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It was late when Hans made it over the wall, climbing up the rope Katherine let down for him. He hated himself for needing to take that risk, for needing her to, instead of just following her through the secret passageway like any sane person would do. But Hans wasn’t sane, not when it came to closed spaces, or, apparently, when it came to Henry, and so climbing up the side of a fortress and hoping nobody spotted him would have to be good enough.
They collected the rope instead of leaving it hanging; Hans shoved it in a bag that he slipped back over his shoulders and nodded. Then they melded deeper into the darkness.
Maleshov was well guarded, but not especially so. Hans, who grew up surrounded by walls, knew the type of holes tired men left in their rotations. He used that to avoid the people he could; a well-placed knife in the neck took care of those he couldn’t. It was what he was there for—Katherine might have been able to get in alone, but she didn’t trust her skill with a blade in close quarters, and they had no idea what state they’d find Henry in, should he need additional help escaping.
It was a miracle in and of itself that Hans wasn’t the one trapped here. By all rights, he should have been. But a wound to his thigh during the siege of Nebakov put him further away when the cannon hit, and the survivors of Zizka’s men managed to pull him from the rubble before the Praugers stormed what was left.
Half of Hans expected to find Henry in the dungeon, but Katherine already checked and said no one was there, so perhaps Henry was being held in the keep itself. If he was, then maybe von Bergow had the decency to treat Henry like a noble out of deference to Sir Radzig. Hans had worried about whether they’d find Henry locked up and forgotten in some dark hole somewhere.
Katherine got the keys from the cook, and Hans hid the bodies of the unlucky guards they couldn’t slip by. Then they were inside. Up the stairs, hidden in the shadows. A room with a woman inside. Hans closed the door silently, moving to the next: an armoury.
They came to the third floor, ear pressed to each door. Through one they heard the rambling of an accented voice. French? The next was silent; they tried that one first. Hans stood guard while Kartherine picked the lock that the key wouldn’t open. He had no idea how she managed it in the dim light, but she did.
The room inside was ornate, the plastered walls painted red and detailed with gold. The furniture was made of dark wood, polished so perfectly that Hans could see the low fire reflected against them. A table held plates of untouched food, an empty goblet next to a pitcher of wine. A large four-poster bed took up much of the space with drapes of red to match the rumpled linens.
Those were all things Hans understood, yet the image before him was like trying to see through broken glass. He stood frozen, staring at the room like a tableau, at Henry, whom Hans recognized even without seeing his face. Hans would know him anywhere, that shock of brown hair and the familiar scars.
It was the blood that drew his eyes before he even acknowledged the miles of bare skin stretched over too little flesh, not a stitch of clothing to cover the dark bruises left painted across Henry’s hips, thighs, and backside. Blood covered the bruises, streaks of red that ran across his thighs and pooled on the fine sheets below, staining them a ruddy brown. White fluid was mixed with it, sticking to Henry’s body, caked into his hair. His back was covered in half-healed welts and deep lashes, the type that came from a whip and left the skin split.
Hans felt sick, his knees weak. The room spun and danced, narrowing as a high-pitched buzz muffled all other sounds. It felt like trying to enter that fucking passageway, the walls pressing down on him, suffocating.
Katherine shoved past him, closing the door behind them, and went straight to Henry’s side. Henry didn’t stir at her proximity, even though Hans knew he should have. Nobody could get that close to Henry without him waking.
Words stuck in Hans’ throat.
“Is- is he-?” he asked, his voice weak as he gripped the wall for support. The doorframe creaked beneath his fingers. He felt like teetering over the edge of the abyss. His hands were shaking.
“Alive,” Katherine said grimly. She looked up, her expression the flinty anger of steel. “When I find who did this to him-” she started, but she cut herself off with a shaky breath and gritted teeth. “Henry,” she called softly. “Henry, can you hear me?”
There was no response. Katherine clenched her jaw.
“Capon, get over here,” she ordered. “He knows you. See if you can rouse him. Don’t touch him.”
