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It’s early in the morning when Henry reaches the upper castle on the other side of the town, the sun barely risen over the edge of the city walls, and still struggling to peek over the tower where the bride and her family stay. Pale morning light streams onto the courtyard, over the arena and the stables, illuminating the soft breath visible from the nickering horses, a sort of fog that dissipates as soon as it leaves their mouths. The call of songbirds and easy cluck of chickens fills the air. For a moment as Henry stands in front of the tower waiting for a Kunstadt maid to come down, he takes in the morning glory and realizes that this could be a perfect day.
There are so few of these days in his memory, almost all of them recent, captured in their room in the Devil’s Den, or stolen away on their way back to Rattay, in clearings in the woods with their horses tied carefully to the outer ring of trees. Perfect days with creases from their pillows stamped onto their faces and backs and chests from laying around together all day and night. Picking broken blades of grass from the yellow of his hair when the sun rose after a night of sleeping outside. Since their return, they had been restricted to Hans’s room, in the castle that would soon really be his. Perfect days had turned into perfect mornings, or a perfect hour between lunch and dinner while Hans was pulled into preparations for his wedding and Henry was pulled into numerous unrelated tasks as always. He looks now from the visible birdsong swirling out of a bird’s mouth as it perches by the tower door, to a new foal nudging its mother in the stables, to a stream of sunlight that pours like water over his skin, still cool from the sun’s easy morning ascent, and takes a deep breath, holding it to slow down time, to sit in this perfect moment, and stretch it out into a perfect day.
He releases the breath just as the door to the tower swings open and a girl exits, a lady’s maid in a clean white apron over her bright blue dress. Her hair is twisted around her head in a thick braid, and short locks fall over her forehead and frame her face nicely. She is just the type of girl Hans would have gone for before, just the type he would have pushed Henry into some scheme for that would inevitably fail in bedding her. A tender spot in Henry’s chest, used to aching, almost has him reaching up to massage it. He inclines his head as she approaches him where he leans against a wooden post by the arena.
“Good morning,” he tells her. “My master, Sir Hans Capon, requested I drop by and make sure you and your lady have everything you need for tomorrow.”
The girl smiles at him, tilting her head away. Henry smiles back. The way the sunlight hits her face shows a freckle on her chin, and he thinks of Hans then, as he always does, always on his mind, always conjured by the smallest, simplest things.
“And you are?” she asks.
“I am Henry, of Skalitz. Sir Hans’s page.”
“You must have your hands full with preparations for the wedding.”
“It’s winding down now.” Henry looks at the freckle on her chin again, and a memory breaks through the surface of his mind, replaying a moment from a few days ago when he woke up before Hans and watched him sleep for almost an hour, taking in every part of his face, every rise of his chest, counting freckles and scars and committing them to memory, realizing now that he will see Hans in everything, everywhere, forever. That there was no need to worry, no need to study him. He gives his head a little shake and refocuses on the girl. Pretty. A soft smile. Soft around the chest too. “The past few weeks have been hectic but today should be a little easier. If you or your lady need anything, now would be the time to tell me. I have a few other places I need to check in on today.”
The crisp morning air brings sound to him with sharp clarity, the rest of the city still waking up. Henry looks up at the sound of a scuffle of a shoe over stone and sees, on the second story landing, a lady. Blonde hair like the sun, bright and shiny, well maintained, brushed into a long braid that falls over one shoulder, the shoulders themselves covered with what he can see of the top of a pink dress, pale in color and yet still bright somehow. He straightens up, pushing himself off the post to look closer at her, the woman who tomorrow will be marrying the man he loves. Jitka, a pretty name for a pretty girl. Rounded eyebrows, big eyes, a bump along the bridge of her nose. Her mouth is as pink as her dress. Henry bows, looking up from his bow to give her a smile. She smiles back.
“You must be Henry,” she says from the landing. Her voice is as clear as birdsong. “I have heard so much about you since arriving in Rattay. Everyone sings your praises. I will be pleased to be your friend once I am the lady of this town.”
