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Bianca
The first thing Henry thought to compliment was Bianca’s hair. Not very original, he'd concede, but in his defense, he was seventeen. She was only a year older.
The smile he received in return was bright, and his heart trembled. Bianca had a crooked tooth, he'd come to learn in a year or so, hidden deep. Every time she was unsure about something, she'd worry at it with her tongue.
“Jealous, Hal?”
“What, of your hair? Why would I be?” He was doubly lost, then, in embarrassment and confusion both.
“Bet you'd love it if I could weave flowers into yours. You stare at wreaths every single time, I know.” Bianca shrugged.
“Quit it with the teasing. They're pretty, aye? I like the colors and all!”
She giggled. Then reached to ruffle his hair.
“Aye. Don't worry, it's cute.” She winked, and Henry felt his cheeks heat up. “Thanks for the compliment, Hal.”
He could only pray to all the saints back then that Matthew and Fritz weren't nearby.
Bianca unfailingly danced with abandon. One of the memories Henry would carry through his whole life would be of her silhouette changing shapes in front of roaring fire.
He was a proper clutz at first. Awkward, worst of all, but Bianca was kind, and she taught him, one step at a time.
“Mind your feet! You'll crush mine otherwise.”
“I'm not that heavy, I don't think.”
“Oh, but you are!”
That night she put a cornflower she plucked out of her braid under his belt and splayed her hand onto his chest, counting his inhales.
She would do the same later, looking down at him in wonder as she took his virginity. He didn't last long — she didn't shame him for it.
“Do you think that's it for us? Skalitz, the tavern, the forge.” Henry asked her once, when he took her out on a picnic. He was resting his head on her lap and fighting sleep after a long day of work he wasn't lucky enough to weasel out of.
“What more do you need?” She was no less tired. People severely underestimated the amount of effort Bianca put into keeping the tavern running.
“I don't know. But that's just it, see? I don't even know what I'm missing out on. I just feel like there's something for me out there.”
“My,” she laughed, not unkind, “you fancy yourself an adventurer, Hal? A travelling merchant, mayhaps?”
“Why not? You doubt I can do it?”
“That's not it. It's a nice dream, getting to see the world, it's just that…”
“What?”
She sighted.
“For you, it's one thing. If I leave, what will I come back to? My friends, raising their children, with no child of my own. The tavern— I have responsibilities here, you know that.”
“You want kids?” Henry frowned. He never really thought about it, them becoming someone's parents together one day.
“Eventually,” Bianca shrugged. “Not with someone itching to leave, though.”
“You won't wait for me, then?”
“Hal, love,” she bent to place a soft kiss on his temple before announcing sternly, “No. I have a life to live. Not that I'll begrudge you living yours. Never have.”
They weren't strictly each other's one and only, weren't, apparently, strictly ‘till death separates us’, but neither of them minded much, so it worked out pretty well.
“Whatever happens, I'm glad I got to be with you like this.” Henry shared, easy and true.
“Sure you are. I just hope you find whatever it is you're looking for, even if not by my side.”
Most of all, Henry loved Bianca, for she was kind.
There was no body left to bury by the time he came back.
It was Runt’s fault, not Henry’s. Bianca joined the choir of the dead in his nightmares all the same.
Theresa
With Theresa, it was never really simple.
He noticed her back in Skalitz, of course, would've been an utter fool not to. It was, however, not the time for them: she was way too shy to initiate, he was way too skittish to commit. Besides, there was also Bianca. Theresa would've hardly been okay with it.
Things changed after Skalitz, because both Henry and Theresa did.
She saved his life, helped him get back on his feet, gave him a place to call home, however temporary. She was patient with him, and soft, and—
Lady Stephanie
She was patient with him, and soft, and she listened like — because? he'd never truly know — she cared. It was kind of maternal, though, and then there was her father's shirt, and now that Henry thinks about it, really, it was all shades of fucked up, but so was he: fucked up, and hurting, and eager to repay kindness with kindness.
He doesn't regret it, not fully, but sometimes he'd rather forget.
Theresa
She would fall silent for hours on end now and then. Needles under her fingers would freeze. She'd get this haunted look in her eyes, and he'd know what she was thinking about.
Every time he woke up screaming at the mill, Theresa would come to his bed and pet him until he was able to convince his body that the danger had passed.
“You're not walking in your sleep on nights like these, at least,” she would smile, apologetic for some reason.
“I'd rather he fucking walked,” Peshek would grumble.
“Sorry,” Henry would whisper to both of them.
He began avoiding sleeping there at some point. Whether it had anything to do with his sleepwalking combining with the nightmares eventually, Theresa would never learn. Sometimes, come morning, Henry found his knuckles bruised, his legs covered in small cuts.
It got better with time, but he'd already all but moved out by then.
Dating her reminded him of Skalitz. That was it, wasn't it? What brought them together. If Henry could be certain of anything, it would be of Theresa thinking, privately, that it was unfair, for them to get together only when all they could be to each other was remnants of the life taken from them.
He could see himself being happy with her in the future. In years and years, once the scars they both carried from Skalitz healed well enough.