Hans’ feet followed her command without conscious thought. A blink and he stood next to her, staring down at Henry’s face.
It too was covered in sticky white fluid that dried on his skin. His lips were swollen, his cheekbone bruised. Spackles of red dotted his face like a rash, and dark marks that looked suspiciously like fingerprints wrapped around his fragile neck.
What could he even say? His throat felt tight, his chest constricted.
“Henry,” he croaked, the words barely audible passed the lump in his throat. “Henry- Hal-”
He slid to his knees next to the bed, his hand hovering over Henry’s where it lay limp and bandaged. Henry looked like a doll, abandoned when whoever did this decided they were finished with him.
This close, Hans could hear Henry’s ragged breathing, too light to be healthy. A sheen of sweat covered his skin.
“Henry,” he tried again, a little louder this time. “It’s Hans; it’s- it’s alright now. You’re safe.” The words tasted like ash, a lie even to his own ears, muffled as it was by the blood rushing in them.
Katherine returned with a rag dampened by washwater.
“Any luck?” she asked.
Hans shook his head, unable to look away from Henry and the things his mind refused to understand.
Fingers snapped in front of his face and Hans jerked back, jolting air into his lungs.
“Focus, Capon,” Katherine said. “You can have a crisis later. I need your help.
“What do I even do?” he asked, staring at her like she had all the answers. She didn’t, he knew; Katherine was only human, not some divine messenger sent from God, but she knew a hell of a lot more than he did.
“Talk to him and do what you can to clean him up,” she said, “I need to check his injuries.”
Panic flooded Hans’ limbs, his eyes wide. “You want me to- I can’t!” he said. “I’ll- I’ll hurt him, or-”
Katherine cut him off. She grabbed Hans by the shoulders, shaking him. “Listen to me,” she growled. “I hate this just as much as you do, but we have to get him out of here, do you understand? He’s hurt, and- and God knows what worse they have planned for him. We don’t fucking have time.” Her voice cracked, and Katherine looked away sharply. “Shit,” she said, breathing harshly. “Fuck. Just- he trusts you, so get him cleaned up. Talk to him and see if he’s lucid.”
She shoved Hans away and rounded the other side of the bed to look more closely at Henry’s back. Hans stared after her for a long moment. His hands didn’t stop shaking, but it was easy to fall back on orders, on doing what he was told.
He knelt beside the bed again and hesitated before putting a hand on Henry’s shoulder. It was sickly warm beneath his fingers.
“Fuck. Katherine? He’s feverish.”
“Sakra,” she cursed, shaking her head. “I’m not surprised. These wounds are deep—a lot of them are recent too. I’m sure more than one is infected.”
He hesitated with the cloth before bringing it to Henry’s face.
“Henry,” Hans said, stroking his thumb over Henry’s arm with one hand as he cleaned the- the cum off Henry’s face with the other. Henry stirred a little, shifting even if he didn’t wake, but it was a sign of life. Hans let out a breath. “We’re going to get you out of here, just bear with us.”
He cleaned what he could of Henry’s face. The red spots—a rash of some sort—didn’t ease with his touch. He moved downward, biting his lip until it bled. The taste only added to the nausea, the overwhelming scent of iron, from being this close to the blood.
“I’m just-” he swallowed painfully. “I’m just going to keep cleaning you, okay?” he said.
There was no response.
“Switch with me,” Katherine said, tapping Hans’ shoulder. “Clean the wounds on his back, but for fucks sake, be gentle.”
Hans nodded mutely.
For all the horrors of Henry’s front, his back was so much worse. He folded the cloth, using a clean end to dab at the cum and blood in the wounds. Henry shifted at the touch, letting out a low groan that had Hans’ stomach clenching in his gut. He was going to be sick- he was absolutely going to be sick.
By some miracle, he wasn’t, but the feeling didn’t fade. Nausea lodged itself in his throat, but he found the pitcher of washwater and rinsed the cloth as best he could before returning anyway. He hesitated looking at the blood smeared over Henruy backside and the dark, purple-black bruises covering the skin. Across from him, Katherine was unpicking the bandage from Henry’s hand. She unwrapped one layer, and then another. On the third, it began to stick.