“The pleasure will be mine, my lady,” Henry calls back to her, rising from his bow. His heart skips a beat as he meets her eye. “I came to check on you and your entourage. Make sure you don’t need anything.”
“We have everything we need,” she says, waving a hand. “Thank you.”
Henry bows again, accepting his dismissal. Jitka motions toward her maid and then walks back into the tower, disappearing into its shadow.
The maid gives Henry another smile. “Do you think I will see you tomorrow, or will you be too busy rubbing elbows with nobles at the wedding?” she asks.
He realizes that he must have given her the wrong impression by daydreaming at the freckle on her chin. Heat rises in his face, on his cheeks, a bright pink he knows, from Hans’s constant needling, will inevitably spread to his ears. Hans always kisses the hot spots, making them hotter. Now, the sun bares down on him in a poor facsimile of Hans’s mouth on him.
“Perhaps,” he says, deciding to play coy. “Nobles are always asking for their elbows to be rubbed.”
She chuckles, a sound like a summer breeze. “Very well. Off you go, Sir Hans’s page. This will be a long day.”
He nods his head at her, then turns quickly, feeling the heat on the tips of his ears. The heat worsens as he passes the little gate that leads to the outer wall, the little herb garden there where a patch of soft grass is still recovering from his last tumble there with Hans a week or so ago. He can’t fight the smile that breaks across his face. The morning air is cool on his skin. The ache in his chest almost feels good.
.
He stops by the blacksmith’s next, a sweet bun in his hand. The blacksmith’s wife hovers by his elbow.
“Can I get you anything else?” she asks him.
“Goodwife, this is plenty. Thank you.” He sinks his teeth into the bun, the crust parting to reveal the soft interior, steam rising from it still fresh from the oven. A sound escapes him, and he thinks of Hans, and then adds, “If I could trouble you for another few buns for the castle. I would like to share your wonderful baking with my lord.”
“Of course, of course. I would be honored.” The blacksmith’s wife disappears into the house. Henry rounds the corner and leans against the back of the house, where the blacksmith pokes at the forge with a long poker, nudging the still sleeping embers awake.
“What’s new, master blacksmith?” Henry asks, his mouth full.
“Two sets of horseshoes, countless nails, another axe since that buffoon idiot Olda broke his and still has repairs in the kitchen, and a hinge to replace the one Jan broke when he ripped the door off its hinges drunk off his ass.” The blacksmith looks over at Henry through the shimmering air of the still waking forge. “And my apprentice is still asleep, the devil take him. Useless and lazy. Would that I could have you as an apprentice. I would take you in a heartbeat.”
Henry takes another bite of the bun in his hand to keep his mouth full. The blacksmith turns back to the fire.
“I know, I know,” the blacksmith says. The day has just begun and already there is soot around his beard where he continuously rubs his chin with dirty hands, a nervous habit. “You’re a lord’s page, you don’t have the time or the inclination for a trade. But if you ever change your mind.”
“I appreciate that,” Henry says.
The blacksmith’s wife appears at his elbow, pressing what feels like decidedly more than a few buns wrapped in a cloth into his free hand. Over the blacksmith’s shoulder, around the far corner of the house, a girl appears, hair flowing down her back like water, shifting in light and color every time she moves even the smallest amount. Henry is always transfixed by it whenever he sees her, the depth of color there, now brown, now red, now gold. In bright sunlight, Hans’s hair is also like that, ever shifting, like a multifaceted jewel. His fingers dig into the bun, breaking the shell of crust and slipping into the soft inside. He shoves the bun in his mouth before anyone can notice.
The girl smiles at him. The blacksmith continues his grumbling.
“By the way,” the blacksmith says suddenly, his voice rising on the tail end of another complaint that Henry has tuned out. “That thing you needed the forge for. Did you get it all done or do you need me to move? You made something, I can’t recall what. A ring?”
“Yes,” Henry says briefly.
The blacksmith raises his eyebrows. “I figured but didn’t want to pry.”
