to be ruined.

by quietfaun

Summary:

I will not ruin you, Hans Capon.

The last words whispered in misty morning air stilled by duty and longing for something he could never have.

// Updated every Sat/Sun and Wed

Chapter 1: I :: Heinrich

Notes:

hehe hi kcd friends :)

this is all because of a certain motherfucker named thea (aka _chaosservant on twt) who both got me into kcd in the first place and grabbed me by the throat and told me to write this or they'd steal my toes. not that i resisted tbh i love omegaverse fics and pregnant omega henry lol

also! there are some worldbuilding notes in the end notes of this chapter that u might be interested in :) and warnings/cw will always be noted at the top of every chapter

anyway, on with the show!

Warnings for this Chapter: there's some pretty gnarly but brief mention of animal (deer and horse) death and hunting.

Two stallions crest the rolling hills that lead to the skeletal remains of the Neuhof stud farm. They don't pause in their journey and ride by abandoned buildings falling apart from neglect and decay. Greenery has already begun to encroach on the structures closest to the forest; Neuhof had been empty for some time.

The riders atop the horses look to the ruins, twin sets of blue eyes tracing beams sticking up from the dirt like reaching fingers.

Father looks away first, uninterested in the empty carcass that only housed bugs and rabbits by now. He spurs his horse ahead.

Heinrich’s gaze lingers. He hasn’t seen many ruins in his short eleven years of life. Most of his time is spent within Rattay’s upper castle’s walls. From his normal vantage point, he can see the sprawl of the land Rattay sits upon, but it’s mostly just the green tops of trees and the odd pillar of smoke from a wayward camp. The most interesting things are the ducks that swim in the Sázava and dive into the water to snatch whatever ducks eat from the riverbed.

It’s eerie: the silence, the lack of scent, the stale air that blankets the entire farm. The ruins straddle the road they trot along and Heinrich can’t help but think of a deer being bled dry before skinning. Ribs cracked wide to display the empty cavern of their bodies, the line of their spine sickly white-pink through the dripping blood. Needless to say, he’s not a fan of hunting—much to Father’s dismay.

A sliver of discomfort has lodged itself in his own spine. He squints to peer into dark windows—the few that remain intact. Something childish in him expects some horrible creature to jump out from the void within and come after them. When no such being appears, Heinrich turns his gaze away.

He vaguely remembers what happened here from stories Father told. Neuhof had once been a bustling stud farm that supplied horses for nearby towns and garrisons. Their reputation had been incredible, especially for their size.

Then, around twelve years ago, a group of bandits attacked in the night, killing most of the horses and some of the people. The massacre spelled the beginning of the end for the homestead. While the culprits were caught and adequately punished, the farm never returned to its old status. The widow of the late owner did her best but…

“Uncle couldn’t let it happen. A woman’s place in society is sacred and to act in opposition to it is an affront to God himself. Even if said woman is better at her job than her late husband had ever been.”

Hanush destroyed her dreams in the end. Father said that Hanush cared about more than himself at one point, years ago. Heinrich only knew the hissing snake unable to close its jaws around the people it had swallowed.

“Heinrich, come.”

With a jolt, Heinrich realizes Galeas had stalled into a plodding walk in his rider’s distraction. Coming out of his bitter-tasting thoughts, Heinrich focuses on the world and immediately grimaces. He’d been staring at the long since decomposed remains of a horse. Only yellowed bones and leather scraps of torn hide remain.

Heinrich urges Galeas into a canter and peels off after his father.

“So,” Heinrich chirps once he catches up. “What is this Uzhitz like?”

A week ago, Lord Hans Capon of Pirkstein received a message from an old friend. This old friend lamented about wily bandits hunting around Uzhitz and how he would appreciate Hans’ help in the matter. Father jumped at the opportunity. Heinrich invited himself along. Anything to get away from the dark halls of Rattay’s castles and the memories that linger in every stone.

“Backwater,” Father replies, droll tone ringing playful in the autumn air. Heinrich peeks out of the corner of his eye at his father only to find him looking back the same way. His fair-colored mustache twitches and pulls to the side as he smirks. “Beautiful. Peaceful. Bit boring. There’s not even baths there. How these yokels stay clean baffles me still…”

“Oh no,” Heinrich says in the dryest voice he can muster. “Whatever shall we do? Draw baths ourselves? How terrible! Such heresy!”

A palm bats the back of Heinrich’s head, making him squawk like a startled chicken.

“Hey!”

“Where did you get that mouth?” Father laughs, burying his fingers into Heinrich’s strawberry blonde waves. The warm scent of home and family tickles Heinrich’s nose and bleeds across his skin. “I swear, I should have beaten it out of you years ago.”

“I’d like to see you try, old man!” A couple strands tear free from Heinrich’s scalp when he kicks Galeas into a sudden gallop. It’s worth the minute pain to hear his father sputter in his dust. “Last one to the forest draws our baths tonight!”

“You little shit—“

And they’re off.

Neither stallion is very pleased by the sudden pace they’ve been spurred into. Galeas tosses his rounded snout while Hans’ horse, Balius, makes his annoyance known with an irate snort. Thankfully, it’s not that long of a distance before green plains bleed into tall trees.

Naturally, Heinrich wins.

“You cheated,” Hans hisses at his son, bearing his teeth with a playful growl.

Heinrich smiles, all sweetness and light as he shows off adolescent fangs. “You’ve taught me well.”

Amicable small talk flows like water between them as they ride past a wide swath of new trees and over a burbling creek. Heinrich pauses to look into the water, checking for any signs of life. So focused, he nearly tumbles off his horse if Father didn't grab his hood. He suggests taking a break to hunt frogs. Heinrich says no; he’s more than ready to get to a town that actually has people in it rather than overgrown bones.

The hill they climb to leave the forest is surprisingly steep. Galeas groans in distaste beneath him, his mighty chest puffing out in effort. They had been pushing the beasts since early morning with few breaks. Father said their destination was specifically Uzhitz’s stables, at least, so the animals have a warm stall and fresh hay to look forward to. Both horses let out sighs as they come to stop on a flattened ledge carved out of the side of the hill.

“Is it much further, Father?” Heinrich asks as he smooths his hand over his steed’s sweaty neck.

Silence is the only thing he gets in return.

Frowning, Heinrich looks up and has to tug Galeas to the side to keep from bumping into Balius’s backside. Hans is frighteningly still. Heinrich’s eyes dart down to his father’s chest to make sure he’s still breathing. He is. Too quickly.

“Hey…” He nudges Galeas closer. Outside, it’s much more difficult to catch a scent than in stuffy castle halls. The closer he gets, however, the more Heinrich begins to smell something bitter and cold. Sadness. Regret. “Father?”

Where they stand is nowhere special. It’s an old, well-loved camp with enough space for… well, many people and their horses. Pebbled ground has been dirtied by countless boots; it seems that nobody has bothered to revitalize the place. Besides its peculiar positioning into the side of the hill, Heinrich can’t see anything particularly devastating.

So, it must be in Father’s head. His unknowable memories.

There’s so much about Hans Capon that Heinrich doesn’t know. Father enjoys focusing on the present, more than happy to come up with any number of fun stories that rarely have anything to do with his personal past. He was an adventurer and a scoundrel if Hanush was telling the truth during the fights he and Hans had. He always arrived late to meetings and left parties early—usually with a pretty omega girl on his arm. The only time he left Rattay was to hunt and, at one point, somehow help King Wenceslas escape his brother’s imprisonment in Vienna with a “band of miscreants”.

Heinrich’s not sure what’s true or not. He’s mature enough to know that his father has secrets like any man. He just hopes those secrets don't destroy what Heinrich has always thought of him: that Hans Capon is brave, smart, funny, and has a big heart that often gets him into trouble. Perfection is the furthest thing from his father, but Heinrich wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Fath—“

“Sorry.” Hans clears his throat. The stench of sadness oozes from him like congealed swamp water. “I—just some old memories. Nothing pressing. Let’s continue.”

Yet, they don't move. Heinrich watches his father closely, concern on his brow. Hans stares at his horse's ears, trying to avoid his son’s gaze.

A shuddering sigh finally erupts from Father’s chest in one big burst. His hand lifts to rest on the back of Heinrich’s neck. Their scents mingle into a familiar aroma. It’s comforting. Being scented by a parent is a privilege that Heinrich knows better than to dismiss.

“I’ll tell you later,” Hans murmurs as if keeping a secret from the trees around them. “You’re beyond old enough to know him.”

There’s a name that haunts the walls of Rattay. It’s whispered between people of all walks of life, always away from a noble’s listening ears. When Hanush brought the name up, Heinrich had seen the first and only time his father got so angry he could have killed his own uncle. Even Mother whispered it in the bed she would then die in days later. Heinrich can still hear it ringing in his head.

“Please… Find him, my love.” she rasped, sunken cheeks showing impressions of her teeth through skin. “Find Henry.”

Heinrich now watches his father continue up the hill. Broad shoulders draped in Leipa black and yellow. Sitting tall, but unsteady.

Find Henry.

It hadn’t been the final plea from Jitka, but it had been the one to shake Hans to the core. Heinrich’s not sure if he’s ever seen his father sob as he did that night.

Heinrich swallows around his quiet grief, breathes through his discomfort as Mother taught, and nudges Galeas forward to catch up.

***

Uzhitz is as peaceful and beautiful as Father said. Looking at it from afar shows a quaint village positioned on two steep hills that straddle a decently-sized river. Fields of crops and full pastures stretch out to either side as far as the eye can see and as far as the hills allow.

Estates of all sizes dot the fields, each with their own farm or pasture to manage. People skitter around over lush brown soil to harvest the crops of the passing season. Some whistle while others talk amongst themselves. The rest are silent, but far from the way Neuhof was silent. There’s a life to this place that sends Heinrich’s heart fluttering.

“Wow…” Heinrich breathes as they pass a farm with particularly large and juicy-looking lettuce. “Do they make everyone’s food here?”

“You know they don’t,” Hans admonishes with a chuckle. “Some of it, yes. There’s certainly a surplus for those who need it or have enough coin to buy and transport it. We must get you out of the castle more, dear boy.”

Heinrich’s cheeks bloom pink at his own childish reaction to the town. It’s obvious that this isn’t far from the norm—if far at all. Still, there’s a novelty in skirts full of onions and carrots, and plows being carted by horses even larger than the steeds beneath them that were specifically bred for war.

A girl younger than Heinrich perches on a barrel while she watches a man till the fields. When Heinrich and his father trot by, her brilliant teal eyes lift to catch his own. She waves and Heinrich quickly looks away, face burning.

“Ah, a little heartbreaker already,” Hans teases his son. The twinkle in his eye is no more than a dull sparkle, but Heinrich is happy to see it all the same after his earlier panic. “Just you wait, my boy, the wenches will be falling over themselves for you as they did me.”

The thought makes Heinrich’s stomach churn with discomfort. He, obviously, finds girls charming and pretty but the idea of breaking hearts or doing any of the things rumored about his father… A shudder rolls through his spine.

“Don’t worry,” Hans continues as if he could sense the tension in his son’s gut. “There is time yet for you to explore what your heart desires. No need to go speeding toward the finish line as it were.”

Heinrich can only think about the fit Hanush would throw if he heard his nephew speaking like that. It’s a good thing the dead can’t hear.

“Well, now.” A voice, gruff and weather-worn, carries on the gentle breeze. Hans snaps his head in the direction it comes from—Heinrich mirroring him a second later. “I knew I smelled something too rich for my humble blood.”

An older man stands beside a dun plow horse, his hand resting on the creature’s broad side. Other horses roam the paddock behind him. He’s dressed like any other groom Heinrich has seen: looser clothing not meant to stay clean, and an apron around the waist where various tools of his trade hang. His head is very bald despite his eyebrows imitating the fluffy caterpillars Heinrich sees on the flowers in his mother’s garden.

“Godwin!” With a single word, Hans sounds younger than he ever has before. There’s a lightness to his voice that makes Heinrich balk. “You look good, Father.”

Father? A priest? Working at a stud farm?

“Please, lad. It’s been nigh on a decade that I’ve had any right to that title.” Godwin wipes his hands on his leather apron before making his way to the fence. He lurches with each step. A limp, maybe from an old wound? “It’s good to see you, Hans.”

Heinrich’s eyebrows lift even further into his hairline at the casual tone.

“I-I—“ A breathless laugh stutters from his father. Balius stays resolute and still as his rider practically falls from his saddle in an effort to dismount as quick as possible. “You cannot know how happy I am to see your ugly mug, Godwin.”

Though a fence stands between them, Hans and Godwin joyfully embrace. One gnarled hand grips the back of Hans’ black hood so tightly that Heinrich worries he’ll rip the fine stitching. Hans is giving as much as he gets, fisting the groom’s linen work shirt like a child at his mother’s skirts. Their throats press close, each equally scenting the other. An intimate thing Heinrich has never seen happen before—not like this and certainly not with his father of all people.

Godwin… Heinrich frowns as he shuffles through the knowledge he has of his father’s past. There had been mention of a drunken priest, but it had been so fleeting that Heinrich assumed the man had left the region to sin further and met some untimely fate. This camaraderie is unexpected. Strange. Off-putting, honestly.

“Look at you.” Godwin cups Hans’ jaw, continuing to scent him with all the affection of a parent. “Finally grew that beard, eh?”

“Turns out that having a child and forgetting to groom yourself for a few months does wonders for one’s facial hair,” Hans jokes, giving his old friend a toothy grin. “That being said…”

Both men turn towards Heinrich and he freezes in place. Galeas shifts beneath him, sensing his fear.

“My, my. The prodigal Heinrich, I assume?” Godwin’s smile makes his eyes nearly disappear into the folds of his cheeks and the thickness of his brow. “Come closer, pup.”

Right. Time to make nice with strangers who know his father better than his own son does. Heinrich internally braces himself as he slips off his saddle and lands on hardpacked earth. He ambles up to the fence, preparing to feel those hands on his face, near his throat.

To his surprise, Godwin doesn’t move except to bow his head. Grass, old books, and alcohol flutter in the breeze.

“A pleasure to properly meet you, young lord.” That damn smile shifts from elated to soft and Heinrich has no idea what to do with that. “I’m Godwin, an old friend of Hans, here.”

Heinrich doesn’t know what to say. He can’t lie and tell Godwin he’s heard stories of him. That would be cruel. He can’t demure in front of another alpha, peasant or no. And he has nothing to offer when the man already knows his name. He keeps it simple.

“Good to meet you,” Heinrich responds.

“I have a feeling you take after your mother more than this lout here, hm?”

Heinrich looks at his feet.

“He does,” his father murmurs in a voice softer than the clouds. “He’s a piece of her left behind.”

“I’m sorry.” Again, Heinrich looks to Godwin in surprise. An apology? From an older, wiser, more experienced alpha? The words feel foreign to Heinrich’s ears. “I’m very sorry. I shouldn’t have brought her up.”

“It’s alright,” Hans says for Heinrich, who is still frozen in his befuddlement. “Jitka was a bright light in this world. It’s only right that she left a spark.”

Heinrich barely resists the urge to hug himself like a child. Something dark and ugly tightens in his chest. Will it always feel this way to remember his mother? Will every thought of her always be tainted by the memory of her wasting away?

“Come, come.” Godwin’s pleasant growl pulls Heinrich from his thoughts and the feeling behind his sternum. The man gestures with one broad hand. “Bring those beasts in and I’ll make us a meal.”

“Take care not to burn it, old man. We’re men of taste and have only the highest expectations.”

Godwin dismisses him with a friendly wave and goes limping toward the stable. Hans remains where he is, Heinrich unmoving beside him. He twines leather reins around his fingers as he watches Godwin’s form until he disappears. Unfamiliar softness remains in his wake.

Heinrich tries to remember the last time he’s seen that particular expression on his father’s face. To his dismay, he can’t think of a single time. His father loves him, of course, but this is… this is something else wholly separate from Heinrich and the life they left in Rattay.

Returning to his horse, Heinrich wonders if he should have come at all.

“We can walk from here,” Hans says after a moment of quiet contemplation. “I’m sure these boys wouldn’t mind a break from our weight on their backs.”

“Your weight,” Heinrich mutters as he hooks two fingers onto Galeas’ reins.

Hans sighs through a smile. “God, grant me patience…”

The walk to the front of the Uzhitz stud farm is quick enough. As they round the corner, the entirety of the town is visible from their position at the top of the hill. There’s no doubt that it’s smaller than Rattay and no castle perches on either peak, but there’s an atmosphere that Heinrich can’t help but envy. When people pass one another, smiles are shared. Goodwives innocently gossip like hens over fences. In the valley below, a fisherman sits on a stool with his line deep in the churning waters of the river.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Heinrich looks to his father who stands beside him, looking out over the town as well. “Bigger than when I last saw it.”

Heinrich blinks in surprise. “It must have been small.”

“Very. It barely went past that church—which used to be Godwin’s parish, by the by.” A smirk dances across his father’s face. The sparkle has returned in full force. “Old coot spent more time fornicating than preaching anyway.”

Ew.

“I do not want to think about him fornicating, thank you.” Heinrich wrinkles his nose at the thought.

“Believe me, son, neither do I.” Hans taps his shoulder and nods in the direction of the farm. “Let’s go. We’ll have time to explore later if you would like.”

“Yeah…” With one last glance to the bustling town, Heinrich turns and follows his father into the farm.

The stables are larger than they seemed outside the fence. Several narrow stalls are set up in a large L that lines the pasture beyond. The tall fence that acts as the perimeter of the field winds over hills and butts up against rows of growing crops. Horses of all size, breed, and use wander about the pasture looking more at ease than Heinrich has ever seen a horse be.

Hans whistles at what he sees, his hand plopping onto Heinrich’s head. He ignores his son’s squirming as he says to Godwin, “Prolific outfit you have here, Godwin.”

Godwin, who was finishing mucking out the far stalls for their stallions, chortles in response.

“Not mine, but thank you kindly. The stablemaster keeps us on our toes.”

“Oh?” Hans twists to look at him, his hand remaining on Heinrich’s unappreciative head. “Who—”

“Stall’s’re ready,” Godwin interrupts with a smile. “Leave them tied up there, I’ll have the grooms come by and get them settled with the rest.”

With that, the older alpha is hobbling away at a speed unexpected from one with such an impediment to his movement. Almost like he’s running away. Like he’s trying to hide—

“He’s hiding something,” Hans grumbles as he loosely ties Balius to a ring hanging from the barn wall. “Poorly. As ever.”

Right. Because they’re old friends and know how the other acts. They’re close enough to thoroughly scent one another after a grand total of five seconds pass after their reunion.

Heinrich ties Galeas up as he struggles to swallow around his bitterness.

The main house on the farm is a spacious building tucked away on the corner closest to the road. Heinrich saw the state that the people of Rattay have to live in and knows full well how any of them would kill to have a home this size. A proper kitchen, a bedroom with its own fireplace, and a second storey with yet another bedroom—and that’s not including the pantry and door that leads to the cellar below. It’s a veritable mansion.

Hans must think the same thing as he takes one step inside and freezes.

“God above,” he mutters as he looks to the stairs and the closed off second storey. “How many people live here?”

“Currently, three.” Godwin stands in the room that serves as both kitchen and dining place. “Me, Anna, and—and the stablemaster.”

Anna?

“Anna?” Hans once again parrots Heinrich’s thoughts. “Have you got yourself a wench, Father?”

Godwin sputters out a laugh that shakes his entire being. His mouth opens with the force of it, flashing fangs that most would keep otherwise hidden. Is this how it is outside of Rattay? Had their home become so embroiled in propriety that it kept people from being who they are?

The answer is yes. Heinrich doesn’t even have to ponder it for a second. Life under Hanush’s golden fist had seen to the assimilation of everyone at the risk of death.

“No, no,” Godwin says finally as he dumps pieces of meat—meat!—into a cauldron filled to the brim with broth. “Anna is a special girl, but not like that.”

Hans and Heinrich filter into the kitchen. As his father goes to chat with Godwin (and probably tease him about this Anna person), Heinrich wanders the room and looks at everything on the walls.

Textiles. Weapons, both real, sharpened iron and wooden. Small whittled animals sitting on a shelf. Books… books? Godwin was a priest, but he doesn’t seem like the type to read for leisure.

Heinrich frowns as his curiosity continues to grow. He turns his attention to the opposite wall and blanches.

Hunting trophies. There is no possible way that the Lord of these lands gave permission to hunt deer. Heinrich reaches out and rubs his palm against the hide hanging on the wall. That is certainly deer. Heinrich remembers the feeling from when he pet the stag his father had taken down during their first and only disastrous hunting escapade.

“Mmm…” Hans hums from where he stands beside Godwin. “Is that the lovely scent of poaching my keen nose smells?”

Heinrich sniffs. While meat generally just smells like meat, there is a difference between the fattiness of a pig and the musculature of a deer if one pays close enough attention. The aroma filling the room now does bring to mind the times they’ve eaten venison in Rattay.

“If I say yes, will the notorious Ghost of Apollonia turn me in?” Godwin smirks at Hans.

“The Ghost of Apollonia?” Heinrich repeats—and instantly regrets when his father jumps and looks at him as if he forgot his son was even there.

Right…

“It—It’s nothing,” Hans stammers. His face is becoming redder by the moment.

“How times have changed,” Godwin hums while maintaining that same sharp smirk. “I would have thought you’d tell your son of all your daring adventures by now.”

It’s impossible to keep the scoff from Heinrich’s mouth. He turns away from both men when they look at him. Fingers delve back into the deer fur hung on the wall.

“We haven’t quite gotten to that part,” is the toothless response Hans gives through pursed lips.

“Hm. Well, your father was quite the poacher in his own right, pup.” At least someone was willing to say something. Heinrich listens, though he doesn’t turn around. “Though, a poor one if Henry’s tales are anything to go by.”

Henry.

All thoughts of his father breaking the law leaves his mind. Heinrich spins around, his heart in his throat. He squeaks out, “Henry?”

The pallid, sickly tinge to his father’s frozen face isn’t enough to make Heinrich want to drop the topic. His father can get over his ridiculous need for secrecy while Heinrich gets the information he’s long since deserved.

Confusion colors Godwin’s face like the mural on a grand cathedral’s wall. He looks between the Capon men, trying to figure out the source of the sudden tension. Those kind eyes linger on Hans as the man curls into himself, arms crossing tighter over his chest.

“Sir—Father—”

“Just Godwin, pup.”

“Godwin.” Heinrich walks forward. He’s trying so, so hard to contain himself and he can feel it failing as his voice cracks as he says, “Who is Henry?”

The confusion only grows.

“You—Wait, I apologize. One moment.” Godwin places the spoon down on the lip of the cauldron before turning fully toward Heinrich. “You mean to tell me that you don’t know about the man you’re named after?”

What?

What?

Father looks even sicker. His eyes are focused on nothing and the bitter scent of sadness is beginning to overwhelm the stew. Hans is frozen in time, locked in place by—by whatever kept him from telling Heinrich in the first place.

“Who is he?” Heinrich ignores the weight in his belly, breathes through his discomfort, and clenches the fabric of his Leipa-yellow waffenrock. “Please, tell me. My mother—My mother, she—”

“Heinrich.” It’s the first word Hans has said since Henry’s name was spoken.

Anger bubbles in Heinrich’s belly. His upper lip twitches with the instinct to bear his harmless fangs, show his anger, demand to know what the hell is going through his father’s mind.

“No!” he barks, tightening his grip. “You’ve never said his name once and now—now I learn that I was named after him?”

Hans’ mouth opens. Then closes.

“Alright, alright.” Effortlessly, gently, Godwin comes between them and puts up his hands to fend off Heinrich’s simmering rage. “There’s obviously much to say. Let’s get dinner on the table and we can all talk.”

Through the window, Heinrich catches the sound of a young girl talking a mile a minute. At any other point Heinrich might have dismissed it. Except he’d never quite heard anyone talk this fast. It was distracting and impressive and overstimulating despite her distance from the window.

“Come, let’s—”

Godwin goes quiet as the girl’s voice gets closer and is met with a soothing rumble in response.

Immediately, Hans is in front of his son. He stands between him and the door. A shield to an oncoming threat that Heinrich doesn’t know about.

“Your stablemaster,” Hans says weakly. Then, he inhales swiftly. A realization. “Anna.”

“Hans. Lad, please.”

“You fucking liar.” Betrayal drips like fresh venom from Hans’ words. “Why did you never tell me?”

Godwin’s years draw heavy across his face. “Lad, you have to know that he didn’t—”

“In you go, birdie.” As close as it is, the smooth rumble from outside is even more comforting. It’s the type of voice that could soothe even the fussiest pup. Low, melodic, even-toned. With a lilt that cups the back of your neck like a big, warm palm.

“Gooooodwiiin.” On the other hand, the girl’s voice is more like javelins to the eardrum. Sharp and high with the same cadence as the man’s but used for evil instead. “Pa wants to know why there’re big fuckin’—”

“Anna, please.”

“—big beasties in the stable. He also said something about a lord, but I wasn’t listening.”

“Anna.”

Heinrich peeks around his father’s mantle as two people filter in through the door. He recognizes one: the girl who had been perched on the barrel as they came into town. Her face is darkened by the sun and full to the brim with freckles. Blonde hair cuts short at her jaw, falling in messy, untameable waves. Blue—or are they green?—eyes sit wide and downturned, painfully expressive.

The man is somehow exactly like her and completely opposite at the same time. He stands taller than most and broad. He’s got the same downturned, calflike eyes that the girl does but his face houses no spots that Heinrich can see. His tightly trimmed beard and half-pulled back hair suits him, though.

Anna and, if Heinrich is guessing right, Henry.

Notes:

some worldbuilding notes:
when are we?: autumn of 1415. if u know history, u might know why this is very important to keep in mind :) but also, like kcd, i've moved a few dates and events. just go with it.

on a/b/o dynamics: they're more subtle than what generally goes on in these types of fics. less outright animalistic, more inhuman humans yknow? some context for this universe: people whose secondary genders don't match their perceived genders are both detested and venerated. many are either hunted down or become noble pets. i like to think that jesus was an omega just for funsies tho :) also, omegas and alphas have heightened senses, with omegas having an even better sense of smell and alphas having a superior sense of taste. also, no one can identify anyone's secondary based on scent alone (though omegas societally tend to alter their scents probably bc of God or something lol). the only thing u can tell is whether someone is a alpha/omega bc they usually gag like cats when someone farts y'know??? it must be hell to have a secondary gender in the 1400s... rip

on pov: we're gonna be touching everyone's brains here... except for godwin sorry dude

on anna's name: i'm publishing this around the time the comic previews are coming out, so henry's mom's name might be jana?? but i'm keeping it anna in this fic. mostly bc if anna was named jana she'd be named after hans and that would be. haha. weird.

on jitka: yes i technically fridged her i am SO sorry my queen!! she's still a very important part of the story, so i hope i do her memory justice 🫡 love u babey

Chapter 2: II :: Henry

Notes:

hehe i changed the update schedule because i can't help myself

enjoy! 💕

(worldbuilding notes are at the end as i think they will be for every chapter at this rate)

warnings for this chapter: henry being a big baby. otherwise, nothing.

Henry won’t lie and say that the first person he sees is Hans Capon. His eyes are downcast, watching his daughter fight back as she is wont to do as his pup. Affection blooms so strongly in his chest that his nose doesn’t catch the scent of roses and gold hanging in the air like a gilded omen. Only when he and Anna come to the doorway does he look up and see a pair of familiar eyes on the wrong face.

Where Henry’s (and subsequently Anna’s) eyes are tinted by fields and rivers, Hans Capon’s eyes are sapphires the entire way through. A brilliant blue tone that startled Henry the first time he saw them all those years ago. In a flood of browns, hazels, and the occasional green, Hans’ eyes are enough to mark him unquestioningly as nobility.

(When Anna’s eyes took on Henry’s brushstrokes of green, he sighed in relief despite the guilt gnawing at him for doing so.)

Those same sapphires now stare up at Henry from behind Capon’s mantle from a small face rounded by youth and good, plentiful food.

Henry’s mind hitches with the gait of a lame horse as he stares—and as his daughter, brash as ever, steps forward to make herself known.

“Oh!” Anna chirps, her head tilting to look around the uninteresting adult standing in her way. “You’re the boy on the horse!”

Said boy’s lips go tight and his fair, nearly invisible brows lower in an expression of consternation that doesn’t fit the few years he’s lived. The look would have more impact if his cheeks hadn’t lit up bright red in response to Anna’s enthusiastic greeting.

“I’m Anna!” Neither child notices all three adults in the room flinch in horrible unison. “Who’re you?”

A battle is being waged behind those eyes. The boy glances down at her—having inherited his sire’s naturally lanky form—and away in quick succession. Several heartbeats pass before the battle ceases and he opens his mouth to speak.

“Heinrich Capon.” A pause. Then: “...of Pirkstein.”

Of course.

Of course.

Henry turns away. His hand grips the frame of the kitchen entryway. Ragged, soil-encrusted nails bite into the wood. In an attempt to get sensation back, Henry swipes his free hand down his face. It doesn’t work. All he can feel is the grit of dirt and the pounding of his heart in his temples.

“Pirkstein?” Anna flawlessly ignores the heavy atmosphere in the room. “Uhhh. I have no clue where that is.”

There’s a quiet, familiar snort that makes Henry’s heart spasm.

“You don’t…?” The boy sounds genuinely baffled in the way only jilted nobles can. “It… Um. Rattay. Southeast—”

“West,” Hans Capon of Pirkstein, Lord of Rattay and Polná gently corrects.

“Southwest from here.”

Anna smacks her lips and gives a cheeky ah-ha! noise that Henry knows is accompanied by a sagely nod and a hand motion that suggests Anna is stroking her long, non-existent beard.

“I see, I see,” she trills. “That’s why I’ve never heard of it…”

“It—It’s a big city?” The boy still sounds incredibly baffled, perhaps even more so after Anna’s theatrics. The stammer that’s shown itself only prolongs his confused agony. “We’re the—the—the largest—”

“Never been.” Henry should stop her from speaking to nobles like this. With anyone, anyone else, it would get her killed. “Never’ve left Uzhitz, in fact.”

Silence follows.

“Oh.”

The entire room fills with awkward weight.

Henry wants to throw himself in the river and drown.

“Right.” Godwin cuts through the silence with the force of an executioner’s blade. He sounds too happy and now Henry wants to run directly off a cliff. The first time wasn’t effective, so maybe he’ll find a taller ledge that’ll do the job right. “Let’s talk over a meal, yes? Food always brings people together in my abundant experience.”

Capon sucks in a breath, a sound Henry keenly remembers from an era ago.

“Henry—”

He can’t do this.

“Give me a fucking—” Sharp breath is sucked in through tight teeth. “Give me a moment.”

Henry doesn’t wait for a reply before his feet take him toward the door. He doesn’t care if it slams behind him as he exits; Henry is already bent over the trough outside.

The image of a sunbaked, worn, old man stares back at him from the depths of the basin. He hasn’t enjoyed looking at his reflection in years. It’s no business of his what new lines have appeared and how deep his eyes have sunken into their sockets.

Hans fucking Capon saw him like this while still looking like himself. Immaculate. Golden.

Growling low in his throat, Henry shoves his cupped hands into the water and splashes it onto his face. The cool water will put his head on straight. It has to.

Those enormous horses had been of Rattay stock. Big, muscled, but nimble enough to weave between rocks and over hills. That’s always been the case and even more so now that battles, rebellions, and bandits have been getting worse and worse with each passing month.

When Henry spotted the beasts, his grooms had already rid them of their tack and heraldry. He should have checked. He should have guessed they carried only problems on their backs.

Henry scrubs his face with a handful of water one last time before standing up straight. Irritated, flustered, and unmoored, he begins to straighten his clothes to try and not look like the country bumpkin he’s always been. He fixes the buttons at his cuffs and collar, puts his hair up the rest of the way until it sits in a neat tail at the base of his skull, and brushes the worst of the dust from his scuffed hose.

This was going to happen sooner or later, Henry reasons with himself, mouth pulled into a frown. You couldn’t have kept this up forever.

Entering the kitchen again has four sets of eyes turning his way. Anna wrinkles her freckled nose and is surely about to comment on his appearance when Godwin nudges her firmly with his elbow. Henry’s girl might be brash, but she’s not stupid. Anna quickly shoves a spoonful of stew into her mouth to keep it from running.

Henry avoids looking at the two on the other side of the table as he walks over and settles in front of a full bowl waiting for him. A fresh loaf of bread sits in the center of the table, already torn by eager hands. Henry takes a piece for himself before dipping it into the stew and shoving it between his aching teeth.

“So,” Godwin says as Henry chews his bread like it’s raw venison. “We are happy you two have come. I’ve been wanting to meet little Heinrich ever since you wrote about him, Hans.”

A second piece of stew-soaked bread freezes before Henry can bring it to his mouth.

Of course this wasn’t a random father-son outing that led the Capons here by utter coincidence. Of course Godwin had been corresponding with the senior Capon behind Henry’s back. Of course he’d kept Henry in the dark about everything. With each new realization, Henry can feel his long buried anger clawing its way to the surface.

Henry tears through the bread and tries his best not to gore himself on his own fangs as he chews.

“For all the, ah, unrest our appearance seems to have caused, I am happy we are here, too.” Capon’s voice has changed over the last decade. Gone is the peaked squeak of a young nobleman coming into his own. Now, his voice rolls through the air, smooth as silk as it exits his mouth beneath that silly moustache. Omegas must be falling over themselves at the sound. “It’s nice to see all of you.”

Even as his stomach turns, Henry has no doubt Hans is telling the truth.

“Well, I don’t know you.” The words sound petulant, but Henry knows his daughter; she’s genuinely asking who Capon is and why he’s so damn important. “Are you a friend of Pa’s?”

Capon’s chuckle glides across the space between them with the grace of a songbird. “Once, yes. I’m not so sure anymore.”

Guilt continues to build in Henry’s stomach. It’s unwanted and unwarranted. Henry made his decision, and he stands by it. A few taunting words won’t make him second guess the life he’s made for himself and his daughter.

“Weird,” Anna states. Her legs swing, hide boots tapping a (quite annoying) rhythm against the bench’s support rail. “Always forget Pa’s got noble friends.”

While darkness takes up most of his chest, Henry can’t help but chuckle softly.

“You’ve named your dog after one of those friends, lass,” Godwin says around his own laughter. “Sometimes I wonder if there’s not feathers in your head instead of thoughts.”

“Hey!” Anna’s bottom lip juts out. “I got plenty of thoughts!”

It’s impossible for Henry to keep himself from teasing his pup. “Doubtful.”

“Pa!”

“Your dog?” Capon is gentle in his interjection, only speaking when Anna’s whining settles to a dull roar. “How is Mutt?”

“Dead.” Henry winces at his own short tone. “Few years back. Sired more pups than I knew what to do with.”

“Aye! Mutt was Princess’ pa like Pa is my pa.” Anna grins at the connection as if Henry wasn’t the one who pointed it out to her in the first place years ago. He hides a smile behind a stew-laden spoon.

Amusement blooms on Capon’s face without a second’s hesitation. His smile comes easily and stays in place seemingly without any effort. If only Henry was so good at masking his emotions. He's fallen out of practice. All he has is a spoon to hide behind and a perpetual scowl that never seems to wander far from his mouth these days.

“Princess, hm?” Capon’s elbow rests against the table with a quiet tink as his finely crafted couter hits the wood. From the corner of Henry’s eye, he sees Heinrich send a scandalous look at the offending elbow. “I have a suspicion that isn’t her full address.”

Henry places his palm over his eyes to keep his humiliation from showing as Anna stands up on the bench beside him and places her fists on her hips.

“Princess Sparkles Kobyla of Lichtenstein, First of Her Name!” she crows with a pride only twelve year-olds can possess.

“Hear, hear!” Godwin cheers in turn. “Hail, Princess Sparkles!”

Meanwhile, Capon is choking so hard that Henry has to peek through his fingers to see if he’s not on the verge of dying. Hard to tell with his face so red and the tears at the corners of his eyes, but all of Henry’s worries are dashed against the rocks as Capon bursts into raucous laughter a second later.

There are actual tears in his eyes from laughing so hard. It makes their blue hue stand out in stark relief. Henry has to look away. His gaze settles on the boy sitting stock-still beside his father, his own matching blue eyes wide and his round face slack in surprise. Curiosity plucks at the back of Henry’s mind like the strings of a poorly tuned lute.

“And—pfft—” Capon sputters into his fist as he gasps to calm down. “A-And Sir John knows of this?”

“He encouraged it,” Henry grumbles. “Knighted the little bugger and everythin’.”

“Knighted!” And he’s off again.

For the first time since Henry spotted the beastly warhorses in his barn, a certain sweet scent touches his nose. It’s not very strong and is overpowered by the ever present sour stink of discomfort—but it’s there.

Joy.

“I cannot see that man being good with children,” Capon says as he wipes his tears with the butt of his palm. Long blonde lashes clump together even after he blinks. “Though, I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me.”

“Lichtenstein is plenty good with the little ones.” Henry silently thanks Godwin for jumping in. “The tales of adventure he tells always thrills them.”

(“Get down,” Henry murmurs to Anna beneath the conversation. She promptly falls into him and slides into her seat using Henry’s shoulder as a sloped hillside to tumble down. “Thank you for smearing your dirt on me, birdie. Appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome,” his daughter whispers back at the volume of a dog’s bark.)

“Oh, aye, I’m sure they were very excited about his stories of being stuck in a damp basement for weeks on end,” Capon retorts with a flick of his fingers. Had he always been this expressive? “Or the ridiculousness of stealing silver from—” Fucking Sigismund. “—very important people.”

Godwin chortles in that good natured way of his. A bright note of happiness fills the air once more. Henry can’t tell who it's coming from.

“No, no. He never tells stories about himself.”

The heat of attention burns along Henry’s face with such vigor that he has to focus on the table again as nearly everyone’s attention turns his direction, blooming flowers to the sun.

(Anna, of course, is too interested in tearing apart a feather she found somewhere. He gently takes it from her hands, knowing full well what awful sicknesses one can get from a simple thing as an unwashed wild feather.)

“What?” Henry stuffs the feather into the pocket opposite his pup and wipes his hand on his thigh. “He doesn’t tell stories about me either.”

Not much to tell, really.

“Then—?” Capon prompts, rolling his wrist. His boy still looks like he’d gotten an errant magpie to the face with no idea where it came from in the first place. Pure bewilderment. “He tells stories of princes and princesses, does he?”

“Sometimes,” Godwin acquiesces with a nod. “Other times he tells stories of a very brave Jewish lad who saved his people many times over.”

That makes Capon sit up. His son mirrors him, straightening his spine as well in a sweet imitation of his father.

“Samuel?” A soft chuckle presses breathless through smiling teeth. “I haven’t heard of him in years. How is he?”

As if Capon ever cared about Henry’s brother before now.

“He’s—”

“Why are you here, my lord?” Henry ignores the weariness he can feel emanating off Godwin’s sloped form. After a beat, he clarifies: “In Uzhitz.”

Silence hangs on a spider’s silk thread over the table, threatening to fall and shatter across the now empty bread plate below.

Capon shifts in his seat and clears his throat. His eyes flick away from Henry’s stern gaze and down to the mostly empty bowl before him. Fingers encapsulated by expensive tanned leather fold together in supplication. Henry’s jaw clenches further.

“In one of the…” Capon glances at Godwin with a silent, insulting apology in his eyes. “…letters our good friend Godwin sent, he mentioned a bandit problem that has been getting worse around Uzhitz. With Talmberg contested, I thought to offer my personal help with this problem.”

His finger taps against the back of his hand. Sharp, uncertain musk fills the room. Capon hasn’t gotten any better at controlling that overwhelming stink of his.

“Contested.” A funny way to say, Sir Divish died and a woman can’t take his place, much less a grief-stricken widow unable to leave her chambers. Henry can remember the acute sadness drawn into every fiber of Lady Stephanie’s emaciated form the last time he saw her. He only hopes that she still lives. “And you thought to bring your young pup along to fight bandits?”

Chagrin and defensiveness fight for a place on Capon’s face.

“Heinrich—“ Henry bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from wrinkling his nose at that name on Capon’s tongue. It’s not the pup’s fault he's named that and Henry isn’t in the business of making children feel bad. “—came of his own free will and I am not one to turn away a grieving boy.”

Distinct memories come to his mind of Capon, young and brash, asking Henry about Skalitz while the kindling in their camp’s fire pit caught a spark, uncaring of the telling stillness in Henry’s stance. He remembers the sneer on Capon’s face when Hanush ordered Henry to be his caretaker.

Not one to turn away a grieving boy.

Henry looks to Heinrich once more. The pup stares down at his bowl, spoon scraping against the sides. No more stew is left for him to distract himself with. Henry understands that far away look in his low-lidded eyes. He had it too. Has it still, sometimes.

“Right.” He’s not going to point out every dogshit decision Capon has made in front of the boy like he’s not in the room. Adults can bicker away from young ears. “Your aid is much appreciated, my lord. Where will you be staying? Our tavern is very—“

“I would like to offer a place to rest your heads here,” Godwin says.

