, gentleman?" He says, affecting a casual air. "Are you wounded, Henry?"
Henry's throat bobs. He doesn't say anything, just stares at Hans with a face like the very world is ending.
Godwin pats his outstretched leg, "He's going to see it eventually, lad."
He still doesn't speak, and Hans realises he doesn't want to know anymore than Henry apparently wants to tell. This is the kind of secret that smells of smoke and leaves its bloody clothes bundled on the floor. The kind that has puddles of blood soaking out from underneath a castle door.
The sun is high and bright, the scent of the grass and the warm forest pine cuts under the animal warmth of the barn. He could lie outside all day and turn cherry red, he could take Henry with him and ride and keep riding, until they are thoroughly lost and far, far away from whatever has the two of them muttering like monks and tending wounds in barns.
"Godwin…" Henry says, "Can you give us a moment?"
He hasn't taken his hand off his neck.
Godwin nods, and leaves, clapping Hans on the shoulder with a meaningful look as he does so.
"Well?" Hans says when he's gone.
Henry moves as though he is loaded down with rocks, but he stands and, slowly, peels his hand away from his neck.
A gallows is burned into his skin.
Puckered and red, surrounded by the white, membranous ghosts of blistered flesh.
Scars illuminate Henry's skin better than any monk's ink. The arrow wound on his thigh that peaks out from beneath his braies at night and it's sister on his shoulder. The still healing knot of pink and red on his abdomen from when Trosky's executioner ripped the flesh away in his dungeon. The stippling of miscellaneous cuts and gashes and grazes that cover his flesh and tell the many stories of his path from Skalitz to Talmburg to now.
There is only one thing that a mark like that can mean, and now it too is part of that manuscript.
"Oh," Hans says. It is inadequate. A noise he makes because otherwise the silence will crush him more surely than any rubble.
"I was going to tell you," Henry says, "I promise, I just— I didn't want you to think…. Hans…"
Hans doesn't know what to think.
They've both killed before. But this is the mark of a murderer, not just a killer. There is a difference between killing in war, killing to defend your lord or your King, and whatever this is.
But then again, Henry's war has always looked like this.
Henry takes a step towards him, and he hates himself for it, but he takes a step back.
"Hans," Henry says again.
Hans feels sick. "Tell me what happened."
Henry looks away, then winces, hand going to his neck as it tugs on the inflamed flesh. "No."
"That wasn't a request. I am ordering you to tell me."
"It's no noble tale. It won't make it any better."
"I'll be the judge of that."
"I said no!" Henry snaps. There is fury in his eyes. "Some things you're better of not knowing, sir."
"You don't have to protect me." Hans snaps back.
"That's the only thing I have to do!"
"No, I am tired of being treated like a fucking child!
"Then stop acting like one! Christ, Hans— I can't—" he groans and scrubs his hands across his face, frustration and pain etched into every stiff angle and jerking movement. "I made a promise that I'd keep you safe. There's things I have to do, if I'm going to do that, that I won't be able to do if you knew about them." He lets out a huff of air, drops his arms. "I can't be thinking what you're going to think of me, Sir. I just… I need to be able to do what needs to be done. So grant me this measure of privacy. Please."
He's breathing heavily.
Hans wets his lips. "It must have been agonising."
Just thinking about it - the stench of burning flesh, the sight of the glowing iron. It has his toes curling in his boots. Thinking about Henry going through it is almost too much.
"Aye," Henry admits softly. "It was."
"I don't like the thought of you going through that kind of pain for me."
"It wasn't just for you."
"I don't like the thought of you going through it for anyone."
Henry shrugs, then looks like he immediately regrets it. "Aye, well. It's the way I've chosen. Someone has to."
If Hans feels guilty for deceiving Henry about the deserters, it's no great difficulty to sweep it away when he remembers the Lady of Maleshov.
The brand.
It's healed enough now that Henry no longer keeps it bandaged and it's scabbed to a bloody, earthy brown. It hasn't helped Hans's dreams any. Hasn't helped the guilt that grows within him like knotting, twisting tendrils.
He watches Henry at every opportunity, waiting for the splinter. The crack.
It doesn't come. It doesn't get chance to come, he's so busy, every second of the day, waiting, waiting, waiting for Sam to return. Hans isn't nearly so busy. Hans has time to plan. It's not a big lie, that he wants to go hunting with Henry. And so they ride out.
Hans feigns shock when they find the camp. Whoever would have expected something like that, all the way out here? Certainly not him! But then, in a single sentence, Henry ruins it.