“It isn’t for me,” he says hastily. “It’s for the castle.”
“Right.” The blacksmith shrugs. “None of my business but I was hoping you would actually marry my daughter. I can’t see where she’s standing now but I would bet both my nuts she’s around the corner watching you.”
Henry’s eyes dart over to her, then back to the blacksmith, who has turned back to the now glowing forge. “Hmm.”
“Say hello to her on your way out or she won’t let me rest today.”
Henry pushes himself off the wall. The blacksmith gives him a brief smile goodbye. The way the soot sits in his laugh lines reminds Henry so much of his Pa that for a moment he can’t move, frozen in place.
The blacksmith turns back to the forge. Henry walks around the corner and approaches his daughter.
Gray eyes, striking, fall on Henry like twin slices of flint. “Hello,” she says.
“Hi.” Henry watches a lock of her hair fall over one shoulder, then slowly slide around to fall down her back. If Hans were here, he would be staring like a cornered fox, unblinking. But Henry hopes he has a little more grace and says, “Are you excited about the wedding tomorrow?”
“Oh, very. I’m sure you will be busy but I hope you will spare me at least one dance.”
Henry shrugs as his cheeks slowly warm. “I will add you to my list.”
She laughs, a twinkling sound. Nothing like Hans’s breathless laughs, loud and always sounding like he’s been laughing a long time, like his lungs are completely deflated but he won’t yet take a breath until he’s done laughing. Even in their secret little places around Rattay, his laugh could give them away, always too loud. This girl, this blacksmith’s daughter, wouldn’t give them away. Her laugh is just quiet enough. Henry’s eyes move about her face, catching on a spread of freckles across her nose, a bit of sunburn along her hairline. Behind her, her father’s house, two stories, proudly built and sturdy. He’s been inside a few times to collect something for the castle, once even just to shoot the shit with the blacksmith over a beer. He can tell they like him. He can see a possibility here. The girl steps a little closer, her mouth like twin petals, soft and smiling.
He smiles back, patiently. “See you tomorrow,” he tells her.
“Alright, Skalitz boy,” she says, and watches him go with her silver eyes.
.
At the market, he stops in the shadow of the Rathaus where village women weave a long garland of flowers. Several of them call to Henry as he passes. One of them says, “You just missed your lord!”
He sits on the Rathaus steps in a patch of shade. The late summer sun shines so brightly that the colors of the Rathaus seem muted, pale in comparison to the light in the air. Light that catches on the hair of the women and their handfuls of flowers. A girl, the baker’s daughter if Henry recalls correctly, gives him a bright smile, her two bottom teeth a little uneven in an endearing and sweet way that tugs at Henry’s mouth until he’s smiling too.
“Lord Capon just came by,” the woman closest to Henry says. Her fingers push a marigold into the woven garland, tying the stem neatly into a knot on the other side. “He bought a lot of flowers. I wonder what he would need all that for, and so last minute.”
“For his new bride. I would assume,” Henry says.
“Then what on earth have we been doing all this time, collecting and weaving flowers for ourselves?”
The women all laugh. The baker’s daughter laughs extra hard. Her laugh is like Hans’s. The tug on Henry’s mouth is irresistible.
“I don’t presume to understand the workings of Lord Capon’s mind, ladies,” Henry says.
“I certainly hope he doesn’t try to give the bride those flowers today. It’s bad luck to see the other party before the wedding day. And he is our lord. His luck is ours.”
“He will stay well away from the upper castle, don’t worry.” Henry leans back, his lower back pressing against the edge of a step. There is some pressure there he’s been harboring all morning. The night before had been spent alone in his room in the courtyard of Pirkstein. A bed much less soft than what he’s become accustomed to. It’s bad luck to see the other party before the wedding. “I was just there checking on the bride and her entourage, actually.”
“Isn’t she lovely?” another woman asks.
He meets the baker’s daughter’s eye. “Yes. But to be honest, there are girls around Rattay that are more eye-catching. In my opinion.”
“Flatterer,” one of the women says as the others laugh.