Henry closes his eyes. Every bit of him wants to strangle Godwin on the spot. He’s being unfair and petty, Henry knows that. Capon and his pup are guests—noble ones. They have every right to a space in Henry’s home.

"Heinrich and I can settle for a room at the tavern. We've camped in worse places, eh?" Capon's son makes a bereft noise as his father nudges him with his elbow. "We wouldn't want to cause any further friction."

"Henry's just—"

"It's fine." Henry plasters a tight smile on his face. "There are pallets upstairs that we use for guests. I'll bring them to this room before sundown so you two can settle in."

Hesitation bleeds across Capon's features. He visibly battles himself on whether he should accept the forced offer or not. In reality—disregarding his struggling ego—it truly is no skin off Henry's nose either way. Plenty of guests stay over. Anyone in Uzhitz knows they can come to the stables to lay their heads if they need to.

Those guests tend to stay in the barn, but Henry's not going to mention that. Not that he has to with what Capon says next.

"In here?" Capon says, glancing about the spacious dining area. There's more than enough space for two pallets in front of the hearth. "I thought you'd have offered us the barn at the most…"

"Nobles don't sleep in barns, do they?"

To ease the sting of the venom in his voice, Henry stands and begins gathering up bowls. He can feel Capon's gaze burning into the side of his head, but he refuses to meet it. Once all the bowls and the bread plate are gathered, he sets them on the table beside the kitchen hearth to be cleaned later and the remaining scraps being given to the pigs.

"Henry."

Sakra, he hates the way Capon says his name. Tender and soft. As if a full decade and more hasn't passed since they last talked to each other at all. As if Henry hadn't left and Capon still…

"We don't have to stay here," Capon continues. His voice is closer than before. Henry couldn't have heard him get up over the blood rushing in his ears. "It would do Heinrich good to visit a tavern—"

"Stay or not." It burns Henry's throat to speak. "I'll bring the pallets down regardless."

With that, he turns, shoulders past Capon, and walks out of the kitchen. Warmth burns like wildfire down his side where he brushed against the Lord's broad frame. Shaking off the feeling, Henry flees through the front door and walks to the barn without another word.

Princess greets him as he enters. Her almost entirely white body wriggles in excitement at seeing her second favorite person and her long pink tongue hangs from between her teeth. She must sense the simmering anger in him—when Henry gets close enough, Princess cocks her head, making her folded ears unfold and stick out.

“Don’t you start,” Henry grumbles as he strides past her and into the pasture. Princess, unsurprisingly, follows. “I do not want to be scolded by my daughter’s dog.”

Not that Princess would scold him even if she knew how to speak. She’s always held the same sort of energy that Anna has: wild, free, and lacking judgment from pure lack of care. It’s one of the reasons why she’s stayed by their side for so long while the rest of Mutt’s interminable puppies were taken by travelers and Uzhitz townspeople alike.

The paddock is quiet. One of his grooms stands at the far end of the field, brushing down a roan mare while keeping an eye on the rest of the herd. Both warhorses stick close to one another, obviously more comfortable with each other than anyone else. Horses are a naturally suspicious lot; they would eventually find their place.

Henry comes to a silent stop in front of a chestnut gelding who lazily chews a mouthful of grass as he gazes at his rider. Herring shifts his weight to lean closer to Henry when he slides around to his side.

In his older age, Red Herring has become dry to the touch and dashed with white specks. Still, Henry finds a special sort of calm in running his palms over Herring’s flank in slow circuits. Herring enjoys the ritual as well if his guttural groan and lifted rear leg say anything.

“Hans fucking Capon,” he mutters to his old friend. “You remember him, don’t you? The arrogant ponce who was with me at Trosky when we first met.”

Perhaps Henry should be more worried that he talks to his animals as if they understand him, but he can’t bring himself to care when it soothes his soul so. Fingers trace over the jut of Herring’s withers and along his spine before following the curve of his ribs to his chest.

“Can you believe he’s come here at Godwin’s behest?”

Herring snorts in response, the noise more of a happy exhale than anything else.

“I know, right?” Henry gives his own exhale, though happiness is far from it. “They’ve been talking behind my back. Possibly for this entire time.”

Herring dips his nose down to mouth at Henry’s hip. His usual apron is hanging in the tack shed, having been left there once his chores were done. Henry ekes out a chuckle and rubs his palm over Herring’s brilliant white blaze and the end of his impossibly soft nose.

“Sorry, boy. I don’t have any treats for you this time.”

Still, Herring lips at his clothing, ever hopeful.

“D’you…” Henry bites his lip. “D’you think I should take her? Leave Uzhitz?”

The thought came to Henry’s mind the moment he realized he hadn’t been dreaming—so, right away. It would be easy enough to leave the stables to Godwin, pack up the bare essentials, and take Anna far from Capon’s tender gaze. They can always make new friends. Make a different name for themselves in a different village far, far from here.

“Pribyslavitz is nice this time of year,” Henry continues as he leans against Herring’s broad side. His forehead lowers to rest against a shock of gray-white on Herring’s spine. “The trees turn all sorts of lovely colors.”

Herring responds with a tremendous sigh. A bitter laugh claws at Henry’s throat.

“You’re right. It’s too close.” He’d stayed nearby solely because of Skalitz and his father’s work rebuilding the town. Now that it has regained its footing and Wenceslaus had the brilliant idea to give it to that prick Kolman, Henry has no real reason to stay. “Nowhere near Prague, that’s for certain. Perhaps we should leave Bohemia entirely. Learning a new language isn’t too difficult…”

Who is he kidding? Henry won’t leave. He won’t rip Anna’s hometown from her. He would be no better than the monsters who stole his own childhood home. A bitter taste fills Henry’s mouth at the thought.

And why should he leave? All three of them have built a life here. A reputation. Friends. Why should he leave because Hans fucking Capon came to town and cocked everything up?

Henry groans and beats his head gently against Herring’s back. The gelding grumbles in mild displeasure.

“I hate this, Herring,” Henry whispers into his horse’s short, wiry hide. “I fucking hate it. All of it.”

Notes:

worldbuilding notes:
optional as always!

a general timeline:
some historical events that were alluded to or mentioned in this chapter:

- Wenceslaus IV was freed from captivity by John II of Lichtenstein in 1403
- Stříbrná Skalice (Silver Skalitz) was donated to Jan Sokol of Lamberg in December 1403 and then to Kolman of Křikava in 1413 (the Sasau Monastery will then take ownership of it in 1417. Interesting, right?)
- Radzig would become burgrave of Vyšehrad, a fort in Prague, in 1410 and then be permitted to rebuild his castle, Veselé, near Chocerady (a bit northwest from Skalitz, further up the Sázava) in 1412 where he is currently
- Divish of Talmberg died sometime in 1415 of ✨unknown causes✨

the only difference here is that i like to imagine radzig helped to rebuild skalitz with jan sokol and then wenceslaus gave it to kolman in 1413 once radzig had his own place and sokol was uh dead (in 1410 when he was apparently poisoned??? wild. hope he's in kcd3 and hope henry isnt the one who poisons him). Also, that jitka of kundstadt died in 1414, so about a year ago. rip my queen

a note on anna: this girl would 100% not be able to act this way in 1415 but this is my fic and my story and henry (and uzhitz) loves his wild child ok

Chapter 3: III :: Heinrich

Notes:

this one is a bit of a shorty but it's extremely cute if i do say so myself :)

enjoy!

warnings for this chapter: there's minor ableism and some insensitive words said out of ignorance and self-deprecation in regards to heinrich's stammer. if this bothers you, you can skip from "why d'you do that" to "c'mon i wanna show you something cool." a summary will be in the end notes.

oh, also frogs. so look away ranidaphobiacs

Heinrich finds himself at the edge of the main pasture as the sun begins to sink into the horizon. He can barely see over the top rail if he's on the ground, so he's got his feet perched on the lowest one and his arms hooked over the topmost. Earlier, Father took his gambeson and heavier armor, allowing Heinrich to roam in much lighter clothes for the night—something that he is more than thankful for. How is it that soldiers can wear such heavy armor for days at a time? Weeks?

A large champagne mare stands in front of him, clipping the grass short with her teeth. She's utterly relaxed, only twitching when a fly lands on her rump. The broad downward slope of her nose is pretty in its own right, though it makes her look more bulky than she is. Idly, Heinrich wonders what her name is or if she even has one.

"That's Daisy." As if reading his mind, that girl—Anna—pops up beside him with an answer to his unsaid question.

Heinrich startles, though he thankfully doesn't go flying off the fence. He simply freezes, eyes wide as he watches Anna pull herself up to mirror his perched position. She's smaller than him, but easily clings to the wood as if she's been doing it her whole life.

She probably has, pup, Father's voice murmurs in the back of Heinrich's mind.

"Daisy?" Heinrich croaks out after a moment. "A fitting name."

"Y'think so?" Anna's arms dangle over the top rung of the fence, fingers hanging limp in the air. "She looks too stocky for a daisy."

Heinrich purses his lips as he watches Daisy step forward, the setting sun catching on her coat. She truly is beautiful.

"I don't know," he mumbles as he tries to recall what he knows of the flower. "Daisies are hardy. They can withstand the cold and flower during winter. She seems strong, so—"

He pauses for a beat, glancing over at Anna. She stares at him, eyes too sharp for her face. Girls are so scary…

"S-So, I think Daisy is a good name," Heinrich finishes lamely. He ducks his head and presses his mouth into his forearm to hide the way his lips tremble. "That—That's all."

"Why d'you do that?"

Heinrich looks over at her, confusion running rampant through him. It makes his fingers tighten and his toes feel a bit numb… or perhaps its because of how he's standing on the fence.

"Wha—What?" he asks, unsure if he truly wants to know.

"Wha—What," Anna parrots not unkindly, though humiliation fills Heinrich all the same. "That. It only happens sometimes."

It's certainly true that Anna is the most forthright person he's ever met. Her blunt demeanor makes his chest tighten in some sort of deepseated fear. Almost as if Anna will figure out the truth to anything he says even when he is being truthful.

"It—" Heinrich clears his throat and looks back at Daisy. His old governess peers down on him from Heaven with a disapproving glower. "When I get nerv—nervous..."

His throat flexes but nothing comes out. Heinrich grimaces. Mother kindly tuts in his mind, the comforting scratch of her nails trailing along his scalp as she murmurs, It'll pass. He'll find his voice again in a couple of seconds.

Meanwhile, Anna watches him and waits. She doesn't say a thing to prompt him to continue, or suggest an ending to his sentence. Memories of snappish taunts from sharp voices telling him to speak up and finish your sentences, boy linger in Heinrich's ears. Father says those voices will go away in time, that old scars have a chance to heal now that the people who made them aren't around anymore. Heinrich only wonders how long it'll take.

Finally, his stiff tongue relaxes and he's able to finish his sentence.

"…I skip words or—or sounds."

"Are you dumb?"

Heinrich winces. He looks away. Potent humiliation bubbles over and fills his face with heat. It's only natural she would think that. What person stammers and stutters the way he does?

Drunkards and idiots, the ghost of Lord Hanush drawls dismissively. What a fine heir you've produced, nephew-mine. The lad can hardly speak. How will he command the entire region? A company of soldiers? The bloody guards!? I should have known your poor seed would beget such an—

"Kurva."

Immediately, Heinrich whips his head around to stare at Anna. Do peasants let their children use such crude language freely? Scandal and surprise dry the oncoming tears from his eyes, Heinrich now too distracted by Anna's filthy mouth to feel sorry for himself.

The girl's soil-dark brows are pulled together over wide eyes. Her expression reads strongly of worry, but Heinrich can't even begin to figure out what she's feeling concerned for. It's not like she's wrong.

"I didn't mean it like that," Anna says in the smallest voice Heinrich has heard from her so far. "I don't think you're dumb. I just don't know how to say it." Already round cheeks puff out slightly in frustration. "I don't have all those big words you nobles have."

Oh. Heinrich looks down and presses his mouth against his forearm again. A response churns in his mind, his heart unsure whether to say it and potentially be misunderstood. It would be nice if Anna liked him. It's not as if they're going to see each other again after this—not if their fathers continue acting the way they are—but for now… would it be so bad to be her friend?

Audentes Fortuna Iuvat.

"Well," he says, pulling his mouth up enough to be heard. "With my dumb tongue, It’s not like I do either."

Henrich's heart pounds as his voice trails off.

Then, Anna snorts. The noise is abrupt enough to make one of Daisy's big, soft ears flick in their direction, though she continues to eat. She's probably used to the girl's noises by now.

"I guess so," Anna says cheerfully. It isn’t the laugh Heinrich hoped for, but it’s not the awkward silence he dreaded. Anna blindly jumps down from the fence with an ease Heinrich can't even imagine. "C'mon, I wanna show you something cool."

An orange glow has settled over the world as the sun takes its final moments in the sky. Heinrich glances at it, mouth pulling to the side. It's getting late… Father wouldn't like him out at night.

"Come off it, it's not far!" Now Heinrich is convinced Anna can read his mind. She holds her hand out toward him, callused and stained with dirt, and grins as wide as the horizon. "We'll be back before our pa’s can wonder where we've been!"

Why does he trust her so much? Something in him is yelling at the top of its voice for him to accept. Go with her. Experience something other than his father's back or the stale, sad stones of Rattay's castles.

Another part of him keeps his feet frozen to the fence and his mouth shut.

Too much time passes. Anna huffs, her big eyes rolling with dramatic fervor. She's much too expressive. Heinrich wonders if her face ever hurts from moving so much.

"Come on!" Before Heinrich can even think, Anna's fingers are wrapping around his wrist and dragging him off the fence. "It'll be amazing, I swear."

There's no choice but to stumble after her, Heinrich's coltish legs working hard to keep up with Anna's near-running speed. A few steps in and Heinrich can feel the sweat dripping down his temples while Anna looks completely comfortable with their pace.

She's going to kill him, isn't she? Maybe being friends isn't a good idea after all.

***

The "cool" place is a winding creek that cuts through a nearby field.

To be fair to Anna’s questionable taste, it is a beautiful stream—especially in the dying light of dusk. Light shimmers off the water as it flows over rocks and spills down the shallow hill toward a large pond in the distance. Bushes surround the small waterfall, surely filled to the brim with all sorts of things whose very existence makes Heinrich's skin crawl.

"Quiet!" Anna hisses as if Heinrich has made any sound at all since they left the pasture. "Listen."

Wrist dangling in Anna's grip, Heinrich freezes and does as commanded: he listens. A handful of heartbeats go by where they stand in silence, unmoving. The evening breeze ruffles Heinrich's hair and he has to clutch his hose to keep from smoothing the strands back into place for fear of making any noise and disturbing the peace. He does begin to wonder what he should be hearing as he stares at a particularly pretty stone beneath the flowing water.

The croaking begins at a hesitant volume. Low, groaning belches from the bellies of frogs begin to fill the air. It's a choir of the slimy things, singing their joy at another day survived. Two separate frog melodies turn to five turn to an uncountable number as they become a cacophony of ribbitting.

A squeeze around his wrist draws Heinrich's gaze to Anna. She's pointing at the water. There, lined along each bank and atop each rock, small brown frogs conduct their throaty orchestra. Heinrich doesn't know how he hadn't seen them before, but now that he does, Heinrich finds it difficult to look away.

Each frog is content to sit in the spray, their skin constantly wetted by the flowing waterfall. They generally stay still, only lurching into movement in order to catch a midge or move to another rock. Otherwise, they are living the only way they know: peacefully in noisy stillness.

Anna drags Heinrich down to squat beside the waterfall. She points again before leaning in to whisper in his ear.

"You see those stringy things?"

He does. Off-white, translucent strings that look as if they're made of mucus follow the flow of water, tiny black dots held within their sticky-looking strands.

"Those are teeny tiny frog eggs. Pa says they put them in moving water to keep other fellahs from eating them."

Huh. Heinrich didn't realize that frogs were so tactical. It's certainly not a foolproof plan—no animal with half a mind wouldn't be able to scoop those strands up and eat them whole. But are those sorts of animals even looking to eat such small eggs?

"What eats frog eggs?" Heinrich asks after waiting a breath to see if Anna would answer his unspoken question again. She doesn't, though she does have a ready answer for his spoken one.

"Fish," she replies, her finger shifting to point further down the stream. Silver fish dart through the water, keeping close to the creek bed. "And birds. Prob'ly a fox if it gets hungry enough."

Heinrich wrinkles his nose. That must be one desperate fox to want to eat frog eggs.

"…What do you think they taste like?" Heinrich mutters more to himself than Anna. It's a passing thought he barely gives attention to. Except, Anna's whisper is especially contemplative when she replies.

"I've had frog legs before," she says. "They're rank. Got a weeeird taste n’ stench."

Heinrich could only imagine. He's heard that the people of France eat frog legs, but he never really understood why. Why only the legs? Is the rest of the frog toxic? Or does it simply not taste as good?

"But iunno about the eggs. Prob'ly feel like snot in your gob, though."

The thought makes Heinrich's stomach churn.

"Ew," he eloquently replies.

"Ew," Anna stoically agrees.

***

Father is warming his hands at the kitchen hearth when Heinrich slips into their temporary sleeping quarters. The depths of his eyes capture the flames, reflecting a thoughtful expression that's tainted with the sort of sadness Heinrich's gotten used to seeing since Mother died.

At least it's not the hysterical laughter from before. Heinrich could count on a single hand how many times he's seen his father truly laugh like that.

"Father," Heinrich greets as he moves to join him. The warmth emanating from the flame is comforting, if a bit stifling in the balmy night. It's sure to get colder later. "Sorry I was out so late."

One of Father's large hands runs over Heinrich's hair. Home tickles Heinrich's nose. He allows himself to shuffle closer to his father's side. The hand slips down from his hair to the back of Heinrich's neck, holding him in a firm but not overbearing grasp. Ease spreads through Heinrich, seeming to emanate from the weight on his nape.

"I wasn't too worried," Father replies in a low voice. "Henry said Anna dragged you somewhere."

"Um." Heinrich feels his face burn and not because of the fire. "I know that it's… inappropriate—"

"Don't fret, pup." Father's fingertips squeeze gently. "I trust you both."

It's nice to hear. Heinrich stares at the tongues of flame that lick toward the flue above.

"She showed me frogs," Heinrich admits, cheeks pink. "And frog eggs. They're slimy and coated in some sort of snot."

"Snot." Amusement hangs heavy on Father's tongue.

The pink on Heinrich's cheeks darkens into a ruddy red. "Not truly. It just looks like snot. It was kind of…"

He pauses, teeth gnawing at his lip.

"…cool," Heinrich finishes in a near-whisper.

He gets no reply. When Heinrich looks up into his father's face, he finds familiar features drawn into an unfamiliar softness that looks entirely out of place. Heinrich blinks fast, surprised.

Father isn't a stern man by any means, but softness is something foreign. Stoicism is how Father dealt with the manic delirium of Lord Hanush at his worst and it bled into how he acted with his own son. He always wondered if Mother saw a different side—something more joyful and lovesome. There's no doubt in Heinrich's mind that his father loves him, trusts him, and is proud of him, however. He might keep secrets and not tell Heinrich the entire truth, but that only means Father has reasons to keep those things from his son… right?

Still. The tenderness has Heinrich's stomach squirming in an odd mixture of discomfort and satisfaction. Heinrich isn't sure which one he should be feeling.

"I—I…" Heinrich twists and roots about in his pouch. Whatever lingers in the air and in his stomach is stifling, but this is important. "I got… you something."

Both hands scramble about his pockets and pouches. It's not hard to find, but his nerves are beginning to get the best of him. As they always do. Before he can talk himself out of it, Heinrich grabs the smooth, brilliantly colored rock he'd grabbed from the riverbed. It doesn't look like much now that it's dried out, but there's still a natural beauty to it that he hopes his father will appreciate.

Without another word, he holds it out. His fingers curl awkwardly around the oblong rock that looks somehow cracked beneath it's completely smooth surface. A bevvy of colors swirl around the stone in several layers, all earthen toned but beautiful.

Father looks at the rock. To Heinrich's horror, he looks like he's about to cry. The scent in the air is too muddled with his own anxiety to read properly, so Heinrich is left standing there like one of those wooden structures farmers have in their fields—askew and stiff.

"I'm… I'm sorry?" Heinrich whispers, unsure.

"No, don't—" Father sucks in a breath and blinks back the glassy sheen that had come over his eyes. He takes the stone from Heinrich's hands and turns it over between his palms, admiring the different colors and the white scarring that webs through them. "Thank you, Heinrich. I will cherish your gift."

Heinrich bites his lip and looks down at his feet. The tips of his boots are caked in mud.

"You don't have to cherish it," he mumbles. "It's only a rock."

"And yet, here I am, cherishing it already."

The strange urge to giggle—giggle!—tickles Heinrich's throat and he swallows around it. He's not going to giggle like a child in front of his father. That would be utterly humiliating.

Looking at his muddy boots, Heinrich doesn't see his father step forward. The way his arms swoop around Heinrich's body startles him. Alarm makes him go stiff, but Heinrich quickly brushes it away in order to bask in the hug he's wrapped in. Radiant comfort encircles his entire body.

"I'm glad you had fun, my boy." His father surrounds Heinrich completely. Father's nose and mouth presses against the very top of Heinrich's head, and he inhales slow and steady, filling his lungs with his pup's scent.

Unease joins the stew in Heinrich's stomach, souring the happiness pooling there.

"Are… you alright, Father?" he whispers, fingers curling into his father's loose linen undershirt. "Did something happen?"

It takes Father several breaths to respond. When he does, his voice is carefully flat. It's more familiar than the softness from before. Heinrich doesn't feel good about being more comfortable when his father doesn't sound like he's feeling anything at all.

"Nothing happened, pup. Nothing I didn't expect." A final kiss is pressed into Heinrich's hairline. "Let's lie down. Breakfast is sure to be early tomorrow morning. These farm yokels get up before the sun."

Heinrich grumbles and, for the second time that evening, mutters: "Ew."

Notes:

summary ableist conversation between heinrich and anna:

anna asks why heinrich stammers and he struggles to respond. when he does, anna asks an insensitive question to which she quickly corrects as not being able to have the words to ask how she wants. heinrich remembers horrible things that hanush said to him/hans about his stammer and he becomes a bit triggered, but decides that anna isn't trying to be mean. he says a self-deprecating joke and they leave to look at froggies and be cute lil kids :)

worldbuilding notes:

on the creek: there is actually a lil creek by uzhitz! it's got a wee waterfall/rocky part and that's where i imagine they are. :)

on hanush: if you know history, u know that hanush doesn't stay the strict-but-loving uncle to hans his entire life. he kinda. um. gets a lil power/money happy before his death in 1415. king wenceslaus iv even has to order him (in 1412) to give his holdings over to hans, who is the rightful heir obvi. so they've been fighting for the right to rule over rattay/sasau/polna for uhhh nine years?? and i imagine he made life hard all the way up until his death, too.

we'll be dipping into the specifics of all that in the chapters to come :))

Chapter 4: IV :: Hans

Notes:

another wee one but incredibly important :)) i hope u enjoy the dramaaa

Warnings for this Chapter: mentions of breast cancer and ye olde surgery as well as general sickness and jitka's death. to avoid, skip from "did the king's physicians discover what happened in the end?" to "i can't talk about it,". pretty short passage, but it can be rough.

As Anna and Heinrich congregate with the frogs…

Hans isn't sure what he expected when he agreed to come to Uzhitz. Perhaps an adventure like all those years before, wild and daring and free without a care beyond the fight ahead. Some quiet, unattended part of him yearns for that. Despite the danger and fear nipping at their heels the entire time, those months had been the best of Hans' life.

Heinrich's birth comes as a close second.

Christ, why had he agreed to let Heinrich come along? When his boy had showed up at the Rattay stables bright eyed and bushy tailed with his pack already filled to bursting—Hans couldn't say no. For the first time in what seems like years, he allowed his heart to lead him.

Now…

He doesn't necessarily regret it, but sakra, Hans wished he'd been more prepared to face what was to come.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Hans asks, trying to keep his voice even and as non-judgmental as he can. If a whine slips through his teeth, Godwin doesn't point it out. The older man simply sighs.

"I was trying to acquiesce to everyone's boundaries." He rubs liver-spotted fingers against the furrow between his brows. "I see now that was a poor decision and most likely impossible in the end."

"No shit." The anger comes forth without Hans' permission. "Was that Henry's boundary? To keep me so completely uninformed? I didn’t know my own pup’s name. If she even is my pup, that is.”

Godwin stares at him, eyes wide in disbelief. Shame knocks heavily against Hans’ sternum and forces a sigh from his throat. He’s being unfair.

“Of course she’s yours, Hans,” Godwin breathes as if no other option were possible. “Who else could possibly be…?”

Bitterness churns inside him. Hans closes his eyes to fend off the betrayed look in Godwin’s eyes. For several breaths, quiet rings through the house. With the pups gone, every creak and pop of old timber sounds like handgonne fire.

Eventually, Godwin clears his throat and breaks the stalemate of their silence by saying, "He told me that if I mentioned anything to you at any point, he would take Anna and go."

"Again." Hans hates the sound of the bitter scoff that erupts from his throat.

"Aye," Godwin mumbles. "Again."

I will not ruin you, Hans Capon.

That throaty, low timbre, weak with hunger and torn with emotion, wriggles its way into Hans' mind. He waves it away, impatient. It wasn't the first time he remembered Henry's final words to him, and it won't be the last. There's no point in dwelling on them.

"Let me guess," Hans continues as he rubs his hand over his mouth. The scent of his pup faded when he shed his gloves, but there's hints of Heinrich baked into his very being that has Hans breathing deep. "He didn't want to hear anything about me in turn."

Godwin grimaces. "Not in so many words, but… aye."

Stubborn fucking arsehole.

"Hans." Sword-callused fingers tuck over Hans' knuckles where his free hand lies motionless on the table between them. Godwin squeezes gently. "I am very sorry about what happened to Lady Jitka."

Hans can't look at the watery-eyed expression on Godwin's face. He averts his gaze to the nearby window. The sun is setting over Uzhitz, casting the town in a warm glow that painters would kill to capture. It is a beautiful place that has only become increasingly radiant in the last decade.

"Thank you, Father," Hans replies after a long moment of silence. He disregards the fond exasperation he can see out of the corner of his eye. Godwin may not have a parish any longer, but it will take longer than that to rid Hans of his fond habit—if he'd ever stop willingly in the first place.

Godwin hesitates but for a moment before asking, "Did the King’s physicians discover what happened in the end?"

The curiosity is understandable, no matter how much Hans wants to yell at Godwin to shut the hell up and mind himself—that Jitka's ailment was none of his concern because he wasn't there. A childish reaction, to be sure. Instead, Hans sighs and tells Godwin the aching truth.

"They found cankers in her breast," Hans murmurs. "Too late to even try and stave the sickness. She was already good as gone before they—" butchered her.

Hans squeezes his eyes shut against the images of his wife's chest flayed open and stitched back together in a desperate attempt to do something. Jitka insisted on being dressed in high-necked gowns after that surgery despite not being able to get up by her own power from her deathbed.

"Why?" Hans rasped, hands shaking as he held her pallid fingers. "Getting dressed exhausts you. You must rest, my love."

Jitka smiled, cheeks struggling around the thin pull of muscle. "Because, dear husband, I can't stand to see you weep. Your face is too beautiful for tears."

He knows she hadn't meant it to sound as such, but Hans holds onto the guilt of making Jitka feel like she had to look presentable in order to keep him from crying. It was his fault that she exhausted herself every morning. His fault that she was unable to stay awake for the rest of the day.

"I can't talk about it," Hans finally rasps. "Not yet."

"I understand. More than you think, lad."

They sit in grief's quiet agony. It is not comfortable. Yet, it is necessary. Another one of God's trials beset on the poor ants that have infested His garden.

Hans watches a pair of waxwings flutter by, spinning around in each other in a dizzying dance. They're both fat from an abundant summer having gorged themselves on whatever it is that little birds like them eat. Insects, maybe? Perhaps little fish?

"I am also very sorry that things turned out this way with Henry," Godwin says as the waxwings twirl down into the golden expanse of Uzhitz and disappear between distant trees.

Me too, Hans silently replies. The normal mix of conflicting emotions that have pestered him ever since they parted that dreary morning flood his body. Bitterness. Regret. Understanding. Acceptance. Rage. Sorrow. Guilt.

Always with the fucking guilt.

"He looks good," Hans says instead of harping on about the pity party happening in his mind. "The beard suits him."

Godwin chuckles. "It does indeed. The amount of women that flock to him is, quite frankly, enviable."

Despite his secondary gender—or perhaps because of it and the need to hide it—Henry never minded the attention of other omegas. Women. Hans often saw him exit sweet smelling rooms, hair askew and a dopey smile filled with the kind of satisfaction that only sex can offer.

Hans wonders if he indulges that way still. He hopes he does.

"What self-respecting omega wouldn't?" Grand gestures pour from his hands as he speaks. "Here is this tall, handsome, bearded man who is nothing but kind and helpful with a sweet little girl who knows nothing but love. Fuck, if I were them, I'd be…"

He trails off.

He was. He had been that person, begging for scraps of Henry's attention—and attaining it. The time they had together was short and they didn't even know what they had for most of it, but… Hans still had him at one point. One fleeting moment of temporary bliss.

"Ugh." Hans drags his hand over his face again before thumbing his facial hair smooth. "I need to take a walk."

As he stands, Godwin barks out a guttural laugh. "Come now, Henry's beard couldn't have affected you that much, lad."

For what seems like the thousandth time in the last few hours, Hans lets out a genuine laugh. Each one has felt good. Each one has hurt.

"Come off it, you letch. I only need to stretch my legs after riding for most of the day." Waving his hand dismissively, Hans makes his way to the entryway. "Definitely not used to that anymore… I'll be back soon. Hopefully with my absent pup in tow."

"God be with you, lad."

"And you, Father."

Once he's outside and the door shuts behind him, Hans takes a deep breath. Uzhitz smells of horse and marigold. Of baked bread and honey. There's the awful smell of too many people too close in proximity, but the good scents override those foul realities of life from where he stands at the top of one of Uzhitz's twin hills.

God, how he's missed this. Missed leaving Rattay and the cold walls of his castle. Missed quaint stables and sprawling farmlands. There's only so much one can see from the windows of a tower, and walking around Rattay offers nothing but the remnants of his uncle's poor decisions and memories of his late wife.

It's not perfect in Uzhitz. People struggle and bandits run amok. It's a damn good change from the norm, though.

Done basking in the peasant glory that is Uzhitz at sunset, Hans casts his gaze around for his wayward son. Heinrich said he wanted to see the horses, so Hans makes his way to the barn.

Silently, he hopes that Henry isn't inside doing his duties as stablemaster. Or pissing on their horses. Henry surely wouldn't do that to an innocent horse, but Hans doesn't know how deep his anger flows anymore.

Henry and the horses are not in the sprawling structure and, to Hans’ growing concern, neither is Heinrich.

Peeking out of the barn and into the main pasture greets Hans with the familiar sight of hardworking grooms taking care of the animals' supper—but no wispy sprout with hair of red-tinted gold.

"Damn it…" Hans places a hand on his chest to calm the frenetic pace of his heart. Heinrich is fine. The bandits are attacking travelers outside the village bounds, not innocent pups in the middle of busy stables. "Where are you?"

A quick sniff only has Hans wincing at the stink of horse and their shit. No hint of ink and saffron. No hint of Heinrich.

Hans turns and strides out of the barn, spine stiff and heart dancing across his ribs. His son, for all Hans’ worries, is a capable young man. He can very well take care of himself—but he's also eleven.

It's difficult not to let his own worries show in the way Hans quickly walks toward the entrance to the stables. He knows he's stiff, each movement stilted. But he can't stop thinking of his boy, fighting with all his might just to be swooped up by—

"You look as nervous as a hare, my lord."

Henry’s sudden voice has Hans freezing outside the arch that leads into the stable's courtyard. His fingers flex at his sides as he debates whether or not to reply to the blithe remark. There's only one way this conversation will go, and it's not a direction Hans is looking forward to traveling.

"I'm looking for—" Hans detests how he hesitates around his own son's given name. "—Heinrich."

Henry looks up from where his hands fiddle with a needle and thread in his lap. He's mending a coat with a ripped elbow. It looks too small to be his own. Anna's, then.

Brilliant eyes bore into Hans from beneath a heavy brow. In many ways, Henry hasn't changed. He's obstinate and rude and everything an omega and peasant shouldn't be. Yet, Hans can't stop himself from noticing how beautiful he's become. How he’s further grown into himself.

The neat beard, the longer hair that can't seem to stay in its tie, the softness to his features that Hans wonders is due to age or having been pregnant.

Because he had been pregnant. Pregnant with Hans' pup.

"Can't believe you called him that," Henry finally mutters after aching seconds of silence. "Heinrich. Droll, isn't it?"

"It…" Hans sighs and steels himself. "It was the only way to honor my best friend at the time."

Henry stares at him, hands falling limp against his thighs. The fabric of the coat folds awkwardly over his lap and threatens to spill onto the dirt by Henry’s boots.

"The only meaningful way," Hans corrects. "I could dedicate a new wing of the castle or a bloody forge to you, and it wouldn't be…" right.

Still, Henry says nothing.

"Anyway." Hans had been truthful, and was met with stony indifference. He has learned to read and respect unspoken signs in his later years—much better than when he was young and brash, at least. "Have you seen him?"

Again, that blasted silence. It makes Hans want to yell at the top of his lungs to break it. He doesn't. He waits for Henry to deign him with an answer. Eventually, he does.

"I saw Anna dragging him to a nearby creek," Henry says in an even tone. "She'll get him home safely."

"As reliable as her dam, eh?"

A small, angry snarl ripples from Henry's gut and directly into Hans' heart. He narrows his eyes, trying to act unaffected, unbothered, even as his chest threatens to rupture.

"Don't call me that," Henry mutters, his growl making his words shiver. "I'm her father. Nothing else."

"Right." How thoughtless of Hans. He damn well knows how important it is for Henry to hide what he is. To blurt it out in the open, even as vaguely as he did— "Apologies."

Henry's silent for longer this time. Enough time passes that he returns to his mending. Each of his stitches end with a tug that gives his movements a steady sort of rhythm. Yet another skill that Henry has effortlessly become an expert in.

"I like her," Hans pipes up, awkward as all fuck. "Anna. It's sweet you named her after your mother."

Henry flinches. It's a tiny movement, barely perceptible. His face pulls tight and the rhythm of his stitches falter.

"How did you know that?" he asks. There remains a subaudible rumble in his throat that hasn’t completely dissipated. "That it was my mother's name?"

It was a decade ago during the hardest time of Henry's life. Hans doesn't blame him for forgetting.

"I had this friend once," Hans states as he rests his hands on his cocked hips. "He and I were as close as brothers. I told him of my parents as we sat by the fire at our camp during a hunting trip. He, in turn, told me some about his own despite being wrought with grief from so recently losing them."

The chagrin on Henry's face is much too satisfying. It's difficult not to become a little smug.

"Right," Henry mutters. "Sorry. My mind’s been a right mess."

Instantly, concern overthrows pompous arrogance. "A mess? Are you alright?"

"I'm not sick." The quickness that Henry says that tells Hans that he might know something about Jitka's fate. The entire region must at this point. "It's only fatigue. Growing older. Surprise visitors. Life."

Henry is one of the best sleepers Hans has ever met, all soft faces and gentle breaths. That is, when he's not drowning in a nightmare. Those seemed to lessen in intensity by the end of their time together, though Hans knew the visage of Ištván Tóth still haunted him. He wonders if those visions haunt Henry now.

"You don't have to tell me." Those words kill Hans to stay, though they are genuine. "I don't mean to pry."

"Look at you," Henry drawls as he looks back down at his lap. His fingers begin the steady rhythm of sewing. Push, pull, repeat. "Finally learned how to be kind and considerate of others, eh?"

It's said in jest. Hans knows this. He knows that lilt in Henry's voice that hasn't seemed to change; the mischief that drips off his tongue when he thinks he's being funny. Yet, his stomach twists as the rage that has been simmering this entire time heats up into an abrupt, roiling boil.

"Thanks." Sarcasm sticks to his teeth like honey. "The credit goes to my dead wife for that particular miracle. Tell me, who taught you to be a bitter old bitch?"

Henry's head snaps up and he stares at Hans, incredulous and wide-eyed. All sewing is forgotten as he stands, fabric being left to bunch in a heap on the bench.

"What did you say?" The growl is back in full force.

"I apologize," Hans hums. "Your ears must be filled with all the shit you've accumulated with your head so far up your arse."

For a moment, for a brief breath, Hans sees the urge to swing painted on Henry in broad strokes. His hands are curled into fists and the stink of rage surrounds them both. He even twitches to do so, the muscles in his arm tensing as it prepares to pull back. Hans' heart kicks into a gallop. Anticipation and excitement bleed into his fingertips. He silently begs for Henry to throw the punch he so desperately wants to.

If this conversation happened a decade ago, he would have.

Hans hates how disappointed he is when Henry forcibly lowers his shoulders, unclenches his fists, and grabs the bundle he'd abandoned on the bench. Though the beard covers most of his jaw, Hans can see the muscles closest to his ear tense as he grinds his teeth. If he were to open his mouth, his fangs would surely be elongated and dripping with violence.

"If you weren't here for a good reason, I would kick you and your son out on your arses and make you go back to Rattay." Henry's voice is pitched low, trembling. His hands squeeze around the ripped fabric, threatening to pull even more stitches free. "As it stands, Uzhitz could use your help. But after?"

Their eyes meet. A bubble forms in Hans' throat, stopping his breath cold. Henry's eyes are glassy not with tears but with the sort of anger that eats away at a man, that lingers deep in the gut until it forces its way out.

Hans forgot how good fury looks on Henry.

"After the last bandit is gone, you leave. You leave me and my pup, and never fucking come back." All at once, they are nose-to-nose. Hans' chest is frozen and beginning to ache. "Do you hear me, Capon?"

Two snakes writhe inside his soul. One wishes Henry had thrown that punch so at least he could fight back. The other wants him to fall to his knees, bear his throat, and plead. For what? He doesn't know. Anything. Forgiveness. Understanding. Explanations. Anything.

Every alpha instinct in him dies a pathetic, whimpering death as Hans slowly nods and, ultimately, submits.

"Aye," he murmurs. "I hear you, Henry."

"Good."

Henry doesn't say his farewells before turning on his heel and stalking back onto his property, leaving a mix of scents in his wake. Hans watches him go. His lungs finally relax, forcing a shuddering breath from Hans' lips.

Why? Why had he wanted to feel Henry's knuckles on his jaw one last time? And why did it hurt worse that he hadn't?

Notes:

worldbuilding notes:
not many this time! i lied

on anna's name: like i mentioned in the first chapter, i think henry's mom's name is offically jana but in this universe it isn't :) it's anna :) henry would not name his daughter after his baby daddy :)

a/b/o dynamics (cont.):

- technically, the person who birthed a kid is called the dam and the one who impregnated them is called the sire. most people just call them mother and father because it's expected that secondary genders match up with your birth gender. obvi, it doesn't work this way. so, technically henry IS a dam, but he hates the term. jazz hands
- everyone has fangs! yippee! they extend during stress or heightened emotion.
- dominance is complicated in this world and pretty subjective. a person can be incapacitated when someone postures (growls, snarls, hits, yells, pins, etc.) at them, but it doesn't always happen. it really depends on how they feel about each other, what their secondary gender is in the first place, and y'know chemicals and hormones in the body. so, complicated! kind of like how real people are!

one last note: uh he's not mentioned in this chapter, but he was mentioned in the last and will be apart of the story later. john ii of lichtenstein (the real man) is dead by now. he dies in 1412. in this universe he ran away with sam (after they saved the king) and they're making sweet love on a field of daisies somewhere, yeah? yeah.

Chapter 5: V :: Henry

Notes:

this is one of my favorite chapters so far 🥹 it just holds a real special place in my heart.

enjoy my loves 💕

warnings for this chapter: minor mention of a miscarriage (or the fear of one). it's very minor, literally a single sentence.

Henry has been avoiding Capon since their conversation—argument last evening. A task not so difficult considering Capon seems to be avoiding him as well. He sees neither hide nor hair of the lord, and he is more than grateful for it.

After their tiff, Henry left to get the pallets which he then set up in the dining area. The mean urge to scuff one of them with horse shit had been strong, but Henry resisted the spiteful pull and left both cots neat and tidy for the nobles to sleep in.

Henry forced himself not to think about either father or son as he bedded down for the night. When Anna made her way to the second floor and climbed into bed beside him, Henry didn't ask what she did with Heinrich. She promptly fell asleep before she could start talking, the excitement of the day wearing on her nearly endless energy reserves.

Morning comes fast and Henry is even faster getting out of the house.

Princess trots along at his heel as he enters his main pasture. Her folded ears bounce with every step. Two of his grooms, young men with a bit too much pep for this early in the morning, are already cleaning the field for the day to come. One—Karel, a spry beta—is shoveling shit while whistling some nonsensical tune. The other—Elijah, a willowy mated alpha—is dispersing hay for the horses to feed on through the day so the grass isn't entirely eaten, roots and all. They both wave at Henry as he walks by.