Quietly.
That isn't how this was supposed to go. But again he sits to the side, watches as Henry sinks his knife into mens' necks. Alone.
It's himself he's mad at, more than Henry. He should have known this was how he was going to handle it. They bury the men, and though neither of them are priests, they pray for them anyway. And then they ride back.
Henry is unconcerned, he's packing of all things, when Hans finds him.
Hans sits on his bed and watches. He's taking herbs. Vials of the foul smelling potions he insists on using for everything. Enough rolls of bandages that it's a wonder they all fit.
"Are you planning on opening a monastery?" He asks, and Henry starts.
"God almighty," Henry mutters, with more emotion than when he took out the deserters, "When did you get here?"
Hans shrugs, picking at a loose piece of straw sticking up from his mattress. "It's the evening, Henry. People sleep when it's evening."
Not Henry.
He buckles the saddlebag closed, and slings it over his good shoulder. "Well, I suppose I'll see you again when I'm done."
He doesn't act like a man who took the lives of five men single handedly this morning. Yes they were deserters, but Hans would have expected him to at least be tired. "I can't believe you're seriously still planning to ride there this evening."
That tightness in his jaw again. "What am I supposed to do, Hans? I've a job to do."
"I don't know!" And oh no, he's standing, he can tell he's about to work himself up into a tizzy, but it's too late now to stop it. "Perhaps you could try being tired! Or scared! Or, I don't know, sad about the fact that you killed people today?"
"Oh, for fuck's sake, not this again." He drops the bag back onto the bed. "We're at war, Sir. You yourself have killed as many men as me. What do you expect me to do? Throw a hissy fit every time I have to kill someone?"
"At least then I wouldn't have to worry if I'm sharing a room with a— a— a ruthless killer!"
Henry rolls his eyes, "Well, hate to break it to you, but you are. We're all ruthless killers."
"Not you." Hans says. "You were sick to your stomach after you killed Runt, Hanush told me."
"Aye, back when I was a coward who ran away."
Dammit. This isn't going anywhere. Hans pinches the bridge of his nose. Lowers his voice. Reasonable. He can be reasonable. "I'm just… worried about you."
"You sound more worried that I might turn on you in the night. You want me to tell you I didn't feel anything when I killed those men? Because that's the truth, it's been the truth for a long time, and I'd say it's the truth for most men here - yourself included."
There is a difference, Hans is certain, between killing men face to face, and sneaking up on them from behind and slitting their throats. "You should have let me help you. Because I can help you, Henry."
"One is always quieter. And I'm used to doing that kind of work, you're not."
"But that wasn't how it was supposed to go." Sakra. Hans realises instantly that he's fucked it.
Henry stills. "What do you mean 'meant to'?"
"I think you very well know."
Henry's tone lowers dangerously, "I think I'd like you to tell me."
Hans scowls, then sits back down. He grips the edge of the bed. Henry folds his arms, leaning against the wall. "Fine. Yes, I knew the deserters were—"
Henry explodes. "Of all the irresponsible, foolish—!"
"Let me finish!" Hans snaps. "Yes. I knew they were there. And yes, I took us there because I wanted to encounter them. And yes, I tricked you. But we were supposed to handle them together!"
"Well we didn't, did we?"
And how is Hans supposed to explain that he wanted to show Henry that it didn't have to be just him, alone, every time? That Hans is just as capable of having his back?
"Christ," Henry mutters, pushing off the wall and going to pick up the saddle bags. "Don't you think I've enough blood on my hands already?"
He's not wrong. Hans hangs his head. It would be more than fair for Henry, in that moment, to walk away and never speak to him again. It is quite possibly the worst fate that Hans can imagine. To lose him again so soon. A fate that he would deserve no less. "I'm sorry," he croaks. A dying gasp for air.
The mattress dips beside him, and suddenly, Henry is there too. "Look," he says, and his voice is far kinder, and Hans knows he is forgiven before he even says anything. Because that's Henry. "I don't know what bee's found its way into your bonnet recently, but you don't need to prove anything to me. I know you can look after yourself. But this is what I do. I promised I'd look out for you. Please don't make it harder."
Hans nods, "Very well. I truly am sorry, Henry."
Henry stands, "I know, Sir." He picks up the saddlebags once more. "Can I trust you not to get into any more serious trouble whilst I'm gone?"
Hans snorts, "I think you know the answer to that as well."
"Well, I suppose I can choose to hope for the best. I'll see you soon, Sir."
"See you soon, Henry."