The baker’s daughter finds her voice. “I can’t imagine you not liking blondes.”
Henry’s mouth is suddenly dry. “My word,” he says with a nervous laugh. “I assure you, I like all hair colors equally.”
“Stop teasing him,” the girl beside the baker’s daughter says, nudging her.
Henry gets to his feet as another peal of laughter breaks around him, mixing effortlessly with the easy morning sounds, shops opening their doors, birds still trilling. He looks down the lane toward Pirkstein, knowing that Hans has long since passed that way, looking anyway just in case he can catch a glimpse of him, yellow hair shining in the sun, the telltale red of his vibrant hood.
The baker’s daughter smiles at him, and her teeth peek out between her lips, a flash of now secret knowledge Henry holds, uneven teeth and a sharp tongue. “See you tomorrow, sir,” she says.
.
Radzig is on him the moment he steps onto the courtyard of Pirkstein.
“I thought I’d find you with Capon, but he just arrived ahead of you,” he says. He puts a hand on Henry’s shoulder. His grip is solid, grounding, keeping Henry’s focus despite the awareness growing in his body, his scalp tingling with it, with the awareness that Hans is here, so close that he could probably look out the window of his bedroom and hear Henry’s voice.
“I’ve been making the rounds,” Henry replies. “Stopped by the upper castle, the blacksmith’s, the market. I was about to run to the baths, I doubt I’ll have time tomorrow morning before the wedding.”
“Good idea,” Radzig says. He still holds onto Henry, almost absently. “I’ll be glad to put this event behind us. This town is buzzing. Would that I could have some quiet to continue planning for the return of the king.”
“A couple days of merriment won’t do you any harm. Then you can get right back to work.”
Radzig seems to look at him through a haze of thought. “Hal, I’ve been thinking.”
Henry looks up at the second story landing. It’s empty, but Hans must have just been there, just stepping off the stairs and onto the landing. What color is he wearing today? Surely not yellow, he had taken to wearing different colors than usual to keep from being stopped by everyone wanting to wish him well. Although he is still recognizable in every color, in every light, the sight of him in green or blue is strange enough to give people pause, and give him a moment to slip away. The ache in Henry’s chest makes itself known. A need to find him, to look at him, to speak to him. He looks at Radzig out of the corner of his eye, nodding at him to continue, facing the tower, waiting for a glimpse despite the superstition.
“You’ve become a capable young man,” Radzig says, starting the same way he always does. “And your reputation across our country has grown. I see Capon getting married and I think, maybe it’s time for you too.”
Henry nods slowly. “Do I have a choice?” he asks in measured tones.
“Of course,” Radzig says hastily. “After all, I myself am unmarried. I’m not trying to push you. Just voicing my thoughts as we near Capon’s wedding. Something that’s been on my mind.”
“Right.” Henry sees the second story door open. His heart seizes, then starts pounding. In between one heartbeat and the next, he realizes it’s just a maid and turns to face Radzig, but his breath is slightly uneven, giving him away.
Radzig gives his shoulder a squeeze. “The blacksmith has been dropping hints. Last time I took my sword over to him, he wouldn’t stop talking about his daughter. I caught a glimpse of her as I was leaving. A well built girl. Very pretty.”
“Father,” Henry starts, then pauses, uncertain.
“I know we are both busy with the affairs of politics and duty,” Radzig says, putting his other hand up. “But these past few days preparing for this wedding, it’s reminding me that there are other things. Important things. I wouldn’t want time to slip away from you while you’re busy running around the country helping everybody but yourself.”
Henry’s fingers drum at his sides. Through the fabric of his shirt, he feels the outline of the two rings in his pocket. Light, simple things. Beaten thin with a borrowed hammer in someone else’s forge. It occurs to him, as it sometimes does during quiet moments when he has a rare opportunity to think, that he is still very close to that scared orphan who first arrived, unconscious, in Rattay on the back of a wagon. He still owns nothing. Is nothing, outside of the service of these big lords. The only thing he can really lay claim to is his sword, painfully retrieved, and Hans’s love, painfully received. A good pain for both. A pain worth fighting for. A pain worth waiting for.