With half a mind, he checks the perimeter of the fence. The other half is stuck in the house, on the faces of the Capons, curved close to one another and relaxed in sleep. Henry only got a glance as he grabbed an apple from the pantry connected to the kitchen, but it was enough to fill his mind to the brim.

Damn Capon. Damn Godwin.

Godwin has made himself scarce since their shared meal. A smart move. Henry might take his head from his shoulders if he sees him before he's ready. If he's ever ready.

As Henry stands out at the furthest point of the sprawling pasture, watching as farmers water their fields, he admits to himself that he's not truly angry.

Not exactly.

Anger certainly fills him when he thinks of Godwin going behind his back to write letters to Capon all these years—and then lying when Henry became weak and drunk enough to ask if he'd heard anything.

And it certainly fills him when he remembers Capon's abrupt shift from amicable to biting the evening before. How kind, understanding eyes became guarded and antagonistic without a bit of warning.

It also fills him when he sees Capon the Lesser's cherubic face and remembers his fucking name. To think Capon was serious about naming his firstborn son after Henry—the idea had been laughable at the time. After Henry left, it became pathetic.

Yet, even as righteous anger fills him for certain things… it is nice to see Capon's face again. Regardless of their history and the decisions they made, Henry felt relief seeing Capon healthy and strong with a pup who might be a bit shy, but is just as hale. He wishes Jitka was around to complete the picture Henry had hoped for his Lord but he heard that her eventual death had been a cruel mercy. Whatever sickness the Devil laid within her had taken everything away before she finally succumbed.

To think Heinrich saw his mother fester in such a way—Henry can't bear to think of the agony he must feel. At least Henry had a man to take out his agony on. Heinrich only has God.

The first rays of day caress Henry's face as the sun peeks its head over the horizon. With one last tap to the post he leans on, Henry makes his way to the barn.

Inside, a plethora of horses are waking from their comfortable sleep, safe and secure in their stalls. All Henry has to do is walk by and unhook the tethers keeping them in place for each beast to plod their way out to the field, heads hanging low as they fully awaken.

Only three horses remain when Henry sees something move at the corner of his eye. A short figure, darting into the furthest stall. As if that would be able to hide him once Henry made his way over.

Henry decides to let Heinrich hide for now. Princess, however, has other plans.

The telltale yip from his daughter's dog is followed by a sharp shhhh! that has a smile tugging at the corner of Henry's mouth. Princess is not one to be shushed. She continues to yap at an ever increasing volume. By the time Henry is leading one of Capon's massive warhorses from its stall—the last in the barn—Heinrich is actively pleading with Princess to quiet down.

"Please, stop barking!" his small voice whimpers, the scent of distress only making Princess louder as if in belligerent spite. "You're ruining everything! Shh, please!"

Henry pats the sizeable rump of the warhorse and watches him join the others with a toss of his head. He supposes he should be a bit worried if any of his mares get mounted by either visiting stallion, but Henry can't help but think of the sturdy foals that would come from such a union. With that in mind, he almost wishes for the boys to be a bit naughty.

Behind him, Heinrich continues to hiss at Princess. When Henry turns to look, he finds the boy pushing at the dog's massive, blocky head. Princess only pushes back, finding this new game very fun indeed.

Henry keeps quiet on his feet as he walks over and rests a shoulder on one of the stable's support beams. He then crosses his arms and waits. It takes a laughable amount of time before Heinrich realizes he's being watched—to which he yelps like a startled puppy when he looks up and catches Henry's eye.

"Sir!" Heinrich squeaks, standing up straight and abandoning his wrestling match with Princess—much to her whining dismay. "I—H-Hello. How… are you? This morning?"

"I see you're getting along nicely with our Princess, here." Said dog is now circling around Heinrich's feet in an effort to get him to pay attention to her. The pinched look on the boy's face is, admittedly, adorable. "I'm getting by. Why're you up so early, pup?"

The nervousness that oozes from Heinrich is almost too overwhelming to bear. In the back of his mind, Henry thinks that it's a bit funny that Capon's son is so jumpy considering how Anna came out. A secondary thought comes after: did something make him this way?

Henry can feel that protective streak that he's never been able to fully shake start to rear its head.

"I wanted to… to talk." A pause. Then, quietly: "To you."

Brows raise. "Me?"

"Father…" Heinrich begins, voice halting as he struggles to find the words. The wheels in his mind are actively churning. Henry can only imagine the deluge of thoughts going through the head of one so bright for his young age. "Father never told me. About you."

It hurts. Henry expected it to some degree, but it still bloody hurts to hear it confirmed. That's what he wanted, though, right? To be gone from Capon's life, to make his shift from boy to lord easier simply by not being in it. He should be happy that Capon never bothered to bring him up.

"It was the only way I could honor my best friend at the time."

The words sound so limp and lifeless now that Henry knows he'd never been mentioned to the very same child meant to honor him.

"Sorry."

Heinrich's apology makes Henry focus on his small, lordly face once more.

"What?" he grunts. "Whatever for?"

"I upset you," the pup mumbles, looking down at where Princess leans against his leg. His fingertips begin tracing mindless shapes into the short white fur between her ears. "I didn't mean to."

Automatically, Henry shakes his head and lowers himself into a comfortable squat. Heinrich has his father's height, so Henry's head now sits at chest-level. It's enough to be able to meet his downcast eyes.

"You didn't upset me, Heinrich. Whatever decisions your father made are his own, not yours."

Something bitter blooms on Heinrich's face. His lips purse and pull to the side in an irritated movement. A pout in so many words.

"That's not what Lord Hanush said," Heinrich mutters.

"Lord Hanush was a bag of hot air." Henry had been more than a little glad to hear the pompous man died. While he'd had a good relationship with him a decade ago, Henry has witnessed firsthand the devastation his greed wrought on Rattay and beyond. "You are not your father."

Those words seem to join the rushing rapids that fill Heinrich's mind. His face relaxes a bit as he thinks about them and his arms lift to curl around his own ribs. A hug. Distress burns sharp in Henry’s nose, a voracious, pungent wildfire.

Henry needs to change direction. "Did you enjoy Anna's company yesterday?"

"I did," Heinrich responds in that same small voice. "N-Nothing bad happened—"

"Hey, you’re alright." It feels natural to reach out and cup Henrich's thin arm. The pup jolts at the touch, but doesn't pull away. "We might not have known each other for very long, but I trust you. I trust you both."

A puzzling expression replaces the hesitance as Heinrich peers up at him. The mystery of that look is answered when Heinrich—with thoughtfulness coloring his voice—says, "Father said that, too."

Ah.

"Well. Regardless of what I may personally think of my lord, I don't doubt his trust and care in you." Gently, Henry squeezes Heinrich's arm. "Your father is a good man beneath all that silly pomp and ego. And he loves you."

A small smile tugs at the corner of Heinrich's mouth. Henry's heart pulls taut in his chest at the sight. He has a feeling that Heinrich doesn't smile that much. To be blessed with one seems like a fragile, wonderful gift.

"I-I heard he was… was worse." Heinrich's hands come together, nails plucking at the skin of his thumb. "When he was younger."

Henry snorts before giving one last squeeze to Heinrich's arm, and letting his grip fall. Both knees threaten to give as he levers himself up to stand. Thankfully, they hold strong but not without the telltale creak and pop of overuse.

"Believe me, pup," Henry hums with his own smile playing at his lips. "He was much worse."

The stories from those years ago come easy to Henry. The two of them sit side-by-side on a bench in the pasture, watching the horses and talking about the ridiculous situations Capon found himself in—usually by his own hand, of course. Everything from the first time Henry saved him from Cumans to trying to woo the butcher's daughter—though he left out certain aspects of that night—to the weeks he'd been cooped up in a tower with a rather annoying Frenchman. It's rather easy to keep it lighthearted, avoiding the darker moments of their time together because Henry can tell Heinrich simply wants to hear of his father's antics. His and Henry's.

Heinrich finds particular interest in Henry’s rather whimsical retelling of stealing the silver from the Italian Court. He’d leaned forward, wide-eyed, as Henry told him how in their effort to capture the cardinal, Adder had thrown him from his horse with more force than he meant to, the holy man losing his life to an errant rock in the road. He’d laughed when Henry told him of their horrible attempts to learn Italian, and the fact that Godwin of all people had to pretend to be a man who could one day become the pope. He’d sat up in interest as Henry described sneaking into the courtyard through the battlements, saving the captured lords, and finally acquiring the silver they were owed as the people of Bohemia—though he does leave out Adder’s antics. Heinrich probably wouldn’t want to know the way he somehow seduced a guard’s wife and nearly sabotaged the entire thing using nothing but his natural charm, heady scent, and abnormally long prick.

Perhaps he’d revealed a bit too much of their involvement in Sigismund’s final retreat, but it was nice to have such a rapturous audience for once.

By the time Henry begins to talk about the beginning of the siege of Suchdol, where Capon valiantly helped the rest of their friends to save what they could of the fortress, Heinrich is curled up with his knees to his chest and his cheek resting upon them. Henry leans back against the barn, legs extended and crossed at the ankle while his hands move to emphasize the way he stood his ground when faced with riotous Praguers under Markvart von Aulitz's banner or the wound Capon acquired from an arrow to the shoulder.

"How did it end?" Heinrich interrupts Henry's retelling of that time Capon said eating dog shit was better than starving. The question catches him off-guard and it must show on his face because Heinrich continues: "How did the siege end? Did the Prague Militia just… leave?"

"If only," Henry mutters. The stink of corruption that came from von Aulitz's ruptured wound remains in Henry's mind even now. His words, more-so. Henry lets his hands rest on his stomach, fingers tangling. "My brother Samuel and I snuck out during the night. I returned with an army that overwhelmed the Militia and chased them off."

Doubt hangs heavy in Heinrich's frown. "That seems… too easy."

The bark of bitter laughter that escapes Henry is ragged at the edges.

"Even if we found the horses, I cannot ride! I cannot even sit up!" Pained pleas took every bit of energy from Sam as he suffered from the wounds Brabant had inflicted.

"We'll share a horse, then! I'll hold onto you!" Henry was on his knees before his brother, his own pleas battling with Sam's benumbed begging. His stomach churned as he stared down at Sam’s broken, bloodied body. "Like brothers Templar!"

The pity in Sam's eyes made Henry's heart stop entirely.

"Henry, you know why they sent two of us." Green eyes hazy with pain and sorrow dripped from Henry's face and trailed down his body before coming to rest at his stomach. "And you know who they expect to survive, even if no one else does."

Automatically, Henry cupped his belly. In his starvation he had begun to show. A round bump at the base of this gut, his skin pulled taut around the bulge of what would become Anna in six month's time.

"Everyone is counting on you," Sam continued, coughing blood from his throat. "Godwin. Katherine. Žižka."

A pause that held the entire world between them hung in the air.

"Capon."

There was no questioning if Sam knew who the sire was. He did, though Henry hadn't told anyone who didn’t already know. He just knew. Figured it out. Because Sam is nothing if not fucking brilliant.

"Fuck!" Henry cursed, pressing the base of his palms into his eyes to keep the tears at bay. "Why the hell didn't you wait for me!?"

"I was afraid you would want to stop me."

"I would have gone with you! I'd have done whatever you said…" Henry can't tell if he's telling the truth or not, even in the privacy of his own mind.

"Then go and find the horses and get out of here!" Red caked into the creases of Sam's dry lips. A fresh droplet of blood ran down the center of his chin. "Do not leave the kingdom in the hand of that Hungarian prick! I will try to convince them Žižka would be willing to pay for me. Maybe they will let me live."

Sam continued to speak, his voice becoming reedier with every word. Henry can't listen. He knew what he was going to do, regardless of the ire Sam would turn his way. He cannot leave his family behind. Not again.

"It was far from easy," Henry admits quietly. "My brother got hurt. Badly. I nearly died."

Anna nearly died before she even had a chance.

Henry's thumb rubs idle circles against his stomach through the fabric of his shirt. At the time, he'd already convinced himself that Anna was gone, his body bloated by her remains. How could a being so small and weak be able to withstand the starvation Henry put them both through? Yet, she persevered, stubborn and spirited as she always has been and always will be.

“But…” Heinrich’s brow furrows in a rather adorable expression of confusion. “Wait. What about Anna?”

“What about her?” Henry asks and tilts his head in Heinrich’s direction. “She would be born six months later.”

Keeping his true secondary gender from Heinrich feels especially like lying. It isn’t that he doesn’t trust the pup—habits simply tend to stick. Even if he’ll spend all day elbow-deep in horse shit, Henry makes sure to cover his natural scent with sage and marigold. Henry cannot afford to be identified as what he truly is. Persecution. Enslavement. Forced oblation without the chance to escape whatever unlucky monastery the church tosses him in. Death. Worse.

Keeping it a secret, even from a sweet pup like Heinrich, is the best option.

“But the Siege of Suchdol happened in the summer of 1403.” That furrow between Heinrich’s brows grows deeper. “And if Anna was born six months from then, that means—!”

Henry cocks his head, internally shaking his mind from thoughts of barbed collars and burning for no other reason than being born.

“That means Anna is older than me! By nearly a year!”

Surprise knocks Henry fully out of his own mind and he stares at Heinrich. He's got a look of childlike petulance on his face. As if he'd been counting on being the older one of them.

"Er…" Henry rubs the back of his neck. "Yes?"

"She acts like such a child."

That makes Henry laugh. "That's because she is, pup. As are you, remember?"

"I—" Heinrich has a devastating pout. "I'm the heir of Rattay and Polná."

Lord, help him survive the egos of noblemen. Henry sighs and slings his arm over Heinrich's shoulders with a familiarity that he doesn't deserve just yet. The pup jerks in surprise for the hundredth time, but doesn't pull himself free. If anything, he allows himself to be tugged into Henry's side.

"And that makes you automatically better than us, eh?" Henry says, dipping his head with a grin to show Heinrich that he's joking. "You're a lordling, not a prince."

"Wha—no!" The whine that escapes Heinrich is precious, if a bit piercing. "I just—I'm—I have—!"

"Relax, Heinrich." His name feels wrong in Henry's mouth—a feeling he pushes away immediately. It's not Heinrich's fault. He is not his father. "You are still a child, but I know well the station you hold. As does Anna, though she doesn't act like it."

"She doesn't," Heinrich grumbles.

"Does that annoy you?" Henry can't help but tease the pouting pup. "Would you lock her in the pillory for such an offense? Have her caned?"

"No!" A sharp little elbow jabs into Henry's ribs. If he were anyone else with any other daughter, he might flinch. But Anna's joints have all found their way to his ribs and other sensitive places one way or another. "It's just—she's rude! I should be treated as a lord!"

Laughter bursts forth from Henry in a rough bark. It’s as if he’s looking into the past, at a near picture perfect recreation of Capon’s snotty attitude when they first met. Heinrich might not be so shameless, but the haughtiness that comes with being born a noble is there just beneath the surface.

"Oh, aye, sir." Henry stands, turning on his heel to face Heinrich. He bends at the waist and smirks at the bewildered look Heinrich shoots him. "Might I escort the Honorable Heinrich Capon to his father, Hans Capon of Pirkstein, Lord of Rattay and Polná? As is my duty as a mere peasant of the kingdom of Bohemia. Long live King Wenceslaus IV!"

"I—Henry! Stop it!"

Henry's laughter carries over the stables, startling a flock of birds into flight from a nearby linden tree.

Notes:

worldbuilding notes:

note on the conception: yeah they fucked like a week after henry arrived to rattay lol you'll learn the specifics later prommy... also, if it's confusing at all: heinrich doesn't know henry is an omega. he thinks he's an alpha or something and anna's dam is Gone.

... and that's it! no irl history was talked about other than the siege of suchdol which didn't even happen then.

(if ur curious: it happened in 1402 when sigismund sacked kuttenberg and did not happen with these people lol and prague was victorious in the end. wh did a little hand jive with history which i don't blame em for)

Chapter 6: VI :: Anna

Notes:

an anna chapter!!! and a double chapter update!! how exciting!!

i love writing anna she's such a stream-of-consciousness character and i adore her. i love my beautiful children.

warnings for this chapter: none other than anna being very judgy

Those Capon fellahs smell funny. Anna noticed their stench way before she ever met them. When the two golden geese rode by on their massive beasties, Anna couldn't help but wrinkle her nose at the overwhelming stink they left behind. When she asked Elijah if he smelled it too, he'd shaken his head. But, whatever. Elijah's stupid anyway.

Their smell doesn't get any better, but Anna learns how to deal with it quickly. It's not horrible, really. Just a lot. Considering Uncle Lord John doesn't have the same kind of funk, it's not a noble thing.

Still.

It's weird.

"We should leave soon to look for those bandits." The older Capon, the stinkiest of the lot, is talking with Godwin as they munch on kolaches from the herbwoman down the road. He doesn't seem to mind that Anna is staring at him. Not that she'd mind if he minded. "They act at dusk and dawn, right? That means they're probably in their camps right now. We could get a decent headcount."

"Aye, I agree," Godwin says before taking a bite from his kolach.

Anna takes a bite of her pastry, grimacing at the taste of walnuts. She doesn't like nuts. But she doesn't waste food. You don’t have to finish what’s on the plate, but you can’t let it go to waste. Godwin’s always said she had her father's stomach anyway. Whatever that means.

"Do you have any idea where they might be holed up?" Lord Capon asks as he rests an elbow on the table—a very unnoble thing to do. Uncle Lord John always says nobles eat with their… What did he say, again? Like they were setting fire to a book? Or something? She hadn’t been listening, really.

"Henry found a hovel that might be theirs, but it looked like they moved on by the time we went back to check." Godwin sighs, rubbing his forehead with his knotted fingers. He leaves a little crumb behind. "They're well-organized, unfortunately. I can't help but think—"

"That it's the start of something more?" Lord Capon interjects in a low voice and a furrow to his brow. When Godwin nods, he continues: "I would agree. The people of Rattay are becoming more and more agitated even after my uncle's passing. My family and I have aided in reinforcing the economy of my lands but Hus’ death has touched every corner of Bohemia. Beyond our borders as well."

Godwin crosses himself like he always does when that name comes up. Jan Hus. Some fellah that got burned to death for some stupid reason or another in a big city far from where they are.

Whatever.

Lord Capon shakes his head, and his stink goes everywhere. Anna grumbles into her kolach. She also reaches over and flicks that crumb from Godwin's brow, to which she gets a quiet, "thank you," before Godwin is paying attention to the stuffy Lord again.

"There's more to this unrest than we can fathom." Lord Capon's fingertip taps against the table. Its repetitive tmp tmp on the wood makes Anna want to bite it and swallow it down. "As if we're in a cauldron only just reaching a boil."

"An apt metaphor, lad."

"Thanks." The word is mumbled idly, distantly, like Lord Capon is stuck in his mind rather than here. Pa always said that led people to dark places. Anna's not going to be the one to get him out, though. She doesn't even know the guy.

"Anna." Her name makes Anna sit up straight, cheeks full of nasty walnut kolach. Godwin chuckles at her—something he does often. "Could you go find your pa and bring him here?"

A part of her wants to grumble about being made a messenger. The other, larger part of her is happy to get out of this stinky house and find Pa. So, she hops to her feet and makes her way to the door with a muffled, "Okay!" that sends crumbs all over the place. She slaps a hand against her mouth and chokes on a giggle. Godwin's mouth opens and his fuzzy eyebrows are drawn tight. Anna darts for the outside before he can start being very disappointed in her.

Finding Pa isn't hard. She hears his laugh the moment she steps outside. Huh. Pa doesn't normally laugh that hard. Excitement builds in her. Maybe he found something funny! Anna wants to see the funny thing. She dances toward the pasture where his laughter rings from.

She's finally able to swallow her mouthful and wipes her mouth with her sleeves. The pastry goes down rough without something to drink, but it does settle in her belly eventually. By the time she's done choking it down, she can see Pa standing in front of a bench with a familiar sunset-blonde speck perched on it.

"Pa!" She calls, grinning. "Heiny!"

"Birdie," Pa greets with a smile. "C’mere."

(Behind him, Heiny mumbles, "Heiny?" in that silly posh noble voice of his.)

Anna comes to a stop in front of her pa and wrinkles her nose when he swipes his sleeve over her mouth and cheeks. She must not've done a very good job cleaning up.

"There. Pretty as a painting." Pa wraps his hand comfortably around the back of her neck, his earthy smell blending with hers. "How's your morning gone?"

"Boring," Anna replies in a drawl. "His pa and Godwin are talking about bandits and stuff."

"Ah—they're both up?" Pa's mouth twists. "I'll go see to them, then. You two are not allowed out of Uzhitz."

"But—!" Heiny whines.

"Hey!" Anna balks.

It's not like she was planning on leaving but the fact she's been told not to makes her teeth itch. She's trying to get better about taking orders. After all, that's what she's going to do the rest of her life. She won't be happy about it, though.

"I mean it." Pa stares them both down with a firm look. "These bandits go after travelers. You don't want them to think you two might be leaving Uzhitz, and I doubt they'll care that you're children."

"Father brought me here to find those bandits together." Heiny looks so serious. He's got a pretty face, one that Anna wants to squish even when it's all tight like this. "I'm coming."

"No." When Pa says no, he means it. Anna knows this very well. It's not often he says no to her but when he does, she listens. "You stay with Anna. Here. Lordling or not, a forest full of bandits is no place for a pup."

"Then why did Father bring me along at all!?" It sounds like Heiny wants to stomp his feet with a whine like that. It's a bit silly. Anna doesn't get it.

After all, why would he want to go looking for stinky bandits? They could stay here, look at frogs, get honey from the beehives, chase chickens. There's no need for Heiny to put himself in danger. Especially when their pa’s can handle it.

"I don't rightly know," Pa replies. "Regardless. Stay here. Understand me? Anna?"

Anna bobs her head—which is kinda hard with Pa gripping her nape.

"Henry—!"

"Heinrich." Pa glares at Heiny. "You will listen to me or I'll send both you and Lord Capon back to Rattay."

That makes Heiny stop whining, though his pout remains in full force. Reluctantly, Heiny nods. Pa is apparently okay with this response, because he quickly bids them goodbye and heads toward the house. Anna misses his touch already.

Once Pa disappears from sight, Anna turns to look at Heiny. His eyes are full of tears and frustration makes his already too much stink even worse.

"Why d'you even want to go with them?" Anna asks, not bothering to beat around the bush. "They've got it."

"You wouldn't understand," Heiny grumbles.

"Try me!" Anna always hates it when stupid people underestimate her. She's plenty smart and strong and stuff.

Heiny huffs, arms crossing over his chest. He shifts from foot to foot before finally opening his mouth to respond.

"Father allowed me to come only to put me in another cage. I'm sick of being told what to do."

Oh. Well, Anna can understand that.

"So, why don't you go anyway?" Anna plops down onto the bench beside her new friend. "You're a lord or whatever. It's not like they can stop you."

"My father can." Heiny sighs and ruffles his pretty sunset waves. It makes him look ridiculous. "And I have a feeling he won't disagree with Henry's decision."

"True." Lord Capon seems like kind of a pushover when it comes to Pa. The way he melts every time he looks at Pa is kinda telling. And gross. "We can have fun here."

"I'm not concerned about fun." The venom in Heiny's voice delights Anna. Who knew he could sound so angry!? "I'm concerned about doing what I came here to do. Father could have left me at the castle, but he brought me here. I'm smart and resourceful. Couldn't I help them?"

"Sure." Anna shrugs. "I don't think that's really the problem, Heiny. Pa knows I'm damn good with a bow, but he also knows I'm little."

She opens her arms and looks down at herself. Her casual woolen frock is ripped at the bottom, the hem scuffed so badly that it hardly looks white anymore. The apron over it isn't much better. Her boots are large and heavy, just how she likes them. She's even got a small knife hidden at her hip, mostly for herb gathering and emergencies… and, sometimes, for throwing.

"These are real bandits, you know?" Anna shrugs again as she places her hands on the bench on either side of her hips. "Like, the kind that kill people for fun or whatever."

"I know that…" The words are strong but Heiny sounds unsure when he says them. "I only want to help…"

At that moment, while watching Heiny’s precious face crumple, Anna makes a decision. It’s probably not the right one, but she makes it anyway.

Anna gives a single, hard nod. “You’ve passed my test.”

Heiny’s eyes are glassy and filled with tears when he looks up at her. The confusion on his face makes him look like a sad, wet field mouse. Kinda smells like one, too.

“Test?” he whimpers. “What test?”

“My test to make sure you’re serious!” It hadn’t begun that way, and Anna would love nothing more than to obey her Pa, but Heiny has some good points. Anna’s never been one to leave her friends in the lurch either. “I’m going to help you help them.”

“I-I don’t want to get you in trouble, Anna.” Heiny wrings his soft hands together. “Honestly, I’m alright if we stay—“

“Rule number one!” Anna sticks up a single finger. “No lying!”

Confusion continues to mount.

“Rule number two!” Another finger. “You don’t have to finish what’s on the plate, but you can’t let it go to waste.”

Heiny is now just staring at her, utterly befuddled as Uncle Lord John would say.

“And rule number three!” A third and final finger. “Be stupid smart!”

Pale, soft hands unfurl from each other and gesture helplessly at Anna. “That one simply doesn’t make any sense.”

Anna rolls her eyes. “It does so. If you’re gonna make a stupid choice, do it smart. If it’s dangerous, be safe. If it’s against the law, don’t get caught. If it’s mean, don’t piss off the wrong people.”

“I… suppose.” Heiny shakes his head, his waves going every which way. “What even are these rules?”

“They’re what Pa and I came up with.” Anna beams and places her fists on her hips. “Pretty smart, huh?”

“I have no idea why you’re telling them to me.” The confusion has bled out of Heiny, leaving only a tired, colorful husk of a boy. He definitely looked so much better when he was all fired up about stinky bandits.

“Becaaause…” Anna reaches over and grasps Heiny’s delicate, soft, pretty hand. “We are going to be stupid smart.”

Notes:

worldbuilding notes:

jan hus: his death set off a rebellion/war that would last like forty+ years called the hussite wars. in this story, he died three months ago on july 6, 1415. he was a big deal among bohemians and unified both peasants and nobles alike against the exploitative catholic church. i think something like 80% of bohemia were hussite by the middle of the war?? so, big deal. he's also the precursor to martin luther's righteous tantrum on the church steps that'll happen 100 years later and officially begin the protestant reformation (and lutheranism as a religion).

he's an interesting dude and honestly i can't find much on how the average person reacted to his death. however, he was tricked into coming to a catholic meeting to choose a new pope with sigismund saying hus would be safe... and then burning him at the stake when he showed up. bitch. i imagine the reaction to his death is very mm exponential? a few people know about it then a few more and then a few more and then all of bohemia is like "what the fuck" and (eventually) kick the shit out of sigismund and force him to agree to new rules.

and gueeesss what? our very own heinrich was one of the people to make that happen. he worked under sigismund as one of the highest ranking nobles and fought him like every step of the way until he spllit from siggy and became the hetman of his region in bohemia and the leader of the branch of hussites that would, in the end, win in a technical sense. he was insanely important and very good at his job as a politician (and possibly a soldier? most of his victories are through politics tho).

:))) i love history.

funny note: jan hus was a follower of john wycliffe's teachings. wycliffe was a religious rebel and hated the way the catholic church did shit. he was also a huge iconoclast, meaning he thought no religion should worship icons (the cross, mary, etc. he even hated church buildings lol). guess what the people of bohemia did when he died? they grabbed a piece of his tomb and started worshipping it as a relic. did yall learn nothing????

my god i'm sorry abt this ending note i just love history shdgksjhgj ty for reading it all if u did

Chapter 7: VII :: Hans

Notes:

THIS IS THE SECOND OF A DOUBLE CHAPTER UPDATE. MAKE SURE TO READ THE LAST ONE (VI :: ANNA) TOO.

so y'all said u wanted the boys to communicate? 😏

warnings for this chapter: none, really. mild talk of civilian death but nothing in detail.

When Hans sees the state of the abandoned camp, he realizes this bandit problem is much more complex than he first thought.

The bandits didn’t leave much behind. Empty skeletons of lean-tos and empty sacks that held food remain. Pools of blood mark the ground beneath upright racks, and bits of chipped bone and antler dot the dirt nearby. A grand pit filled with dry wood ash and fat grease stains sits in the center of the clearing—too big for one or two bandits.

Hans lowers himself onto one knee before the bleeding rack. Blood has long congealed, but the scent of wet deer viscera lingers still. When he sifts the dirt through his fingers, chunks catch on the leather and metal. Antler. Bone. Leftover gristle and cartilage that has long since begun to decay. A poor huntsman who at least knew to cover his tracks.

“Poaching,” Hans murmurs. “They haven’t enough food to sustain themselves.”

Beside him, Henry squats in front of one of the large, empty sacks. His hands tug at the fabric and hold it open so he can sniff the inside. His overly sensitive omega nose immediately wrinkles.

“Smells rotted. They’ve been out here for longer than we thought.” Henry frowns at the sack, gloves fingers rubbing the weave between them. “Where have you come from…?”

It’s only them two. Godwin remained behind, using his age, weak knee, and the presence of their children to have an excuse to linger in Uzhitz. Although Henry made a face, Hans is all too happy to leave the older man behind. Regardless of their history, he and Henry have always worked well together. That hasn’t changed. He hopes.

“They’re decently organized,” Hans states as he levers himself back onto his feet. His armor weighs his body down and squeezes his limbs with familiar pressure. It has been too long since he’s worn a proper suit for longer than the length of a ceremony. “Nothing left behind, everyone to their own cot, a proper toilet.”

“Proper” simply meaning “a dug out hole with a stool above it” but one can’t ask for much more out in the unforgiving Bohemian forests.

“They even took their broken arrows.”

Henry stands before a ruined target, eyes narrowed at the damage it received. Great gaping holes from arrows meant to maim and tear rip through the woven braiding, leaving nothing more than loose straw.

When Hans moves to join him, Henry spares him a quick glance before he reaches out and plucks a bit of straw from the decimated target. He sniffs it, then offers the piece to Hans. Sniffing it gives Hans the dull scent of valerian and not much else.

“Dollmaker.” Henry glowers down at the piece of straw before flicking it away. “Possibly left over on an arrow after an attack.”

Dollmaker poison. Either these bandits wanted to capture someone incapacitated but alive, or make damn sure that whoever they hit dies the worst kind of death. With no bottles or actual poisoned arrows left behind, there’s no telling how strong they’ve made it.

“Have you heard of any survivors?” Hans asks as he continues to roam around the campsite. They hadn’t even left food waste behind. No lingering tracks of foxes or wolves indicate bones hadn’t been left behind to scavenge. It’s as if these bandits made it a point to disappear into thin air. To be untraceable.

“No,” Henry replies in a low tone. His arms cross over his chest, fingers tapping at his bicep as he thinks. The handsome slope of his face pinches into an expression of thoughtful contemplation. “A few bodies, and mostly destroyed remains. No survivors.”

“They have to have buried them somewhere.” Dead bodies don’t melt into the earth, never to be seen again. Even a mass grave has its own unique signature. One can’t dig a massive ditch and expect to leave the area looking untouched. “Wolves could have found them. It would certainly make it easier for us if they did.”

“The second they smell the poison in the bodies, they’d turn tail.” Tired eyes drag along the ground. Looking for tracks or further clues, probably. Or looking for something to stare at besides Hans. “I’ve found wolves to be smarter than people in that way.”

“You’re not wrong.”

Animals have passed by for certain. Hans can spot the tracks of deer and hare, and while the sharper indentations of foxes and wolves are there, they don’t linger or overlap. Thus, by a wild animal’s judgement, the area is dull as a dried gorge.

Hans sits on one of the prostrate logs once used to lounge by the fire. Metal plate rings against his hauberk as he settles. It’s a noisy affair, but Hans doesn’t have much care about being quiet at the moment. Not like there’s anyone to hear him. Any bandit would be far from the camp they’ve long since abandoned.

“Tired already?” On any other tongue, the words would sound playful. On Henry’s, they sound like the impact of a particularly judgmental hammer. “You’ve truly gotten cozy in those castles of yours. Your stamina has suffered for it.”

Is he trying to pick a fight? Hans scowls.

“And you would know how cozy I’ve been?” The ease with which Henry makes him revert into a bitchy twenty-year-old is infuriating. “Godwin said you never bothered asking about me.”

“Everyone has talked about the grand indulgences of the Lords of Leipa for years.” Bitterness creases Henry’s face. “People lost their lives. They weren’t able to get food. Clothing. Because all the silver was in greedy noble palms.“

“You think I don’t know that?” Hans doesn’t have the energy to be angry. All he feels is exhaustion. He’s tired of reiterating the same argument with every person he meets and he hadn’t wanted to have it with Henry of all people. “Hanush’s greed killed my people. My people.”

The only response he gets is the quiet hiss of wind through the leaves. Hans can’t bear to see what expression Henry has on his face. So, he doesn’t look up from the remnants of the fire before him.

“He took everything from them. While he hosted grand feasts to impress traitorous sons of noble whores, innocent men and women were dying in the streets outside.” Hans will never forget the drawn, resentful faces that watched him as he rode between each castle. There had been a bone-deep madness in them that burned him to his very soul. However, Hans made sure to always look upon those faces to remind him why he fought. He sighs before continuing to speak. “While children were dying because their mothers were underfed and sick, Hanush was gilding the castle and displaying his wealth simply to say he was better.”

“And wasn’t he?” Henry’s muttered words make Hans’ head snap up, his eyes catching on the omega. He stands at the opposite side of the fire pit, arms crossed tight. “Aren’t nobles meant to be better than us peasants? Nobles and priests are closer to God than us. They deserve more because they popped from a noblewoman’s cunt or made false vows before a God they barely revere unless groschen is involved.“

“Henry…” Hans detests how his voice creaks with emotion. He can’t stand the resentment in Henry’s voice. “I was raised to believe that nobles are supposed to care for their charges. They are to make the hardest decisions for the good of the realm. They are meant to guide and protect the people who don’t have the means to do it for themselves.”

“You know very fucking well it never happens like that.” Henry’s arms tighten even further, as if desperately trying to keep himself from falling apart. “Men in power always demand more than they deserve.”

“Why—“ Hans’ teeth close around the rest of that question. Instead, he shakes his head and exhales as he stands. “I don’t know why you’ve come to resent me so.”

Henry’s mouth begins to open, but Hans shakes his head again in a gentle plea.

“You don’t have to tell me. You’ve never had to tell me. I would have given you—“ Everything. Hans scrubs a hand over his mouth, grimacing as his glove catches on the hairs of his moustache. “I only hope that you’ll remember who I was when we parted and… and consider who I’ve become. That’s all I ask.”

Fight bleeds from Henry in one shuddering rush. The air is heady with emotion, Hans’ senses overrun. They stand in an uncomfortable quiet. Until Henry’s lips part and work haltingly around four words:

“I don’t resent you.”

Hans waits for more.

Henry doesn’t give him anything else.

He turns and gestures to where the horses stand at the edge of the campsite. The worn brown gambeson Henry wears shifts noisily against his body as he walks toward the two sleepy beasts, his mouth unmoving except to pull into an uncomfortable frown.

Perhaps one day Henry will say what he means, tell him what he feels. Hans only hopes he isn’t dead by then.

***

One thing is certainly true: the forests around Uzhitz are breath-takingly beautiful. They boast trickling, crystal clear creeks and shallow canyons lined with granite and opportunistic plants. The deer are plentiful and fat, storing up whatever they can with winter on the horizon. Young fawns born in spring have grown tall enough that their knees don’t knock together anymore, though they continue to linger by almost every doe’s side.

At one point during their silent patrol of the tree line, a flash of white-speckled brown catches Hans’ eye. He pulls Balius to a stop and watches a pair of twin fawns make their way over a rocky, active riverbed. They’re all legs and knobby joints, having to practically lean on each other to keep their footing. On the opposite side of the river, their mother stands with her head held high, scanning the area with attentive care.

Her large black eyes freeze in place when they meet Hans’ own. He makes sure not to move too much, though he quickly averts his gaze to display his harmlessness. Even if he were hunting, taking down a strong doe who is caring for healthy twins is something no huntsman should ever do.

“What is it?” Henry comes to a rocking stop beside him, peering over Hans’ shoulder to see what he’s looking at. A soft chuff of affection rolls off his tongue. “Cute.”

Hans can feel his heart in his throat.

He’s never heard Henry make that noise before. The soft, short trill of an omega’s chuff. An involuntary sound of happiness.

Had Henry ever been truly happy around him? Even back then?

“Aye,” Hans croaks after a heartbeat. He keeps his eyes glued on the pair of fawns. Small black hooves knock against smooth stones and splash through shallow water.

Leaning on each other, the twins make it most of the way before they part. Once the other side of the river is within reach, one of the fawns lurches forward and scrambles to stand by their noble mother. The other bellows out one of those strange trumpets deer tend to make and flails after their sibling.

Now on solid ground, both fawns shake themselves of any remaining water and bleat at each other as if bickering.

“No matter what, siblings are always the same,” Henry remarks through a small smile. “A fine legacy for that doe.”

“Aye. She’s a strong one.”

Companionable silence hugs them both as Hans and Henry watch the trio of roe leap out of sight, bounding deep into the forest beyond. Though they are gone, Hans can’t find it in him to move just yet.

“It’s beautiful out here.” The words seem to carry themselves out of Hans’ lips. “Not nearly as dreary as Rattay can be.”

“It has its moments.” Henry’s voice might be dry but the fond smile Hans sees at the corner of his mouth is indication enough of his true love.

Neither man urges their horse forward. They sit together, watching the forest teem with life. At least, that’s what Henry is looking at.

Hans’ eyes trace the statuesque jut of Henry’s brow, the slope of his nose, the natural purse of his lips. In his older age, Henry now fits his strong frame and broad shoulders. Gone are the days of clumsy limbs that grew too much muscle too fast. Henry now holds himself with a regality that should be inappropriate for his station, yet perfectly suits him.

“If you’re done gawking, we should ride on.”

Henry’s low timbre jolts Hans from his hopeless daydreaming. The omega has been looking back at him for some time. As Hans’ face burns, Henry only snorts before urging his horse forward with a click of his tongue and a squeeze of his thighs.

“I was not gawking,” Hans protests, urging Balius after Henry. “You—You have something on your face.”

“No, I don’t.” This confidence that emanates from Henry really shouldn’t be as bewitching as it is. “Keep up, Capon.”

With that, Henry and his (strangely familiar) chestnut gelding surge into a dead gallop. Squawking, Hans quickly darts after them.

“That’s not fair!” he calls between the impacts of hooves on packed dirt.

“Yeah!?” Henry replies, teeth flashing in a smile. “Life’s not fair, my lord! Last one to the stables mucks out the stalls!”

Hans is struck with the memory of his and Heinrich’s impromptu race on their way to Uzhitz. Like looking in a mirror, Henry shoots the same toothy grin over his shoulder as Hans’ son had the day before. It’s jarring. It’s delightful.

Though, none of those churning emotions keeps Hans from hollering at the top of his lungs:

“HENRY!”

***

“I am not shoveling shit.” Hans leans his damp forehead onto his panting stallion’s neck, giving a handful of harsh breaths himself. “And I won, anyway.”

“You did not,” Henry retorts. He’s already off his gelding, praising the huffing beast with gentle pets to his velvet nose. He’s barely even breathing hard. “Jumping the fence doesn’t count when I got to the property line first.”

“Are you yanking my pizzle?” Hans gestures at the barn with a weary sweep of his arm. His armor clatters against itself. “You said to the stables. I was the first to the stables.”

“Of course you’d be pedantic about this.”

“That’s what you said, you ungrateful yokel!”

“You just don’t want to do the work.”

“You’re right! I don’t! I’m not shoveling shit, Henry!”

“Hmm, sounds like my lord is going back on his word…”

“Oh, don’t you dare.”

Their bickering echoes off the barn walls, mouths pulling into easy grins. The familiarity of it all burns bright in Hans’ chest. He’s missed this. He’s missed Henry. He’s missed that crooked, self-important smile… that almost immediately drops once Henry realizes he’s doing it.

Henry frowns and turns away from Hans. He busies himself with pulling the saddle free from his horse.

Right.

Hans slides from Balius’ back and lands hard on the ground. His thighs tremble for a moment before regaining their strength. Racing and a lack of decent sleep—truly, who awakens before the sun?—makes his muscles struggle to keep up. The tension from their investigation certainly doesn’t help either.

Shuffling feet draws both men’s attention to the barn doors. Godwin limps his way in, a fond smile on his face.

“I thought I heard two cockerels clucking at each other,” he remarks, chuckling.

“He started it.” No, Hans doesn’t care how childish it makes him sound. It’s true!

Henry shoots him a petulant glare before looking back at Godwin. “Hey. We found some things out, but nothing that—“

“Easy.” Godwin raises a hand. “Let’s get some food in you boys before talking about such heavy things.”

“You know you’re not actually a grandfather, right?” Hans smirks at Godwin, hoping to God that his playful jesting comes across in his tone. He doesn’t want to actually insult the man.

“My aching bones certainly say I am.”