She glanced up at Hans. “Give me that,” she said, and he handed her the rag.
It was painstaking work to slowly tease the bandage free from Henry’s skin, even with water to ease the way. The closer they got to the skin, the greater the feeling of dread in Hans’ stomach became.
The last few layers were stuck fast with pus. Katherine asked Hans to bring her the wash bowl and fill it with water. She submerged Henry’s hand in it, and like cleaning his back, Henry let out another quiet groan of pain, trying weakly to pull away. Katherine kept her grip firm. She looked at Hans.
“Keep him from moving; I’m going to see what of use I can find.”
She stood, waiting for Hans to replace her before pulling away. She started searching the room, opening drawers and cabinets and other clever places the designer decided to build into the castle. Hans held Henry’s arm.
“I’m sorry,” he said, longing to find a way to comfort Henry, but there was nowhere to touch that wouldn’t hurt.
Katherine returned with a box she dropped at their feet. Inside were bandages and phials.
“They had medical supplies in here,” she said, which painted an even uglier picture of Henry’s experience. She took another deep breath and reached for Henry’s hand.
Even wet, the bandage was difficult to remove. A high, broken whine escaped Henry when Katherine tried peeling the last layer. He shifted, trying to pull his hand away, a grimace coming over his face. His eyes didn’t open, but he curled in on himself, his other hand tightening in the ruined sheet as his breath turned quick and harsh.
Before Hans could snap at her to stop, the bandage fell away, and Hans pulled back, gagging, a hand covering his mouth. Christ, the smell.
The centre of Henry’s hand was swollen, marked by a deep circular burn surrounded by red, angry skin. It was waxy and blistered, oozing pus and blood where the bandage must have ripped the skin it stuck to.
Katherine sat so still Hans could have thought she was a statue. When she spoke, her voice was odd, lifeless.
“Bring the wine from the table,” she told him.
Hans stared at her, but Katherine said nothing else, not looking away from Henry’s hand. The room was silent but for Henry’s continued heavy breathing.
After a moment, Hans forced himself to move. His body felt like a puppet as he picked up the pitcher of wine and brought it back.
Katherine swallowed dryly. “We have to clean this and rebandage it,” she said. “There’s honey in here, they must be using it to-” she cut herself off, her breath catching in her throat.
She grabbed a roll of bandages from the box. “Forgive me,” she muttered quietly. Hans didn’t know if she was talking to him, Henry, or the Lord. Then, she met Hans with a steady gaze and held out the bandage. “Shove this between his teeth,” she said.
“What?” Hans asked, reeling back to stare at her with wide eyes. “You can’t be serious-”
“We don’t have time to coax him into understanding us,” she snapped, fury flooding in at once. “We’re hours away from anywhere we can stop for help, and travel is going to make everything worse. We have to do as much as we can now or he might not make the distance; that means caring for this fucking burn. We can’t let the guards hear us, so shove it between his goddamn teeth and fucking help me, or none of us are getting out of here alive!”
Hans’ skin felt ill-fitting over his bones, like something crawled beneath it. Nausea swelled like currents of the river. A person who wasn't wasn’t quite Hans accepted the rolled up bandages. He moved forward to cup Henry’s chin, ignoring the pained grimace as he pressed on either side of Henry’s swollen jaw until it was forced open with a quiet, wounded sound that felt like a knife through Hans’ ribs. He shoved the bandages between Henry’s teeth.
“You’ll have to hold him down,” Katherine said.
“You can’t be serious,” Hans replied. His heart pulsed in his throat, his hands numb and tingling. Even at the best of times he couldn’t do that to Henry, but now? “He was just-” He couldn’t say the word. “-I can’t hold him down.”
Katherine didn’t look away; her glare didn’t soften. Her hands trembled just as much as his did. She didn’t want to do this either.
“Sakra,” Hans said. His chest ached like somebody took a hammer to it. All at once, the panicked energy drained out of him.