“Thank you, father,” Henry says. “For the reminder. I’ll think about it.”
“That’s all I ask.” Radzig follows his gaze up to the second story landing but doesn’t comment on it. Henry can’t read his face. “Alright, I’ll let you go now, Hal.”
He gives Henry’s shoulder one more squeeze and then lets him go.
.
Henry sinks heavily into the water, steam rising from the surface and clouding the room. The bathmaid kneels behind him, her fingers in his wet hair, pushing soapy water behind his ears. He’s in need of a haircut but it’s too late now. A flash of memory passes through his mind’s eye, of Hans’s hands in his hair, of him running his fingers through it and tugging playfully, of the sound that Henry makes whenever he does that, playfulness turning into something more serious, and more sounds and more fingers in more hair and more tugging. Henry shifts in the water, bringing his knees up to his chest.
“Are you upset about something, sir?” the girl asks, her voice drifting around the steam behind him.
“I’m fine,” he says briefly. “And don’t call me sir. I’m no lord.”
“You seem like one.”
He turns his head a little to look at her. Pretty, with long brown hair that falls into big curls around her face and shoulders. An old scar on her chin that calls attention to her mouth. He seems to remember her from the last time he was here with Hans but his attention is always on the blonde of his hair as he sinks into the tub, and never on the girls that surround them.
“I’m not,” he says. “I’m in the service of Sir Radzig and Sir Hans.”
“Well, that I know. You’re always here with Sir Hans.”
She slips her hand out of his hair and reaches for a comb. Her other hand touches the surface of the water by his knee, almost touching him, and swirls of soap drift onto the surface of the still water, making it foggier.
“I’m just preoccupied with the wedding,” he tells her.
“I’m sure you’re very busy with all the planning. At least it’ll be over tomorrow and you can enjoy yourself.”
His eyes fall onto the folded clothes on a chair by the door. The rings. The package of sweet buns. Him in this bath now. And the parts of their plan that Hans now carries out separately. Who knows how far he’s gotten with that? Perhaps Henry should’ve taken on more for their task. But Hans had insisted. He wanted to split their responsibilities evenly. He wanted them to both be equals in this. Henry’s eyes burn unexpectedly, and he wipes his face with wet hands to provide a cover for any tears that spring out.
“Yes, there’s been quite a bit of planning,” Henry says. It took him four tries to forge the rings, a skill he’s never learned nor had any need to learn. Horseshoes, swords, axes, those were one thing. A ring didn’t need to be hammered so much as rolled over and over, hot and almost dripping, thin and easy to break. He broke two before he managed to get one to stay strong enough to withstand the pressure of the temper, and then one more before he learned a trick on rolling it just so around the metal bar. The fourth attempt he took for himself, slightly twisted, a little ugly. The fifth he took for Hans.
The girl’s hands are back in his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. “Do you think Sir Hans will still come by the baths even after he’s married?” she asks.
Henry shrugs. As his shoulders move, her hand brushes the curve of his bicep, a soft touch. He settles in against the warmth of the water and the warmth of her hand, closing his eyes. “Perhaps. He will be the lord of this town soon enough. No one will be able to tell him no.”
The girl’s hand moves around the front of his chest, settling just over his heart. He tilts his head back and his nose brushes her cheek.
“You don't have to do that,” he tells her patiently.
She withdraws her hand, but lets it rest on his shoulder again. “Do you have a sweetheart, sir?”
His eyes are drawn once more to the hiding place of his rings. “Yes,” he says. He has never admitted it aloud. In his mind he is already bound to Hans, and everyone around them is aware of some kind of bond. No one has ever asked before. Sweetheart. He thinks about calling Hans that and more warmth drifts up his body, a pleasant flush. “A very special person,” he adds, unable to stop now that he’s started. “Yellow hair. Eyes like the sky on a clear day. Soft hands. Everywhere I go, everything I do, I see something that reminds me of… her.”