All three of them exchange companionable, polite chuckles.

“Go ahead,” Henry says once quiet returns to the barn. “I’ll brush the horses down and let them back into the pasture.”

“I can help—“ Hans is swiftly interrupted by a glance from Henry.

“Go on, Capon. I’ll be there soon.”

Well. Hans isn’t going to continue to push his already paper-thin luck. He nods at Henry… though he lingers just long enough to pull Balius’ saddle from his back, placing it on an empty stand nearby. He pretends not to notice the way Henry rolls his eyes as Hans turns to leave with Godwin.

At the base of the steps leading up into Henry’s home, Godwin and Hans are forced to stop as the door flies open. The metal handle slams into the exterior wall of the house with such a noise that it draws an involuntary, fatherly, “Hey!” from Hans.

“Sorry! Gotta go!” is all that’s said as Anna runs from the house, her hand wrapped around a flailing Heinrich’s wrist.

Hans stares after his son, meeting his panicked eyes with a baffled look of his own. Heinrich’s beleaguered whine only just reaches Hans’ ears before his pup is bodily yanked from the property and around the corner.

For several long moments, Hans stares at where he last saw Heinrich. And Anna.

(He doesn’t think of the fact that he’s sired both of the rambunctious pups. He doesn’t think about it at all.)

“Should I be worried about that?” Hans asks Godwin, frowning at the beta.

“Probably.” With that, Godwin shuffles into the house. “There’s some kolaches left over. Otherwise, the stew is on.”

Hans watches him disappear into the house. Once he’s alone, Hans allows the laughter bubbling in his chest to finally come from his mouth. It’s a harsh bark of a sound that’s punched from his gut. A nasty, dumbfounded guffaw that’s choked off before it turns into the hysterical laughter that threatens to claw its way up his throat.

Pulling off his gloves, Hans rubs his eyes and drags his palm down his face. He smooths his moustache and beard, the repetitive swipes of his fingers barely doing anything to calm his nerves.

“What the fuck?”

The words come out in a soft breath full of exhausted wonder. It’s amazing how easy it is to turn one’s life directly onto its head.

One final sigh leaves Hans before he tucks his gloves between arm and rib, and begins to unbuckle his vambraces as he makes his way up the stairs to Henry’s front door.

Notes:

i wonder what the kiddos are up to...

worldbuilding notes:

on henry's rant: can u tell that he is basically a hussite already lol

on hanush: its true. he became a robber baron, stealing from nearby nobles and his own people because he was a greedy motherfucker. high taxes, outright theft, tolls... all that shit. when hans got his land after wenceslaus forced hanush to give it up, he literally had to rebuild rattay from all the damage hanush made of it.

did u know: deer actually have twins pretty often? i didn't know that. kinda cool.

Chapter 8: VIII :: Heinrich

Notes:

have u noticed that we're now regularly going from adults to children? :) yeah. that'll be the pattern for a while.

also, have i told u how much i love my beautiful baby children?

warnings about this chapter: children making bad decisions and putting themselves in dangerous positions

Two children hide at the edge of a clearing. Trees bend around them, branches reaching down like the arms of concerned parents trying to shield them from poor decisions. Neither one looks to the canopy above, instead watching the camp beyond filled with ribald men wielding shiny maces and polished swords.

This is how it starts:

They only wanted to see if they could spot anything suspicious on the roads leading out from Uzhitz. Any hint of nefarious wrongdoing that they could then run to their fathers and report. Be stupid smart, right?

(Heinrich called them scouts, to which Anna wrinkled her nose because it “sounds like a dog’s name.”)

Truthfully, honestly, that’s all they were expecting to happen. Not this.

“Get down!” Heinrich drags Anna into nearby shrubbery, their small bodies encased entirely by the thick, thorny bushes. They settle quickly and become mouse-silent as a cart led by a single heaving horse rolls by.

The cart’s cargo is covered by a thick cloth tacked into each corner to firmly secure what lies beneath. Darker stains have marred the surface of the cloth, dirt-brown and rust-red. As Heinrich watches, his teeth digging into his bottom lip, the cart hits a rock. It’s not a very large rock, but it manages to make iron-plated wheels jolt and jerk.

From beneath the cloth, rigid fingers slip free. The dead pleading for help.

Before Anna can say something that would surely get them caught, Heinrich slaps his palm over her mouth and holds her tight to his side. Thankfully, she doesn’t protest. Instead, her forest river eyes stare after the cart, lids pulled wide and her pupils pin-tight as she focuses.

Two more riders trail after the cart. They wear armor of common bandits smeared with dirt and viscera. No plate armor adorns their limbs, but Heinrich would bet his life that they had mail beneath the cloth at the very least. Each horse is of good stock—not the nags that oftentimes haunt bandit camps… at least, as far as Father described them.

At first, Heinrich sees no heraldry or obvious loyalty. If anything, they look as bandits do: loyal to no one but themselves.

Then, Anna jams her elbow into his ribs and points at one last rider that trots to catch up with the rest. He’s younger, sweatier, and much more nervous than the others. His fingers scramble to button the front of his ratty gambeson, unfit gauntlets getting in the way. From beneath the coat, Heinrich spots the icon of a shield. Squinting offers him nothing but four colors: yellow, red, white, and black. A busy standard for the average bandit.

The young recruit—because he could be nothing but—finally sinches his coat and nudges his irate-looking steed into a canter to catch up with his fellows. Eventually, the sound of the wheels creaking fades to birdsong.

“Did you see that?” Anna gasps as she pops out from the brush, pulling leaves from her hair. “Who the hell were those fellahs?”

“The bandits,” Heinrich guesses, though his mind remains on the shape of the coat of arms he spotted. “Or something.”

“Or something is fuckin’ right.”

Heinrich squints at her, face pinched in displeasure at her cursing. Either Anna doesn’t see it or she simply doesn’t care, because the girl is dashing over to the road and squatting to peer at the wheel grooves.

Shaking his head, Heinrich trails after her. In his palm, he traces the vague shapes of that shield he saw.

“That cart was kinda shit for haulin’ bodies,” Anna remarks. “All wobbly an’ stuff.”

Even Heinrich can see that in the way the ruts seem to wobble like the air on a hot, humid day. It is a pretty… shit cart for such a thing. Was it the cart the victims were using before they were heartlessly murdered? Maybe. It could also possibly be a cover-up. Use a bad cart and no one looks twice at the ruts you leave—or the cart itself.

“We… We should go back,” Heinrich mumbles. “We only came out here to look around.”

“Go back?” Anna gawks at him, confusion front and center on her freckled face. “You said you wanted to help!”

“And—And we have,” he protests, heart thumping. “We can go ba-back and—and give our fathers a rep—report.”

“About what?” Sunkissed arms cross over Anna’s narrow chest, a stubborn front in the face of Heinrich’s anxiety. “Guess what, Pa? Heiny and I snuck outta Uzhitz against your orders to look for clues an’ we found a shitty cart.”

“I saw the last rider’s coat of arms…”

“Big bloody whoop.” Anna turns her back to Heinrich and looks in the direction the cart was moving. Eventually, her shoulders rise and fall in a heavy sigh. “We can go back, I guess. Just seems like a waste.”

She’s not entirely wrong. The most they have for their delinquency is a poorly maintained cart, a count of four separate bandits, and the vague recollection of a coat of arms. If they went back with only that… Heinrich doesn’t want to imagine the scolding he would get from Henry. His father, too, but Henry is the one that Heinrich—

Well.

He wants to impress him. A little. Just a bit. For some reason.

“Let’s… Let’s just see where they’re going,” Heinrich mumbles—and is promptly yanked forward yet again by his wrist by an excited Anna. At his point, she’ll pop his arm from its joint before they find the damn bandits. “Anna!”

“Move your prissy little legs, then!”

The strange, irate urge to bite her comes to mind, which Heinrich quickly brushes away before he shoves his feet underneath him and catches up to speed. He’s going to have to get used to all this running if he’s going to be Anna’s friend. Considering the chances of seeing each other again after this is low, Heinrich figures he has years to recover once he and Father return to Rattay.

Following the ruts isn’t difficult. They’re unique in shape and wiggly in path. At times the ruts get lost within the muck of a well-used crossroad, but a quick separation—“Within sight of each other, Anna! I’m serious!”—makes quick work of finding the trail again.

“Why’re they so far awaaaay?” Anna whines, her heels digging in with each step. She’s barely looking at the road anymore, eyes instead wandering towards anything even remotely interesting. “I’m bored…”

Heinrich rolls his eyes for possibly the millionth time that day. He enjoys Anna’s company—he truly does! But the girl has the attention span of a puppy. She constantly searches for something to entertain herself as trailing bandits isn’t thrilling enough by itself, apparently.

In any case, he doesn’t reply to her whining. Heinrich steps between the telltale wheel ruts with precise strides, moving in a way that doesn’t disturb the trail. If they have to follow it again, it’ll be easier without additional footprints treading all over it.

“Heiny?”

Hm. One of the riders seems to have dropped a groschen. It’s a bit misshapen, but not dirty as it sits pretty on the top of the dirt. Heinrich scoops it up, twisting it between thumb and forefinger.

“Heeeeiny!”

It’s rather unsurprising that they have enough groschen to not miss a runaway coin. That’s the point of being bandits, right? Gross amounts of silver to… buy food? Women? Take a bath? Heinrich isn’t actually sure why bandits go to this extreme when plenty of people live off the land and their own pay perfectly fine.

“Heinrich!”

All the air is punched from Heinrich’s lungs as Anna runs into his back and wraps her arms around his shoulders. She’s light enough to hang from him without choking him—but by no means is it comfortable.

“Anna, come on,” he grumbles, hand hooked over the forearm that threatens to press directly into his trachea. “Can’t you be a little patient?”

“Nope,” she chirps with a smile on her lips. Heinrich can hear it. “Why’re you so tall?”

“Both my parents are.” Were. “You’ve seen Father and Mother was quite tall.”

Heinrich remembers his mother’s hands and arms more than anything—besides her face, of course. They were long, elegant, reminiscent of swan’s wings. He would sit upon her lap and watch slim fingers as they pressed a needle into cloth and pulled it out again as she embroidered. When nightmares came to him with images of ferocious lions bearing down upon him and wild boar tearing those he loves apart, his mother’s hand would smooth back his mussed hair and run perfectly manicured nails against his scalp.

A familiar pang of longing rings within his heart.

“What happened to her?” Anna asks not unkindly. Heinrich has quickly learned to differentiate between maliciousness and genuine curiosity in the girl. If he hadn’t by now, surely he’d have been baited into a proper fight. “You an’ your pa got this look to you sometimes.”

Unsurprising. Heinrich swallows before he says, “She died.”

“Oh.”

Somehow, the arms around his shoulders feel more like a hug than an imitation of a monkey. Heinrich squeezes Anna’s arm as thanks. He hopes she understands.

“What about yours?” he asks. The question of who Anna’s mother is and where she is has bothered him since they arrived. As far as he knows, his father had no siblings. Yet, Anna has the same soft bow to her lips as Heinrich, the same nose. Her hair color is nearly identical to Father’s, though perhaps a bit darker at the root. And the way Father responded to seeing her the first time…

“Don’t have one.” Anna finally disentangles herself from Heinrich’s shoulders, landing on her feet with a dusty thump. “Jus’ me and my pa.”

Heinrich frowns. “Surely someone must have given birth to you. Or did an angel drop you upon your father’s stoop?”

“Ha!” Her laughter rings through the field they walk through, bouncing off trees. “Pretty bad gift from somethin’ like an angel, if you ask me.”

Heinrich’s not sure about that. He wouldn’t mind having a sibling like Anna deposited into his father’s care.

He waits for an answer to his unasked question. Silence fills the space between them, but Heinrich can see Anna thinking. Dry lips are pursed in thought, her eyes wandering to and fro in search of something to focus on. For a moment, Heinrich isn’t sure if he’ll get any answer at all. Until—

“You gotta promise to not tell anyone.”

“Of course,” Heinrich says immediately. “You have my word as a nobleman.”

The dry look Anna eyes him with tells him she doesn’t put much stock in that vow. She shrugs and tucks her arms behind her back, hands grasping onto either elbow. An impressive show of casual flexibility. Heinrich wants to try too, but he also doesn’t want to make a fool of himself. His hands stay by his sides.

Anna looks out to the treeline. “My pa… He’s the one who birthed me.”

All at once, the puzzle in Heinrich’s mind is completed. The final piece that he hadn’t even realized was missing in the first place slots perfectly in the once empty gap of knowledge in his mind.

Henry is an omega. He gave birth to Anna who is a year older than him, conceived three months before the Siege of Suchdol… close to when Silver Skalitz was razed to the ground. Close to when Henry became his father’s short term page, according to the man himself.

“Kurva,” he hisses.

His curse startles a laugh from Anna. “What’s with that reaction!?”

“No, I…” Does she know? “Um. I won’t tell anyone, I swear.”

No wonder she made him vow to keep quiet. Heinrich has only seen one person with an unbefitting secondary gender. An alpha woman, chained at the heel of a lord from a distant land. Her hair had been cropped close to her head and a wrought iron muzzle covered the entire lower half of her face, pinning her jaw shut. Around her neck sat an equally alarming iron collar that had long since scarred her throat and made the skin around it turn a bright red. She wore little to no clothes to the point where Heinrich had to look away or become flustered by such a lack of propriety.

When Father saw her, he demanded the lord leave immediately. Hanush had thrown a fit, but Father didn’t relent and saw to the man’s departure personally. Heinrich never did hear of that lord or the alpha woman again.

No wonder.

No bloody wonder.

“Do… you know who your sire is?” he finally asks. The sound of his own voice reminds Heinrich of a plow dragging over rocky soil. If both of—of Anna’s fathers are keeping her in the dark, it’s not his place to say anything. No matter how much he wants to.

“Mmm, nope.” Anna’s shoulders lift in a casual shrug. “Don’t care. What good would that do me, anyway?”

More than you think. Then again, if Father did legitimize her and have Anna join them at court—Heinrich can’t help but choke out a laugh at that image. Lady Anna would throw Bohemian nobility into a tizzy, he’s sure, and they’re already struggling as it is.

“Pa an’ I tell people that my ma died in childbirth. No one but Godwin saw him when he was all—” Anna holds her arms out in a circle in front of her as if carrying a sizeable barrel to her gut. “Well, Godwin and, like, Uncle Sam and Lord Uncle John and Aunt Theresa and Uncle Matthias and Aunt Johanka and Aunt Katherine—”

“I know none of these people,” Heinrich points out weakly.

“They’re all Pa’s friends. None of ‘em live here, but they visit.” Arms return to their position behind her back, Anna skips forward and lands with both feet on the ground. Peering at the dirt, she tilts her head. “I think they went into the forest?”

Heinrich jogs to catch up, thankful for the timely intervention. The longer they talk of families and friends, the more his mouth would threaten to reveal things it shouldn’t. The dirt where Anna stopped is a churned mess of tracks and messy divots—in the middle of a straight road.

“I think you’re right…” Beside the road, grasses have been hastily kicked back into place. Heinrich assumes as much, at least. Sections of grass a carts-width apart look off. Hm.

Taking the groschen from his pocket, Heinrich squats down and places it beside a rock that peeks out of the dirt. From the road, no one will be able to see it. He just has to hope that no one randomly stops in the middle of a yawning, empty field and spots it by chance.

Anna, on the other hand, is already in the tall grasses, walking in the direction of the trees. Huffing, Heinrich hurries to follow her.

“We’ll go back soon,” Anna reassures Heinrich—though her distracted tone is hardly comforting. “I jus’ wanna see where this leads…”

The wheel ruts appear once more where bandits deemed it far enough from the road to hide their tracks. Although harder to follow, it’s something to follow. They lead into the forest itself, winding wherever the cart could fit between the trees. A minute’s walk brings them to the edge of a copse of bushes under which a pile of dirt and stone has been placed to mimic the forest around it.

“Wanna bet that’s where those fellahs in the cart are?” Anna whispers, thankfully keeping quiet beside the bandits mass grave. “We shouldn’t stay here. Wolves an’ bears’ll come lookin’.”

“Yeah,” Heinrich mumbles in response to both of her statements. There are no shovels left nearby, no shitty carts, no stained tarps, no obvious indication that this is a mass grave at all. Yet, what else could it be?

“C’mon.”

This time, Anna encircles her hand around Heinrich’s wrist almost carefully, tugging him—

“Why are we going deeper?” Heinrich hisses. “We found an entire grave! With many people in it!”

“Come off it, Heiny. Just a bit longer.”

“Anna!” The impact of having to whisper-yell isn’t very strong. Not that yelling at full volume would make a difference either. Anna is the type of girl to only do what she deems worthy to do. It’s infuriating… and enviable. To be so unshakable even in the face of firm disagreement.

It’s not far before the rumble of many voices can be heard.

Oh God…

That’s when they find themselves at the edge of a clearing, hidden in the thicker bushes that sit on the treeline around the bandit’s campsite. Neither child moves as they watch from their poor vantage point.

The four initial men have gotten off their steeds and have left the youngest to struggle with pulling the tack off their dipping backs and brushing them down. And within the camp…

Four. Six. Nine. Thirteen. Eighteen.

Heinrich is sure he’s lost count or accidentally counted a man twice, but another quick headcount gives him the same number: eighteen bandits. All of them are well-armed with expensive weapons and solid, light armor beneath their ratty banditwear. The camp is big, but cramped, wanting to take as little space as possible. In the center of the camp is a pot of bubbling stew that men take from at will.

“Oi, Engel!” Heinrich startles slightly—and is held in place by Anna’s firm grasp—when a loud voice batters his right ear. A nineteenth bandit slips into the campsite from the treeline. He’s tall and broad with a boisterous voice and too many teeth. “How is my favorite bitch doing today?”

The young recruit gives a great, heaving sigh before tilting his head back to look at the sky as if begging God to strike this obnoxious man where he stands.

“I am not your bitch,” Engel grumbles in a surprisingly husky voice. He speaks from the back of his throat in an accent Heinrich struggles to place. What language does the name Engel come from? It’s certainly not Czech. “What do you want, Asher?”

“Was just comin’ back from takin’ a piss.” Asher slings one meaty arm around Engel’s neck, practically looming over the boy. “Fuck, you smell nice.”

“Ugh.” Engel tilts his head away. “Go bother someone else.”

“Aw, don’t be that way,” Asher croons. His thick beard scrapes at Engel’s jaw, their throats dangerously close to touching. “Fuck, you sure you aren’t a pretty little omega?”

Just as Heinrich readies himself to drag Anna away with all his meagre strength, there’s a devastating crack that rings through the air followed swiftly by a howl of pure agony. Asher bends at the waist, hands covering his face and blood seeping from between his thick knuckles.

Engel has returned to brushing the horse he stands beside, the knuckles of one hand bloody.

“You heathenous bitch.”

“I said go bother someone else, hundsfott. And keep your filthy fucking tusks to yourself.” Engel doesn’t turn his head to look at Asher as he speaks, focusing on a particular spot on the horse’s rump that might be dirt or a wound.

German. Proper German, if Heinrich were to guess, not the strange-sounding German from Prague.

A bit ironic given my name, Heinrich thinks with a mental roll of his eyes. He should have really paid more attention to his governesses language lessons.

“Fucking—cunt—” The big man with a very broken nose goes lumbering toward the center of camp where he’s greeted by loud laughter and shouts of dismayed “again?”s.

Engel lets his forehead drop against the horse’s ribs. His lips move, but both his tone and the unique characteristics of the German language make it impossible to understand from this distance. His bloody hand rubs at the base of his throat where a person’s scent glands sit just beneath the skin. It looks as if he’s rubbing off whatever stink Asher left on him.

They need to go. The longer he and Anna linger, the more likely they’ll be caught. He tugs at Anna’s hand, careful not to jostle the bushes. Anna sends him an unreadable look, eyes wide and alert. She silently points once again and Heinrich follows her finger.

The coat of arms he saw earlier. A knight’s shield with a field of yellow painted with a two-headed eagle. On that eagle’s brest is the familiar crest of Bohemia—red and white, a lion with two tails in stark display. Around the edges is a white border with the ends of a broad black cross in each cardinal direction.

At the bottom, carefully lettered in black ink, are three words: Helfen, Wehren, Heilen.

Notes:

worldbuilding notes:

on "unbefitting" secondary genders: now we see more abt what happens if you're caught as a lady alpha or a dude omega. the threat of being literally kept as a pet is extremely high. people both venerate and are repulsed by them, especially male omegas bc uh misogyny and sexism and patriarchy. so the options are: death, imprisonment, becoming a hermit, or hiding your secondary for the rest of your life :)

on the coat of arms: hmmm i wonder who that motto belongs to... :)

Chapter 9: IX :: Henry

Notes:

haha hi :)

this chapter is another one of my faves. i hope u enjoy it!

i had to look up if crickets were in czechia at this point. they were :)

warnings for this chapter: mention of past alcohol abuse

It’s difficult to think about the bandits. Henry tries. Lord, does he try.

Some of his best thoughts have been created at the altar of a forge’s anvil. That is where Henry finds himself as the sun dips low in the sky: his small, quaint forge used for horseshoes and nails more than weapons. Only a few times a year does the forge burn with the exception of the odd thrown shoe or commissioned order.

And, apparently, the arrival of his pup’s sire.

Feeling the heat of the forge on his face and chest never fails to make the tension threaded through his entire body ease. Getting lost in the tedium of forging is easy. Muscle memory returns the moment he fists the bellow’s pulley. As he watches the metal warm in billowing flame, Henry’s mind begins to wander.

A bitter old bitch. Capon spat those words at him like a curse. At the time, the basic need to defend his ego reared its ugly head and made him snap back… despite Capon being right. Henry has become a bitter old bitch. Jaded by time and his own thoughts. By his body and the fading memory of his time in Rattay. Twelve years have passed and Henry has forgotten how it feels to be himself.

The people of Uzhitz value him as a voice of reason. Bailiff Bohdan comes to his door often, asking for advice, a listening ear, and a kind word. Midwife Luciana calls on him to aid in births, claiming his steady hands and calming scent are gifts from God. The average citizen never fails to smile at him and Anna, happily looking the other way when Anna makes a particularly unseemly comment.

He is valued here for the things he gives others.

The same as its been since his home was destroyed.

Henry finds satisfaction in helping others, but a thought lingers every time he forces a smile on his face and helps yet another person he’ll add to the neverending library in his mind:

I’m so fucking tired.

“Now what did that iron ever do to you?”

Abruptly, Henry comes back to reality. The metal in front of him has been pounded groschen-flat. His hammer hadn’t stopped ringing since he swung the first time. A bubble of frustration grows in his throat, nearly preventing him from breathing entirely.

Capon lingers behind him, his presence radiating heat much like the forge itself. His eyes burn holes into Henry’s back, and then the side of his face when he goes to quench the misshapen bit of metal. It’s useless for a shoe now, though he could get a handful of nails and a possible buckle from the remains.

“What do you want, Capon?” Henry mutters as he twists his tongs to examine the flattened metal from every angle. He drops it into his scraps barrel—which is much fuller than he prefers.

The sound of liquid in a bottle draws Henry’s eyes from his work. In Capon’s hand is a familiar bottle. The bottle itself is unassuming and plain as Henry made the alcohol inside in his own cellar, only meant for lonely nights and lonelier thoughts.

“Did Godwin tell you where to find that?” Henry asks, unable to keep himself from sounding—and being—amused.

“Found it all by myself,” Capon states as he sits on a bench at the edge of the small forge; a seat usually reserved for Anna, as she had a fascination with blacksmithing. Specifically, her pa blacksmithing.

Henry snorts. He locks the bellows and closes the hatch that leads to the ash tray and the fire beneath the coals. They’ll cool in time, but the warmth will be nice for tonight.

“You’ve been sniffing about my cellar, then.” Henry tugs his apron from his neck and hangs it on a hook. His foot curls around the leg of a stool and pulls it in front of Capon’s bench with a tug. “Common thievery by such an upstanding noble. The scandal.”

As always, as it has every time since he arrived, Capon’s laughter fills Henry’s belly with warmth.

“I think you’ve forgotten what I made you do when we first met.” Capon pulls the cork from the bottle, having already broken the wax seal. He drinks down a mouthful with a shudder and holds it out to Henry. “Christ’s swinging stones, that’s strong.”

“It’s the only thing that gets me drunk anymore.” Internally, Henry batters himself for admitting such a thing. Capon doesn’t need to know the ways he drank himself to the brink of death once Anna had been born. “And, as I recall, that was your wine.”

“As this is your moonshine—even more than the Sylvan red was my wine.” Capon’s eyes seem to sparkle in the low light of the forge as he gazes at Henry. “Drink up, my friend.”

My friend.

Henry huffs as he swirls the moonshine. The smell of apples wafts from within, even stronger than when he first fermented and infused it. He takes a mouthful and swallows it down. As Capon did, Henry shivers at the burn and tingle before he hands it back.

“Are we?” he asks.

“Hm?” Capon hums as he sips.

“Friends.”

This swallow doesn’t cause such a strong reaction for Capon. He lowers the bottle to his thigh and leans back against the support column that keeps the roof of Henry’s forge aloft. No sane man would be able to prevent their eyes from wandering.

Capon looks good. All that bulky armor is gone, leaving the man in his undershirt and soft-looking hose. The flickering light from the waning forge caresses the lines of his throat, showing the way it dances when he swallows. Linen is parted below that, ties slack to bear the top of his chest. The leg not acting as a rest for the bottle of moonshine is stretched out before him, as long and shapely as it ever was. Even that ridiculous moustache and the hairs on his chin look good in the forge’s lighting.

Henry can only imagine how sickening his own visage is, especially in such long shadows as these.

“I would like us to be,” Capon says. “Though, I don’t know if your anger will allow it.”

Henry takes the bottle when its offered. With a thumbnail, he chips at the remaining wax on the neck for lack of anything better to do. If he drinks now, Henry knows he’d swallow it all.

“I’m not angry.”

One judgmental blonde brow lifts.

“Not exactly,” Henry clarifies through a weak chuckle. “I’m…”

How can he put every complex feeling into a single word? A single phrase? Every emotion that has dominated his life for the last decade and change. Every drunken thought and wistful fantasy. Every sensation in his chest when he looked at his own fucking daughter. No single word could represent all of that.

He’s been quiet for too long, yet Capon only watches him from under lidded eyes. Pale lashes painted with orange fire only move when he blinks. Seeing such ineffable patience in Capon is, somehow, hard to witness.

“I… am embarrassed.” Henry takes two large swallows of his moonshine before shoving it back into Capon’s much more responsible hands. “I am ashamed.”

“And you’re angry.” The tenderness in Capon’s voice oozes along Henry’s skin, slipping between his fingers and toes.

Henry acquiesces, shaking his head in fond exasperation. “And I am angry. A bit with you. A bit with Godwin. Mostly with myself.”

Beyond the barn and fence lining the pasture, a song of countless crickets swells as the sky becomes dark. The moon has already made her way up the sky, eager to come out tonight to witness Henry make an absolute fool of himself.

Capon takes a thoughtful swallow. His eyes still linger on Henry.

“Why didn’t you tell Heinrich about me?” The question isn’t what he means to ask, but the relief that follows strums Henry’s heart as one would a lute. “To say you honored me by naming him after me—in bloody German, of all things—and then never mentioning me once? Heinrich didn’t know I existed and you talk of honoring me?”

Every snapped word is taken by Capon with effortless grace. He doesn’t move as Henry’s barrage flies. Only once the cricket’s lullaby becomes the center melody once again does he lift the bottle and sip. Moonshine sloshing, Capon holds it out to Henry who snatches it.

“Why does that bother you?” Capon asks instead of answering straight.

“I don’t know, how about the hypocrisy of it all?” Henry rolls his eyes and is barely able to swallow another mouthful around the bubble of emotion that has returned to his throat. He gasps when he pulls the opening of the bottle free from his lips. “You never meant to honor me, Capon. You only wished to possess something you couldn’t have anymore.”

The bottle sways between Henry’s knees and gently taps the dirt as it hangs from trembling knuckles. Henry feels as fragile as glass. As if one tap would shatter him and bear his soft center for the dagger that will inevitably come to lance the corrupt boil Henry has become.

A long, slow sigh harmonizes with the crickets. Henry lifts his gaze from the middle distance and finds Capon’s head tilted as he stares at the burning coals. The expression on his face is neutral. Painfully blank. Where once Henry could read him so effortlessly, now he is nothing but a wall.

“You may be right.” Rough and ragged, Capon’s voice cuts through the night air. A chill travels up both of Henry’s arms. Flawless sapphire eyes don’t move from where they are locked to the bed of coals that dims with each passing breath. “Hell, you’re absolutely right.”

They sit far enough away from each other that individual smells get lost to the breeze, even with Capon as pungent as he is. Henry wishes he were pressed against the curve of Capon’s throat, breathing in every shift in his scent.

“I only wished to hurt you when I said that,” Capon murmurs. “I was a child, lashing out. As I always have been.”

It did hurt. He’d achieved his goal, yet is no happier for having done so. Henry understands the feeling.

A hand, scarred and lithe, drags over Capon’s face before his thumb smooths his facial hair. Henry has seen him do that same motion more than once. A nervous fidget or a self-soothing touch? In the back of his mind, Henry wonders what that silly moustache feels like.

“I didn’t tell him of you because I didn’t want to think about you,” Capon says behind the barrier of his palm. “Because if I told Heinrich about you, your presence would never leave that damn city.”

“Yet, you still named him after me,” Henry points out.

A bitter, roiling chuckle. “I am far from a perfect man, Henry.”

Another mouthful of stinging regret and apple moonshine passes Henry’s lips. He passes the last of the bottle back with a gesture to indicate it’s Capon’s to finish. Capon lifts it in thanks before drinking the rest in two gulps.

Henry watches the planes of his throat shift with each swallow. Something buzzes deep within his gut. A kicked beehive, threatening to release its inhabitants to kiss their nearest enemy with their sting.

“You never told Anna of me,” Capon says as he sets the bottle onto the bench for the final time. “Speaking of hypocrisy and all that.”

The snort that rockets from Henry is louder than he means it to be. Controlling his volume has become difficult with the alcohol burning trails through his veins.

“What good would it do?” Henry asks. “She’d only be angry with a man she would never know or yearning for a life she would never have. I’m not going to put my pup through something so cruel. Better to let her think her sire is gone.”

“I would have claimed her,” Capon says. “Called her my own as Radzig never has for you.”

“Of my own request.” The second Wenceslaus had been broken free of his cage, Radzig offered to legitimize Henry. At that point, he was a new, single father with a drinking problem—no amount of nobility would cure that. “And your claim is what I feared most for her.”

“… Why?” Capon sounds breathless, as if his lungs have been squeezed empty by Henry’s hand.

“Capon…” Rubbing his eyes does nothing to clear the dizziness lingering in his skull. “What do you expect would happen if Anna became a Lady? If I became a Lord?”

“You would be safe.”

Henry gestures at his home using a broad sweep of his arm. “Are we not safe here? As anyone else is safe in a limping kingdom?”

That brings Capon up short, his body going still.

“You would be happy.”

“Before or after Hanush robbed the people blind?” Henry crosses his arms. “Before or after your wife passed?”

“Don’t—“ The first spark of anger alights in Capon’s eye. “Don’t speak of her.”

“Why?”

“Because I just fucking lost her, Henry. A year ago. Less.”

“The woman you claimed you would never love?” Henry knows he’s prodding an open wound, hoping it will fester. He knows this but his mouth continues to spit sludge from the swamp his gut has become. “The woman you said you’d hide me away from so that we could fuck like dogs and create an entire litter of pups for you to claim?”

“That’s not what I wanted for us—“

“Then what?” Henry sucks in a shivering breath. “Would I become your kept pet? Collared and muzzled until my cunt was ready to breed agai—“

“Stop.” The light has begun to cling to the tears in Capon’s eyes. “Please, Henry. Stop.”

Henry has to look away. He stares at the hanging curve of the moon, wishing he were anywhere but here.

“I don’t know what I wanted aside from you.” Breath passes through gently trembling lips as Capon speaks. “I don’t know—didn’t know that I would come to love Jitka or that fucking Hanush would lose his bloody mind and spit on everything he claimed he valued.”

Behind the shield of Henry’s sternum, his heart beats with the violence of a war drum.

“All I wanted in my endless naïveté and hopeful, stupid optimism—all I wanted was you. Just you.”

Henry crosses his arms. The chill from before has returned with a vengeance. He shudders from his toes to his trembling lips.

“But you made that choice for us.” Dirt crunches beneath the hard soles of Capon’s boots as he stands. The bottle drags against wood when he picks it up from the bench. “I’m not mad at you for it. I certainly couldn’t have made it at the time.”

“I wanted you to have the life you deserved,” Henry croaks. “A wife. An heir. Two castles with people who loved you inbetween.”

“And you never imagined yourself in this perfect life you made for me.”

“How could I?” Henry squeezes himself harder. “I am—was nobody.”

The sudden onslaught of heady scents nearly has Henry doubling over. He looks up with bleary eyes to meet Capon’s gaze. For some reason—some pathetic reason—Henry doesn’t flinch away from the warm hand that cups his jaw. Fingers sink into his beard and a thumb rests at the corner of his mouth. Hesitant.

“You were everything to me.” Capon murmurs. “You still are, though I have tried to convince myself otherwise. Seeing you again and seeing our pup, it—“

“Pa!”

They split apart like young lovers caught. Heart pounding hard and fast, Henry stands and jogs to meet his cheerful pup at the entrance to the stables. The world wobbles dangerously, though his feet keep steady. His face burns with the memory of Capon’s hand.

“You’re back late, birdie,” he comments. “Heinrich.”

The boy is quiet beside Anna, a furrow to his brow. He hums in greeting before walking toward his father.

“Don’t mind him, he’s just sleepy,” Anna remarks before launching herself at her pa.

As always, Henry catches her with a laugh and swings her lanky legs around until they wrap around his ribs, her arms latching around his neck. Her nose smushes into his shoulder and she sucks in a big, deep breath.

“You’ve been imbibin’.” Dramatic scandal colors her voice.

“Godwin has to stop teaching you words,” Henry bemoans as he turns to enter their home.

By the forge, Heinrich and Capon stand together, heads bent in conversation. Henry smiles at the sight. Their postures are nearly identical.

“We got loads to tell you, Pa.” He can hear the exhaustion mounting in Anna’s voice. She cuddles close, their scents mixing in a soothing perfume of family and home. “Soooo much.”

“I’m sure you do.” Pulling his eyes from the two nobles, Henry mounts the stairs and tugs the door open. Anna is getting almost too heavy to navigate up to the second storey like this. Henry has a feeling he’ll be doing this for a long, long time, however—regardless of her stature or age.

“Mmmhmmmmm.” Anna’s already mostly asleep. “Th’ shitty cart ‘n the stupid shield ‘n the…the horse…”

Henry lets the curse be, seeing as his pup has dropped swiftly into the void of sleep. This always happens with Anna: she runs until she drops.

As he sets her on their shared bed, Henry thinks of her toddler years. Once Anna began walking, she began running and never stopped. For hours and hours she’d dash across the house and, eventually, the entire property, her chubby legs pumping and her giggles nearly piercing everyone’s eardrum from here to the other hill. Then, as abrupt as a detonation, she would collapse on the ground, her butt in the air and her face already smoothed by sleep.

The first time it happened Henry nearly vomited from fear. He’d expected to find his precious pup dead—or wounded at the very least. When all he found was a deeply sleeping baby slumped over from sheer self-induced exhaustion, he wept in relief.

Ten years later, Anna hasn't changed a bit.

“Sweet dreams, my lovely,” Henry murmurs into his pup’s sweet smelling hairline. “I’ll fend off any pesky nightmares that come knockin’.”

Just as she has for him.

As Henry settles beside her, hand coming to rest on her belly as it shifts with each breath, he pushes away the thought of Hans Capon that threatens to encroach on his peace. Instead, Henry simply looks forward to the tale their pups will tell in the morning.

Notes:

haha.... ha.... lays down in a glue trap

worldbuilding notes:

none, really. besides the fact that it's annoyingly difficult to figure out what kind of forge henry would be using specifically sadgjhksjdg forges have both stayed weirdly the same and changed enormously in the millennia they've been around along with being used differently between regions with different heat sources and forging techniques... i spent too long looking up shit that honestly doesn't matter in the end

Chapter 10: X :: Anna

Notes:

hewwo!

i bet some of you have noticed that i've put this fic into a series. i have a few scenes written outside of the main timeline that i think y'all will enjoy that will eventually go in there! dw i'll be linking them here as well once they go up :) which... who knows...the first one might go up today... maybe tomorrow... hehehe i did it

warnings for this chapter: several panic attacks, and very public and graphic depictions of violence and blood.

Anna jerks awake, mind thrust from the sparkling expanse of her dreams. Morning sun filters in through the open window. She rubs her eyes and face to help herself wake up.

Did something happen? She’d jolted so hard even before her eyes opened…

“Are you fucking kidding me!?” Pa’s voice threads through the window, distant but loud.

Quickly, Anna scurries to the window and peers out. On the other hill, the village green is filled with ant-sized bodies. They swarm around the center stage where the stupid bailiff usually makes his stupid announcements from.

Ugh. She should get up. The last time the bailiff was over, he tried to slip something foul-smelling into the stew. It’s her job to protect Pa, especially from stinky arseholes like the bailiff.

Getting dressed is a chore that she usually splits with Pa—but Anna is more than capable of doing it herself. Fresh chemise, dress, surcoat, stockings, shoes… oh! Bonnet! If there’s a village-wide announcement happening, Anna doesn’t want to be scolded by that old bitty from the tailor’s again.

Slamming her stupid bonnet on her head and tying it at her nape beneath the thick spill of her hair, Anna makes her way downstairs. At the door, Heiny stands with his hands rubbing together like a cricket’s legs.

“Mornin’ Heiny,” Anna greets with a wide yawn. “What’s goin’ on?”

“Something in the green…”

No shit, she wants to say. She doesn’t.

“Let’s go see.” Anna twines their arms together.

“No!” Unfortunately for Anna, her smaller height makes moving Heiny around a bit hard if he really doesn’t want to move. He stands stock still in the doorway. “Father said I should remain here with you for our safety.”

Safety?

“It’s a bloody village announcement. We’ll be fine.” She tugs again and hums in delight when Heiny allows himself to be pulled along. He’s been getting better about that. “An’ who even are you? We travelled halfway across the realm to find those bandits when Pa said we shouldn’t. What’s a skip over to the green compared to that?”

“I-I… I h-have a bad feeling,” Heiny whispers. Anna slows down a little, hoping she’s not winding the fellah. “Father was so—so firm. H-he didn’t let me finish telling him what we found…”

“How far’d you get?” Keeping her attitude cheery should ease his nerves, right?

“I-I only got to the—the cross—cross—“

Oops. The words got stuck again.

Anna guides them down the winding path through the village as Heiny struggles to gain control of his tongue. The silence is really boring, but she won’t be rude and force him to speed up. Patience is a virtue or whatever.

“Th—The crossroad,” Heiny hisses out as they walk by the butcher’s shop. “I-I only got to the—the crossroad. Where I left the—the groschen.”

Wow, he must really be nervous.

“That’s okay!” Anna pats his hand where it squeezes her arm in a kinda painful vice. “We can tell’em after.”

“I h-have a bad feel—feeling about this.”

“Awh, you have a bad feelin’ ‘bout everything. Come on!”

Ignoring Heinrich’s stuttering protests, Anna urges them into a jog. Heiny barely keeps up, but at least he doesn’t fall this time, though the bumpy length of the bridge nearly does him in.

“Careful!” A woman calls from where she stands at the fence. She looks kinda familiar. “You two should be inside.”

“Nah, but thanks!” Anna speeds by her with Heiny in tow. Now she’s getting a bad feeling. That’s never good. Her gut’s always right and it’s beginning to bubble like she’s eaten bad cheese.

A booming voice bounces between the buildings that lead up to the village green. It’s so echoey that Anna can’t really tell what the fellah’s hollering about.

They arrive at the village green in record time—and both of them freeze at what stands on the stage.

It’s the bandits. But they’re not bandits anymore.

A tall man wearing obvious mail, including a coif, and a black and white waffenrock addresses the crowd. At his feet, the stupid Bailiff is on his knees. Blood is leaking from somewhere on his face.

“I say again!” the main guy hollers. “We are here by the order of Emperor Sigismund! Any heathenous action, word, or thought will be punished! Any icon of Jan Hus, John Wycliffe, or their heretical writing will be destroyed!”

Anna looks behind him. That big fellah, Asher, stands next to the other fellah, Engel. They both sport the same outfit as their leader: light armor and a black and white waffenrock. Engel is looking around the crowd, eyes darting from one person to the next. Asher just stands there with a big scowl on his face and his dumb nose all swollen. Idiot.

Not all the bandits are here, either. Nineteen has narrowed down to seven. Anna wonders where the other twelve men are hiding.

“As decreed by Sigismund, by the Grace of God, King of the Romans, King of Hungary, King of Dalmatia, King of Croatia—“

“How many things can a fellah be king of?” Anna mutters only to get a sharp elbow to her side.