He did as Katherine directed him, pinning Henry’s opposite arm with one hand, his weight ready to keep Henry from kicking. The sight of Henry’s thighs still covered in blood and cum was so sickening that Hans had to close his eyes.
Katherine shifted. “Okay,” she said.
Hans leaned down, Katherine touched a wine-soaked bandage to the wound; Henry screamed. It was muffled by the nakeshift gag, but not by much. Hans sent a silent prayer to every saint listening that nobody overheard, splitting his focus between that and keeping Henry’s legs in place as he tried to buck free, the fingers of his uninjured hand clawing at the sheets and his wrist pulling against Katherine’s hold.
It went on for what felt like forever, Katherine delicately cleaning the wound until she could smooth honey over it. At some point, Henry went limp.
“Done,” she said without looking at Hans, wrapping a bandage around Henry’s hand again with one layered against his palm for extra padding.
Hans immediately pushed himself away from the bed, stumbling across the room to empty his stomach.
Fuck. His breath was ragged and hollow, his chest burned. His head pulsed and his vision blurred. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Hans continued to gag. Behind him, he heard Katherine work, but he couldn’t force himself to look.
That scream would haunt him for the rest of his life.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way- it wasn’t. Henry was supposed to be invincible, Hans’ dedicated protector. He and Katherine were supposed to swoop in and find Henry waiting for rescue, maybe not safe but at least not- not this!
Hans couldn’t lose control, not yet, not even when the room felt like it was closing in around him. He needed to get a fucking hold of himself before guards burst through the door to kill them all.
None did, but that was beside the point. He and Katherine had to get Henry to safety, and after that- after that, Hans would find somewhere nice and private in the forest to scream.
By the time he was able to scrape himself back together, Katherine was cleaning the blood from Henry’s thighs. Hans saw salve glistening over Henry’s back.
“We need to bandage what we can,” Katherine said, and Hans nodded. He let her direct him, manoeuvring Henry with care and trying not to put too much weight on any injury. They didn’t quite manage it, though Henry barely reacted, only letting out pained whimpers. His skin still boiled with fever, no doubt because of the infected burn on his hand.
There was no clothing in the room, Hans checked, so he worked off his own pourpoint. It would be something, at least, to help keep Henry warm. The sallow colour of Henry’s skin was proof enough of its need.
Karherine helped maneuver it onto Henry in silence. Hans clung to the hazy feeling settling over him, focusing his mind on that and letting his hands do the work. The pourpoint was too loose on Henry; before, it would have been a tad too tight. Neither he nor Katherine said anything of it, or of the bandages Katherine packed between Henry’s legs.
They gathered the sheet around Henry, folding it to provide as much warmth as it could. Then, with a confidence Hans didn’t feel, he picked Henry up. There was no question about who would carry him. Even if Katherine could do it, Hans wouldn’t have allowed it. What happened here was his fault, his burden to bear.
It might have taken two people to carry Henry before, but it wouldn’t be now. Henry was slimmer with lost weight. The uneaten food on the table must not have been a new occurance.
The movement drew another quiet whimper from Henry, but he otherwise remained as he was, limp and unconscious in Hans’ arms.
“It’s okay, Hal,” Hans whispered to him as Katherine opened the door and peeked into the hall beyond. Nothing. She motioned him forward. “It’s going to be okay.”
He remembered little of how they made it out of Maleshov. There were only glimpses: the hallways that pressed in on him, the stairs descending downwards, a dark tunnel beneath the earth, and the knowledge that only moving through it would save Henry’s life.
They mounted their horses, Henry slumped in front of Hans, occasionally letting out sounds of pain. It was dangerous to ride as injured as Henry was, but staying was worse. Sometimes there was no good answer; they had to pick the better of two bad choices. If Henry was going to be hurt, Hans wanted it as far away from those monsters as possible.
Time stretched and moved around them without acknowledgement. A blink and they were at The Devil’s Den, the sun rising over the treetops and sparkling off the morning dew.
