Chapter Text
Hans didn’t think he was scared of dying.
As a kid, he believed himself too valiant to be truly in danger. Knights and Lords were destined to die on the fields of battle, not from seasonal maladies or unlucky falls down the hillsides of Rattay.
That was until his father passed away. Lord Jan Ješek’s passing truncated any chance to make sense of their strained bond—forcing it to eternally remain nothing more and nothing less than a boy looking-up-to his father and a man looking-down-on his son—and only then did Hans realize that there was no such thing as a spirit so noble that it could escape death until a more opportune moment.
It was fitting, he supposes, that his idealism should die along with his childhood.
And then, years later, a blacksmith’s boy had risked his well-being to save Hans’ life, despite their unlikely bond being as unstable as a wobbly-legged foal. And the idealism he long thought extinguished came out roaring from its hiding place.
From that moment on, through sieges and skirmishes alike, no matter how frightening the odds, he had the utmost faith that Henry would do his best to lead him back to safety.
And so it had been, again and again.
Even when his mind had been too full of wine to take the threat of being choked under bathwater seriously, salvation had come to Hans bearing a bouquet of roses, poppies, sage and dandelions.
A debt for life indeed.
He’d never known a man so surprising as Henry, so full of many unexpected talents… Hans couldn’t have been more wrong to doubt him the first time they met.
In fact, he was certain that Hal would’ve been a renowned knight, a great inspiration for all chivalrous souls, if only he’d not been born a bastard. His skills were boundless and ever-expanding, not meant to be limited by the demarcations of bellatores, oratores, and laboratores.
Alas, all of his outstanding qualities would be lucky to end up as little more than a footnote in history, if only because of the circumstances of his conception.
But Hans saw him, his potential and his capabilities, and he couldn’t help but feel invulnerable when they were together—yes, he may have been wounded or hurt, once or twice or… a few more times, and yes, the most recent wounds did hurt like hell, but he always recovered. Despite all his whining, Hans knew it could’ve gone a lot worse most of the time.
Henry’s own gallantry inevitably spurred Hans to be better and do his best, too, and wasn’t that a great thing? The very Saints, or the Fates perhaps, seemed to want to preserve their lives, finally granting Hans a taste of what he desired most—to be free, with a true friend at his side, open roads and blank pages ahead of them.
His faith in Henry didn’t waver in the jail cell, not even after each of the bell’s tolls put the bastion of his bravado under siege. Hal had even managed to sneak back into the dungeons to reassure him that he had a plan to let him out, and Hans knew that he would. As he always did.
It didn’t waver as the guards of Trosky led him past the jeering crowd and to the gallows, because he didn’t see Henry around so it meant he would still turn up—and turn up he did! Seeing his loyal companion there for him made Hans gather what remained of his courage and defend himself from the accusations once again.
It was then. When it all fell on deaf ears, when even Henry’s efforts were dismissed by those that couldn’t see the blood, sweat and tears he put into everything he did, it was then that Hans knew with certainty: in the end, young Lord Capon of Pirkstein was nothing but a scared mortal man.
Choked by the realization before the noose had even begun to strangle him, he counted what would be his last heartbeats.
One.
Trosky certainly looked awe-inspiring from afar, but here and now? It’s nothing but a rotting stinkhole. What a shitty fucking place to die.
Hans wondered if his father had been afraid when he passed away. If his men at the pond even had the time to feel fear before getting slaughtered.
Two.
It was my fault. I fucked everything up.
Suddenly, tears stinged in his eyes. He felt ashamed of himself, for ending up at the noose like a common criminal. In a land far from anyone who knew him, Hans had been stripped of everything.
Three.
You were right, I should never have left you. You make me a much better man than I could hope to be by myself.
The sole familiar thing that remained within his grasp was Henry. There was nothing but despair on his face, and it wasn’t an emotion that his unbreakable guardian angel should ever have to bear again. Hans oddly thought that he regretted that Henry was there to witness him die.
Four.
I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you how much I value you when I had the chance.
He thought he had more time, he never got a proper chance to settle into the role of “Lord of Pirkstein” yet, and he didn’t accomplish what Hans wanted even outside of his duties. There was so much he still wanted to do—places to explore, books he left unread and words left unsaid.
Five, six.
How could I depart this world with a quiet heart, never having known true love?
The executioner’s boot placed itself on the side of the stump. It wobbled.
Seven, eight, nine.
It can’t be the end, it can’t end like this, it can’t—
Hans held his last breath on God's green earth.
Ten, eleven, twelve—
Hans awakes gasping for air.
His heart beats fiercely in his throat, blood thrums in his ears, and his cheeks are wet with tears. There is no rope around his neck, no jeering crowd, and no defeated guardian angel crying out in the mud. Hans Capon is still alive.
He struggles to regain control of his lungs and let his muscles relax again on the unfamiliar bed. Von Bergow had graciously let him use the room tucked away behind the Lord of Trosky’s own chambers. The empty cradle and discarded toys looked eerie in the dark of night. Hans’s mind goes to Pirkstein, and the second bed that was placed there beside his own. He never got a sibling to share his room with.
The memory of his nightmares still rests heavy on his heart, and he knows he likely won’t be able to sleep the last couple of hours that separate him from sunrise. He wants to get up and find something to drink, stretch his legs or smell the night’s breeze, anything to distract himself.
Hans is used to exhaustion being his most constant bed-mate: hunting and sparring render his limbs too tired to move, the wine flowing in his veins make his mind too hazed to think, and if he is very lucky, the pleasant warmth of a wench’s touch would divert his heart from worrying about the melancholy that suffocates it from time to time.