“—the words, deeds, and false doctrines of Jan Hus, John Wycliffe, and their followers are deemed heretical! Any support given to these apostates will be punished by our decisive hand!”

He keeps spouting horseshit, but Anna’s mind is whirling.

“Knights,” Heiny chokes out. “The—The—Fuck!”

Some of the crowd begin to turn in their direction and Anna yanks Heiny between stores to keep attention away from them. She has a feeling that if they’re spotted, it won’t end well.

“What right does Sigismund have to conduct a crusade on Bohemia?” A voice calls from the crowd. Anna is only grateful it’s not either of their pa’s.

“He is your rightful King!” The leader barks, and barks, and barks. Anna isn’t listening. She’s more worried about how hard Heiny is shaking.

She doesn’t know what to do. She’s never had to calm someone down who wasn’t Pa. A bit of cuddling and a visit to the pasture generally puts his heart at ease—but Heiny isn’t Pa.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Anna helplessly whispers, hands gripping onto his arms for lack of anything better to do. “They’ll leave us alone once they realize we don’t care about that Goose fellah.”

That gets a choked giggle, at least.

Except, Anna is lying through her teeth. She knows damn well the reverence that Godwin alone has for that fellah. She’s heard the sermons about how priests shouldn’t have groschen and how everyone is God or whatever. She might not know why Jan Hus is so damn important or why that Sigismund cunt burned him alive, but she knows that Uzhitz is rife with—what did he call it?—heretical… shit.

“Ord—Order,” Heiny chokes out. He grips his throat as if he’s truly choking on his own voice. “Ord—Order of—of tthhhe—“

God, she whispers at the big beastie above. Let me help him. Please?

Anna throws her arms around Heiny’s shivering shoulders. As if meant to, their necks fit together and their bodies curl close like puppies hiding from the cold. Heinrich grips Anna’s hair and she doesn’t even care that it hurts.

“It’s okay, Heiny,” she whispers. “We’ll figure this out.”

Whatever this is.

“The—The Order of the C-Cross,” Heiny wheezes. He presses closer. Their scents curl around one another as their arms have. Anna thinks they smell like lavender. It’s nice. “Bl—Bloody Teutonic Kni—Knights. I should’ve known. I sh—should have figured it ou—out.”

“I have no idea what those are.” Anna’s never cared much about what’s going on with all this church nonsense. She cares as much as it helps or hurts the ones she loves. This sounds like something she should care about.

Heiny pulls back. Anna mourns the loss of that pretty scent, but doesn’t argue when she sees the sharpness in Heiny’s watery eyes.

“You know ab—about the past crusades.”

“Kinda,” she admits, feeling a bit stupid.

“They—“ Heiny waves a hand as if to dismiss what he was about to say. “Let’s say th—they hurt wh—whoever they want in the pope’s name.”

Anna wrinkles her nose.

“Or S—Sigismund. In this case. Kurva.”

Screams erupt from the crowd. Anna quickly shoves her head out of their hidey hole, Heiny peeking from above her hair.

Bailiff Bohdan loses what seems like gallons of blood from a bright red line drawn from ear to ear. Anna chokes on a gasp, her body instinctively moving back into Heiny’s.

Blood drenches the fancy blue shirt Bohdan always wears, turning it a horrific black color. A pool of the stuff is growing beneath his knees and dripping from the edge.

A woman coated in thick blood is rushed down the street past them. She shakes harder than Heiny did and a stomach-churning scent fills the street in her wake.

She must have been front and center when the leader cut Bohdan’s throat.

“We have to go back home,” Heiny hisses, too fast to stammer. Anna barely understands him at all.

“But—Pa—“

The crowd has begun to churn like water at the base of pounding falls. Screams and wails erupt as people try to flee through the sea wall of bodies.

“Anna!” Heiny turns her around in one strong movement. “They don’t care that we’re little.”

She gets that. She understands. She…

“Heiny,” Anna whimpers, her stomach giving out. “Are they comin’ for us?”

“I don’t-t know.” Long fingers wrap around her wrist this time. Heiny pulls them from their hiding spot and darts down the street, toward the bridge. “Focus on running, Anna!”

Running. Yeah. Running. She’s good at that.

The screams follow her. High-pitched moans of terror stick to her skin like blood. In her chest, the muscle of her heart fights to keep her moving. The only thing keeping her on her feet is the feeling of Heiny’s hand holding her wrist. A lifeline to reality that Anna clings to with all of her might.

She barely remembers getting across the bridge. The press of bodies is overwhelming and she can hear people tumbling into the water—or jumping to swim across. But she doesn’t pay attention to that. She focuses on running.

They pass the threshold into the stables at a rabbit’s pace. Heiny stumbles to a shuddering stop, Anna tumbling into his back. They both have to dance to keep their footing.

Heiny’s back hits the barn’s wall hard, making the whole thing shudder. Against him, Anna curls up tight and presses her face into his chest. The warmth of his arms around her barely helps—but it does help.

“A crusade?” Heiny is muttering to himself, frantic and fast. “For Jan Hus? What…?”

The arms locked around Anna don’t shift at all even as Heiny gets lost in his babbling. He stays firmly grasping her and Anna… Anna feels like she’s going to break apart.

Against Heiny’s chest and his fancy coat, Anna whispers, “Are they burning Uzhitz?”

Pa told her about his home. He kept lots of things out but Anna remembers the way his voice shook as he talked about the fire. The flames that spread from house to house, building to building. Devouring anything in their way.

“No,” Heiny responds, confidence in his voice. “They’re not.”

Somehow, that doesn’t comfort her.

“We need to get the horses ready, Hal—“

“I’m not leaving my fucking home to burn again!” Pa’s voice pierces the air, knifelike and sharp. “You can take Anna and Heinrich and go, but I am not running. Not from fucking cowards like them.”

“Lad…”

Anna spins around, her movement forcing Heiny’s arms away from her. Both of their pa’s are quickly moving into the property. Godwin slumps on stinky Capon’s back, his head flopped against his shoulder and bright red dripping from his head.

“Godwin!” Anna’s voice breaks like glass.

“What are you two doing out!?” Capon snarls, his voice reverberating like a struck church bell. “Get inside!”

“We—“

“Now!”

Anna flinches back. Her chin tilts up, pulse fluttering in her throat. From between her clenched teeth, a soft whine leaks.

“Hans!” Pa snaps. “Control yourself or I'll make you.”

The growl that erupts from Capon sounds as if it’s ripped from his body by a great big clawed hand. His lips peel back, heavy fangs extended.

Inside of her, Anna has a rabbit. It’s small and weak and runs when it sees danger. Pa would hum songs to calm the rabbit when something spooked it. Anna wishes she remembered what those songs sounded like right now.

The rabbit isn’t running. It isn’t moving at all. It’s frozen in terror, stuck in place as a beastly wolf snarls down at it, teeth bared and dripping.

A louder growl rumbles through Anna’s entire body. She pries her eyes open, unsure when they closed. Pa is nose-to-nose with Capon, his snarl vibrating the very air, making the ground shake.

Or maybe that’s her.

Anna looks down at her hands and wobbles as if a rug has been pulled from beneath her. At least she doesn’t hit the ground when she faints. Heiny catches her.

The last thing she thinks is, Thanks, Heiny.

Notes:

some of y'all were SO close with your guesses

worldbuilding notes:

teutonic knights: their history is fucking massive so i won't go super deep, but here we go:

the knights templar, which many of you guessed, had been disbanded (and the remaining knights executed) by now. due to political shit and people finding some of their practices Hella Gay (no one knows if they actually were or not), the knights templar were abolished in 1312 after like 200ish years of service. crazy, right?

before, during, and after the templars, a metric fuckton of religious orders were created. some of them still exist today, including the teutonic knights! the order of the garter (not as cunty as it sounds unfortunately), the knights of the cross with the red star (who you meet in game during the hermit quest), lutherans (yeah they're technically an order), and our friends here the teutonic knights. there were (are?) a total of 2500 catholic religious orders from all over the world.

the teutonic knights in particular, we will be going into more next chapter. just know that they were big, powerful motherfuckers who even created an entire country dedicated to them that lined the baltic sea and regularly launched crusades but mostly against poland and lithuania at this time. i wonder why they're here in bohemia...

oh, and remember that crest the kids found? it looked (more or less) like this: teutonic knight shield but the center is bigger and is sigismund's double-headed eagle and the lion of bohemia. so yeah, extremely busy coat of arms lol but they can get wild dude

finally, yes, obviously the fucking nazis took both teutonic knights (who were mostly german hence teutonic) and knights templar and did an evil little hand jive in them and stole their iconography. whoopee. not that either order were much better but woof, man.

Chapter 11: XI :: Hans

Notes:

THIS IS THE FIRST OF A TWO CHAPTER UPDATE

so, i'm a day late because my sinuses said "fuck you in particular, alice" and laid me out for all of wednesday. i literally could do nothing but lie in bed and play pokemon lol but i'm here now with twwwooooo chapters! i was already gonna upload two because this one is pretty small, but now there's even more of an excuse to post two haha

warnings for this chapter: mentions and implications of sexual assault (though it's a misunderstanding on heinrich's part).

Being this close to Henry makes him want to get closer. He wants to lick at his fangs, whimper for grace, show he means no harm he’s only scared. Scared for the pups, for Henry himself, for the wounded man on his back, for the people of this town. Fear has never been something that Hans as dealt with well, he knows that. He is a weak, weak man when it comes to those he loves and—

The moment Henry’s snarl overpowers his own, Hans tips his head up as much as he can and bears his throat.

Much like Anna had instinctively just done. Because of him. Because he lost control.

“Anna!” Sharp alarm breaking from Heinrich’s lips cuts between them.

Both their heads snap to look at their pups. In a blink, Henry is by their side, arms moving beneath Anna’s limp body. Hans can feel his heart in his throat. Shame burns bright along his tongue.

“Nice going,” Godwin grumbles from where he slumps against Hans’ back, his words a bit slurred from the wayward rock he got to the head in the panic. Whomever threw it never stayed to check on him. “Makin’ a little girl submit.”

“Fuck off,” Hans chokes out, hitching Godwin higher onto his back. “Unless you want me to finish that stone’s job.”

“Might as well. Seein’ you make an arse out of yourself is painful enough.”

“Inside!” Henry snaps, face hard as steel as he glares at Hans. Mockingly, cruelly, he hisses, “Now.”

Hans really hates getting his nose dragged in his own shit. The defensive instinct to snap back is hard to resist, but the weight of Godwin on his back and the sight of poor, limp Anna has Hans obeying without a peep and only a lukewarm glare.

Inside, they make their way up to the second storey. Anna is deposited gently on her bed—and is immediately surrounded by both Henry and Heinrich. Hans kneels to place Godwin on his own bed.

“I’m almost jealous,” Godwin jokes dryly as he somewhat focuses on where Anna is being cared for. His gaze seems fuzzy and unfocused. “Though, I know I would be at her side too if I could.”

“Lay down.” Hans places his hand on Godwin’s shoulder and helps him slide into a more comfortable position. As comfortable as he can be with a gash on his head, at least. “Henry said you can rest, but not to sleep yet. Relax, Father. We’ll get you up and rutting like a stag in no time.”

Godwin’s laugh is weak, but it’s there.

“Go,” Godwin mutters. “Check on your pup.”

In his chest, Hans’ heart thumps hard in response. He gives a tight nod and goes to join Heinrich and Henry at Anna’s bedside.

“She’s fine,” Henry states as he daubs a cool, damp cloth in her precious freckled forehead. “The shock of what happened mixed with the rush from submitting exhausted her. We might have to bleed her if her humors remain unbalanced, but she should return to eucrasia with time and care.”

“I-I… apologize,” Hans rasps. “I was out of line.”

“You were.” Wet splatters across Hans’ chest when Henry throws the cloth at him. “Keep her temperature down.”

No other words pass Henry’s tight lips as he turns, crosses the room, and attends to Godwin’s injury. His voice is low as he speaks to the older man, more of a warbling hum than real words to Hans’ ears.

Hans shuffles into place, sitting where Henry had at the edge of the bed. Gently, he presses the cloth to Anna’s forehead. Heat radiates from her. Her skin is a soft pink color as if she’s been sprinting all day and hasn't caught her breath yet. Blood pools beneath her skin, hot as the Devil’s own touch.

“The Order of the Cross,” is how Heinrich opens the conversation. He sits at the food of the bed, hands wringing together. “Why are they here?”

“I don’t know, pup.”

“They want to, what, kill everyone for even thinking about Jan Hus? How is that feasible?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did Sigismund really order this!? I thought he was in the Council—“

“I don’t know, Heinrich.”

“Then what do you know!?” Adolescent fangs collide noisily with Heinrich’s bottom row of teeth. He stands in a single abrupt, tense movement. “What have you been doing this entire—entire fucking time!?”

Face slack, Hans stares at his furious son in shock. His hands fall limp into his lap, water pooling against his hose.

“Anna and I were the ones who found their campsite! Anna and I were the ones who found the grave they’ve been putting every poor dead soul in!” As he yells, Heinrich’s voice stays steady. Firm. Not a stammer or break to be heard. “And we were going to tell you! Because you don’t know anything!”

What can he say? Heinrich is right. He’s been focused on Henry, not the very real threat of bandits—who turned out to be a group of Teutonic Knights on a fucking crusade. Just their bloody luck. Shame burns ever hotter within him.

“But I don’t know what you know either! You’ve lied to me this entire time!” One point of anger is rolling into another, creating a mudslide of fury that is coming down upon Hans at an inescapable speed. “First about Henry and now—were you ever going to tell me Anna’s my sister!?”

The silence in the room rings sharp in Hans’ ears. How had he figured…?

“Were you ever going to tell me that you got Henry pregnant when he was your page!?” Heinrich is beginning to tremble, his body getting close to its limit. “Is that why you hate each other? Is that why you never told me a damn thing about him?”

“No,” Hans croaks, quick to defend himself and Henry both. “It—It wasn’t what you’re thinking, Heinrich.”

“Well, I don’t know that!” Heinrich’s cheeks have gone red in his anger. “Because you never tell me anything! What about Mother? Why did she tell you to find Henry? Why did you—Why have you lied to me!?”

To Hans’ utter horror, Heinrich’s eyes begin to well with tears. His breaths come in short and staccato, hitching as he begins to cry out of sheer frustration.

“Did you ever love her?” Heinrich whimpers, his voice finally beginning to break under the stress. “Do you even love me?”

“Of course I do, Heinrich.” There’s no question about that. “And I did love your mother. This is all so much more complicated than a boy your age needs to—“

“Shut! Up!” Curled hands rub hard at Heinrich’s eyes, desperately trying to dry his tears. “I’m—I’m so… fucking mad at you, Father.”

Hans’ heart breaks. Every word made it crack more and more, and hearing his son’s voice hoarse with rage become so small and fragile… Hans feels his heart shatter into two, the pieces raining down into the churning maelstrom of his gut.

“Heinrich—“

Hans barely moves before his pup is snarling at him. It has no power, no influence, except for the despair that noise casts upon his heart.

“Don’t touch me.”

Heinrich stalks toward the door to the bedroom where it sits ajar, waiting to be slammed closed by angry little hands.

“Don’t leave the—“ Henry’s voice is cut off by the wall-shaking slam of the door. “—house.”

It feels as if they both hold their breath, waiting to hear the sound of the front door open. It doesn’t.

A low whistle blows from the other side of the room. Hans slowly turns his head to look. Henry is leaned against the wall, sitting at Godwin’s feet—who watches Hans with a familiar, pitying squint. Hans doesn’t bother trying to read the look in Henry’s watchful eye.

“That was rough to see,” Henry comments as Hans turns back to Anna and continues to pat her forehead with the cloth. “He’s only frustrated, Hans.”

“Yeah.” Hans feels unmoored. Lost at sea. Even the sound of his given name from Henry’s lips does nothing to lift the shattered remains of his heart. “Everything he said was right, though.”

“What, about you raping me and forcing me to have Anna?”

Hans grumbles. “Obviously not.”

“What about you never loving Jitka or him?”

“Henry.” Hans clenches his hand around the cloth to keep from throwing it at the other man in his own fit of rage. Droplets fall onto Anna’s cheeks, making her eyes instinctively twitch. Hans thumbs them away. “Shut your fucking mouth.”

“Hans,” Henry breathes instead of obeying Hans’ order. “It’s alright. He’s tryin’ to figure out where he stands between you two. In life.”

“And I’m a shit father for not—“

“Christ, no.” A hand slips into the longer strands of hair at the top of Hans’ head. He freezes. He hadn’t even heard Henry come close, so lost in his mind, his shame, and the softness of Anna’s cheek beneath his fingertips. “You’re fine. We make mistakes. What matters is how you make up for them in the end.”

Hans scoffs. “When did you get so wise, you turnip puller?”

“Probably when I popped out a baby with nothing but a panicking priest between my legs.”

“I had never seen anyone give birth,” Godwin grumbles, weary and defensive, from where he lies. “Before then, I always came in after the baby had been born to baptize them. I thought I’d be witnessing a natural, beautiful thing. Unfortunately, it’s revolting.”

“True enough,” Henry playfully hums. “Shittin’ myself wasn’t even close to the worst part.”

“I would love it if you stopped talking about shitting while giving birth to our pup,” Hans groans. He’d like to imagine that birth happens like those fanciful stories of a swaddled Jesus simply appearing in Mary’s arms, despite knowing damn well it’s not nearly as easy as that.

“I bet you Jitka shit herself, too.” He can hear the impish smile on Henry’s face.

“Lord, take me into your loving arms.” Hans looks to Heaven. “I’m ready.”

“Buffoon.” Is that tenderness in Henry’s voice? “Give Heinrich time. He’ll be back. He loves you.”

“And I love him, Henry.” Hans stares down at Anna’s slack face. The red is gone from her skin, leaving her looking tired but healthy. Her body is returning to its natural balance. “I love them both with everything I am.”

Gentle nails scratch behind Hans’ ear in an idle, comforting movement. “I know, Hans. You’ve always loved with your entire heart. That hasn’t changed a bit.”

Hans slumps back against Henry’s hip. To his credit, Henry doesn’t let him fall, and he continues to scratch his head. A small piece of Heaven in the middle of Hell.

Notes:

:) haha

worldbuilding notes:

on heinrich's stammer: i did a fair amount of research on stammers and while the brain is complex and sometimes unknowable, i do think that heinrich has a psychogenic stutter related to anxiety. meaning, the more anxious he is, the more he stammers. his poor support growing up and the stress caused by hanush/his parents/the world all increased his stammer and his anxiety. if any of this sounds incorrect or offensive toward the stuttering community, feel free to tell me! i never want to make anyone feel bad :)

on submitting/submission: submitting is a physical thing in this world that is usually only seen as a breach of power or a loss of control. husbands use it to make their wives submit, lords use it to make their subjects submit, parents use it to make their kids submit, but all of these are considered impolite and unproper. it is not inherently sexual, just a hormonal/chemical thing. or, in these times, an imbalance of the sanguine humor hehe

Chapter 12: XII :: Heinrich

Notes:

THIS IS THE SECOND OF A TWO CHAPTER UPDATE

this chapter is dense. a lot of it is heinrich panicking or overthinking literally everything so uh strap in folks ur gonna see my little neurodivergent son's inner workings. if u can't completely follow, that's kinda the point. this chapter is also like 60% dialogue hehe

warnings for this chapter: mostly just conversations of Bad Shit happening during this time period: death, murder, religious extremism, etc. mention of sexual assault (a misunderstanding).

Heinrich slumps over the kitchen table, arms crossed beneath his cheek. He’s tilted his head enough to look out the window. The distant village green is empty of any living soul—including the Knights. No fires have been started. It seems that those beknighted bandits have returned to their hole, satisfied with scaring the entire town for now.

The moment he slammed that door, Heinrich felt bad about yelling at his father. Stubbornness won out in the end which is why he’s pouting at the kitchen table instead of apologizing but the guilt remains. He knows better than anyone what his father has been dealing with for Heinrich’s entire life. He saw how bad Hanush became and the damage he did. He saw his mother begin to wither like a rose in the sun, his father her cut stem.

It’s just…

Maybe Heinrich hoped that things would change once they settled down. A naïve hope. Life never works in such a tidy manner. Feelings linger and change. Memories become hauntings and stick to people, places, events. Things have changed since Hanush died and their lives became less immediately stressful. They have changed since Mother’s death. Only they’ve changed in ways Heinrich isn’t quite satisfied with.

His father loves him, but does he trust him? Really trust him? Heinrich thought he did. With every single new secret revealed, that’s becoming more difficult to believe.

This is all so much more complicated than a boy your age needs to—

Would that excuse have remained until Heinrich came of age? People expect things out of him now. Being left in the dark, especially about his own damn family, would leave him wrong-footed and at an inherent disadvantage. Father never thought about that. He only thought about protecting Heinrich—as he always does, for good or ill.

“I don’t need to be protected,” Heinrich grumbles into his arms. “Stupid…”

Above his head, wood creaks. The door at the top of the stairs opens slowly and closes gently. Boots land on each step in an even, practiced rhythm. Heinrich continues to glare out the window.

“Thank you,” Henry says as he enters the kitchen. He doesn’t join Heinrich at the table, instead wandering toward the pantry. “For staying in the house, I mean.”

“I’m not an idiot.” The Order could very well be prowling house to house in search of whatever they consider heretical. If Heinrich were to be caught in the streets, alone and angry, who knows what they would do to him?

“No, you’re not,” Henry agrees as he returns from the pantry.

Henry settles across the table from Heinrich. He holds a knife in one hand and an apple in the other. Broad, scarred fingers begin to nimbly cut the plump fruit into perfect little slices.

“Our apple tree was active this year,” Henry explains as he places each slice on a circular wooden plate between them. “We have more of these buggers than we know what to do with.”

The number of slices grows steadily with each pass of the sharpened knife. Heinrich eyes the pile, looking up at Henry for a moment. He gets a nod to his unspoken question, so Heinrich reaches out and takes a slice to nibble on the end of it.

“I’m sorry,” Heinrich mumbles around the end of the apple. “I didn’t mean to imply that Father… did something awful to you.”

“You did,” Henry counters, smiling. “But I hope it’s a relief to hear he didn’t—ah—assault me. We made Anna the good ol’ fashioned way: young fellahs being proper idiots.”

Heinrich snorts. He continues to nibble, his teeth sliding through more and more sweet pulp before tearing through the skin itself.

The good ol’ fashioned way. Heinrich doesn’t want to know about the specifics, but…

“How… were you idiots?” Heinrich quickly continues to clarify: “I don’t mean—I know that sex makes babies.”

“Good for you.” Amusement colors Henry’s tone in vivid colors. “So, what’re you askin’?”

“Was it… I-I don’t know, a drunken mistake?” That’s the only thing he can come up with because the other option doesn’t sound plausible at all. “Did—Did you two love… love each other?”

The question feels wrong to ask. Heinrich feels like he’s poking his nose into something not meant to be addressed. However, his curiosity is voracious and insistent. With everything he knows—which still might not be everything, much to his displeasure—Heinrich is desperately trying to put together this complex puzzle.

Henry thoughtfully hums as he pops a slice of apple into his mouth and chews. He turns his eyes to the window. He must see the lack of people, as his shoulders relax a bit. Not completely relaxed by any means, but less tense. Henry swallows his mouthful before responding.

“At the time, no.” Another thoughtfully chewed apple is swallowed. “It was a mistake. My heat came unexpectedly. Probably ‘cause of Hans. I’d only met him a week or so before then.”

Heinrich’s heard of that. How people whose biology compliments one another can cause early cycles and other issues with one’s humors. He’s never really understood how it happens, though. Can bodies just tell things like that? Or is it God? Magic? Coincidence explained by superstition?

“I don’t regret it, of course.” Henry looks at the dappled skin of his next slice. A soft yellow-red with nearly invisible pale dots. “Anna came outta that mistake. I could never regret her.”

“You said—” Heinrich bites off the rest of the sentence, anxious about interrupting.

Henry gestures for him to continue as he bites down on the white flesh of the apple.

“You said at the time.” Heinrich dips his chin into the hollow made by his crossed arms. His mouth presses against his forearm. “Did… you love Father at—at one point?”

“I did.” The wooden plate is nudged Heinrich’s way. “Eat.”

Heinrich begins to nibble through another slice.

“We were idiots the entire time we knew each other,” Henry states with a chuckle. “Still are, but that’s beside the point. Neither of us told each other ‘bout our feelin’s until the end. I’d already made my mind up to leave. Hans was gettin’ married to another noble. I was pregnant, a man, and a peasant. I thought leaving would make it easier.”

“Make what easier?”

For a breath, Henry doesn’t reply. He picks at the apple’s core with his knife, plucking the seeds from within and stacking them in a neat pile.

“Everythin’,” he finally admits. “My own father was a noble who had me raised in his town by my birth ma and pa, a mutual friend of theirs. Life was as good as anyone’s. But… I never knew why I felt so alone until I found out my sire was watchin’ me from his castle the entire time.”

Henry’s a bastard. Heinrich stores that knowledge for later, when his mind wasn’t already overstuffed with new information.

“I know your pa better than anyone, Heinrich.” Henry sighs. “Except for Jitka, probably.”

“Did you know her? My mother?”

“No.” The silent apology in Henry’s voice is clear. “I resented her, really. Heard she was a good woman, though. A good ma.”

Heinrich buries his mouth in his arms again.

Henry looks out the window, eyes scanning the visible portion of the town.

In the distance, people run across a street to disappear into a house. Fleeing from the threat of the Knights, if not the Knights themselves.

“D’you think they’re still around?” Heinrich asks. “The Order?”

“Aye, most likely.” Henry’s gaze slides over to peer at Heinrich. “Your pa and I are gonna make sure you and Anna remain safe. You know that, right?”

I don’t need protecting, Heinrich grumbles, silently this time. Out loud, he mumbles, “Yes.”

“Y’know, you’re a lot like your pa in a lot of ways.” When Heinrich’s eyes snap up to Henry, he finds the man leaning on a fist and smiling at him. “Got an ego the size of Hungary.”

Heinrich pouts using his entire face.

“And an adorable pout.”

“Gross,” Heinrich grumbles. “Am I going to have to suffer through you saying things like this from now on?”

“Until you and Hans leave, yes.” Getting up from the table, Henry sends Heinrich a crooked smile. “People say I’m a bit of a menace.”

“I would have never guessed.”

Butterflies fill Heinrich’s belly as Henry laughs. It always feels nice to draw a laugh out of the man. With their first impression so tense, Heinrich never thought he’d get even a smile. Henry is much more friendly than he first thought—which is really quite nice to know.

As Henry putters about the kitchen, Heinrich returns his attention outside. In the busy privacy of his own mind, he begins to think about all he knows of the Knights of the Cross. It’s not much. The proper crusades they—and other orders—conducted were either far east or north of Bohemia. There was no reason for them to come to this kingdom.

Was.

Heinrich sighs and scrubs a hand through his hair. As far as he knows, the Teutonic Knights mostly kept to their own lands to the north… northeast? The far coast of Mare Balticum. Talk of both hellish atrocities and a utopia blessed by God Himself centered around the State and its titular order. No experience was the same within the borders of the State, other than the fact that the Order rarely left their lands these days unless it’s to fight the Kingdom of Poland again or to recruit more men for their desperate army.

If Heinrich were the leader of the Teutonic Knights, he would begin the invasion of Bohemia in the north. They share a small stretch of border with the lands of the Holy Roman Empire and beginning their crusade there would be the easiest, if not the smartest. That way, the Order wouldn’t have to move through enemy kingdoms or territories—especially not the very same kingdom that has defeated them time and time again. Bohemia is, in a way, protected by the Kingdom of Poland… or… maybe not?

“You look like you’re thinkin’ up a storm,” Henry comments as he returns to the table with a rather impressive longsword in his hand. The eight-sided pommel shines in the sunlight coming in through the window and the blade is perfectly straight as Henry pulls it from its protective sheath. “What’s got you all wrinkled up like an old man?”

“I’m wondering why they’re here. In Uzhitz.” Heinrich rubs at his brow, forcing himself to relax. He’d rather not look like an old man. That would mean looking more like his father and the thought of that makes his guts churn. “There hasn’t been any message from—from Prague or anywhere in Moravia or—or anywhere about the Order’s presence.”

A flat stone, gray and gritty, is placed onto the bench that Henry straddles. Heinrich scoots a bit forward, craning his neck to see what the man is up to. Sharpening that already wicked-looking sword, obviously. Heinrich’s has never seen it be done before. Not this close. He only knows the keening hiss of a wheel grinding down the edge of a woodcutting axe or harvesting scythe, heard from his room at the top of Rattay.

“Go on,” Henry encourages as he begins to examine the edge of the blade. “Don’t mind me.”

“Um.” He could go on. But. His curiosity thrashes, forcing him to open his mouth and say, “That’s a beautiful sword.”

“Isn’t it?” True pride colors Henry’s voice as he holds the blade up to the light coming in from the window. It reflects off the metal and makes a spot of light dance across the table. “Pa’s last sword before Skalitz was sacked.”

“Oh… I—I’m sorry?”

“No need. Not much left of his work, anyway. The amount of times I’ve reforged and reworked the blade is ludicrous.”

A blacksmith, too? Heinrich’s head spins a bit as he watches Henry lower the blade to the broad stretch of whetstone. Metal hisses against stone as Henry runs the edge across it, back and forth, hands never faltering for a moment.

Until he pauses and glances at Heinrich with an amused lift to his brow.

“Well? Go on with your political talk.” The rhythmic grinding begins again, Henry’s hands moving in such easy and practiced strokes. Like he’s been able to do this all his life. “I might not know half the fellahs you mention, but I always found talkin’ out my thoughts helped.”

“It’s—I really don’t have that many thoughts,” Heinrich admits in an embarrassed mumble. “I just don’t understand why such an effective force as the Order would begin their crusade in the middle of the kingdom. Not even in the capital but in a village a… a week’s ride from Prague? Or Kuttenberg?”

“Mm. I have thoughts, but I’d like to hear yours.” Henry picks the blade up to peer at the edge, his thumb flicking against the sharpest stretch. How does he not cut himself?

“Uh…” Heinrich clears his throat. “Well. Sigismund came for Kuttenberg’s—er, and Skalitz’s—silver, right? And he lost it all, along with a portion of his standing army. Do you think he has any… any, I don’t know, resentment toward…”

You. Towards Henry and Father and Godwin. The same people who, apparently, stole silver out from beneath Emperor Sigismund’s pointy nose. Who wasted his time and funds and forces until he couldn’t sustain any of it anymore. Who, essentially, saved Bohemia twelve years ago.

Isn’t that a strange thought? To be related to veritable heroes?

“Oh, I’m sure that cunt—” Henry bites down on the curse, jaw working. “I’m sure he has big feelin’s towards us. But he has big feelin’s toward most people.”

“It seems as if he has big feelings in general,” Heinrich grumbles. “Big feelings that get people murdered in their beds and their homes burned to ash.”

Henry’s sharpening comes to a slow end. The silence that comes after feels like it rings in Heinrich’s ears. Slowly, he looks up and finds Henry looking at him with an unreadable expression. It’s something hard and sad, but curious as well. It makes Heinrich squirm under the attention.

“I just don’t get it,” Heinrich mumbles, averting his eyes in the hopes his heart will calm down. It doesn’t. “I don’t understand why they’re here.”

“Does it matter?”

The question jars Heinrich, making him lift his head in surprise. “Does it… matter? Why wouldn’t it?”

“The fact is, they’re here now.” Once more, metal grinds against stone. Back and forth. “It doesn’t matter why. That’s a question for men much richer an’ more powerful than us.”

Heinrich opens his mouth and is stopped short by a glance from Henry.

“Yes, Heinrich. Even you.”

Heinrich closes his mouth.

At the top of the stairs, the door swings open. Heinrich can hear his father’s voice indistinctly reassuring someone of something—Godwin, probably. He exits after a congenial chuckle and closes the door quietly. Anna must still be recovering.

Their eyes meet as Father makes his way down the stairs. And then swiftly part.

“There’s a sight for sore eyes,” Father remarks as he walks over, hands on his hips. “Radzig’s sword is still going strong, I see.”

“Haven’t had much need to use it,” Henry says, surprisingly amicable. “A stray feral wolf here or there, maybe.”

“What, no upstart burglars to strike down?”

“Hans, the burglars here are my neighbors,” Henry dryly states as he squints up at the other man.

Father grimaces. “True. I guess not, then.”

“No, Hans.”

Friendly. They’re being very friendly. After so much hostility and anger, they’re acting friendly? Heinrich looks between the two, fully knowing that furrow between his brows is back with a vengeance.

“What have you two been chatting about, then?” Father settles on the bench beside Heinrich, though he doesn’t come too close.

Don’t touch me. Heinrich’s last words come to him in a lightning-fast flash. Immediately, he moves over so their arms brush. He ignores the joy in his belly when Father smiles at him, so gentle.

“Your pup’s got a head for politics, my lord.” Henry is examining the sword again, drawing it up to his eye and looking down the length. “He’s talkin’ all about the Order an’ Sigismund an’ Prague.”

“Red-haired cunt...”

Heinrich startles, staring up at his father—who immediately purses his lips in chagrin at letting it slip.

“Don’t repeat that, Heinrich,” Hans quickly says around his grimace.

“I generally don’t go around cursing the Emperor, no.” Heinrich wrinkles his nose as both his father and Henry laugh. “What? It’s true…”

“You’re a much smarter lad than either of us, then.”

The moment long fingers tangle in Heinrich’s hair, he slumps into his father’s strong side. Warmth pours down his body like water, comforting Heinrich to his very core. He breathes in, Father’s scent mixing with his own—and with the natural smell of the house around them. It’s a good mixture. Heinrich could see himself getting used to it.

“Before we continue,” Henry says, placing his longsword on the table in front of him. He crosses his arms on the rough hewn wood and leans forward. Well-used muscles stand out along the length of each arm, distinctly reminding Heinrich that Henry is, in a word, strong. “How’s Anna?”

“Good.” Father keeps carding his fingers through Heinrich’s hair, gently unraveling the tangles that naturally occur within the fine wild waves. “Her temperature has come down and she was talking in her sleep about… something. Something bright and yummy.”

“Bright and yummy?” Henry tilts his head. “I know my dreams were a bit strange at times, but they’re nothin’ compared to hers, that’s for sure.”

“That’s like comparing a dagger to an apple, but she’s certainly got an active imagination,” Father says with a low chuckle. “Godwin’s also going to try and sleep. You said he could?”

“Aye. I’ll check on him in a bit to make sure he hasn’t choked on his own vomit.”

Alarmed, Heinrich’s eyes widen. “Can that happen!?”

A battle wages behind Henry’s eyes before he sighs and says, “Yes, but it won’t. I swear. It was a bad joke, my lovely.”

Heinrich has nothing to say about that. In fact, he has nothing to even think about that. The only thing in his mind is a repeating mantra of my lovely. Over and over again. His face burns and he burrows harder into his father’s side. At least both adults seem to be ignoring his red-faced meltdown.

“What are we going to do?” Father asks, one arm on the table and the other still brushing Heinrich’s hair, though most of the tangles have been worked free. “I know you’ve got a plan brewing in that big head of yours.”

“Oi.” A pout. Henry is pouting. Really, it’s just a tilt of his lips but Heinrich can see the pout it’s meant to be. “Whose got a big head between us, huh?”

“Don’t misunderstand, I fully acknowledge that our craniums rival in size, my dear.” One finger twirls a section of Heinrich’s hair around itself, an idle motion that he doubts Father knows he’s doing. “Only yours is full of thoughts and mine is full of hot air.”

“Christ, I wish that were true,” Henry laments. “In this case, I do have an idea—one once named John II of Lichtenstein.”

The finger freezes. “Sir John? And Samuel, I presume.”

“One doesn’t come without the other these days.” Henry chews on his upper lip thoughtfully, eyes focusing past them both into the middle distance. “Was thinkin’ of writing him a letter. Askin’ him to talk to Wenceslaus. Ask him if he knows anything.”

“Petitioning the king through one of his closest friends. Smart. Why not go to Radzig?”

Henry waves his hand. “My father’s got enough on his plate. Unless he catches wind of this, he’s much too busy to help.”

“Right,” Father drawls. “Because the moment he hears about Uzhitz in trouble, he’ll drop everything regardless of what it may be and come to his sweet son’s rescue. Like he always has.”

“Don’t blame me…” Again, that crooked pout. “He’s got it in his mind that he has to make up for being an absent father even though a war is raging in our own damn kingdom…”

“I think I understand the feeling,” Father hums as he looks down at Heinrich and smiles. “Apologies for talking your ear off, pup.”

“No, I—” Heinrich swallows, suddenly nervous. “It’s interesting. Hearing you talk about… things.”

“If you’ve got that mind for politics as Henry says, you might even get something out of our blathering.” Gently, Father rearranges Heinrich’s hair so it sits as flat as it can. “But feel free to leave when you get bored. Old men have a tendency to ramble.”

When Heinrich glances at Henry, he finds the man returned to that thoughtful plane, his hand cupped over his chin and his brow heavy over his eyes. A contemplative look that Heinrich is sure has led to plans that have changed the entire kingdom at one point. He has no doubt about that.

“Heinrich.” The sound of his name makes Heinrich sit up a bit straighter, meeting Henry’s eyes as they return from that distant place. “You said you saw the camp. How many were there?”

“Nineteen.”

Both men groan quietly in dismay.

“Were they all armored?”

“From what Anna and I could see, yes. Not a lot of plate, though it could have been hidden away. Mostly mail and leather. Good weapons, though.” Heinrich shrugs. “They all seemed… friendly with each other, too? Kind of.”

“Kind of?” Father asks, his hand resting between Heinrich’s shoulderblades. “Why kind of?”

“One… um.” Heinrich swallows his embarrassment. “One of them… tried to say something… Ah, sexual? To another. He got his nose broken for it, but the rest of them laughed.”

“They sound more like normal bandits than Teutonic fucking Knights,” Henry grumbles as he stands once again from the table and goes to the pantry. The two at the table watch him as he does, twin eyes following curiously.

“Men are men, no matter whose banner they fly.” A wise statement from his father. “Where are you going?”

“Hold on!”

As Henry does whatever he’s doing, the Capons sit in silence in the kitchen. So many words are trapped behind Heinrich’s teeth and he’s unsure which ones to release first. Which ones he should release at all.

“I’m sorry.” For a moment, Heinrich wonders if he said something without meaning to—until Father strokes a strand of hair from Heinrich’s eyes and continues speaking. “I wanted to do right by you, Heinrich. I never wanted to get you involved in any of this. Hanush, my past, Henry. I wanted your life to be easy. Easier than mine has been.”

“Easy…” Disbelief lowers Heinrich’s voice. “You thought my life would be easy?”

“I’d hoped.” Father chuckles and places his palm against the curve of Heinrich’s neck, right where his scent glands would develop further once he presents in a few years’ time. “I should have seen that things weren’t working out that way.”

No shit, as Anna would say.

“There are still things I will have to keep secret from you, Heinrich.” Father’s eyes harden into something much more familiar to Heinrich than the tenderness. “Things that I cannot tell you.”

Heinrich can feel his chest tightening in anger. He struggles to keep the emotion out of his voice as he asks, “Why? Do you not trust me? Have I not proven that I’m—“

“No, no.” Hands come to rest on both of Heinrich’s shoulders, holding him in place as Father meets his eyes squarely. “You are eleven years old. I realize there are boys that have taken on more responsibility at much younger ages, but you don’t have to. Not alone. There will be things that are inappropriate—”

“That’s what got us here!” Heinrich snaps. “You deem everything inappropriate!“

“And I was wrong.”

Heinrich’s eyes widen, his protests dying in his throat.

“I was wrong to do so. I should have told you of Henry, my past, all of it.” Father’s eyes have softened like sticky candy, his hand lifting to cup Heinrich’s cheek. “I should have trusted you more. I realize that now and I won’t make that same mistake going forward. I swear on my word as a Capon. You are a capable and smart young man. More than I ever was at your age.”

“Must get it from his mother.” Henry has returned, though Heinrich doesn't know when. He’a got a roll of paper tucked beneath his arm and a small box in his hand. When he sits, he keeps his movements slow and quiet.

Heinrich can’t keep his eyes from his father’s face for long. His heart is beating in his mouth, lips trembling.

“That being said…” Father lowers his hands and fixes Heinrich’s collar. It doesn’t need fixing—he knows that for certain—but the casual care in the movement warms him all the same. “There will be things I cannot tell you. And I know it’s difficult, but you have to trust me. As your father and the lord of our lands. Can you do that, Heinrich?”

It makes sense. Intellectually, Heinrich agrees. That doesn’t mean some part in him isn’t rioting still, demanding to know everything.

I should have trusted you more…

…but you have to trust me.

Heinrich doesn’t know if he can do that. Everything that was kept from him, every single secret that had to do with him personally… The feeling of betrayal sits heavy inside him. Should he even be feeling such a thing? Is it childish to hold onto such feelings? Should he be trusting his father unequivocally as he has since he could form thoughts of his own?

Hesitantly, Heinrich nods. It feels like a lie.