Katherine was at his side, calling for the idiots passed out drunk to wake up and help. They lowered Henry from the horse, and Hans followed, taking Henry again into his arms when he was on the ground. Women from the baths rushed up the hill at the sound of Katherine’s barking voice; they knew more of healing than Hans did.
“Upstairs, to your room,” Katherine said. “We’ll bring warm water and medicines.”
Hans swallowed dryly and nodded. He carried Henry up the creaking steps, head tucked against his neck and mindful not to bump Henry’s legs into walls and doorways. He tried not to think of his nights spent imagining Henry’s return. Neither his fantasies of daring rescues nor fears of harm could live up to this horror.
He laid Henry on his bed, the one closest to the door that Hans had done all he could to make more comfortable for himself. The red sheet was still wrapped around him, Hans’ pourpoint beneath.
“You’re alright now, Hal,” Hans said, brushing a loose curl behind Henry’s ear. The rest of it was still a mess. Hopefully the bath maids could help, even if the idea of somebody else laying their hands on Henry made him want to scream.
Then there were women with handfuls of bandages and salves and buckets of hot water. Hans was shuffled back, standing against the far wall with his throat closing as he watched. They unfolded the sheet and began carefully removing Hans’ pourpoint.
If Hans could find his voice, he would have told them to cut the garment off, but he was forced silent by his own tongue, suffocating.
The bruises were multi-layered, painted in colours of the different stages of healing.
How many times did this happen?
Hans wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
They pulled off the pourpoint, and Hans froze, the room alongside him.
Henry’s entire hip was swollen and bruised, much worse than when they left Maleshov. Hours spent on horseback flooded back to Hans, trying to focus through the sound of Henry’s pain. Was this why? Some worsening injury they didn’t know about, stretching out some prolonged torture?
Katherine cursed loudly, and the women buzzed.
“Onto his side, we need to see his back-”
“Pass me that salve-”
“The bandages-”
“I’ll deal with his hair-”
Henry pulled away from their hands weakly, whimpering. His eyes fluttered, slivers of blue, tossing his head.
“Stop,” Henry begged quietly and slightly slurred. He cradled his burned hand to his chest and pushed weakly with his other, kicking with his opposite leg when they tried to feel his hip. He writhed beneath them, his breath sharp and quick, uncaring of the damage he was doing to himself.
Hans swallowed dryly. It was agonizing to watch, his chest aching. His hands tingled, numbness washing over him. He shifted, his head stuffed with cotton. He had to do something, he couldn’t just stand here, not when Henry was hurt and scared and-
He pushed his way through the cluster of women until he reached Henry’s side.
“Henry,” he said, positioning himself directly in Henry’s sight line. When Henry next tried to push one of the women away, Hans caught his hand and held it, squeezing firmly. “Henry- Hal- look at me.”
It was enough. Henry’s eyes roamed again, but they caught on Hans and stuck there.
Hans squeezed his hand again. “It’s okay,” he said, trying to sound confident despite the lump in his throat. “You’re safe now. Let them help you.”
Henry blinked several times, his chest still heaving. And then, a whisper, frail and crumbling, “…Hans?”
“That’s right,” Hans said with a wobbly smile. “You’re with your lord, so worry not. All will be well.”
The bathhouse proprietress took that moment to try moving Henry’s leg. The sound Henry made was deep and agonized. Hans cupped Henry’s face in response.
“Hey, hey, look at me, Hal, keep your eyes on me. That’s- that’s an order,” he said, and God, it felt like a sick joke to say such a thing, but it worked. Hans rubbed his thumb gently over Henry’s cheek, carefully avoiding any bruises or swelling. The fever burned under his fingers. He tried not to think of forcing bandages between Henry’s teeth.
Henry sucked in a breath. He closed his eyes, turning his face closer to Hans as he trembled. Hot tears dampened Hans’ fingers.
Hans’ throat tightened further.