“I can't get Sam’s face out of my head.” Her voice shook with pain as she confessed. “And I don't know what's worse, Hal, that he died in my arms or that I didn't even notice.”
There was nothing he could say to make it better.
Henry didn't promise her forever, couldn't bring himself to. She deserved better, by all accounts.
“You're leaving,” she said once, when she noticed him packing.
“Yes,” he nodded. “I'm needed in Sasau.”
“And then? When a week, two, or three pass, and you're back from Sasau?”
“I can't know.”
“But you do. As well as I do. Then, they'll send you somewhere else.”
She wasn't angry with him. She was infinitely sad.
“Hal, I'll always cherish you, but I can't do this. I need to, to try to move on. You have your swords, and your battles, and your revenge. All I get is stitching you back together afterwards and reliving Skalitz all over again, Sam, wounded and scared of dying. I can't be stuck in this, waiting for you to share his fate or to go missing one day, never to return. I'm sorry, Hal, but I can't, even if it's for you.”
That was the first and only time he saw her cry. She let herself mourn.
They could've been happy together, if only Henry also had it in him to try and move on.
He could only hope he, too, brought her some closure.
They parted friends.
***
Johanka looked at him with pity. Lady Stephanie hadn't been just his neighbor’s wife, but his host’s. He repented.
Shame was clogging his chest as he did.
Myshka
Henry didn't expect to find something so incredibly human in Myshka.
He had been exhausted by the time the wedding started. Rivalries, blood feuds, and poachers — the fucking poachers — plagued the land, and somehow Henry kept getting involved.
Myshka turned out to be a breath of fresh air, mostly because neither of them wanted or expected anything from each other.
When they danced, the voice counting steps in his mind was Bianca’s.
Klara
Novakov was a clusterfuck, famously.
Klara was sly, intriguing, and she smelt like the herbs Henry was all too familiar with.
“There was this girl,” he told her as they lay together, letting minutes slip by, “she kind of made fun of me for liking flowers.”
Klara hummed.
“She wasn't a healer, I take it?”
“No,” Henry shook his head, “she was an alemaid.”
“Should've tried impressing her with your brewing skills, then.”
“I… Now that you mention it, I actually don't know much about brewing drinks.”
“Well, if you're very lucky and around, I could maybe show you how we make moonshine here sometime.”
Henry pushed himself up to look at her properly.
“Seriously? You'd do it?”
“Why not?” She smirked.
“Well, fuck me. That's a date, then.”
Her smirk died down as quick as it appeared.
“I suppose. We'll see.”
Black Bartosch
The more he thought about Hans,
Black Bartosch was handsome, in a sense that Henry could easily picture ladies vying for his attention. If he had to commit to paper the reasons why, he'd write down the following:
Bartosch was a good warrior. Flexible, quick, smart enough to read his opponents. It's a shame he wasn't all that interested in archery, though.
Bartosch was educated. He spoke like a noble, for, well, he was one. He had the voice for it too, enveloping and somehow piercing. Was he an heir to a land, it would've served him well.
His features were delicate, his muscles firm. Henry, himself, preferred a bit of a different build, but he liked immensely that Bartosch was slightly taller than him.
“I've never been with a man,” Henry hurried to say as soon as their lips separated. It seemed important to tell.
“I've barely been with a woman,” Bartosch chuckled. “We all have our blind spots. Relax.”
Henry did, lulled by the storm of “ Would it be like this? Would he feel like this? Would his breath catch like this if let me? God, what if he lets me? ” flooding his head.
Lights flickered in Bartosch’s gaze as Henry came.
“Guide me,” Henry pleaded immediately, “I want to know how.”
Bartosch surged to kiss him, his lips, his jaw and his chest.
“Of course,” he said, low.
Throughout, Henry kept his eyes closed for as long as he could get away with it.
Klara
She wasn't scared of him when he was an enemy, just like she wasn't scared to stand up to two armed men, simply because she was needed.
Klara tended to wounds and murmured short poems. Henry found himself feeling protective all of the sudden.
There was so little good in the world, he'd come to learn, but Klara was unyieldingly good. He wanted to get to know her, wanted to ask what drove her to Nebakov, whose gentleness or cruelty made her who she was, what her favorite food was.
Their second time together — soft kisses, caress, and steady warmth, all faded to sleep in a matter of minutes — was their last.
Such is war.
Next time Henry prayed, he prayed for Klara to be alive.
***
“I admire courage in girls. They're weaker than men and life is rarely easy for them, but they still don't give up.”
Rosa’s smile was small, contained to the very corners of her mouth.
Klara came to mind — too recent. Theresa did, too, and Henry was shocked to discover that he hadn't thought about her in a while.
Yellow was, however, the color of bravery. Of stubbornness, and loyalty, and wit, and kindness as well. All the things he'd ever found attractive, coming together, unveiling to him piece by piece. But that was neither here nor there.
Yellow was not the color of a girl.
***
Some things are inevitable. They crash into you, blowing away everything else in their path, and you only notice it when they're already there, taking up space in your soul you never realized was empty before.
Some things are inevitable. Henry's heart skips a beat and he covers a hand with his own.
Hans