“I’m glad,” Father whispers, his breath leaving him in a relieved rush. “I never want to do wrong by you, pup. I never have.”

“Right,” he mumbles in reply, eyes lowered to where his father’s black coat sinches at his throat, golden buttons leading down his chest. “I understand.”

Father’s hands hesitate to move away. They slowly do and fold together to rest on the table. Heinrich wishes one was in his hair still.

“Heinrich.” Heinrich’s eyes are drawn to Henry’s kind face. “Is there anything else you can tell me of the Knights’ camp? You said you two found a grave as well?”

Although discomfort unerringly churns within, Heinrich turns his body and attention to the task at hand. They’re asking him for help and Heinrich is going to try and be the best help they could ask for.

John,

I hope this letter finds you in good spirits and strong health. Sam as well, though I am sure he will scoff at the sentiment. Unfortunately, there are no good spirits to be had here in Uzhitz as a pack of rabid knights have landed at our door. Teutonic Knights, to be exact.

I am sure Sam has told you of the bandits that have been running rampant in the forests. I have addressed countless letters complaining of their nefarious deeds and the pain with which they have ravaged my town. This morn, those same bandits appeared in the village green and announced the beginning of a new crusade against any of the late Jan Hus’ followers. They have deemed any physical thing remotely related to the man as heretical, as well as (impossibly) one’s thoughts toward him. In my eyes, this gives them the means to “punish” people at will without the need for evidence of any kind. They already have. Bailiff Bohdan was murdered in front of the entire town, his throat slit. Anna witnessed it.

Speaking of my pup, there are some things you should know.

Godwin has been writing letters to Hans Capon without my knowledge. He did not mention me nor Anna in those letters, but he did mention the bandits and the wall that we hit regarding them. Capon decided to come to his friend’s aid and showed his face here in Uzhitz a handful of days ago alongside his son, Heinrich.

Things have not been easy, as you may have guessed already. As Capon and I were talking fighting distracted, Heinrich and Anna have become thick as thieves, much to our detriment as parents. They found the bandit’s campsite, along with a mass grave containing (presumably) the bodies of those already killed and the crest of Teutonic Knights inlaid with Sigismund’s foul arms. Thankfully, they found their way home after, though were not able to inform us of the danger before the Order themselves announced their plans.

Nothing has happened thus far (as of September 12, 1415) but the threat of the bastards can be felt. No business is being conducted, and I am certain some have fled for larger cities in search of safety. I will remain in Uzhitz. I know not what Lord Capon is planning, but if he is to return to Rattay to muster forces, then I will send Anna with him.

With all that information put to paper, I must entreat your discretion and haste to contact W regarding everything. Has he heard of any such order? Has Prague? If so, would he be willing to help fight back this growing danger? Even a small contingent of forces would be more than enough as their numbers have not gotten exceedingly large yet. Heinrich counted nine-and-ten men, well-armed with light but expensive armor. There may be more they didn’t see, and there may be more on their way.

Any information or aid you are able to give is invaluable, my friend.

We await your timely response,

Henry & Anna

Notes:

sighs the curse of a kid who is too fuckin smart and expected to grow up too fuckin fast.

if u wanna read how henry and hans conceived anna, click here for the first chronological fic in the series: to be touched.

worldbuilding notes:
ill uh try and keep them short no promises

on the teutonic knights: yeah, they literally had an entire country that they named "the state of the teutonic order". it ran along a portion of the baltic sea (called a ton of different things at this point but mostly mare balticum in the holy roman empire) and was surrounded by poland and lithuania (and other kingdoms/duchies), both of whom hated their ass and defeated them in a big ol battle five years ago. poland tried to capture their capital (marienburg) and burned down all their agriculture in the process. they didn't get the capital, but they really fucked up the teutonic state nearly beyond repair.

teeeechnically, the teutonic knights are apart of the holy roman empire, but they also fought against sigismund and the hre a couple of times. shrugs. war is complicated and dumb, especially if you're fighting for a incredibly broadly worshiped religion. teutonic knights were only permitted to gather new members from within the holy roman empire and they had to be voluntary... so u can see how their numbers dwindled fast as fuck. they even had to resort to hiring mercenaries (some who even came from bohemia!). they also hated the hussites bc the hussites were in their direct opposition like 99% of the time lol

on sigismund: this will be explained more later, but sigismund is currently attending the council of constance, which is a meeting of various countries to decide on a new pope (bc there had been three at this point during the western schism). this is also when jan hus was tricked into coming and murdered via immolation. the council would go for four years with sigismund staying in konstanz before having to leave to fight spain. needless to say, sigismund won't be showing up in this fic. unfortunately. i love that weirdo. (from the game, not irl fuck sigismund irl. the only thing he had going for him was his badass wife.)

on heinrich's feelings toward sigismund: considering heinrich would go on to serve under sigismund for years as an extremely valued general/tactician, i imagine that heinrich at least has some royal respect for the guy. he knows he's a bastard, but he also knows that sigismund is juggling a million countries and an entire religion, which he figures can lead to uhh less than savory feelings about people. basically, his feelings are complicated and will remain complicated for his entire fuckin life lol.

... that made me think of a future fic where heinrich and sigismund fuck but that's uhhh just a distant thought :)

on john and sam: all ur questions will be answered in two chapters :) i swear.

Chapter 13: XIII :: Henry

Notes:

😩 welcome to another one of my favorite chapterssss

warnings for this chapter: they talk abt jitka, so mentions of death and grief.

When Anna awoke, she was barely on her feet before she said she was going to go find those Knights. Talking her down had taken every bit of Henry’s patience—and, in the end, Heinrich walked in, promised to go run around with Princess and her, and Anna gave up her quest for justice right then and there.

Henry’s not an idiot. He knows his daughter. He knows she’s still thinking about the Order and any possible way she can get at them. She holds grudges like her father: in perpetuity. But, the immediate danger of having Anna run off and get herself captured or killed or worse is put to rest by Heinrich’s quick thinking and their rather adorable blossoming friendship.

Because of this, Anna and Heinrich have been sleeping in the same bed.

Henry finds them curled up like puppies, so fast asleep they’re snoring directly in each other’s ears and not waking up—he nearly melts on the spot. He can’t bring himself to pull them apart, so he leaves them where they lie. With Hans already asleep in the kitchen below, Henry grabs an extra cot and sleeps in his forge that still held a bit of warmth from the night before.

And was awoken by an incredulous Hans standing over him with a bowl of porridge in his hands and his moustache askew as if even it is baffled by Henry’s presence.

“You slept out here?” Hans balks as he haltingly hands the bowl over.

Henry’s sleepy grip nearly fails entirely, but he manages to keep the bowl of porridge between his palms. In response to Hans, all he does is grunt in the affirmative before tucking into his food.

“I know the pups were sleeping together but—” Hans laughs weakly. “You could have slept in the kitchen. I wouldn’t have minded.”

Truthfully, Henry doesn’t have an explanation. He’d done it without thinking or even considering a different option. Feeling a bit silly, he takes his time to spoon another bit of nutty porridge into his mouth before giving a half-hearted shrug.

“It would have disturbed you. I didn’t want to wake you when you were sleeping so soundly.” A decent explanation—if they weren’t who they are.

“Hal, I’m not the one who has issues sleeping.” Amusement and disbelief pull Hans’ eyebrows into a knot and a corner of his mouth up into a crooked half-smile, half-grimace. “Look, if they want to sleep together again tonight, just take Heinrich’s cot. You can even move it to the other end of the room for all I care. Don’t sleep out in the open again.”

Well, when that he puts it like that…

“I wasn’t thinking,” Henry mutters as he finishes his porridge and pushes himself onto his feet. He bends to grab the cot, but is immediately batted at by a rather annoying lord who scoops up the tick mattress himself. “Hans…”

“What?” Hans chirps, a skip to his step as he walks back toward the house. “I thought you’d be delighted that I learned to carry such lowly things as a peasant’s cot.”

Henry’s laugh is yanked out of his chest without his permission. He shakes his head and follows Hans, casting a quick glance to the far side of the property and beyond. Uzhitz’s other hill is as silent as it has been for the last twenty hours. No shops have opened and no stalls set up. If he squints, Henry can see the blood from Bohdan’s body still smeared against the stone and dirt that surrounds the pillory platform.

Christ.

“Come now, Henry! Your pup is calling for you!”

“I am not!” Anna shoves her head between the doorframe and Hans’ hip, a loud scowl on her face. “He’s lying!”

“Then what was that mournful keening I heard? Paaa… Paaaaaa…” Hans isn’t bothering to hide the shit-eating grin on his face.

“I DID NOT DO THAT!”

Henry nearly drops the bowl entirely with how hard he laughs at their antics. He barely makes it to the damn door without tripping over his giggles. Once he does, he elbows Hans aside and leans down to kiss Anna’s head.

“Did you actually need me, birdie?” he asks with a smile. “Or was Lord Capon just bein’ a bit of an arse?”

“Henry!” It’s Hans whining this time—in the elegant, slightly pathetic way of his, that is.

“I just—” Anna scowls even harder, abruptly becoming visibly unsure of herself. “I didn’t see you in the house…”

There’s no hesitation as Henry drags her into a firm hug, his face pressing into her hair and the hand not holding his bowl tucking around her shoulders. “Oh, my lovely. Everything’s alright. I was checkin’ on the horses.”

Something that he actually needs to do, seeing as the grooms won’t be coming up from their homes.

“Okay.” Anna’s voice sounds so small and uncertain. It kills Henry to hear.

Suddenly, the bowl is lifted from his hand, allowing Henry to wrap both of his arms around his daughter and squeeze her tight. Looking over her head, he sees Hans at the wash basin beside the kitchen hearth, rinsing the food from the dishes for a pigs’ trough later. His shoulders flex and shift as he does so, dancing beneath the linen shirt he wears.

“Everything’s alright,” Henry repeats as he drags his gaze from Hans and down to his daughter. “We’ll figure this out, birdie. Your Lord Uncle John and Uncle Sam will help, too.”

“Will I get to see them?” She sounds so horribly mournful that Henry almost wishes he asked those two to come to Uzhitz alongside their reply.

“Probably not,” Henry says against her hairline. “But we’ll see.”

He doesn’t want to promise her anything. He’d already promised her a quiet life in a quiet village with a quiet home—and look what’s happened to that. A sharp spike of anxiety stabs through his gut at the thought.

Henry will not allow Uzhitz to become the next Silver Skalitz.

***

The pups decide to bunk together again that night. Henry goes to check on the two, see if anyone needs anything, but all three residents of the room are already asleep: the pups curled around one another and Godwin splayed on his back, snoring steadily. Smiling, Henry tugs the door closed… and hears whispers emerge from the other side almost immediately.

“Audentes.”

“Ah-dent-ez.”

“No, Au, Au. Audentes.”

“Oww-dent-ez.”

“Christ’s wounds, Anna…”

Beneath his breath, Henry can feel his throat shiver in a quiet chuff of happiness. With a swallow, he keeps the noise from turning into a full purr and simply smiles as he slips away from the door and down to the kitchen.

All torches and lanterns were snuffed the moment it became dark. Only muscle memory and the light from the waning moon allows Henry to move about. The shadows feel like they’re stretching long across the floor, black amorphous figures reaching for him. Yet, all of them seem to avoid Hans Capon.

Hans sits against the wall, using the light of the moon streaming in through the window above him to read a book that Henry can’t quite see the cover of. The moon’s white glow drips over his hair and face, tracing his features in delicate lines of radiance. He wears no shirt, that same glow draped across his shoulders and reaching down his front like questing fingers. He reaches over to grab a cup at his hip and brings it up to his mouth to sip—only to spot Henry and jolt as if he’d been doing something he wasn’t supposed to.

“Shit—” Hans croaks, desperately trying to keep both book and cup from tumbling out of his hands. “Christ, I forgot that you don’t make any fucking noise.”

He keeps his voice low, knowing by now how sound travels through the house. Henry’s responding chuckle matches Hans’ in volume, though he knows neither pup is asleep yet.

Walking over to where Hans sits, Henry steadily lowers himself beside him. Their shoulders touch. When Henry peers at the book, Hans tilts it so Henry can see the words better. It’s a poem, if Henry were to guess, written in French. Illuminations painted along the edges of the pages were whimsical in nature, showing flowers and gardens and knights. Although he couldn’t read the words themselves, Henry could easily ascertain that it was a story of some sort of romance.

“What is it?” he asks in a near-whisper. He stretches his legs out in front of him, flexing his toes to ease the ever-present strain in his soles. No matter how much rest he gets, his feet never stop hurting these days. “I can’t read French, if you remember.”

“Ah, yes.” Hans closes the book around his finger and angles the cover to catch the moon. Les contes de Catorbéry shines up from the embossed surface, gold leaf sparkling. “It’s a story of several pilgrims traveling across England, each of them telling a tale to win some sort of competition. The poems are those tales. I’ve only just started, truthfully. I was hoping to read it during dull nights fighting these bandits Godwin told me of. I never expected…”

The nebulous gesture he makes at the house is perfectly understood.

“Across England?” Henry snorts. “Why would anyone want to be there?”

“They’re off to see some saint or another, I’m not sure.” Hans opens the book once more and slips through the pages, vellum scoffing against itself. “Saint Thomas.”

Henry’s face screws up at the name. “There’s… three separate Saint Thomases. Four? Shit, I don’t remember. I barely remembered at the bloody monastery when I was there.”

“Fuck if I know which one this is,” Hans mutters. “A man some pope or another decided is closer to God than the rest of us sinful souls because he had a bigger cock and a full coin purse.”

They snicker like boys. Mirth fills Henry’s body, overwhelming the heaviness that has settled in him for far too long. He scoots a bit closer, tilting his head to look at the book easier.

“Is it good?” Henry asks, nudging at a page to make it flip to the next. Whomever illuminated this story was excitable. The thing is covered in drawings and complicated lettering. A overpaid scribe’s work—or a bored one.

He gets no response.

Henry lifts his head and looks at Hans. Jewel-bright eyes catch the moon within their depths. Wide pupils look as if they’re swallowing all light that dares make its way near—and they grow larger still the longer their gazes hold.

It’s so difficult to keep that gaze. Henry’s eyes lower and get caught on a peculiar sight. Just beneath Hans’ nose, his silly moustache is mussed. Instead of the perfect shape it usually holds, it’s a bit fuzzy and out of order. Like this morning. Smiling, Henry lifts his thumb and smooths the fine, golden hairs down.

“Have I ever told you how silly this moustache is?” Henry’s voice dips in an effort to hide how it shivers. “Because it is very silly.”

“Is it?” Hans’ mouth barely moves when he speaks.

“It’s impressive, I suppose.” Henry smooths the other side, his knuckle brushing against the bow of Hans’ lips. “The shape an’ all.”

You were everything to me. You still are, though I have tried to convince myself otherwise.

Henry swallows against the rising, unknowable emotion in his throat. His thumb slides down from Hans’ moustache, following the trail of fine hair that leads to the thatch on his chin before slipping free of Hans’ face entirely.

Then, he takes a deep breath and asks, “Will you tell me of Jitka?”

Hans jerks back as if struck. In an instant, the intimacy of the moment disappears into subtle confusion and something that smells of betrayal. Henry hadn’t meant it so, but he’s never been one to beat around the bush, has he?

“Why—?” Hans breathes, sounding as if he’s barely able to get the word out.

“I was talking with Heinrich and he asked me if I knew her.” Leaning back against the wall, Henry looks away from Hans’ stricken face to the open archway at the other side of the kitchen. “I realized I don’t know a thing about her, besides her death and that she was a decent woman. I never allowed myself to know her in any real capacity. Always closed my ears and turned away when gossip came along with the merchants.”

He’s unable to check and see if Hans is still listening at all through his lingering grief. Henry would understand if not. He hadn’t spoken of Bianca for so long, and their relationship didn’t have a fraction of the intensity that it seemed Hans had with Jitka. And that’s without mentioning whatever he had with Hans that Henry kept silent about for so, so long.

“It might be too little too late,” Henry murmurs, lowering his gaze to the void of the wooden floors bathed in darkness. “And I may have no right to know her at all… but I want to.”

Several heavy breaths pass before warmth returns to Henry’s shoulder. He glances to the side without moving his head, afraid to face Hans’ despair head-on. The man has returned to sitting at Henry’s side, though his book has been abandoned and his legs are folded up against his chest. His arms rest upon them, hands dangling far ahead with his fingers flexing in the moonlight.

“What would you like to know?” Hans finally asks through a mouth full of sadness. His long fingers curl and twist around one another, thumbs smoothing the length of each digit.

What would he like to know? Henry’s spent so long dismissing every thought about the woman that coming up with any question to ask feels like the most difficult task he’s ever faced. Questions from what she truly looked like to her scent to what she thought of dogs to how she slept at night all churn in Henry’s mind. As he thinks, a few begin to stand out.

“Do you think she and I would have gotten along?” It might be a pathetic question, but it is genuine. On dark nights much like this one, so drunk he could barely see the stars above, Henry wondered: what if that woman and I became friends in the end? Would it have been easier to share the man they both loved? Or would it have made it even more difficult?

A weary sigh escapes Hans. His hands go limp, fingers untangling and hanging toward the ground. His wrists look so thin in the pallid moonlight.

“I don’t know.” An unsatisfying answer. Henry is about to respond when Hans continues. “I would like to think so. You both have—the absolute worst sense of humor.”

“Oi.”

“I’m sorry? Who laughed at the sight of two dead men who killed each other with a hunting bow and crossbow in the name of proving which one is better? And laughed harder when you realized they each wrote manuscripts on their respective weapon? And then later framed said manuscripts?”

“It was a perfect set-up and you know it!” A creak comes from above and Henry glances up, biting his bottom lip. Lowering his voice, he nudges Hans firmly. “So, we both had dark senses of humor.”

“Jitka found great glee in those who brought on their own demise,” Hans says through a tender smile. “When we found out Hanush’s body was beginning to fail him due to the copious amounts of strong drink he consumed—of which he stole from our neighbors, naturally—Jitka laughed so hard she nearly fainted.”

“Ha.” A small smirk on his face, Henry shakes his head. “God certainly gives people what they deserve in the end.”

Henry privately hopes that He will have some mercy on him, at least.

“Her sentiments exactly.” Hans’ arms fold over his knees, hands gripping his upper arms. “She was kind. A bit more ruthless than you—she would rather fling herself upon a pyre than help any poor sod walking through Rattay. But those in true need? Who lost their livelihoods or homes or families due to Hanush’s greed, or the fucking bandits? Jitka would do everything in her power to help them. As did I, once I realized how important it was to her.”

“She seems like a good woman,” Henry says. “One of those nobles who upholds their ideals.”

“She was.”

A beat crawls by before Henry asks, “Did she like dogs?”

When he gets no immediate answer, Henry takes at peek at Hans. He’s staring—and doing his best not to laugh.

“What?” Henry grumbles. “It’s a genuine question.”

“I know. That’s what makes it so charming.” Hans gives another sigh, though this one slips through smiling lips. “She didn’t. She found them dirty and loyal to a fault. Cats were more to her tastes. She admired their hunting prowess and independence.”

Why does Henry feel so disappointed by that?

“But…” Henry looks to Hans again as he speaks. Hans smiles, eyes looking back through the years with fondness in their glassy depths. “She did always manage to have some dried meat on her when we passed dogs in the street.”

Typical noble. Henry chuckles. “Perhaps we would have gotten along.”

“She wouldn’t have allowed Mutt to step a single paw into the castle. Either castle.”

“Mutt could be quiet when he wanted to,” Henry protests. “I could have smuggled him in.”

Hans’ hands are now buried in his own hair, as if he’s holding his head aloft. He looks tired. Drawn thin. “And faced her wrath? You would not have wanted that.”

“Oh? A harpy?”

“A banshee, really.” Hans shook his head and pulls his fingers through his hair until his hands rest on his neck. His palms cover his scent glands, protecting his natural vulnerability. “Angering her would surely have you losing your hearing.”

“It’s a wonder you aren’t deaf, then. I can’t imagine you being a very agreeable husband.” Considering how he acts now, maybe he learned—

“Oh, no. I just learned to close the door.”

“Hans!” Henry laughs, gently backhanding his leg. “Of course you would make your wife’s life hard.”

“Always.”

Unlike before, the quiet that follows is amicable. Light. They linger in a place of remembrance and joy. Henry wonders if this is the first time Hans hasn’t thought of her as the dying, sickly woman he last saw. He knows how difficult it was to think of his parents as anything but torn apart corpses. How difficult it can still be, even as their faces melt into blurry, half-remembered smudges over time.

Scared of destroying this moment of peace with his next question, Henry hesitates before his curiosity wins over and he asks, “Did you love her?”

“Yes.” There had been no thought given, no hesitation. Hans still smiles, though his lids have lowered over glassy eyes. “I adored her. It took me… too long to get there, but I did. She was my best friend. My confidant. Being with her made me realize—”

His breath hitches. Henry rests his head against the wall, tilting it just enough to watch Hans. He doesn’t prod at the man to continue, knowing it would only lead to further struggle if he pushed.

“She made me realize I wasn’t alone,” Hans finishes, voice nearly inaudible.

Henry closes his eyes against the wave of pure, devastated guilt that washes over him. In the end, it was Henry’s fault. He abandoned Hans. He decided that being apart would be the best for them both. He hurt Hans.

“Oh, get that look off your face.” A sharp prod to Henry’s temple makes him grimace. “Didn’t I tell you before? I’m not mad at you for making the decision you did.”

“I would be mad with me.” Henry sighs. “I am mad with me.”

“Get over yourself, Henry.”

Surprise punches him in the mouth, pulling Henry’s attention sharply to Hans. Though tears shine unshed in his eyes, a fond smile has returned to his lips. How could Hans even think to look at Henry that way?

“Things happened the way they did,” Hans says. “There’s no changing the past. What matters—truly matters—is what happens now. Sometimes a bad day is just a bad day. It doesn’t mean your entire life is fucked up, right?”

Nebakov. In a strike of lightning, Henry recalls them sitting across from one another, bloodied and exhausted, looking forward to returning home as they played dice—unknowing of the death and destruction awaiting them beyond the horizon. It had been a turning point in their adventure. A moment of calm before the storm that would take them hence. And Hans had said those same words, voice raspy and blood streaked across his jaw and cheeks.

“Twelve years is quite a long bad day,” Henry points out, voice weak with the weight of his memories bearing down upon him. “That’s, what, a third of our lives so far?”

“Yes, but look at us now.”

Fingers curl over Henry’s hand, plucking it from where it lays lifeless on his thigh. Their digits interlock, fitting into place as if returning to their natural state. Henry stares at where their hands meet for several long breaths before lifting his gaze.

Hans smiles even wider at him, eyes narrowing. “Together again. Alive.”

As a noose would tighten around a man’s neck, Henry’s emotions tighten around his heart. He swallows hard. And again. Then, he lowers his head to keep Hans from seeing the wet building at his lashes. Slowly, so slowly, he leans into Hans and his cheek comes to rest on his strong shoulder. Roses fill his entire being whenever Henry inhales. Their hands stay locked together, resting between them.

“Did you ever tell her?” Henry whispers, voice now audibly shivering. “About me?”

“Yes, I did.” He can feel Hans’ voice vibrating through the cheek that has come to rest upon his head. “I told her everything about you when I couldn’t manage to keep it in anymore. She found your decision very selfish, by the way.”

Henry coughs out a watery laugh. “Smart woman, that Lady Jitka.”

“I defended you, of course. And—And she said that I must have loved you very much. One day, she wished to meet our pup if they were still alive and willing… and when she laid there dying, she told me to come find you.” Why did she tell you to find Henry!? Heinrich’s biting words stick in Henry’s mind. His surprise at the time had been overwhelming, though Henry did his best to hide it. “Perhaps to chase the life I had once wanted or simply to be happy again one day. I don’t know. I never asked.”

Kurva. Henry’s heart breaks a little more, now just shattered remains of bloodstained glass.

“She would have loved Anna,” Hans murmurs, tears heavy in his throat. “She always had a soft spot for the rebellious ones. Especially the girls.”

To mourn a woman he never knew is a strange experience. Yet, Henry feels his tears escape his eyes and travel over the bridge of his nose to then drip onto Hans’ chest. Wet gathers at his temple as well, hair catching Hans’ tears in turn.

“We should tell her,” Henry rasps. “Anna.”

“We should. After this mess is dealt with. I don’t think she’d react very well if we told her now. The chance of her running away because she feels betrayed… We can’t risk it when she’s already gnawing at the bit as she is.”

“True enough.” Henry wipes at his cheek with the back of his hand. “It makes no difference whether it’s now or then. She thinks her sire is dead.”

“Ouch.”

“To me, you might as well have been.” By my own design. Henry sucks in a shivering breath. “I wanted you to be if for no other reason than to leave you behind.”

“Horseshit,” Hans tenderly counters. “You have never been able to leave the dead behind.”

A weak, pained laugh leaks out from between Henry’s teeth. He tilts his head and buries his face into the soft skin of Hans’ shoulder. Muscles shift beneath his damp eyes, but Hans doesn’t move away.

“Suck my cock, Hans Capon.”

“Not now, dear. The children will overhear.”

Hans gets another whack to his leg that makes them both chuckle through their tears. Outside, the calls of owls carry on the breeze, lingering yips and howls. They’re foxlike in sound, though all the foxes themselves are burrowed deep in their dens, asleep until dawn with full bellies as the owls sing over the hills.

“Have you…” Hans closes his lips and hums in consideration. “Have you had anyone? Anyone close?”

“No.” Henry wishes he could still smell Hans through the tear-induced snot in his nose. He moves back and wipes his nose on his sleeve, fully intending to take it off by the time they bed down. “Some fleeting nights with people who came and went, but… no one serious. No matter how much they wanted to be.”

Thoughts of Bohdan’s heated eyes leering from over a fluffy moustache even more ridiculous than Hans’ come to mind. Henry had spent a single night with the man and the bailiff never seemed to be able to let it go. Until now, he supposes.

“Mm. Henry of Skalitz, having suitors? Color me astonished.”

Henry shoves his face against Hans’ shoulder again. “I resent that sarcasm, sir.”

“People have fawned over you your entire life, you nincompoop.” They’re pressed so close that Henry can now feel Hans’ voice through every bit of their bodies that touch. It vibrates down his arms and through his fingers, through his own chest and deep into his belly. “I should know. I was one of those people.”

“Was?” Henry croaks. “You make lamb’s eyes at me even now.”

“Yes, blame me for caring about the man who had my child,” Hans retorts, lifting his free hand in playful defense. “Hang me from the gallows for thinking he’s attractive.”

Henry snorts. “You don’t have to say those things to make me feel better.”

There’s a moment of surprised quiet before Hans tilts his head in an effort to meet Henry’s gaze—which he prevents by burrowing further into Hans’ shoulder.

“Considering it is a proven fact you had my pup, are you implying you’re not attractive?” Pure befuddlement drips off Hans’ tongue. “That you’re not the most handsome man in this entire fucking region? This entire kingdom?”

“Shut up,” Henry grumbles, abruptly embarrassed by the pointed compliments.

“I will not.” A hand wriggles beneath Henry’s chin and forces it up despite the man protesting by bearing down on it. Henry is forced to look directly into Hans’ face, humiliated at how his own must look with how he’s been crying and how tired he is—how old. “My dear Henry…”

“Please don’t wax poetic.” Henry does not whine. “I will vomit on you.”

“Like a cow, is that right?” It’s patently unfair that Hans is so attractive even with his eyes red from crying and his stupid moustache messed up again. “Good thing you’re a pretty cow, then.”

“Don’t call me a cow, you cock.”

“The cow and the cock. Sounds about right.”

Gently, Henry closes his teeth around the meat of Hans’ thumb in playful violence. His fangs aren’t extended but the points still dig into Hans’ skin. If he presses down hard enough, he could draw blood if he wanted. He’s almost tempted to try.

“So frightening,” Hans teases, shaking his hand (and Henry’s head along with it). “Such a feral beastie. I would argue that makes you even more attractive, thus making your protestations moot.”

Henry closes his jaws a bit more and savors the small grimace he gets.

“You’re not going to change my mind,” Hans states, a smirk replacing the slight pain. “I’ve been bewitched by you from the moment I saw your stupid peasant face.”

Rolling his eyes, Henry unlatches his teeth and waves at Hans’ face dismissively. He can feel the alpha’s eyes on him as he stands. “Go pull someone else’s pizzle, Hans. It’s late.”

He focuses on getting ready for sleep instead of the butterflies in his stomach. He’s much too old for feelings like that. Crushes and the like are meant for the young. The ones who haven’t let themselves go for ten plus years. The ones who haven’t destroyed their own life because they selfishly thought they knew what was best.

Tugging off his shirt with its snotty sleeve, Henry tosses it onto a nearby bench to wash the following day. Perhaps he’ll gather everyone’s laundry to do while the pups bathe. Lord knows their clothes need it and it’ll give him a good chance to watch Uzhitz from outside.

Henry is thinking about the following day when hands come to rest on his waist. The warm touch makes him jolt. Hans urges him to turn, and Henry’s mouth opens to hiss at the lovesick idiot to let him go.

His words never make it out. They’re stopped by the firm press of lips against his own.

Wildfire spreads through his entire body at an impossible speed, the flames beginning where Hans kisses him, where he holds his face like it’s something precious. Their arms are tangled with Hans reaching for Henry while he instinctively tries to push away. Or, he was. Denying himself has lost its appeal.

He melts into Hans’ blisteringly hot body, his hands sliding to lay flat on his chest. Beneath his skin, Henry can feel Hans’ heart racing. Galloping, beating against his ribs.

He’d forgotten. Henry had forgotten by his own stubborn power how good it feels to kiss Hans Capon. They fit together, perfectly shaped to hold each other close. Roses and gold and love and light all flood Henry’s system, making the thought of ever pulling back a distant one.

Their mouths begin to part, the kiss brought to its natural end.

Henry then grabs Hans by the back of his neck and drags him back in. Their tongues meet in a frantic dance, lips opening as they press ever closer. An incessant throb is beginning to beat at the base of Henry’s stomach, a feeling he hasn’t had since those last days at Suchdol.

“Hal,” Hans mumbles against his lips, unwilling to part for even a moment. “Henry.”

Both of Henry’s arms wrap around Hans’ neck and pull, pull, pull as if it’s possible to sink inside the sweet-smelling alpha and be surrounded by everything that he is. Hands leave trails of fire as they slide down to Henry’s ribs, his waist, his hips. A soft noise emits from that throbbing space deep inside when those same hands move to cup Henry’s arse, squeezing and pressing their hips together.

Henry can feel the weight and length of Hans against him. His own cock presses against his hose, smaller but no less achingly hard. He feels himself become sticky and hot. Wanting.

“Mmh—“ The vibration of Hans’ moan on his tongue is divine. Henry laps at the flexing muscle, knowing Hans can taste every ounce of how much Henry wants this. Wants him.

They can’t. They can’t.

Their chins are wet with spittle when they finally manage to rip themselves away from one another. Foreheads damp with sweat meet, noses brushing. The flick of Hans’ tongue against Henry’s lips is almost ticklish. He can’t seem to stop doing it.

“This is—mm—exceedingly stupid,” Henry mumbles through another probing kiss. “For so many reasons.”

“I can smell you,” Hans pants, mouth hanging open as he sucks in the scent of Henry’s arousal. “I can smell how wet you are for me, Henry. How much you want this.”

God, and that only makes him wetter. Henry groans, body pulsing with need. He knows that if he let it happen, he would find himself knotted and full before he could breathe. Dripping with Hans.

“We can’t,” Henry repeats, though it tears him apart to say. “We can’t. Not now. Sakra, Hans, not now.”

“When?” The growl the word flutters on has Henry’s hips rocking forward, their cocks skidding together through the fabric and drawing breathless groans from them both. “I’ve found you. I want you.”

This primal, snarling beast that has replaced Hans is unbearably tempting. All Henry would have to do is present himself. Get on his knees, arch his back, and spread his—

“We can’t,” Henry repeats to them both. “We can’t because after this—after we save my home, you’ll leave. You have to.”

That brings Hans up short, the words connecting in his heated mind. Hands that once clawed at Henry’s arse now rest on the dip of his waist, right above where hips widened by birth never quite returned to their original narrow width.

“You’ll leave, and I can’t come with you.” Henry’s own palms slip down Hans’ shoulders, sliding over the slight bump of his excited scent glands, coming to rest on his chest one last time. “This can’t happen, Hans.”

“Come with me,” Hans says, voice ragged. “Bring Anna and come with me. Everything keeping you away is gone—“

“Is it?” Grim acceptance has put a damper on the fire that once raged in Henry. It’s dying down, leaving nothing but ashes behind. “Jitka will always be with you, as she should be. You’ll always deal with the consequences of Hanush’s idiocy. I will never be someone who can stand beside you. Not as I am.”

“Bullshit,” Hans coughs out. “Bullshit.”

“And what about here? Uzhitz.” Every word feels as if it’s pulling skin from the inside of his throat. “I have a life here. A home. I can’t just… leave.”

No matter how much his body, his heart begs him to.

“Let go.” Shaking, Henry tries to back away. He can hear Hans’ teeth click as he snaps them closed in frustration. “Hans, let go of me. You know I’m right.”

Hans lets go. But he doesn’t back off. If anything, he steps closer, forcing Henry’s head to lean back slightly to keep his gaze.

“You are not right,” Hans rumbles, throat raw. “You’re everything to me, Henry. I don’t care what I must do to have you by my side. I will do it. I would do anything for you. Our pups. Our family.”

There’s some things that don’t die after twelve years of convincing oneself that they’re true. Henry wants to believe Hans. He wants to believe they can work whatever this is out. But he can’t.

Thoughts of Rattay bring old, old fears to the surface. Fears of wrought iron collars biting into his neck, of his body put on display for all to ogle at, of muzzles and bits and belts that would unmake him for the sin of being born as he is. Burning stakes, impossibly tall gallows, an executioner’s blade. Anna’s stricken face as he’s cut down and left to suffer the blow.

Hans can promise the world, but the danger of being a male omega cannot and will not change. The danger of being a lord’s male lover will not change.

It’s impossible. It’s all simply… impossible.

If Henry were to give in, allow his heart to lead him, then he would be putting them all in danger. Himself. Anna. Heinrich. Even Hans.

It would all be his fault.

Again.

“We should sleep,” Henry whispers, unable to speak above a rasp. “We need to be ready if the Order makes their move tomorrow.”

The spiced scent of anger bursts in Henry’s nose. Hans’ low growl feels like it shakes the entire world beneath them.

“Why won’t you listen—“

“Hans, please.” Henry wipes at his eyes hard as he turns away. “Please let me sleep.”

“Fuck.” Hans’ feet shuffle against the wood. “Fuck.”

Henry wishes he could say something to make this better. He has no words to give. No comfort to offer. All he can do is pull his cot to the other side of the room with shaking hands and lie down, burying his nose in the warm child’s scent Heinrich left has behind.

Notes:

giggles and puts my hair behind my ear

i wonder why the order isn't showing their faces yet

giggles again

worldbuilding notes:

a/b/o dynamics: i think i've mentioned before how omegas have an better sense of smell while alphas have a better sense of taste. so hans does a full on flehmen response here hehe (look it up if u don't know what that is, it's extremely cute)

the canterbury tales: technically no one really knows how many total books there were. it was definitely popular as several copies have (sort of) survived to modern day, but seeing as we don’t even have all the poems in the canterbury tales in the first place, it’s just hard to tell an accurate history abt it. it prooobably wasn’t translated to french yet tho but fuck it this is my fic and hans 100% would be into it.

Chapter 14: XIV :: Anna

Notes:

y'know sometimes it's kinda hard to write in anna's pov because she very much thinks at a breakneck pace all the time. like, there's no stopping in her mind until she literally passes out. it makes for longass run-ons and repetitive word usage that's for daaang sure

also :) did yall see :) the teutonic order is in the dlc :) i am fucking psychic

warnings for this chapter: kids being kids, but otherwise, nothing.

“I hate waiting.” Anna’s pretty sure she’s said the same words every day, multiple times a day, for the last two days. Heiny never tells her to shut up, though, so she keeps saying them. Like something will change if she says it enough times.

“Yeah,” Heiny sighs, blowing a strand of his sunset hair from his face. “It’s getting to me, too.”

It’s bad if Heiny’s feeling the same thing as Anna. The boy’s as patient as a saint normally—with her, at least, which is saying something.

His smell is beginning to curdle. Not that he’s dirty—they had a wash yesterday in the river under their fathers’ watchful eyes—but with some sort of bad feeling. If Anna were to guess? She’d say Heiny is angry.

He’s been angry often lately.

They’re standing at the edge of the pasture, feet propped on the lowest rung of the fence like the first time they really talked. Unlike before, though, they look out at the forest in the distance rather than at the horses that roam behind them.

“Why’re they just… sitting in there?” Anna mutters, glaring at the trees. “Didn’t they say they were gonna do some sorta crusade or whatever? Why aren’t they doing it?”

“I don’t know,” Heiny replies, his frown growing. “And I hate that I don’t know.”

“Wanna go see?” It’s the most obvious way forward, right? They were able to gather information last time—more than their pa’s. Maybe they could overhear something this time. Something important. “I wanna go see.”

“See what?” Heiny grumbles. “Well-armored knights laughing about how scared we are while they get drunk in that stupid camp?”

Frustration that has been bubbling beneath Anna’s skin threatens to burst out. She wants to kick something. Yell. Stomp around like a beastie and make those Knights regret messing with Uzhitz. She wasn’t in this for the glory; all Anna wants to do is to protect her home.

“I dunno,” Anna huffs. “Maybe we can get one of ‘em on their own and bring ‘em back here.”

“Anna, that’s so stupid.” Anna missed when Heiny was all nervous and stammery around her. Come to think about it, he rarely trips over his words anymore. Weird. “We would be killed without a second thought if they caught us.”

“They won’t catch us! We could escape their stinky grasp easily!” Where had all of Heiny’s fight from before gone? “You were the one who said you wanted to help!”

“And we did.” Despite his words, Heiny’s face scrunches up in the same way it had that day before they found the campsite. He’s unsure. “Anna…”

Anna growls softly and huffs, “Fine.”

A rabbit twitches inside of her, hind leg thumping against bloodied dirt.

***

Plans of rebellion and sneakery are put on hold the moment Anna hears a familiar sound: hooves hitting packed dirt. She and Heiny are up in the bedroom, napping for a lack of anything better to do in the middle of a balmy day. That sound wakes her immediately, and Anna is running to the window to peek out without a second thought.

“Anna…?” Heiny yawns so big his jaw cracks. “What’s going on?”

“Shhh.”

Lifting her head just enough to see out of the window, Anna looks to the road. Two horses make their way toward Uzhitz. One, she immediately recognizes by the way it seems to float over the road: A palfrey, and an expensive one at that. The other is of stockier breed, strong and steady in its step. Both are dark in color with the palfrey having a sleek coat and a delicately sloped nose, while the rouncy is an earthy brown that shimmers nearly red in the light.

She’s definitely seen these horses before. Anna’s good at remembering horses.

A gasp of delight erupts from her, and she nearly shouts out the window to her oncoming uncles. Heiny, annoyingly, reads her mind and grabs her by the wrist with a harsh noise.

“What are you doing?” he growls before poking his head over the windowsill as well. “Who are they?”

“Uncle Lord John and Uncle Sam!”

Anna doesn’t bother giving Heiny any more explanation, her excitement getting the better of her. She flops her hand like a fish until Heiny lets go and darts for the stairs. The front door is already open, Pa and Lord Capon and Godwin all standing out in the courtyard. She nearly trips getting down the stairs, but manages to catch herself on Pa’s hip.

“Birdie,” he hums. “You saw them?”

“Yes.” She wants to yell and scream and shout (in excitement this time) but knows that would be a very bad idea. And not like those bad ideas she still goes along with—like, a truly bad idea. “You said they wouldn’t come!”

“Do we need to clean the dirt from your ears?” Pa wraps an arm around her shoulders and yanks her close, digging one of his knuckles into her earhole. This time, Anna can’t help but shriek—though she quickly cuts it off and bats at her Pa’s stupid fingers.

“Noooo,” she hisses. “I don’t got dirt in my ears!”

“I said probably.” Anna can see how happy her pa is in the way his lips curve and his eyes light up. Good. He’s been in a sour mood ever since the Knights showed up and it’s only gotten worse since. The house has been rank with frustration and sadness. “I should have guessed my brother would want to come help.”

“And where there is Samuel, John is not far behind, yes?” Lord Capon’s noble drawl is so annoying sometimes. But Anna supposes he looks happy, too. He’d been all excited hearing that Uncle Sam was alive, anyway. “It’ll be good to see them both again.”

Pa narrows his eyes and peers over at Lord Capon. “Do not get in a fight with Sam.”

Immediately, Lord Capon’s hands go up in defense, his eyes growing wide and innocent. Anna snickers at the expression. She’s done the same one before.

“Heavens, I would never!” Lord Capon fibs in a flowery voice. “I would never start a fight.”

“Don’t trick him into one, either!” Pa snaps his fangs at Lord Capon almost… playfully?