The girl sighs, resting her head on her hand and her hand on the edge of the tub. Her breath is warm and mingles with the steam in the air as it puffs onto his face. “That sounds lovely. From the way you’re talking, it seems you are very much devoted and in love. I hope another wedding isn’t too far off.”
“I don't think so,” he says with a smile. “We are in different classes. I’m afraid the most I will ever have is what I have right now.”
“At least you have that.” Her hands are in his hair again. He relaxes into her touch. “It still sounds beautiful, no matter what, sir.”
“I told you, you don't have to call me sir. I’m no knight.”
“Alright,” she says, but she still doesn’t say Henry.
.
He stops by his room in the courtyard of Pirkstein to take the rolled up blanket he had washed for today. The room is as empty and bare as the day it was given to him. He has spent perhaps a combined three days sleeping here across the past several months. Home, to him, has been Hans’s room on the second story of the castle, the room with the fireplace, the two beds they push together at night, the colorful walls, the fair hair dusting his arms and legs and chest in the faint sunlight that trickles in through the window they always have to leave closed. He realizes that after today, he will have to spend a lot more time in here. He leans against the wall and looks around at the empty walls, the plain and small bed. The chest at the foot of the bed with a few old things to keep up the illusion that the room has been occupied. He could perhaps bring in an armor stand. A place to hang his sword. He thinks once again about the blacksmith’s house, what he’s seen of it, the humble but sturdy and enduring structure. Possibility.
In his imagination he tries to see Hans there instead of the blacksmith’s daughter, Hans on the porch with a beer in his hand, Hans in a plain bed with plain sheets. Even in his imagination he cannot picture Hans with anything other than the embroidered hood, the bright gold pourpoint, the beacon of yellow hair. And the way he is, his prominent nose and chin, his voice, none of it fits outside of a castle. Outside of the title of Lord. Henry cannot separate the Lord from Hans. He cannot imagine him in any place other than here, Pirkstein, his birthright.
Hans’s voice reaches him suddenly, from a distance but growing closer. Henry startles out of his daydream and listens carefully. It’s definitely Hans, and he sounds agitated.
“—to get off my ass,” he’s saying, his voice strained in that way when he’s trying to keep it down. He passes Henry’s door in the courtyard, a flurry of footsteps. More than one person. The clanking of armor. A frustrated sigh. “I’m doing everything you ask like a good little dog. The only thing I ask for now is some privacy and a long, hard ride around my estate.”
“It’s never a simple thing with you.” Hanush’s voice is like a whip cracking through the courtyard. “Next thing I hear will be that you either rode that horse out of Bohemia or fell into a ravine and broke your damn neck.”
“So what, you’ll sequester me here forever?” Hans gives an incredulous laugh. “Don’t try to stop me. I will go for my ride and tomorrow, you will have your wedding.”
“My wedding?” Hanush repeats. Henry presses himself against his door to hear as the pair walks down toward the gate, their voices getting lower and lower.
“Yes, your fucking wedding! I certainly had no part whatsoever in any planning or in choosing the bride. I’m no better than a toy being dragged around by a child. Anyway, I’m done talking about this. As I said, you’re getting what you want, the least you could do is get out of my way so I can enjoy my last evening of freedom.”
Hanush doesn’t respond, and their footsteps gradually disappear. Henry waits until his heart has stopped pounding against his chest and exits, the blanket under his arm, the package of buns in his hand, the rings in his pocket. These items separately are weightless but together could be a sack of gunpowder, heavy and frightening with their significance. As he closes his door behind them, Hanush appears at the castle gate. He wears bright blue, his neck and fingers glinting with golden jewelry, his chest plate catching light in its shine. He waves Henry over.
“Going somewhere?” he asks when Henry is close enough. “Hans has fucked off on a ride. I was hoping you’d be with him so you can bring him back if he decides to run.”
“He won’t run,” Henry says.