The women continued to work around him, their jobs made easier by Henry’s relative stillness. He still flinched and let out quiet, pained sounds that Hans tried to soothe away, but he no longer fought them as readily. Eventually, one of them shoved a phial into Hans’ grasp. Painkiller brew, if he could convince Henry to drink it. It seemed an impossible task with how Henry’s mouth was clenched in a grimace, and didn’t seem aware of what was happening.
He still tried, moving between gentle coaxing to ordering Henry just to drink the damn thing. Neither worked. Henry pressed his face into the mattress, tears still tracking down his face. He wouldn’t open his mouth willingly, and Hans couldn’t bear to force it. Doing it in Maleshov was bad enough.
“His hip is dislocated,” Katherine finally said. “We have to put it back into place before it causes more harm. Zizka is going to help, but we need Henry on his back and not fighting us.”
Hans stared at her, paling. He didn’t know how something like that could even happen. He didn’t want to know, couldn’t know, if he wanted to keep it together, a feat of increasing difficulty.
“You can’t,” he said instead, his heart thundering in his chest. “Katherine, he doesn’t even know where he is. You said it yourself, he doesn’t know you. If you do that he might think-”
He might think he’s being raped again, Hans couldn’t say. Katherine understood his meaning anyway. Her expression was dark.
“I know, but the alternative is worse. We’ll have to drug him,” she said.
Hans tightened his grip on Henry’s hand. “Are you hearing yourself?” he asked. His fingertips felt numb, blood rushing in his veins.
“Dammnit, Capon, I don’t like it either, but we don’t have a choice,” Katherine snapped.
“He won’t take anything,” Hans told her.
She nodded to the women already soaking bandages in something. “He doesn’t need to. He has enough wounds to soak in Dollmaker.”
Hans’ eyes widened. “No,” he said.
“Capon-”
“No, I won’t let you do that to him.”
“He’ll lose use of his leg if we don’t,” Katherine said bluntly. “The longer we wait, the worse it is, but we could hurt him even more if he’s tense and fighting against us. There’s no other option.”
Hans hated that she was right.
He gritted his teeth as the women laid the potion soaked bandages over Henry’s back. It would help with the pain as well, though Hans wondered if it would be worth the agony that followed. He hoped so.
Slowly, Henry’s body relaxed beneath Hans’ touch. Henry tried to move, his muscles tensing, but wasn’t able to. He let out a breath in response that Hans tried to convince himself wasn’t a sob.
Hans was strung tight watching, like a bow drawn impossibly far. Any moment he would lose his grip and snap, wood splintering and string fraying.
“He’ll need the painkiller brew,” Katherine said, standing next to Hans. “And we might as well give him something for the fever as well.”
Hans closed his eyes, resigning himself to it.
“I’ll do it,” he muttered, hating the way his stomach clenched. “You’ll need to bandage him properly anyway.”
They slowly raise Henry’s back enough for Hans to slip behind him, letting Henry rest against his side. The feverish warmth of Henry’s bare skin permeated the thin fabric of Han’s shirt. He was mindful of the wounds littering Henry’s body, the bruises and lashes that would take weeks to heal. It was awful to feel Henry so limp, lifeless but for the rise and fall of his chest.
Hans pulled the cork off of the phial with his teeth and spit it onto the ground, uncaring what became of it. He titled Henry’s chin upwards.
“You just need to drink this,” he muttered. “Please, just drink it.” Then he tipped the phial against Henry’s lips.
The sound was awful, a choking gasp as Henry sputtered, eyes wide and wild, but his body unnaturally still.
Hans stroked his hand, his arm, muttering reassurances, but he didn’t seem like Henry even heard.
“That’s the painkillers. Hand me the fever tonic,” Katherine said, and one of the women passed her a phial.
Katherine held Henry’s chin again, slowly tipping the liquid in. It wasn’t any better the second time, a gurgling whine escaping Henry’s throat. He closed his eyes against the potion like he was bracing himself, or maybe Hans was reading too much into the mannerisms of a man who couldn’t move.
When she let go, Henry’s head hung forward. Hans guided it to rest against him, safe in the crook of his neck.