He’s halfway through debating whether he has energy to get up and find if von Bergow’s bookcases may hold something decent to read when he hears a sound coming from the door closest to his bed.
The unmistakable click of a keyhole getting unlocked.
Hans shuts his eyes and stills.
The door opens with a soft groan, and closes delicately just as soon. He doubts he’d have noticed it if he were actually sleeping.
The intruder’s footsteps are quiet. They circle him and stop a few paces away, and Hans is mentally preparing to bolt and grab his scabbard from under the bed… But they move past him without getting any nearer.
A thief, then? he wonders. Would someone truly be so bold to trespass into a Lord’s private chambers? He thinks about Henry’s infuriatingly flippant attitude at the possibility that actual demons might lurk in the castle, and Hans decides to carefully peel his eyelids open, just in case.
The moonlight, combined with the dying embers in the fireplace, is bright enough for him to recognize the figure currently creeping through his room, and all of Hans’ apprehension ends the instant that he does.
Gone is the fine armor the man had half won from the Rattay Tourney, half pieced together from the enemies he defeated all over the Sasau region. Gone is the fine coat and fetching flower crown he wore during young Semine’s wedding, gone are the stinking rags they dressed him in when they were arrested and brought to the dungeons of Trosky castle.
Henry has come to him in simple clothes. A single layer of unremarkable tunic and hose, unburdened by the usual combination of padding and metal that protected his body, or by the finery that never failed to enhance the charismatic tone of his words. Only the familiar fragrance of a particular mixture of herbs adorns him now, its scent trailing faintly behind his steps.
Hans watches, unmoving, as his unexpected—but most welcome—visitor moves through the room, as if looking for something. Henry lingers near the desk before turning away and finally sitting on the bench near the windows. The moonlight coming from outside outlines the indecision that marks his brow.
He has a book with him, Hans notices only now—and sure enough, after a few moments he begins to leaf through it. Henry settles into a rhythm of reading a few pages, then looking outside the window, then towards Hans, and continues like this for a while.
Hans is sure that Henry knows he’s awake, yet he hesitates to do anything that might disturb the moment.
He’d usually rush to fill any quietness with words. Stillness is risky—it leaves him to wander in the hallways of his mind, and he isn’t sure he could face what lies behind the doorways. But with his most trusted companion here, it doesn’t seem so frightening at the moment.
He is reminded of another time he woke up to find Henry at his bedside. Well, it’d happened plenty of times back in Rattay—the bed, the one that would never be his sibling’s, had been offered to his new friend often enough—, but that was then, and now... Well, ever since they were attacked at the pond things have felt different, they’ve undeniably been different.
Rather, Hans thinks back on one of the dreadful days he spent as a hunter—a poacher, for fuck’s sake. If either of them cared to, they’d be able to approach the room’s windows and point to a specific spot in the woods northwards, where that same hunting camp now likely lies abandoned.
But Hans doesn’t want to think of that now, not when he still can feel the phantom touch of the rope that scraped against his throat just hours ago. So, as it often happens, his mouth acts before his mind has a chance to reconsider the decision.
“Would you read it aloud to me?”
Hans chuckles at the way Henry startles when his voice breaks the silence.
“If you promise to not complain about my only-recently acquired literacy not being spotless,” Henry chides, but already he’s risen to his feet.
“I won’t,” and it’s the truth. Perhaps Hans is too worn down from the events of the previous day to bother with their usual quips. “It doesn’t even matter what the book is about, I just…” Just hearing your voice is enough. “I just can’t stand the quiet, now.”
As Hans talks, Henry retrieves a candelabrum from the nearby table, throws another log on the fireplace and lights the candles from the rising flames.
Hans expects him to push a chair closer to his bedside, but Henry elects to sit on the foot of the mattress. His back flattens against the wooden board, and his legs fold underneath him—Hans would be impressed by the display of flexibility, if not for the loud cracking of joints that accompany the movement.
Finally satisfied with his position, Henry clears his throat.
“On the Obedience of Dogs and Monks.”
Hans bursts out laughing before the title is read in full, and he hisses when the book’s hard cover gets slapped against his legs. The smile brought on by the moment remains.
“Shush,” Henry scolds, amusement evident even while he makes a show of pouting. He clears his throat again before resuming.
“Dogs and monks have much in common. They dutifully follow the Lord's word, own little in the way of property, live simply and most of them don't talk much.”
Henry’s voice is hushed but clear. A gently bubbling brook, it occasionally stumbles into unfamiliar words like water parted by rocks, before it continues flowing placidly. Hans is lulled by the waters, Lethe and Eunoe wash away his bad memories and bring him the comfort of having someone he cares about, care about him just as much. He falls asleep within a few minutes.
He dreams of an abandoned hunter’s camp, deep into the woods. A hunting dog and a trained falcon forget their purposes and playfully chase each other around instead, uncaring of the hares and the does that graze peacefully in the clearing nearby.
Hours later, when Hans awakens naturally rather than because of a nightmare, the candles and book have been placed out of the way. But Henry is still at the other corner of the bed, snoring softly. Hans can feel the warmth of Henry’s legs pressed to the side of his own.
It strikes Hans in that moment, how precious their relationship is. How Henry’s the only person who, rather than pulling away after witnessing Lord Capon’s failings, decided to stay close to him instead.
Outside of the glass pane, the night bows out and gradually lets itself be replaced by the light of a new day, painting the sky pink like watered-down wine. No bell disturbs the birds perched on the roofs of Trosky Castle.