“He better not or I’ll grind him up and turn him into a sausage.” Hanush glances behind him, out the open gate and onto the lane that twists around and out of Rattay, as though expecting to see Hans there. “You are sure he won’t run?”
“I promise.” Henry resists the urge to reach into his pocket and touch his ring. Soon, it will be on his finger and he will be able to touch it whenever he wants, to fidget with it, to take comfort in the memory he hasn’t lived yet but has imagined a thousand times as he rolled and hammered and tempered the metal. He tries to give Hanush a reassuring smile. “I promise, sir, he will not run.”
Hanush doesn’t look away from the road out of Rattay. “Check on him later, lad. Make sure he doesn’t disgrace us.”
.
Henry ties Pebbles beside Hans’s horse, around a tree by the familiar old campsite. The orange glow of sunset pours through the trees, creating bright dappling on the ground, colorful in the variation of shadows of leaves. The air still smells like late summer, sun clinging to clothes and breath. Hans sits by an unlit fire, staring into the ashes. From behind, Henry can see the back of his hair newly cut close, the side of his face cleanly shaven. Hans turns when he hears him, and a smile breaks across his face like the first light of dawn, big and beautiful, and Henry’s chest aches at the sight of it, of him.
“Henry!” He jumps to his feet. “Do you have everything?”
“Of course.” Henry nudges his chin in the direction of the heavy woods behind Hans. “Shall we?”
“Please! Fuck me, the day absolutely crawled by. I’ve been so excited that it’s been hard to even eat. Or sit still. I missed you last night.” Hans speaks quickly as they walk, matching their pace, feet moving at the same time. “I’ve been here a short while already so I started setting up.”
Henry watches him as he speaks. Hands moving, the smile still on his face. Warmth spreads through him, like the first sip of schnapps, sliding through his entire body. When they reach their clearing, Henry peels his eyes away and looks around at the setup. A pitcher of Hans’s special red, two cups, placed carefully on the grass. And all around them, flower petals scattered and soft against the ground, colorful in the sunset glow, giving the area a festive feel.
“The ladies at the market were bothering the shit out of me for buying the flowers,” Hans says, rolling his eyes. “What about you, any trouble?”
Henry hands him the package of buns and starts unrolling the blanket. “No, just the usual. I heard you arguing with Hanush on your way out of the castle.”
“Fuck, don’t remind me. He tried to stop me from coming out here. It pissed me off, he really wants nothing more than to cage me like a fucking animal.”
Hans collapses onto the ground as soon as Henry has rolled out the blanket. He lays on his back, staring up at the sky. The orange light on his face makes the blue of his eyes stand out. He places the package of buns on his chest and opens it up, grabbing one and biting into it. A moan breaks out of his mouth. Henry sits beside him and takes one too.
“Damn, these are good. Where did you get this?”
“Blacksmith.”
“People are always giving you nice things.” Hans makes a sound like an interrupted breath. “Oh, it’s so good to see you. I hate this idiot superstition that kept us apart last night. Peasant shit.”
“Nobles do it too,” Henry points out.
“Whatever, come here. Lay with me.”
Henry lays down. The clouds have taken on colorful hues, purples and pinks and oranges, swirling across the sky like soap on the surface of a tub. Hans turns onto his side. Henry watches him from the edge of his periphery. If he doesn’t move. If he stays just like this. Sunset glow, sweetness from the bun clinging to his mouth, Hans’s breath breaking against the side of his face. Perfect. Everything here and now is perfect.
“Tell me about your day,” Hans says.
Henry turns, flipping to his side, facing Hans. Their faces are close, their breath mingling. Hans’s hand slips up Henry’s shirt and onto his chest, a warm touch. Henry’s skin erupts in goosebumps. He’s been waiting all day for this touch.
“Now that you’re here, I realize it is a perfect day,” he says. “There is some… clarity in it. Hard to explain. There is something almost magical. Like I’m in the future now looking back, and everything that happened all makes sense and fits in perfectly. Does this make sense?”