“I’ve got you,” Hans whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
His stomach was curdled with nausea, but he cradled Henry close. The bath maids worked carefully to wind bandages over Henry’s lacerated back. By then, what blood had spilled from riding had dried and crusted, but every touch must have burned, no matter how gentle they tried to be.
Henry stayed limp against Hans throughout, skin feverish and breathing a little too heavy. He let out whines and guttural noises, the only sounds he could make while under the effect of the poison.
When they finished with the bandages, they laid Henry on his back, eyes still clenched shut. Hans shifted so he could continue holding Henry’s hand. His other stroked softly through Henry’s hair, now clean enough that Hans could feel the separate strands. Behind him, people moved, getting ready.
Katherine held Henry’s hips in place; Zizka put one foot on the bed and lifted Henry’s leg over his knee. Henry’s breath caught, and Hans squeezed his hand tightly.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he whispered. “It’ll be over quickly.”
Teardrops gathered along Henry’s lashes, long and dark.
Fuck.
“Can you do this any quicker?” Hans snapped.
Zizka glared at him, one hand on Henry’s knee, the other on his ankle, trying to angle things properly.
“We’re going as fast as we can, Capon,” Katherine said without looking back at him. She kept her hands firmly on Henry’s hips.
“Christ,” Hans muttered. His chest hurt, a sharp pain beneath his ribs to see Henry—noble and brave and stupidly reckless—crying. It made his own throat close, his own eyes burn. “I’m sorry, Hal, I’m so sorry. Just breathe.”
Finally, there was a sharp pop. Hans felt Henry’s body jolt as the joint slipped back into place.
“There,” Zizka said, slowly lowering Henry’s leg, “done.”
“Great, now stop touching him,” Hans snapped. His chest felt tight, ribs compressed. His eyes hurt. “All of you, let him go. Leave the man with some fucking dignity.”
“It’ll be better if he’s on his side,” Katherine said, and Hans let out a ragged breath.
“Fine,” he spat. “But then stop. He can’t take any more of this.” He swiped a thumb beneath Henry’s eyes as he said it, wiping away the tears that continued to fall, now disconcertingly silent, like Henry had given up.
They found what few pillows The Devil’s Den had amongst its rooms and supplemented them with blankets. Then, carefully, they rolled Henry back onto his side, his bad leg bent at the knee and resting on pillows, his other straightened below it. Hans carefully positioned Henry’s arms, the burned one palm up and the other across Henry’s side. The blanket wasn’t as soft as the expensive sheet, but Hans didn’t want Henry lying on fabric stained with his blood. He smoothed a hand over Henry’s hair.
“We’re done. Just rest now,” he muttered, his hands shaking. He felt too hot, like he was running a fever himself.
Katherine asked if he intended to stay and Hans made a noise of agreement, only half paying attention as he watched the rise and fall of Henry’s chest. Was he sleeping? It was hard to tell.
Slowly, those who came to help filtered out, leaving only Henry and Hans in the quiet of the room. It was so rarely quiet here, with downstairs an endless party at all hours, but it seemed even the Devil’s Pack was subdued, despite only Zizka and Katherine knowing Henry. But Hans supposed seeing anyone in this state would be difficult.
He didn’t leave Henry’s side, but he didn’t touch Henry either. There had been enough of that. Instead, Hans sat with his back against the bed and his knees pulled to his chest. The position ached, but Hans wasn’t about to leave. Besides, Henry had suffered far worse.
This was Hans’ fault. If he’d been a better lord, if he’d seen through von Bergow’s guise, if he’d simply taken Henry and left Trosky after their company was killed—something too that was Hans’ fault—none of this would have happened. Henry wouldn’t be hurt, wouldn’t have been tortured, raped.
He pressed his burning eyes against his knees, ordering himself not to cry. He didn’t deserve tears, not when the marks on Henry’s body were sins on Hans’ soul.
What would come next? Would Henry even be himself after all he’d experienced?
Hans wished more than anything that they were home, that he could childishly turn to Radzig and Hanush to fix things, but this wasn’t something they could fix. He wasn’t sure even God could.