Anna looks between them. She narrows her eyes. Something’s happening between them. Something gross.

“I won’t!” Lord Capon laughs, getting that woobly look in his eye when he stops. “I promise.”

“I don’t.” Uncle Sam’s sharp voice cuts through the courtyard like one of Pa’s big swooshy swords. He stands at the archway, arms crossed tight and a familiar grumpy look on his face. The scar that goes from temple to the opposite side of his chin makes his mouth pucker funny when he frowns. “I thought you were joking when you said this fonfer was here.”

Fonfer. Anna will have to ask what that means later.

“Sam,” Pa sighs, rubbing a hand through his hair. Strands pull from the tie keeping them back. “Don’t make any troub—”

“Christ, what idiot did that to you?” As everyone expected, Lord Capon immediately brings up the thing that no one brings up: Uncle Sam’s scar. And it almost sounds like he’s laughing.

Anna immediately jams her knuckles into his ribs without remorse. When the stinky alpha folds in half and makes the same sound as Godwin after too many drinks, Anna puts her hands on her hips and smiles. Around her, the adults get loud and Anna can’t even feel bad about the anger on her Pa’s tongue.

Take that, fonfer, she retorts in her mind. She’s about to say it out loud when an arm scoops her up and turns her promptly upside down. Anna shrieks in delight, wriggling like a worm in her uncle’s grasp and not getting even a bit of mercy. Warm smoke fills her nose, the familiar scent of Uncle Sam’s joy.

“That’s my girl, eh?” Uncle Sam’s laugh tickles against her leg. Her dress hasn’t fallen, as Uncle Sam is smart enough to hold it up as he dangles her around—one of his favorite pastimes since she was little. “Ready to take on anyone in her way.”

“Yeah!” Anna crows, arms shooting out in victory. “I’ll take on anyone!”

“Don’t encourage her, Sam…”

“What? That was a damn good hit and you know it,” Uncle Sam retorts as he flips Anna right ways up again and wraps his arms around her waist, leaving her dangling like a cat. Her head spins a little, but she knows Uncle Sam is strong enough to hold her together.

Like this, Anna can see Heiny standing awkwardly at the front door, his precious face holding an expression of super nervousness. She opens her mouth to call him over, only to be interrupted by a loud cough from Lord Capon.

“Kurva,” he chokes, hand rubbing at his side. “Who taught her to punch that hard?”

“Perhaps the same man who dominated every pugilist from here to Kuttenberg?” Uncle Sam drawls. “Or did you not know that about Henry either?”

From behind them, a soft sigh can be heard between the sounds of plodding hooves. Uncle Sam turns enough that they can both see Lord Uncle John wearily walking up, the reins of both horses fisted in his hands.

As always, he looks very pretty in his shiny blue coat. It seems puffier than normal, but Uncle Lord John is a bit puffy on his own. It makes for the best hugs, which Anna promptly wriggles out of Uncle Sam’s arms to give.

“Ah, my favorite feisty pup,” Uncle Lord John murmurs in that joyful voice of his, gathering the reins in one hand to wrap his arm around Anna. “I see you haven’t been abducted by those horrible Knights just yet.”

“No one could abduct me,” Anna boldly states, ignoring the look she gets from her uncle’s lordly face. “I’m too fast!”

“And she punches like a donkey kicks,” Lord Capon groans—and then hisses as Pa bats at his head. Weakly, he says, “Good to see you, Sir John.”

“Please, I’m no sir anymore.” With a kiss to Anna’s head, Uncle Lord John releases her and steps forward to join the small group that’s gathered.

She bounces over to the stairs of her house, both hands held out for Heiny’s. He looks at her like she’s insane, but he does take her hands which Anna counts as a win. Without any hesitation, Anna turns back toward their parents and her uncles (and Godwin) and drags him forth.

Pa and Sam have grasped each other by the shoulder, palms flat against the other’s scent glands in greeting. Their foreheads touch, soft words exchanged. Lord Capon watches, hand still rubbing at his side. He hasn’t even realized Heiny’s joined them yet.

Anna clears her throat. Loudly.

All eyes turn in her direction. She shuffles to the side and broadly gestures at Heiny like he’s a grand, beautiful statue on display. To her delight, Uncle Lord John’s face lights up—and to her dismay, Uncle Sam’s face simply pinches further, morphing into a crooked snarl as his scar pulls at his lip.

“This is Heiny!” she happily trumpets.

“Heinrich,” Heiny corrects. He swallows hard, his throat doing that squirming thing boy throats do. “Uh. Hein—Heinrich Capon… of Rattay…”

Oh no. The stammer’s back.

“What a pleasure it is to meet you properly, my boy!” Uncle Lord John shoves the reins into Pa’s hands—Anna has to laugh when her pa rolls his eyes—and immediately comes over to Heinrich, hands clasped together. “I have heard wonderful tales of you and your father over the years.”

“Wonderf-ful tales…?” Heiny shifts from foot to foot. “It just… What—What tales?”

“How you and Sir Capon here protected and cared for your lands while that dastardly man tried to do everything to ruin them.” As always, Uncle Lord John is smooth with his words and generous with his praise. “I am very sorry to hear of your mother’s passing. She was a wonderful woman.”

Heiny’s jewel eyes go big and round. “Did—Did you know her?”

“Why, I was there at her and your father’s union,” Uncle Lord John hums. “A beautiful wedding, to be sure. I knew her before then as well. We talked often of the kingdom and all the troubles ailing our lovely land.”

“Why…” Anna watches, worried, as Heiny’s face twists into a look of… anger? She would’ve thought he’d be happy to know that his mother had friends. “Why did—didn’t you come and see her?”

Uncle Lord John’s face goes slack, his spine straightening. His usually very dull scent bleeds into the air, tickling Anna’s nose. It’s immediately overpowered by the sharp anger wafting off of Heiny.

“She was alone!” Heiny snarls, fangs sharpening. “She laid there dying alone!”

“I-I…” Now it’s time for Uncle Lord John to stammer. His hands pull in toward himself, fingers tightening around each other. “I am… very sorry—”

“All she had was me and Father. No friends! Nothing!”

“Heinrich,” Lord Capon’s voice is firm and soft. “I know you’re angry—”

“Aye, I am! No one cared about Mother until she died! You should be angry, too!”

Anna’s ears ring with how loud Heiny barks those words. Numb to her toes, she watches as Heiny turns on his heel and stalks back into the house without another word. His hot, sharp scent lingers even as he disappears through the front door.

Uncle Lord John is frozen in place. His stormy eyes have gone slightly glassy, lips parted. Uncle Sam slips into place behind him, big scarred hand hooking into the bed of his elbow.

“He’s grieving,” Uncle Sam says in a low, somber tone. “Don’t take it personally.”

“He’s right,” Uncle Lord John rasps. “I should have—”

“Shh.” The soft, lilting rhythm of Uncle Sam’s mother tongue slips from his mouth as he rests his forehead against Uncle Lord John’s temple. Anna can’t understand him but she’s not really listening either.

Anna can’t stop looking at where Heiny disappeared through the door. Her heart is all clenched up and stuffed into her throat. Seeing him so furious is… God, she doesn’t know. She can’t put the words to the weight filling her belly and the tension in her chest. So, as always, she uses her actions instead.

Rushing up the steps and into her house, Anna looks around to see if Heiny has stayed downstairs. Unless he’s cooped up in the pantry, it doesn’t seem like it. Her feet pound up the stairs and she flings open the door to the bedroom.

There, curled up and facing the wall, Heiny lies. He looks so small. He’s taller than Anna, but she never noticed before now how little his wrists and how lean his legs are. As he is, Heiny is able to curl up into the tightest ball Anna has ever seen a person make. Only Princess has ever been balled up that small and she’s a dog.

“Heiny—”

“Don’t call me that.”

Anna swallows around the bulging shape of her heart still lodged in her throat. She ignores the tears that spring to the corners of her eyes. Uncle Sam’s voice comes to her. He’s grieving. Don’t take it personally.

She doesn’t know what it’s like to grieve. She never got to know who her sire was before they died, and no one else she knows personally has died. Especially not like how Heiny—Heinrich’s ma died. He watched her go in the worst way possible. Just imagining her pa going through the same sickness has Anna’s heart beating out of her chest.

“Um…” Anna tries her best to not sound like her voice is shaking. “Sorry. Heinrich.”

One of his hands is fisted into his hair as if he wants to rip it from his scalp. Slowly, Anna creeps forward. She reaches out and her fingertips only brush Heinrich’s knuckles. His entire body jolts and curls up even tighter.

“Please,” she whispers. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

A few breaths painfully pass. Then, so slowly, each of his fingers uncurl from their rough grasp. Strands of golden-orange hair stick to his sweaty palm, but it doesn’t look like he has a bald spot or anything. That’s good. Anna thinks he’d feel even worse later if he did that.

“S-Sorry,” Heinrich hisses out, tears making his voice shake. “I’m sorry.”

There’s nothing to be sorry about in Anna’s book. She might not know how grief feels, but she remembers the years where her pa would hold that wrapped up sword and cry and drink until he was unconscious. She hadn’t realized what it was at the time—Godwin had to tell her when she was old enough to know.

“Lass, your father knows nothing if not loss.”

“It’s okay,” Anna says, knowing her words won’t come out like they should. Still, she powers through. “It’s okay to be mad at Uncle Lord John, too. I would be… if my sire was alone when he died.”

Heinrich goes still. Utterly still. Not even his tears shake him anymore. It’s a weird switch and one that makes Anna cringe internally. Had she said something so horrible…?

“You… You don’t know anything about your sire, right?” Heinrich’s voice is a bit funny with his nose all stuffed up. As if each limb has its own stone attached, Heinrich slowly twists enough to look at Anna. His poor pretty blue eyes are so red and tears have caught on his long lashes. “Other than he died?”

Why was this about her all of a sudden? Anna frowns, tucking her arms around her ribs. Shifting from foot to foot, all she can really do in reply is shrug.

“Do you want to know?” Heinrich asks, voice thick with tears.

As if Heinrich has some secret, special knowledge. Anna frowns harder. She knows that she—humiliatingly—fainted for most of that day, but she didn’t expect the men in her house to then go talking behind her back. Because that was the only way Heinrich could know anything about a sire that she herself knew nothing about. Right?

Anna doesn’t like feeling left out. The odd one of a group. Not much she can do about it sometimes given that she’s a girl, but to have her own family—and Heinrich—talk about such important things while she’s asleep? It feels like betrayal.

“No,” she grumbles. “I told you before. I don’t care.”

“You might.” Heinrich pulls himself up and leans against the wall, folding his legs into his chest. Both of his cheeks are wet with tears. Anna nearly forgets to be angry.

“I don’t care,” Anna insists. “And this isn’t about that!”

“It is—!” Something makes Heinrich flinch and quiet down again. After a beat, he lamely finishes with a, “Nevermind.”

Sighing, Anna crawls onto the bed beside him. She scoots over, one of her arms lifting. Automatically, Heinrich leans into her and Anna wraps him up like Pa does with her. She might not be as big or as warm, but Anna likes to think she offers some comfort.

“I didn’t mean to get so angry,” Heinrich admits, voice small. “I j-just thought of Mother all—all alone and—”

“I don’t think anyone blames you.” Anna hates how Heinrich tenses in her arms. “Really. Pa knows a thing or two about losing parents. So does Godwin. I’d bet your pa and Uncle Sam and Uncle Lord John all know something about losing someone.”

“Just because they understand doesn’t mean that—” A shuddering breath tickles the hairs on Anna’s arm. “—that what I did was okay…”

“I dunno, I think I’d do the same thing.” Not that Anna enjoys thinking about her pa dying. It’s always a possibility, though. That’s what the old herbwoman down the road says. Something as simple as a cut from a thorn could kill someone, even someone so strong like her pa.

(Anna held Pa’s hands for a couple days after that. Just to make sure he didn’t have any cuts from any villainous thorns.)

Heinrich sniffles. “Would you?”

“Did you see me hit your pa for bein’ a prick?”

A soft gasp makes Anna smirk.

“Anna!” Heinrich hisses, propriety winning out over his sadness. “That was really rude!”

“And? When have I ever been… not rude?” What is the opposite of rude? Courteous? Kind? Her point still stands regardless of the words.

Heinrich bows his head. For a second, Anna thinks he’s gone back to crying all because of her. She only feels bad for a little before Heinrich snorts with laughter, even as he tries to muffle it. Her squawk of indignancy doesn’t do anything to curb the slightly crazy-sounding giggles. If anything, it makes them worse.

At least he’s smiling now.

As their sounds die off, Anna thinks. It’s something she’s decent at despite what people may think of her. When she shuts her mouth and churns a thought around in her head, it tends to lead to good things… mostly. Sometimes. So, she doesn’t hesitate to think now.

He probably won’t agree or go along with it. Heinrich’s always been smarter than her and the points he made earlier were good ones—Anna can admit that much. But still. She can’t—won’t believe that Heinrich doesn’t feel at least a little similarly to her about the lurking Knights.

Truthfully, she’s not sure why she thought of them now. Maybe it’s the quiet murmur of voices below or the way Uzhitz sits so empty beyond the window. Maybe it’s Heinrich’s tears, laughter, and uncertainty. Maybe it’s her own obsession.

But Anna knows Heinrich cares about his people just as Anna cares about hers. He wouldn’t have gotten so angry if he didn’t. Justice is written into his veins the same as hers. Despite being so different, they really are alike in some ways.

Now, all Anna has to do is the impossible task of convincing Heinrich that sneaking into the Order’s camp is a good idea.

Notes:

another part of the series has gone up! to be seen. where henry finds out he's pregnant from a certain fruity hungarian. go read it if u haven't yet! henry gets tortured! it's great!

worldbuilding notes:

on john: ok so. technically our johnny boy dies in 1412. i didn't actually realize that when i first included him in this story asjhdgkjh but now i'm using it as an excuse that john basically eloped with sam (with permission from the king) and became apart of the jewish community in kolin—which was actually one of the few places where jewish people even somewhat prospered for a while. until they were suspected of burning prague to the ground and forced out of the country entirely 🙃 dont you love the smell of antisemitism in the morning 😒😒😒

on sam: yeah sam has a massive facial scar now :) you'll find out why next chapter dw

on hansry: since this chapter is from anna's pov, she doesn't exactly catch on to all the feelings between henry and hans rn, so it might look like everything is hunky dory and they're getting along well. haha.

Chapter 15: XV :: Hans

Notes:

ooo this is the last of my currently written chapters :3c im gonna sit down this coming week and write a ton (and maybe even finish the rest) of tbr so ehehehe don't worry updates will come as usual

but aaa this is a very lowkey kind of chapter heavy w dialogue :) i hope it's not too boring

warnings for this chapter: mentions of graphic violence and blood. tension lol

Hans finally gets the story out of Samuel once the pups are upstairs and the tension has lowered to a simmer. When he first saw the man’s face with that massive crevasse clawing across it, he thought that it sort of suited Samuel—same as the longer hair on his head that drapes down to his nape, leaving the sides shorn. Samuel has grown into himself just as Henry had.

But that fucking scar. Hans doesn’t know how anyone could have survived such a thing. He can see a hint of Samuel’s teeth through the deepest part on his lip. It’s horrifying. And, to Hans’ displeasure, a bit impressive.

He doesn’t dislike Samuel. He never has. There’s just something about him that got and still gets beneath Hans’ skin. At first, he thought it might be because the man is an alpha as well—he couldn’t be anything but with his smoky, heady scent. But Hans never felt the same around Zizka, whose scent overrides them both by far. Or Adder when he was around. Or even his own fucking uncle; there were more reasons to hate Hanush than his secondary.

Hans hoped that irritation and… mild distaste would have dissipated by now. It has. A bit. And it continues to dissipate as Hans watches Samuel tuck John beneath his chin and ease his shaking with effortless grace and compassion. He never knew of their relationship—though he’d once seen the lamb’s eyes John shot Samuel’s way and couldn’t believe how bad his taste was—but it seems they fit together naturally.

A bit like… No. Thinking that way would only lead to heartbreak.

“So?” Hans prompts to rid his mind of the memories of Henry’s mouth hot against his, the musky smell of him in the air, and the twin beating of their hearts. “The canyon you’ve made of your face. What happened?”

Sighing, Samuel untangles himself from John to rest his elbow against the table. John doesn’t go far, seemingly physically connected to his mate. It’s good that he isn’t panicking anymore. The gentle reassurances he got from both Hans and Samuel seemed to ease his mind.

“You remember Erik,” Samuel says before taking a hearty swallow of his wine as Hans stares at him, open-mouthed.

Then, he turns his head to look at Henry, who fiddles with his fingers and avoids meeting his gaze. A muscle close to his ear jumps as he grinds his teeth. Beyond him, Godwin has placed a hand on Henry’s forearm. Hans wishes he could do the same.

“Erik did that to you?” Hans breathes, turning his attention back to Samuel. “The same little—fucker who followed that maniac Toth everywhere?”

“And more,” Samuel says as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. “The sword nearly sawed through my shoulder as well.”

Unlacing his shirt, Samuel bares his neck and chest. Where his throat meets his shoulder, a neat circle of teeth press into his skin. The blunt indentations of a beta’s stunted fangs. Beneath that, a massive gash carves over his clavicle and disappears further beneath his clothes.

“Sakra,” Hans breathes. “How—Christ, how did you survive?”

“Henry.”

Naturally.

Hans glances at Henry again only to find the man completely turned away. He’s looking out the kitchen window beyond Godwin’s shoulder. Observing Uzhitz. Or trying not to bring attention to himself.

“That is immensely impressive,” Hans says, making sure to meet Samuel’s eyes to indicate he meant him to. “Your will to survive is incredible. After Suchdol and now this?”

“It has been a long twelve years.” A darkness passes over Samuel’s face, one that Hans knows he’s not allowed to ask about. “I have survived much.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” Hans breathes. The weight of the years is pressing down upon his chest. “Did Erik capture you?”

“No.” It’s the first time Hans has seen the man nervous. Samuel taps his fingers against the table before shrugging and saying, “He was mad.”

“I imagine so—“

“Shut your mouth for once, Capon.” They both seem surprised at the venom in Samuel’s tone. He clears his throat and bows his head in an unspoken apology that Hans gladly accepts with a nod of his own. He of all people understands reactionary anger. “No, after Toth’s death and the subsequent years of barely surviving, I do think Erik had truly gone mad.”

“He came here.” Henry’s voice startles Hans. The man still looks out the window. “He came to my fucking home.”

“It had been luck or God’s will that John and I were here.” Rough fingertips run across the scar as if checking to see if any of the knots of tissue or deeply carved divots have changed. “Erik came in the night and stole Anna away.”

All at once, Hans’ heart speeds into a gallop. Anna? Erik had tried to get his pup and Hans wasn’t even here to help? A different alpha had to help her—

Hans shakes his head and scratches through his hair. Ever since last night—fuck, even earlier—Hans has begun to feel his instincts rise to the surface more and more. He hates it. He has no right. He never has.

“I found him in the barn,” Samuel continues, either ignoring Hans’ tension or so caught up in his thoughts he doesn’t notice. “He was weeping over her. Saying things about Toth and family. Babies.”

Henry told Hans about when he first found out he was pregnant. How, in the Trosky dungeons, Istvan smelled Anna growing in his belly. The knowledge that Istvan bloody Toth was an omega was both surprising and fitting for everything he survived.

In his explanation, Henry told Hans of how Istvan fell apart up in the Crone’s Tower, begging him not to hurt Erik. How it could have been Istvan plump with a pup if he hadn’t gone through what he had. And, ultimately, that Erik would have been the sire. No question about it.

Christ. Fuck.

“I demanded he hand the baby over and he brandished his sword at me while holding her to his chest.” Samuel’s voice has dipped into a somber place. “I did not want to hit Anna... I got too close.”

A desperate man, mad with grief and thoughts of what could have been in some distant world. Where Istvan hadn’t been brutalized. Where Erik could have become the father he never had. Hans has no doubt it wouldn’t have happened even if Istvan had survived that night. Not here, not under God’s purview. Not for them.

“How…?”

“I slit that fucker’s throat.” Dangerous, simmering rage ripples through the air as Henry speaks. “Sam’s sacrifice made it all too easy to sneak up behind him and end things.”

A raw, choked laugh tears from Henry’s throat.

“Anna was baptized in blood that day,” he whispers.

A chilling, horrific image. Hans swallows.

“You both are unbelievably brave,” he murmurs through numb lips. “And I should thank you, Samuel. For protecting Anna.”

Samuel’s face tightens, his scarred lips twisting into a snarl. He looks away. John pats his thigh beneath the table by the way his arm shifts between them.

“And what about you?” Hans quickly turns the topic to John. “Last I heard, people were saying you passed.”

“In a way,” John replies with his trademark foxish smile. His lashes still shimmer from earlier tears. “I am officially dead in Bohemia’s eyes. I am not of Lichtenstein or any noble house anymore. I am simply… John. Of Kolín, if you want to be technical.”

“It seems to agree with you,” Hans comments. “You look good. Happy.”

“I am.” A small smile is sent up to Samuel. “While Sam and I can’t create the kind of mating bonds alphas and omegas can, the marks on our necks are as good as wedding bands. I’ve never been happier to be kept.”

“That’s sweet,” Hans hums. “It’s nice to see a mated pair, regardless of biological ability.”

They’re rare enough on their own. Nobles find the whole mating business gauche to the point that they wear high necks and scarves to protect their throats, and the amount of alphas and omegas amongst the peasantry isn’t small but it isn’t large either. Marriage is a political move. Mating is something altogether special and sacred.

“Enough.” Henry has turned back to the table. “Have you contacted the king?”

John’s face falls into a mask of neutrality. “I have.”

“And?” Henry seems to be vibrating from the very depths of his soul. “Will he come to our aid?”

“No.” Still, that mask of neutrality remains. Before Henry can explode, John holds up a hand. “Only because whoever these miscreants are, they certainly are not part of the Order.”

Henry, Hans, and Godwin alike stare at John, each with their own level of surprise and displeasure at this—frankly ridiculous news. They aren’t a part of the Order?

“There has been no ruling from Sigismund or otherwise to begin any sort of crusade in Bohemia. Why would he when a number of his mercenaries come from our lands and he has much more to worry about than a small, stubborn kingdom? In any case, that man is still arguing amongst his fellows about who should be pope—who would be the proper power to call for a crusade, not the emperor.” John’s dark eyes slide away in thought. “I suppose the Knights of the Cross themselves could order such a thing for themselves, but their wars with Poland have significantly decreased their numbers. Whomever is left is trying to keep the Teutonic State afloat. Economy, social hierarchy, military, agriculture… everything is falling to pieces in that stolen land they call their home.”

“Then who the fuck are they and why are they dressed up like that!?” Henry snarls the questions out through tight teeth, heavy brow low. “Where did they even acquire such arms?”

John shakes his head, mousy waves bouncing around his head. Come to think of it, he looks rather odd without a hat. Hans has always seen him in one. “I have no idea. Either they made them on their own or somehow got a supply of uniforms from… perhaps a defeated group of the Order?”

“No, no, they were too well-made. Too clean. Tailored.” Henry is visibly beginning to spiral into his own mind. Hans glances down to find the leg closest to him bouncing fast. “How—Why—?”

Hans places his palm gingerly on Henry’s knee. No higher. Simply a check-in, a reminder to come back to center. A heavy sigh rushes out of Henry and, finally, his leg stalls and stills—before pulling pointedly from Hans’ touch.

Right. Hans returns his hand to where its brother rests on the table.

“Well, that’s why we’re here,” John offers, giving Hans’ hands a quick glance. “If nothing else, we can help you figure out what in the hell is happening here.”

“They have to be,” Henry says, hands coming apart to gesticulate helplessly. “How could a bandit group even come close to—to impersonating bloody Teutonic Knights?”

“And why?” Hans interjects, leaning forward to rest his elbow on the table and stroke his beard in thought. “What’s their aim? What do they hope to gain from this false crusade, and why did they spend so much time beforehand attacking people on the road?”

“Does the why matter?” Henry turns his head to look at Hans from the corner of his eye. He holds a look nothing short of scathing and… tired. “We can gather enough men to deal with them and then it will be over. If they’re not actual knights, no king will be after us and it’s not as if bandits have much loyalty toward each other.”

“There are too many unknowns,” John interjects, arms crossed over his chest in thought. “We need more information. I know you’re impatient to deal with them, Hal, but we’re not young men anymore. We can’t go riding in and wipe out an entire camp of armored foes so easily anymore.”

Henry rubs his hand through his hair, pulling most of it from its tie. A frustrated noise escapes him as he yanks the tie free and begins to gather it. Hans would offer to help, though he has a feeling that if he did, Samuel might launch himself across the table and rip out his throat for getting too close to Henry.

Or Henry himself might attack him, honestly. He’s gotten twitchy about Hans touching him. Of course. Obviously.

You fucking idiot, Hans privately hisses to himself for the hundredth time.

“I know you’re right,” Henry growls as he yanks the tie tight around the thick knot of hair he’d gathered at his nape. “I know that none of us are who we were anymore.”

“Doesn’t make it any easier to deal with,” Samuel acknowledges, a frown on his face. Or perhaps his scar just makes his face look like that at rest. “I understand your need to see this done, bruder.”

“I want—“ Henry’s breath hitches with emotion. He glares at his hands as they settle on the table. “I want our pups to be safe.”

Our pups. Hans hates how happy those two words always make him feel. His scent is powerful on its own—something he’s had to learn to deal with—so he has no doubt that every man in the room knows how deliriously joyful that made him. Hell, even John could smell it, probably.

Both brothers’ eyes turn in his direction and Hans has to fake a cough to look away.

“You haven’t changed at all, Capon,” Samuel grumbles. “Always thinking with your knot.”

“That is not—“

“If you two start fighting, I’ll go and find those knights myself to put me out of my damn misery.” Emotion and irritation make Henry’s voice reedy and short. Hans is sure to hear an earful about this later. Or, worse, not have it acknowledged at all.

Hans is sure his sudden spike of excitement has died a horrible death, leaving only discomfort in its wake.

A gentle hand reaches across the table. Henry automatically takes it in his, squeezing John’s fingers. They smile weakly, each with their own brand of trepidation and worry. Hans is right alongside them, his mind in a constant whirl every time he remembers that these strange men are out there. Watching. Waiting.

“Your pups—and your town—will remain safe,” John says to Henry as they fold their hands together. “We will all make it so.”

Henry sighs, his chest shuddering with his exhale. “I pray to God that you’re right.”

***

Hans waits for Heinrich to come to him. He knows that meeting John earlier really threw the boy, and Hans doesn't want to encroach on the comfort Anna is offering him. Considering they haven’t come down for nearly two hours, Hans assumes it’s going well.

As he sits on the stairs outside, thumbing the sharp end of a blade along soft wood, Hans tries not to think about Henry. It’s difficult. Everything about this damn visit has been difficult. Necessary, perhaps, but difficult.

Hans wishes more than anything that his life could be a little easier, a little kinder. A decade of struggling to stay afloat has only made him yearn for the soft things in life. A touch. A kiss. Silence in the sunset. Smiles that make the corners of his eyes crease. Quiet.

Lord, how Hans has begged for quiet—and more than in volume, too. He wishes he didn’t have to deal with mercenaries and bandits at every turn, that his people would stop their horrible little interpersonal spats and actually help each other survive. His ears ache for a time of rest, where the mind stuck between them doesn't have to worry about the day to come.

At this rate, that wish is impossible. Not with the kingdom as it is. Or Rattay. Or Henry.

A weary, bitter chuckle passes his lips as he carves the flat planes of a bear’s face into the wood.

The truth is, Hans had hoped to give Heinrich an easy life. A life that Hans himself has always wanted. He wants to be there as no one had been for him when he was a child. In some ways, Hans has succeeded in that way. In others, he has miserably and totally failed.

It’s fucking unfair, is what it is. To have his only son be born into a world that has forced him to grow faster than he needs to. To have villains like Hanush and Sigismund always lurking in the shadows—even after they have died in Hanush’s case.

Heinrich is right. God would have never given him an easy flight. A storm was always brewing on the horizon, an ill omen of burgeoning trials that Heinrich would have to face. What Hans can do as his father is prepare him for what’s to come as much as he can, something he’s avoided for years.

Silently, he vows to hire as many scribes, scholars, tutors, and yeomen to satisfy Heinrich’s thirst for knowledge and autonomy. He had already thought of sending the boy to Paris for university in the coming years both to protect him from the mess Bohemia is sure to become, and to give him an education that others would envy. It seems Hans has to bring Paris to Bohemia instead.

And then there’s Henry. Beautiful, protective, intelligent, angry Henry.

Hans knows what he said that night is true. Having Henry return to Rattay as his would put them all in danger. If someone were to find out of his secondary gender, the wrath of the church and king could come down upon them. It’s a fucking stupid desire only ruled by Hans’ heart and—as Samuel bleated earlier—his knot.

There must be a way to do something. To offer Henry a home with Anna, either within the castles or without. Fuck, at this point, Hans doesn’t care if he feels those lips against his anymore—though he longs for then still—just as long as Henry and their pups are safe. Happy. Healthy. Not barely getting by, and being so fucking lonely that the thought of doing something for one’s self isn’t horrifying in itself.

Henry had been happy in Rattay. The insecurity that flared its hood earlier is no longer within Hans. He remembers clearly the happiness that Henry embodied in Rattay, through the cracks of his grief and anger. Memories of drinking, bathing, joking, hunting… more even than those. More even than with Hans.

Henry had been happy.

Until he made a sacrifice he was determined to make, regardless of what happened to himself.

The sharp sting of the blade slices across Hans’ thumb. Hissing, he brings the gored finger to his mouth and sucks at it to stave the bleeding. Hot iron and thoughtful despair spreads over Hans’ tongue.

He’s so fucking pathetic. Henry already made his wishes known. He wanted to stay. What right did Hans have to try and change his mind? Because he bred the omega during a fuzzy night of many drinks and a flash heat? Because they once had been friends? Because they were more for a single, breathless night—while starving and desperate for connection? None of those things gives Hans the ability to command Henry or influence his life, and he wouldn’t be an idiot to use his nobility either. That would only drive Henry further away.

Henry isn’t his. Not anymore. Maybe he hadn’t ever been, and maybe he never will be.

The door behind Hans opens with a whistling swing, narrowly missing him where he sits.

“Ouch,” Godwin’s voice creaks from behind Hans. “That looks painful.”

Grumbling, Hans pulls his thumb from his mouth. The cut has already coagulated, soon to harden into scab and then pristine skin. Sometimes, it feels like their saliva is one of the only things alphas are good for. And their knots. Hans scowls.

“A bit,” Hans acknowledges as he watches his spit dry alongside the line of forming scabs, now offering no amount of additional healing. “How are you doing, Father?”

Slowly, Godwin levers himself down to sit beside Hans. His bad leg stretches out in front. Hans asked earlier if he fucked his knee from a battle or a particularly vigorous romp. Godwin had simply laughed and shook his head, blithely stating that age has demanded more from him that he could give. It sounded like a lie, but Hans didn’t push.

“I’m alright,” Godwin says as he smooths his hand up and down his thigh. “A bit overwhelmed, if I’m being honest.”

“Aye,” Hans grunts. “Me as well. This whole situation stinks like shit and we are unable to find the source. It’s infuriating.”

He goes back to whittling his bear as Godwin watches.

“You know, I’ve been using the skills you taught me at the Devil’s Den,” Godwin rasps. “I understand now why you find gouging wood to be so soothing.”

“I’m glad,” Hans truthfully replies. “Regardless of perceived mistakes, you were nothing if not supportive of all of us. To have taught you something that stayed with you is an honor.”

“Christ, when did you become so knightly, lad?” Laughter rolls from Godwin’s portly belly. “I knew you had changed from the way you wrote in your letters, but seeing it firsthand is jarring.”

Hans weakly snorts. “I’m sure.”

To think he had once been an arrogant, naïve boy who wanted nothing more than to drink and knot a fine cunt… Hans finds it quite jarring himself, looking back.

Understandable, but still jarring to see the road he’s traveled.

“The years have passed too quickly,” Hans says in a somber tone. “I don’t remember when I started to change.”

“Do you know how a caterpillar transforms into a butterfly?” Godwin’s question has Hans looking up at him, an eyebrow raised. He gets a gentle chuckle before Godwin continues his train of thought. “A fat, successful caterpillar will find something to dangle from—a leaf, branch, or the eaves of a barn—and it creates a silken shell around its body. After a time, that shell breaks apart to reveal the colorful wings of the butterfly it had always meant to become.”

Hans has stopped whittling. He looks down at the bear’s stoic, half-carved face.

Clearing his voice, Hans says, “Are you comparing me to a butterfly, Father?”

“In essence, yes.” Godwin leans back, elbows resting across the top of the porch. “These last years have been your chrysalis. Hardening your exterior to develop something beautiful inside. I don’t know if, in this metaphor, you have completely shed your shell, but I can see the colors of your wings quite clearly.”

Both of Hans’ hands hang limp between his knees, the bear precariously dangling from his fingertips. Perhaps he should feel more insulted being compared to a disgusting bug, but Hans can’t bring himself to hate the metaphor.

“I think, too, that you need help shedding your shell completely.”

Frowning, Hans tilts his head to look at Godwin in silent question.

“Apologies, this is where the metaphor falls apart, though I hope you can walk along the path I tread,” Godwin laughs. “If you are a butterfly, Henry is a bird.”

“Bloody thick bird,” Hans mutters in good nature. Godwin only sends him a wry look. “Go on.”

“Henry is a bird who was never quite taught how to fly. He has the wings and feathers required, but his mind keeps him from taking that final, terrifying leap.” As Godwin speaks, his head tilts up to catch the rays of dying sun on his face. “Despite this, he’s been very adept at navigating through the canopy and has even made a decent nest for himself.”

Hans glances around Henry’s nest. The farm is as quiet as the town, even the horses knowing better than to whinny too loudly.

“He could help you shed your chrysalis with his proud beak, but in order to do so, he must be able to fly to reach you where you precariously dangle.” Slowly, Godwin seems to sink into himself. The sun adores him as it lights up his features and spills over his shirt. “I know that it’s hard, Hans, but try to be patient as he learns how to stay aloft. He was never taught to use his wings as you were.”

In that moment, a bird flutters over their heads. Its plump, brown body shimmers in the setting sun as it twirls in the wind for no apparent reason. Several joyous circuits pass before it’s flying off again, chirping loudly as if proclaiming its glee to the world.

Tears have come to the corners of Hans’ eyes. The metaphor itself is a bit purple for Hans’ taste, though that doesn’t make it any less true. Only…

Once Henry knows how to fly, who’s say he wouldn’t simply leave the tree entirely, leaving Hans to struggle to shed his chrysalis? Or to come out deformed beyond repair?

Or would Henry simply leave him to die, trapped and alone?

“When’d you become such a poet?” Hans croaks as he holds his wood and knife in one hand, and rubs his eyes with the other to keep the tears from falling. Thankfully, his cheeks remain dry.

Godwin’s chuckle fills the space around them with warmth.

“Priesthood and poetry aren’t as removed from one another as you may think.” A scarred hand splays out in the air in front of Godwin. It shakes slightly. “I wasn’t trying to be so profound, either. My mouth got away from me.”

“As it usually does, eh?”

Their matching chuckles are amicable enough.

“In any case,” Godwin hums as he sits up and slaps his knees. “Try not to think of all that nonsense until we’re done eliminating these hooligans. The time will come when you both can stretch your wings together and learn how to fly.”

With one a final smile, Godwin pushes himself to his feet and goes lumbering toward the barn, leaving Hans staring after him as his mind spins.

Notes:

... im sorry erik lovers... i promise i love he...

worldbuilding notes:

on alpha saliva: alpha's spit is a sort of coagulant that makes wounds heal faster. helps with the biting and stuff yknow?

on mating: like hans said, most nobles find the whole "mating" thing kinda gauche and something only peasants do. considering it's a show of ultimate love that cannot be forced on another person... you can see how the nobles are like "well that's stupid". when alphas and omegas are mated, they share some senses. nothing hella magical, but they can sense where the other is and generally how they're feeling. sam and john are an alpha and beta, so it's not exactly the same but they're cute so :)

on the knights: honestly everything that needs to be known, john has said. they're falling apart at the seams rn. they just lost two different major battles to poland (tho they kept their capital in the end) and during the biggest of them, they were fuckin pincered by lithuania and poland and absolutely Ravaged with most of the leaders being killed in the process. they're still around and will be for another uhhhh fifty-ish years, but they are struuuggling.

so i wonder who these men are :)) hmm :))

Chapter 16: XVI :: Heinrich

Notes:

this one is long :)

and harrowing :)

please don't hurt me :)

haha :)

warnings for this chapter: kids being fucking stupid, violence against children, blood, and mildly implied sexual assault (tho it doesn't happen)

Anxiety crawls across Heinrich’s body like a swarm of spiders. Behind him, Anna carefully cracks the lid of a sizable trunk tucked away in the corner of the room, cleverly hidden in plain sight between a table and a cabinet. She barely makes a sound as she gathers what she needs.

In front of him, Godwin is totally and completely asleep. His lips part around chest-rattling snores. Heinrich knew how deep of a sleeper the older man is, but he’s never seen him like this.

Or, maybe, most likely, Heinrich’s brain is conflating Godwin’s normal sleep habits with concussion-induced tranquilizing. All Heinrich really knows is that if Godwin hadn't woken up by now, he won’t.

God, forgive me, Heinrich whimpers in the privacy of his mind. And forgive Anna. I know she probably won’t ask for clemency, so I will in her stead. We—I know how poor of a decision this is, but we’re doing it out of a place of goodness. Watch over us and protect us from what may come.

He’s so caught up in his haphazard, fumbling prayer that he doesn’t notice Anna appear at his side until she kicks his ankle to get his attention. Heinrich has to bite down on his tongue to keep from yelping like a dog.

“Anna!” he hisses—only to get shushed and nudged toward the door. Anna’s arms are filled with things, to the point where she struggles to hold onto it. Heinrich would offer to carry something, but the narrow-eyed glare he gets over a child-sized gambeson has Heinrich quickly scuttling toward the door.

Downstairs, Heinrich inches toward the doorway that leads into the kitchen. Peeking around the frame, he sees their fathers on the far side of the room. They’re facing each other as they lie in their cots, obviously awake as the gentle murmur of voices reaches Heinrich’s ear.

When Father cups his hand around Henry’s elbow, Heinrich darts toward the front door. He’d rather not witness his father’s lovesick attempts to woo a man who would rather stuff his head in a trough than be courted. Sure, they’d been acting… oddly friendly lately, but Heinrich knows something is lurking beneath the surface—and he, truthfully, doesn’t want to know.

Not right now.

Because he and his… his sister have a mission.

They sneak from the house and down the stairs successfully. A small creak of a step leading down to the dirt makes them pause and hold their breath, but neither father comes running out with their teeth bared. Both pups quickly (quietly) run toward the other side of the property where the forge sits.

Warmth always seems to emanate around the forge regardless of whether it’s burning or not. Here, in the dark corner of the empty workspace, Anna places her burden on a table.

“Pa made me these ages ago, so I hope they still fit,” Anna whispers as she lays out the armor in front of her. To his surprise, Heinrich’s own armor he’d worn when riding here is apart of the bundle as well. Is that where Father stored it in the meantime? Among Henry’s family’s things?

Why does that make me so angry?

Shaking his head, Heinrich dismisses the thought and the churning discomfort in his belly. His eyes catch on steel as he does so.

That sword. It’s the same one that Henry had been sharpening—eight-sided pommel with letters carefully engraved into the fuller: Rex - Familia - Ultio. King, family, and vengeance. A fitting inscription given what little Heinrich knows of Henry’s past.

“Where the he—hell did you get that?” Heinrich breathes in no small amount of awe as he inches toward the blade. His fingertips brush the pommel lightly.

“It was right next to the door.” It’s impressive how uninterested Anna sounds. She’s probably used to the sword and doesn’t feel the weight in its presence. Or she simply doesn’t care. That’s just as likely. “You know how to use it, right? A sword?”

Well.

Sure.

“I’ve only—only trained with shortswords,” Heinrich admits. Henry’s sword is nearly as long as he is tall, the pommel ending near his shoulder when the blade is upright. “I-I don’t even know if I can pick it up.”

Anna snickers and wiggles her hand in his direction. “Well? Go on.”

Go on? As in…

Heinrich swallows as he stares at the sword. It only makes this whole plan even riskier. Stealing away a sword that obviously means so much to Henry to go and try and capture a knight of the Teutonic Order? It’s stupid. So dumb.

Yet, Heinrich feels his heart do a bit of a flutter behind his sternum. To wield such a weapon is thrilling. Not that he’s wielding it. Not yet. His hand is still stuck in the air above the pommel.

“It’s not gonna bite ya,” Anna bawdily declares from where she’s standing in the corner of the forge. She’s working her surcoat up and over her head—Heinrich quickly looks away. Once her head is free, Anna says, “Just pick it up.”