Hans kisses him, soft and slow. Henry’s hands come up to cup his face. His freshly shaven cheeks prickle at Henry’s palms. The tips of his fingers tingle as though he’s struck something very hard with his sword.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Hans says as he pulls away. “I just felt the overwhelming urge to kiss you. Couldn’t fight it. I’m glad you had a good day. I was absolutely miserable without you.”
“Oh, Hans.”
“Hanush dogged me the entire day, he sincerely thinks I might make a run for it. I can’t believe he would think that. I’ve been nothing but cooperative this entire time.”
“I saw him at the gate on my way out. I promised him you wouldn’t run.”
“Of course, he believes you over me.” Hans kisses him again, a brief peck on the lips, before he gets up and leans back against his palms. “Whatever, enough complaining. I won’t ruin our night. Let me see the rings, I’m so excited. I couldn’t sleep last night thinking about this.”
Henry sits up, digging into his pocket. The rings jingle slightly as they come together on his palm. He puts his hand out. Hans leans over, their foreheads almost touching.
“Oh, look at that.” Hans starts to reach, then pauses, looking up at Henry. When Henry nods, he picks one up and turns it this way and that. The glow of the setting sun catches just so on the surface of the ring and throws a glimmer of orange onto his face. “This is amazing. You made both of these?”
“Yes, but this one came out kind of shit, so I’ll take it.”
“You will do no such thing. I will take it.” Hans takes the more evenly rolled ring and puts his hand out. Henry slips his hand into Hans’s, the uneven ring in his other hand. They look at each other for a moment. Hans’s eyes move all over his face. “Henry, in my excitement, I realize I didn’t prepare any vows.”
“Fuck, neither did I.”
“Damn, and we planned everything else out perfectly.” Hans shifts a little closer on the blanket. His breath hits Henry’s mouth and sends a shiver through him that he can’t hold back. “Nevermind. I’ll go first.”
“Alright.”
“Alright.” Hans looks away, suddenly nervous. He slips the ring onto Henry’s right hand, the fourth finger there. The way it slides on raises goosebumps on Henry’s skin. “A perfect fit. You did a great job. You’re so good.”
Henry turns Hans’s hand and slides the ring onto his finger, the same one, the same hand. They hold their right hands out, resting on Hans’s lap. For a moment, there is only the sound of an evening breeze pushing around the leaves on the trees that surround them. Hans looks up and meets Henry’s eyes. He realizes this is one of those moments. One he will look back on with perfect clarity.
“I wish I could be this ring,” Henry says, tripping over his words. “So I could be on you always. Never take this off. Promise.”
“I promise,” Hans whispers.
Henry leans in. Hans’s breath is uneven as it hits his mouth. He can almost hear their hearts beating, pounding in the thin space between them.
“And you,” Hans says, his voice shaky, “You promise to think of me whenever you see it, no matter where you are or what happens to either of us.”
Henry shudders as Hans’s mouth brushes his in the briefest, lightest of kisses. A promise of a kiss. “I will, I swear.”
The sun dips behind the treeline that circles the clearing. Henry feels bold in the sudden shadow that falls over them and puts his hand on the back of Hans’s neck, gently lowering him back onto the blanket. He props himself up on top of Hans, looking down at him, committing him to memory like this, soft and pliant underneath him, like clay.
“So we are bonded now,” Henry says, definitively. He says it with certainty. The day had been filled with possibility, glimmers of a possible future, of an alternate Henry in another life, another time, with another person. The clarity of the memories of this day still carry that shimmer of something, some nebulous hope or dread that Henry will eventually have to face. But now, here, laying on the grass with Hans, their rings warming against their skin, there is no possibility or hope or dread, there is only this secret bond, more real than anything else that had happened on this perfect day. The moment sits like a weight, real and physical. The ever present ache in his chest hurts like a rough kiss, still sweet, still welcome. He speaks through it, “I’m bonded to you forever. I choose you forever. Say you do too. Say yes.”
“Yes,” Hans says, whispers against his cheek as he pulls him down and squeezes him tightly. “Yes, yes. Forever.”