“It—It’s not… not that easy.” It truly isn’t. Heinrich feels like he’s stuck. But they have to do this. Obviously their fathers won’t for whatever stupid reason, despite what heroic words they might spew. Even with the addition of two entire men of, apparently, good training, they still linger in this damn stud farm like it’s a shield. Like the Order is just going to leave eventually.

It’s anger that forces Heinrich’s fingers around the hilt of the sword, and it’s surprise that nearly knocks him on his arse when he swings the thing into the air. It moves further than he means it to, being far lighter than he expects. Quickly, Heinrich grasps the hilt with both hands to steady himself.

Moonlight traces the edge of the blade and catches in the inscription’s lettering. There’s an M, slightly lopsided and messy, where tang intersects the crossguard. Heinrich has no idea who this M might be, but whoever it is can certainly make a sword. Perhaps Henry’s mentor? His father?

The blade is weighted perfectly. It settles against his hands like an affectionate cat, molding to the dips and curves of each palm. While it is incredibly long, the blade itself isn’t particularly heavy—not like a cuirass or cuisses are.

He swings it in the air, gently at first. The length of it has Heinrich stumbling a bit as it drags him in the direction of its path. A couple more swings allow Heinrich to anticipate the momentum and lean into the cut, sometimes shifting into a stab that reaches far in front of him.

Henry’s sword is beautiful.

Heinrich’s heart is speeding up in his chest with something that feels like excitement. Or dread. Or both.

“See?” Anna’s voice cuts through Heinrich’s roiling thoughts. “You’re a natural, Heiny.”

He’s not so sure about that. Knowing the basics of wielding even a shortsword certainly helps him take command of this behemoth. If he didn’t have that training already, who knows—

Heinrich nearly stabs himself in the foot when he turns his head to look at Anna. To his utter horror, she is wearing armor. But—But not an armored dress or anything more appropriate like that. She wears a dark gambeson with equally dark metal scales that overlap each other like a snake’s skin. Somehow, the metal doesn’t catch the moonlight, instead staying relatively dull even when she steps into the open.

She is also horribly absent of a skirt.

“That’s—” Heinrich clears his throat nervously as he looks up and down her hose-covered legs. It’s indecent. Anna is his sister—he doesn’t want to think of her like this. Seeing the shape of her legs feels like a sin in itself. “You can’t wear that, Anna!”

Practiced hands pause in tying a black cloth around her hair. Anna stares at him for a moment, wide-eyed. Then, she snorts. She snorts. As if Heinrich is being silly!

“Well, I am,” she retorts as she finishes securing her headcovering. Dressed as she is, Anna looks like a shadow. “They’re only clothes, Heiny. Stop gawkin’.”

Heinrich never really thought about how bright Anna is normally. Seeing her so muted is strange. Almost stranger than seeing her in men’s clothing.

“I’m not gawking,” he mutters, looking away again. “It’s just—just improper.”

Another snort rockets from her and Heinrich hates how much she sounds like Henry. That realization makes his face burn.

“Oh, yeah, ‘cause I’m gonna be traipsing around in front of lords an’ ladies in this.” Anna rolls her eyes. “Who cares if I’m improper right now? We’re gonna go kidnap someone.”

She’s not wrong. Heinrich knows she’s not wrong. Discomfort continues to flood his body. It’s impossible to look at her, even as she comes to stand in front of him. If she’s annoyed by his turned eyes, Heinrich can’t tell. He’s not looking at her, after all. He’s staring at a spiderweb in the corner of the forge. It has a nice stash of flies neatly tucked away at the edge of the web.

“Christ’s arse,” Anna mutters. “Just go get ready, you donkey.”

Taking the opportunity to flee with both hands, Heinrich holds Henry’s sword to his chest and scampers to the table to collect his own armor. It’s second nature tugging every piece onto his body and the familiar heft of the hauberk is almost nice after a handful of days without it. He ties his padded hose into place, grateful that they’re already dyed Leipa black. After shoving his feet into his boots and his hands into armored gloves, the only thing left is the waffenrock.

Heinrich looks down at the finely tailored cloth. It wouldn’t be a smart idea to wear it. The color alone is hardly conducive to sneaking around. Rich, gregarious yellow doesn’t tend to blend in at night. But…

“Is that from home?” Anna is at his side, peeking around his arm. “You’re, ah, arms or whatever?”

Not his exactly. Heinrich shrugs. “Kind of? It’s too bright for this, though.”

“Yeah.”

For a moment, they stand in silence. The importance of their decision has come to rest on Heinrich’s shoulders. These were trained soldiers. Kidnapping one and dragging him all the way back here is impossible. They’re only pups. What the fuck are they doing?

“Oi.” Anna’s nudging elbow doesn’t hurt when Heinrich’s in his armor, but he can feel the impact. “Don’t get that look on your face. We’re doin’ what the adults won’t, right?”

That was the main way Anna got him to agree at all. Having her lay out in plain terms how cowardly their fathers are acting—how selfish—and having his own shouted words reflected back at him despite Anna being unconscious at the time. Heinrich will admit that he folded fairly easily. As if he were looking for an excuse to make a bad decision.

Anna has the same mind as him. She understands his frustration and impatience. She gets him.

“Right,” chokes out Heinrich. “Yeah.”

Carefully, he folds the waffenrock and places it on the now empty table. Dual black arrows stare up at him from a field of gold. It’s nearly blinding. After a lingering look, Heinrich goes to find a belt and sheath to hold Henry’s blade.

***

The road out of Uzhitz is deafeningly silent. Night settles heavily over the empty fields. The forest is a wall of pitch black that makes Heinrich wince every time he looks at it. The thought of going in there makes him want to explode from nerves.

“Why’d they have to be so damn far?” Anna grumbles as she plods along in front of him. Heinrich still finds it difficult to look at her, but he’s at least gotten used to her upper half. “I’m gonna be so glad when we get a damn horse.”

Initially, Heinrich had suggested grabbing one from the farm to speed up this process. When Anna told him that her uncles were sleeping in the barn, he dismisses the suggestion entirely. Maybe they could sneak past their fathers as they’re distracted with each other—Anna’s uncles were completely different beasts entirely. Especially that scarred one.

So, their final plan goes like this: sneak to the Teutonic Order’s camp, snuff any lanterns that might be lit, find a sleeping knight, bash him over the head, and drag him to a horse and ride home in victory. While it’s fairly simple, Heinrich insisted on preparing for the worst case scenario. Thus, the weapons: Henry’s sword and the bow strapped to Anna’s back. They’re just a precaution. Nothing should go wrong, right? Yeah.

“Maybe they haven’t come out because they got lost in the forest,” Heinrich mutters as they finally come to the hidden crossroads into the forest. His misshapen groschen is half-buried. Heinrich toes some dirt off its face before jogging after Anna, hand on the pommel of Henry’s sword so it doesn’t slap against the ground.

Anna snickers. “That’d be pretty damn funny.”

“It’d make just as much sense as what they’re doing now.” Which is nothing. There hadn’t been any hint of the Order within Uzhitz for going on four full days, now. Why were they waiting? What were they planning? Heinrich sighs and shakes his head to focus. “Remember, Anna—”

“No talkin’ once we’re inside the forest, I know.”

Heinrich can hear the tremulous excitement in Anna’s voice. She’s even more fevered to get her hands on these fellahs than Heinrich is. He supposes he’d feel the same way if it was Rattay that was being beset upon. Maybe.

“And—”

“And stick close to each other, I know, Heinrich.” Anna twists enough to sock him firmly in the shoulder with a gloved fist. It doesn’t particularly hurt, but he winces all the same. “Stop worryin’! It’ll get in the way of succeeding!”

As he’s finding more and more, Anna isn’t wrong. Heinrich’s nerves tend to get in the way of most things. So, all he can do is sigh and trail after her, fingers flexing on the pommel of Henry’s sword.

When they get to the treeline, they both come to a natural stop at the roots of a massive, old beech tree. Heinrich cranes his head back to look at the top and nearly tumbles over with the added weight on his hip. He quickly catches himself, hoping that Anna didn’t see him stumble like an idiot.

“Okay, so. Go in, find the camp, make it dark, knock a fellah out, get a horse, back home.” Anna repeats this mantra a couple times under her breath as she stares into the pitch in front of them. Her nervous energy is beginning to ramp up, but unlike Heinrich, Anna seems to get more excited the more anxious she becomes. It’s enviable. And stupid.

Swallowing, Heinrich steels himself and whispers, “Ready?”

Anna’s teeth glint in the moonlight, adolescent fangs dropping as her pupils blow wide. She nods and growls, “Ready.”

They both remember the way to the camp—mostly. Heinrich remembers how to get to the mass grave. All he has to do is follow the gaps in the trees large enough for a horse and wagon to get through. Once they’re there, Anna turns on her heel and walks off in the direction she had when they first found the camp. Heinrich follows, silent. His heart is hurting as it pounds.

A gentle orange glow of fire flickers through the trees soon enough. The forest is deathly quiet the closer they get to the camp. The Order has chased away any hint of wildlife with their presence and messy hunting. Only the most desperate animal would even think of coming close to snap up the scraps left behind.

Heinrich figures that he and Anna are those desperate animals.

The way they approach the camp is different than the last time. Not entirely—they come to the same general side as they once did, but they now squat closer to the middle of the camp than the horses tied up to the side.

Peering between tents, Heinrich has to squint to parse individual shapes. In the haze of the central fire, everything has taken on the same kind of dull brown hue. What he can make out are sleeping men in their cots, curled up tight to ward off the coming chill of winter.

Thankfully, Anna doesn’t go running in the moment they find the camp relatively calm. Doubly so when a patrolling guard shuffles by.

He’s unfamiliar, as his face is one Heinrich remembers neither from when he and Anna trailed them nor from the display on the village green. Even without having seen his face before, Heinrich can see how tired he is in the slope of his shoulders and amble in his walk.

Sure, it’s late, but what the hell are these men doing to wear themselves out during the day?

The guard’s wobbling path leads him to the communal stew. He grabs a bowl and, thankfully, doesn't stop and sit down to eat it. The way he acts seems both bone-tired and restless at the same time. At least, that’s what Heinrich is seeing. Whether Anna is seeing the same, he doesn’t know. When he glances over, Anna’s face is a mask of focus as she watches the guard stumble by and disappear into the forest at the far end of the camp—opposite the horses.

Once he’s gone, Heinrich tugs at Anna’s sleeve. They move quietly along the outside perimeter of the camp, careful to avoid piles of crunchy leaves and thin, dry roots. They come to the place they were before: next to the horses that currently sleep beside the campsite proper.

No one is there. Heinrich lets out a soft exhale of relief and begins to muster his meager courage.

Anna, unsurprisingly, is the first one to leave the safety of the trees. She slips forward on silent feet, giving a wide berth to the slumbering horses at first. Heinrich can see her peering at each one, assessing the beasts for their deadweight carrying abilities, no doubt.

After apparently making her decision, Anna points at one. He’s a stocky stallion with a deep-colored coat. Brown or black, all one solid shade. His legs are strong and shorter than the rest, his shoulders wider. If anything, he looks like a plow horse of a not very successful farm. He sleeps soundly, eyes closed as he stands in place, one of his back legs bending to rest the tip of his hoof on the ground.

Heinrich nods at her, trusting Anna to know the best steed for their plan.

They creep toward the campsite, meeting at the edge near a felled tree that must serve as a seat. Heinrich can feel the leather-covered tip of Henry’s sword brushing the ground as he squats as far as he can behind it.

In the distance, another guard is walking along the perimeter. Neither guard looked terribly stressed. They probably haven’t seen a damn thing in the last few nights.

Because nothing has happened.

This second guard does look mildly familiar. One of the village green murderers?

Anna taps on his shoulder. She points to a nearby lean-to. A man is curled up inside, pulled into a tight ball that doesn't suit his lanky form. He hides his face in his blanket, his black hair a messy, wavy halo around his head.

It takes Heinrich a moment, but he recognizes the man as Engel—the younger knight, the one who punched that obnoxious alpha in the nose for getting close.

He would be the best option for their plan. He’s lean and young, and doesn’t seem entirely in love with this group of men. Alright. Now, all they have to do is… knock him unconscious. Somehow.

A nearby noise has both pups skittering into the shadow behind Engel’s tent. There’s a soft groan as one of the men pushes himself up from his cot. His big form lumbers by, hand lowering to his groin to idly itch. Heinrich wrinkles his nose. Probably just a midnight piss. They would have to wait until he comes back.

Except, when Heinrich looks Anna’s way, she’s already leaning over Engel’s form with her bow held in her hands. Heinrich’s heart leaps into his throat as she brings the end of the bow down on Engel’s temple.

It never lands. Movement erupts as Engel’s hand snaps up and grabs Anna by the neck. Her bow falls from her grip, shock making her fingers lax. As she grunts and kicks, eyes wide as a startled horse, Engel looks up at her from beneath loose curls of black hair.

At first, he glares, the heavy bags beneath each eye making him look much older now.

Then, his face goes slack in his own version of surprise and he immediately releases Anna.

“Anna!” Heinrich hisses, rushing forward. There’s no thought—only that he needs to help her. He shoves his way in between his sister and the knight, hand grasping at the hilt of Henry’s sword. “Don’t touch her!”

Engel doesn’t say a thing. He simply watches them as he sits beneath his lean-to, one arm propping him up while the other lies useless in his lap.

The rest of the camp is beginning to shift at the sudden onslaught of noise and movement.

Something like dismay falls over Engel’s features. Regret.

Heinrich doesn't have the opportunity to do much of anything before the sounds of boots hitting dirt arrive.

“What the fuck?” One of the guards squawks as he stares down at the pups. “How did—What the fuck?”

They have to go.

Shaking, Heinrich grabs Anna’s hand and yanks as he darts for the horses. She yelps, alarm and pain filling the air. Her wrist flops in his grasp as she struggles to find her feet and follow him.

Stocky legs wrapped in stained braies step forward to block their path. The man who went to piss. Heinrich changes course and makes for the trees. They’ll just have to lose them in the forest, and then they can hide in an empty fox den until morning, and then they can return home with their tails between their legs, and then—

“You’re not going fuckin’ anywhere, little prince.” A massive hand catches the back of Heinrich’s gambeson. He chokes as the front slams into his throat. “You or your friend.”

He’s thrown bodily to the ground. Dirt and metal scrape as Heinrich uses both arms to catch himself—

He let go.

He let go.

Uncaring of the pain radiating through his arms or the taste of dirt in his mouth, Heinrich quickly scrambles to his feet and wheels around to find where Anna went.

Her small, dark form curls up against the back of of a nearby tent. A puddle of shadow that torch light easily illuminates as men bear down on her. Flicking fire shines off the tears that streak down Anna’s face.

“Don’t!” His throat burns as he yells louder than he ever has before. “Don’t fucking touch her!”

Somehow, his desperate command brings the entire camp to a standstill. For a naïve, stupid moment, Heinrich thinks they’ll listen. Then, with mounting horror, he realizes what he just revealed.

“Her?” That big mitt from before snatches the nape of Heinrich’s neck and yanks him bodily to the side. “Her, huh…”

A yowl of rage presses from Heinrich’s teeth as he tries to squirm out of the grip—but the knight’s hand wraps nearly all the way around his throat with how large it is. He kicks out, reaches back to claw at the hand, yanks his body hard to the detriment of his own neck.

Nothing works.

Chest pumping, heart pounding in his eyes, Heinrich grabs at the hilt of Henry’s sword with both hands and moves to pull it free.

It catches. The blade’s too long, too cumbersome. It bites into the leather of its sheath and refuses to let go or sever the hardened hide.

Laughter dances all around him. Great guttural chortles and snide snickers. A circle of devils, delighting in his desperation.

“Let me go!” Heinrich pleads as he continues to yank and pull at the sword. “Let me go!”

“What, so you can get that cute sword free and slice open your own belly trying to wield it?” Fingers tighten on either side of his throat. The world swims. “Nah. That’s my job.”

Heinrich snarls deep in his throat, small fangs biting at his gums.

They laugh. Right in his face, they laugh. Fire dances across expressions of violent glee as they loom down upon his squirming, desperate form.

Two men encroach on Anna’s hiding space, jeering at her and holding out their hands like they’re going to be nice. Anna—strong, brave Anna—bites into one of the man’s hands. Her teeth rip through the meat of his palm, red blooming like flowers from between her lips.

As he yelps and yanks his now bloody hand free of her fangs, Heinrich feels movement at his hip.

“No! Stop! wait!” Reaching down, Heinrich tries to stop the hand that grasps Henry’s sword. No matter how hard he punches or how firmly he digs his armored fingers in, it’s easy for Henry’s sword to slide from its sheath and fill the hand of a mountainous, disgusting-looking man. “Give that back!”

The man ignores him. As if his yelling is the whine of a fly. He lifts the sword, testing its weight. Turning it this way and that. Until the inscription is facing up. Then, he stops and lets out a hoarse laugh.

“My my, boys!” It sounds as if he’s speaking through cheese cloth. “Look at what I found here.”

(Beyond him, the two men after Anna are trying to bodily shove their way to where she’s lodged herself beyond the lean-to’s edge. There’s a solid crack as her boot heel hits one of their hands.)

“Rex. Familia. Ultio. Wanna guess which king this lovely long sword is referring to?”

Loud, incomprehensible yelling fills the campsite with thunderous noise. Heinrich’s chest seizes and tightens. His fingers claw at the ones still around his neck. He needs—

He needs—

“I think we’ve finally found our prey, lads.”

Heinrich’s head rings as the noise erupts again. Frantic, he reaches back and viciously digs his fingers into the tender meat between pointer and thumb. The man holding him grunts more in surprise than pain—but he still drops him.

Free. He’s free. Heinrich launches himself forward and slams his shoulder into the hoarse fucker’s belly. It’s much like running into a solid wall, even though the man isn’t wearing any armor. His shoulder hits true and shoves every bit of air from the monster’s lungs.

He doesn’t think as he grabs the sword from his meaty hand. He doesn’t hear the alarmed yelling as he runs forward. He sees nothing but one of the men with his hand fisted in Anna’s hair as he drags her out into the firelight, gold strands standing out against dirty skin. He kneels above her, already massive on his knees.

The last thing the man is able to do is lick his lips before Heinrich shoves the sword in between neck and shoulder, blade falling through his chest cavity with the ease of a butcher’s knife. Blood bubbles and spurts from where the crossguard presses to skin. The man is limp before Heinrich can take another breath.

He abandons the sword.

It doesn’t matter.

All that matters is Anna.

Their hands fold together when they collide and both pups run. They run without looking at where they’re going. Dirt scrapes beneath leather as they sprint across the campsite.

Past the tents.

Past the stew.

“You little fucker!”

It’s the only warning Heinrich gets before he’s grabbed by the hair and yanked back. Out of Anna’s grasp. Their eyes meet in one wide-eyed moment before Heinrich is slammed to the ground.

Something in his face pops. Wet pools beneath his nose. He can’t breathe.

Trying to look up gives him nothing but the blurry suggestions of angry men and too-bright torches.

Moving is impossible. A hand shoves his head into the ground. A knee digs into his spine and pins him in place. Even his legs are locked to the ground as a shin weighs them down.

“Let me go,” he whines, distress ringing high in his voice. “Let me go!”

“No, what we’re not fuckin’ doing is making sad pup noises after you just murdered my fuckin’ friend.”

His head collides with the dirt again. His skull feels like it’s going to be split open.

“You try and hurt one of my buddies—“ The hand pulls his head back and slams it against the dirt. “—you actually fuckin’ manage to skewer Jonah like a fuckin’ pig—“ Again. “—and you let our best. fucking. chance of getting out of here run away!”

It doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense. His head rings like church bells and blood pours freely from his face. His nose, his mouth.

Is it coming from his eyes too?

“I should just kill your meddling fucking—“

“Asher! Let him go!”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” His torturer snarls and shoves Heinrich’s face into the dirt made mud by his blood. His weight eases off Heinrich’s back and legs.

Heinrich tries to move his limbs.

He tries.

The only response he gets is a weary twitch from shot nerves.

“I’m not gonna just fuckin’ listen to you because you’re a good piece of—“

Engel’s husky voice cuts through the man’s whining. “Matthew’s orders.”

“Motherfucker.” All of Asher’s weight is lifted off of him. “Whatever. Do whatever you fuckin’ want with the cunt.”

Silence.

“Don’t come cryin’ to me when he tries to kill your scrawny fuckin’ arse.”

“I won’t.”

“Fucking bitch.”

Heinrich coughs as blood fills his throat. It’s hard to breathe even without the ox on his back. Every inhale is stopped by his broken throat and aching head. His limbs twitch as he tries to move them. His fingers tense and relax.

His body hurts.

He hurts so bad.

He hurts.

It hurts.

It hurts!

“Mo—Moth… ther…”

He chokes on a sob.

“Fa…”

“Shh, pup. Focus on breathing.” Is that his father? It doesn’t sound like him. “Easy… Shit, why did you have to go and do this? Stupid bloody boy.”

Salt and honey touch the tip of Heinrich’s tongue before flooding his mouth entirely. As he slowly inhales, Heinrich is just glad he can’t taste his blood anymore.

Darkness descends all at once as Heinrich succumbs to the pounding in his head and the aching throb in his body.

Notes:

haha :)

i hope anna got away :)

(btw he's not dead, i promise. u try being eleven and getting ur noggin bonked like five times and stay conscious.)

worldbuilding notes:

about anna's clothes: henry doesn't rly care about his daughter wearing skirts or not, despite society hating that. he taught her how to ride horses, which women also aren't supposed to do lol. he just wants her to be able to survive, and that includes wearing appropriate armor when she needs to. obvi heinrich was brought up in a place that didn't have women wearing pants ever. none of the labor around rattay is enough for women to wear them and it's not like the peasants of rattay are riding horses anywhere when they've got everything they need within walking or cart distance. so, he's a bit scandalized.

about engel: you'll learn more about my tired little man :) in time :)

Chapter 17: XVII :: Henry

Notes:

it's another chunky one!

this chapter was also known as "henry is waging several wars with himself and losing every single one" in my head :)

enjoy!

warnings for this chapter: kids being stupid (duh), pining, and a wee bit of frottage.

“No,” Henry intones as he smells roses and gold bloom behind him. Annoyingly, he has to fight off a smile. “It isn’t gonna happen.”

“I know that.” It’s impressive how petulant Hans can sound at his grand age and station. The slight whine in his tone brings Henry back to a simpler, more carefree time. “I’m not some… mindless alpha trying to get into your braies.”

Henry rolls his eyes, trying desperately to ignore the affection swelling in his chest. He stirs the stew, folding freshly cut carrots into the pot. Godwin pulled them from their small garden earlier in the day. “Should’ve told that to your cock when I called the pups ours. Which is factually true, might I add.”

“Henryyyy.” There’s the true childish whine. “I said I was sorry!”

Truthfully, Hans didn’t have to apologize. On some level it heartened Henry to know how much Hans cares for their pups—both of them. It doesn’t make any of this easier, but Henry would much rather have an enthusiastic if slightly stupid alpha roaming around than an apathetic arsehole.

And…

In the end, Henry knows he is a weak man. He has been at the mercy of his sense of justice and need to be needed his entire life. Having Hans show him affection and struggle to deal with it sparks something in Henry’s gut that he is studiously ignoring. Trying to, at least. (And failing. Horribly.)

“You say you're sorry and yet you smell like an alpha who saw an omega’s tit for the first time,” Henry teases. Teases. As if he’s somehow okay with this—for lack of a better phrase—flirting. “You realize that Sam thinks you’re going to steal me away and make me your pet, right?”

“What is it with men in our lives assuming the worst about me,” Hans grumbles. He continues to stand behind Henry, awkwardly hovering. “I’m really not trying to—“

Sighing, Henry places the spoon horizontally over the top of the stew pot. He turns to face Hans—who stands a respectable couple steps away. Strange. Henry thought he was closer.

“I know, Hans.”

The first day after what happened had been intensely uncomfortable. They agreed not to let either pup know that something was amiss. The problem is, Henry is a weak man. False jokes and teasing prods turned to genuine affection and taking any excuse to touch.

Henry can feel himself beginning to pull Hans along as they become more comfortable in each other’s presence again. An invisible rope hangs between them, one end in Henry’s palm and the other hooked into a muzzle attached to Hans’ face. It’s unfair and improper. It’s stupid. Yet, Henry can’t keep himself from, sometimes, tugging at the lead.

When John and Sam excused themselves to the barn to rest—as they had ridden for nearly an entire day straight—Henry’s brother had hesitated at the door. His steel eyes, so much like Pa’s, drilled into Henry for several breaths.

Then, Sam shook his head and turned towards the exit. He only said one thing before he went: “Something is going to give soon.”

A warning? Or a threat? Henry didn’t—and doesn’t—know. Maybe he doesn’t want to know. But the words fill Henry’s mind as he looks at Hans’ pouting face.

“Hungry?” Henry asks instead of hooking his fingers into Hans’ shirt and pulling him close. “Stew’s a bit stale, but it’s decent enough.”

Slowly, the pout melts into a tentative smile.

Henry turns away, not trusting himself to see that just yet. Without waiting for a vocal response, Henry spoons the stew into two bowls, careful not to get any of the uncooked carrots he just added. Roses bloom beneath his nose as he hears Hans sigh.

“Thanks,” says the slightly dejected-looking lord as he takes the bowl that’s offered to him. He doesn’t move to the table, however. Hans stands there, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he battles thoughts in his mind.

Resting his hip on the edge of the hearth, Henry tucks into his dinner. Guh. He really needs to start a new pot soon. Having a perpetually ready stew is nice and all, but it can get a bit gamey over time.

“What are we going to do?” Hans’ voice brings Henry’s eyes up to his face. His jaw is tense in concern and heavy thought. “A false Order, impatient pups, an entire town to safeguard—”

Henry knows what it sounds like when a man is beginning to spiral. Gently, he interjects. “Would you be willing to ride back to Rattay and gather some of your men?”

“I—” The untouched bowl of stew is put aside to allow Hans to run his fingers anxiously through his hair. “I don’t want to leave you.”

An eyebrow lifts. “I can take care of myself.”

“No, I mean—” Frustrated, Hans wheezes out a weary laugh. “I feel as if I leave for the couple of days it would take to muster my forces, everything could go horribly wrong.”

While Henry understands the sentiment, it’s not as if the Order has hinted they’re going to do anything. No patrols. No messengers. Nothing. To think they’re lying in wait for a man they most likely don’t even know is here to leave is a bit silly.

“If—” Hans’ eyes lift nervously to meet Henry’s. Henry continues in a firm tone. “If anything were to happen, Godwin, Sam, John, and I could evacuate the town. Go to Ledetchko or even further to Sasau.”

Truthfully, he should have already done that.

He should have already done a lot of things.

Christ, when did he get so hesitant? When did he get so bloody scared? And when had he ever frozen like this in the face of that fear?

“What I’m saying is…” Henry speaks through the lump forming in his throat. “You should return to Rattay. Take the pups and have your servants take care of them in Pirkstein or the upper castle. Then, you gather a good amount of able men, come back, and we can end this once and for all.”

“Take the pups?” Golden brows pull together. “You would trust me with Anna?”

Hm.

Henry places his bowl down on the edge of the hearth and tilts his head back to look at the ceiling. Smoke curls up and out of the open vents, mostly leaving through the central flue.

“Yes.” The answer is easy to find. Henry crosses his arms to keep his heart from escaping from between his ribs. “You might think otherwise, but my faith in you has never wavered, my lord.”

Brilliant, butterfly wing blue stares at him from beneath wide lids. The color alone burns into Henry’s skin.

“Ha.” Henry rubs his jaw, scratching his nails through his beard. “If anything, my trust in you is what got us here. I knew that if I stayed that you would do anything in your power to not let me go.”

Immediately, Hans shakes his head. “No, I… If you wanted to go… I-I would have let you. I did let you.”

“I know.” A sighing chuckle escapes. “That’s not what I mean, Hans. Even if my gender—secondary and otherwise—or my peasant status were to get in the way, you would stand by my side. Unwavering. Even as your uncle sends us both to the gallows. And our pup.”

You’ve always loved with your entire heart, Hans Capon.

“Of course.” There’s no hesitation in Hans’ reply. “Hanush wouldn’t have hanged a noble, anyway.”

Henry highly doubts that considering what Hanush did to their noble neighbors, but he doesn't bother pointing that out. Hans already knows as much—better than Henry.

Instead, Henry blows a breath through his lips and shrugs. “Whether you get a quick beheading or hang from a rope until you shit yourself, you still end up dead in the end.”

Hans scowls around a grimace.

The pressure of his own hand against his bicep is the only thing keeping Henry in place. If he lets go, he doesn’t know what his body would make him do. Shake Hans? Kiss him? Throw him onto a horse, tie his feet to the stirrups and force him to go to Rattay?

“You’re right,” Hans mutters, fingers rubbing into his forehead. “But…”

Henry tightens his grip on his arms. He waits for Hans to finish his thought, even as his mind screams at him to run.

The knot in Hans’ throat bobs as he swallows and tentatively mumbles, “But is it so wrong to wish for things to be different?”

That question is not unfamiliar to Henry. How he wished that he was normal, that he didn’t have to hide who or what he is. He wished and prayed to be allowed back into Hans’ mere presence countless times—but he knew that God looked down upon him with the energy of a sympathetic yet disappointed parent.

It’s not wrong to wish for things to be different, but wishes don’t change reality. Men are not magic.

“It’s not,” Henry says, voicing his sour thoughts. “It’s not wrong. But it doesn’t change anything.”

The pounding of his heart in his ears is deafening. He wants nothing more than to fold and place himself in Hans’ hands.

It would be impossible to leave again if he did.

Henry shakes his head and straightens from his lean. “I’m going to check on the pups.”

Disappointment stinks up the room as Hans’ shoulders lower in dismay. Slowly, he nods and says, “I’ll think on it. Returning to Rattay, I mean.”

“Think quick,” Henry says, more blasé than he means to sound. “If you leave for Rattay early tomorrow morning, this can be done by the next day.”

“… Right.” There’s something in Hans’ mind that he refuses to voice. Henry can see it flash through his eyes and tamest along his lips when he licks them. “Tell Heinrich that I’m not mad at him?”

“Of course.” Henry lifts a hand, pausing for only one quick breath before squeezing Hans’ shoulder. “They’re probably asleep, but if they’re awake, I’ll let him know.”

Warm, bow-callused fingers come up to rest on where Henry holds Hans’ shoulder. Their body heat blends, Henry’s warm hands complementing Hans’ cooler ones. Much like that night, Henry finds that they fit perfectly together.

Gently, he eases his hand from beneath Hans’ palm and slips it from his shoulder. Hans doesn't say a thing as he lets his arms fall to his sides. Henry leaves the kitchen. He can hear Hans settle onto the bench with a heavy sigh.

Now more than ever, Henry feels the lead attached to Hans’ muzzle pulling taut.

Mounting the stairs gives Henry a chance to shake his head free of those thoughts. To steel himself. Heinrich had been so livid when he stalked away from John earlier. Truly angry—not just hurt like he had been with his father. Heinrich didn’t know John from a hole in the ground. All he thinks he knows is that John abandoned Jitka on her deathbed.

His rage makes sense. Henry only hopes Heinrich hasn't used that anger to dig himself a grave to lie in. Vengeance only relieves so much. Henry had to find that out the hard way.

Gently, he raps his knuckles on the closed bedroom door and waits a moment before entering. To his surprise, both pups are awake—and looking very guilty.

Henry lifts a brow. “What’s going on in here?”

“Nothing!”

“Nothin, Pa!”

They speak at the same time. There’s definitely something going on.

“Alright…” Henry debates pushing them to tell him. It could be something dire. But he trusts these pups not to make awful decisions; they’re smarter than their fathers ever were and twice as strong. “I won’t ask. Don’t do anything stupid, though.”

“Stupid? Not at all, Henry!” Heinrich’s voice squeaks as he speaks, a tight giggle punctuating the obvious lie.

“Swear! I swear it’s nothin’, Pa.” An odd, unfamiliar expression passes over Anna’s face before she mumbles, “We were just talkin’ ‘bout doin’ a creek burial…”

Ah. Henry nods.

Creek burials are not proper burials as no consecrated ground is required, nor any actual remains. It’s a quiet, intimate moment of remembrance. When he first settled in Uzhitz and heard about the odd practice from the midwife, Luciana, Henry had been a bit skeptical. The whole thing sounded much too pagan for his tastes. He doesn’t care if others do it—but he wouldn’t.

Then, Henry remembers walking to the nearby creek, picking up two smooth stones from the riverbed—a brilliantly colored red one for Ma, and a coal black one for Pa. He’d done as Luciana said: he placed his feet in the creek and held the stones tight until they dried and soaked his heat into their cores, all while recalling the best of his parents. Once the stones were filled with the warmth of his hands and heart, Henry knelt down to cast them gently back into the water, where they remain today.

Anna telling Heinrich about this odd little custom is sweet.

“Aye, yeah, of course.” Henry clears his throat of emotion. “Just tell me when you’re planning on going to the river. Hans and I will come watch you.”

That, for some reason, makes Heinrich’s face fall into a bitter mask. The change nearly startles Henry with how sudden it was.

“Will do,” Anna chirps, ignoring the way Heinrich glowers at the bedsheets. “Tomorrow sometime. Maybe.”

Ah, well… they might not be able to do it in Uzhitz’s river, then. Jitka’s memory deserves to be by her home, however, so Henry doesn’t yet say anything about their potential plans.

“Right.” Henry’s starting to feel like a raven, squawking the same noise in different ways. “Glad you two are doing well. Need anything?”

Both pups shake their heads, one morosely and the other with a beaming grin.

“Heinrich,” Henry says before he forgets. “Your pa wanted to make it clear that he’s not angry with you. He’s worried that’s why you haven’t come down.”

At least, that’s what Henry assumes he meant by that.

A puzzled look pulls across Heinrich’s face before he flawlessly covers it with an expression of benevolent neutrality—a familiar look on such a noble face.

“I’m just tired,” Heinrich says, voice confident in a way that doesn’t betray his supposed weariness. “We’ll talk tomorrow. When we go to the—the creek burial.”

Or earlier. Henry nods and purses his lips in thought.

“Tomorrow…” Henry taps his fingers against the doorframe he lingers in. “Hans may be returning to Rattay to gather forces for this mess. I told him to take you two with him.”

“What!?”

“Excuse me?”

This whole ‘saying things at the same time’ habit is getting unnerving. Henry has a flash of a thought: it would have only been worse if the pups grew up together. With them so close in age, they could very well act as twins. That image is a scary one in Henry’s mind—and not just the thought of carrying two pups in one body at the same time.

“If he agrees, you two will be going with him.” Henry pins both pups down with a steady look. “This is no place for children right now. I should have done this earlier.”

“Wait, but—“ Anna flounders, mouth opening and closing.

Heinrich takes over with an indignant, “But we want to help!”

Lord, save him from his dear ones’ stubbornness.

“You can’t.” The words strike Heinrich like a hammer, his little body jolting in surprise. “You can’t help us any further. It would only put you both in needless danger.”

“You said you’d keep us safe!” Heinrich barks, quickly getting over his alarm. “How does sending us away keep us safe!?”

“I don’t know, the walled city on a cliff with two sturdy castles might do the trick.” The sarcasm isn’t appropriate but it comes out before Henry can stop it. Rubbing his forehead, Henry sighs. “It would only be for a couple of days. With more men here, we’ll be able to at least make them surrender.”

Most likely, an all out battle would start and they’d be forced to wipe these bandits from existence. As Henry said: it’s no place for children to be.

“But—!”

Henry’s heart hurts for Heinrich. It does. He, more than anyone, knows how wanting to help can fester in the body when one isn’t allowed to. Back then, Henry was old enough to slip his lead—to sneak from the Talmberg fortress without alerting anyone and take matters into his own hands. Just to name a single example of many.

But they’re fucking eleven. Not a newly traumatized twenty year old who had been swinging hammers and hauling sacks for years at that point. Metaphorically and realistically.

“Look, I know you want to help.” Henry loosely crosses his arms over his chest. Not angry, only firm. “You have. Immensely. But now we’ll take over as adults and do what children should not.”

“That’s unfair!” Anna whines, nearly looking as disturbed as Heinrich. Henry knows how much she wants to gut those bastards. “We can do more! We’re small and fast and smart—“

“You are,” Henry soothes in a low, rumbling tone. “You are all those things. I don’t want to lose you when I could have protected you. So, please, don’t make this an issue on your ride to Rattay. I promise we’ll be reunited within the week.”

“You can’t promise that.” The sheer bitterness in Heinrich’s voice pulls Henry up short. He’s not glaring at Henry anymore, instead turning his frustration toward a spot on the far wall. “You could die.”

Internally, Henry grimaces, knowing exactly what his daughter is going to say regarding that.

“You can’t!” Anna’s voice is frantic and alarmed, as if she hadn’t considered the fact that her father could die. Perhaps she hadn’t. “No, no, we’re stayin’ here!”

“You two are going with Hans.”

“Pa!”

“Anna.” Henry bites down around the frustrated growl that threatens to escape. “This isn’t your choice to make.”

“Fuck—“

“Anna!”

His daughter tightens swiftly, pulling her limbs into her body and her legs up to her chest. Fear and indignation shimmers in her eyes. Henry hates it when he has to yell at her. It doesn’t happen often but… Anna is Anna. Independent, bullheaded Anna.

“Listen to me,” Henry rumbles through tight teeth. The guilt of parenting burns inside his chest. “I promised to protect you and Heinrich. This is the best way I can. You will go with Hans and that’s final.”

Petulance is visible on her round, freckled face. But Henry can see the fight begin to bleed from her body. She slumps dramatically onto the mattress of the bed they share.

Henry’s not surprised he doesn’t get a verbal answer. She’s never been very good at giving in, even when she knows she must.

“Heinrich.”

The boy staunchly refuses to look at him.

“Can I trust you to take care of my daughter?” Your sister, goes loudly unsaid.

It seems that angle hits Heinrich in his chest, a sharp point of pressure that has him slumping out of his prim posture as well. He doesn’t go tumbling onto the bed, but he does peek over at Henry from the corner of his eye.

“Can I?” Henry prompts.

From Heinrich, Henry wants an answer. A real one. A Capon’s word is as good as law. Hans might have been teasing him about that when he said it, but Henry knows how dedicated Hans is to his word regardless. There is no doubt in his mind that he’s instilled that dedication into his son.

Although the word seems to physically pain the boy to say, Heinrich mutters a morose: “Yes…”

“Good.” Henry walks over and takes a chance. He presses his mouth to the top of Heinrich’s head first, and then leans down to nuzzle Anna’s cheek. That neither of them reciprocate doesn’t bother Henry. They can be as mad at him as they want. As long as they’re safe. “Gather your things and rest up. You’ll be leaving early.”

With that, he gives both of the pups one last touch before returning to the entryway of the bedroom and slipping out. The hinges are silent as he closes the door behind him. A sigh escapes his chest, puffing out his lips. While Henry knows he’s in the right, he still doesn’t like the tools he had to use to get them to obey. Such is the life of a father. Henry could be much worse, though the thought doesn’t give him any reassurance.

“Didn’t go over well?” Hans stands at the kitchen entrance, one hand resting on the frame. “I heard you shout.”

“Ah, it was fine.” Thumping down the stairs, Henry joins his lord. “Anna got scared about my potential death and had to be convinced that going to Rattay doesn’t mean I’ll immediately perish.”

“I don’t blame her for that,” Hans murmurs. They stand close enough that his bit of height on Henry is obvious. “After all, we both know you.”

Henry scowls. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Roses bloom against Henry’s cheek when Hans chuckles. “It means your penchant for trouble can be a bit worrisome.”

You haven’t known me in twelve years. It’s what Henry wants to say. Even though Hans is completely right. Rolling his eyes, Henry knocks his knuckles gently into the center of Hans’ chest.

“I’ll be fine. I won’t make any stupid decisions.”

Both of Hans’ eyebrows raise in playful disbelief—which gets him another swift knock to his sternum that has him hissing through a giggle.

Arsehole.

***

Night comes faster than Henry anticipates. The sun had already been sinking by the time he had his talk with the children, but somehow he didn’t expect the dark to descend over Uzhitz so quickly. Then again, that might just be his nerves making time a bit wobbly.

“Goodnight, lad.” Godwin wraps an arm around Henry’s shoulders and squeezes him. “Rest up.”

“No promises,” Henry shoots back with a weary half-smile. Nightmares not be so common for him, but sleep still eludes him often. “Sleep well, Godwin.”

He’d checked on the laceration Godwin got from the rock thrown during the impromptu execution. It was healing well. A bit redder than Henry would like, perhaps. Some wounds do that even with a good amount of care. Henry will keep an eye on it and make sure the skin does its job of stitching itself back together properly.

Godwin gives him one last squeeze before lumbering his way up the stairs. He looks tired.

“He looks a bit weary, don’t you think?” Hans slips by Henry on his way to the kitchen. “Getting slow in his old age.”

Henry rolls his eyes and turns to follow Hans. “Don’t be an arse.”

“What? It’s my natural state of being,” Hans shoots back with a cheeky smile thrown over his shoulder. Henry scowls at the flutter in his belly it causes. “Come, let’s get some rest. I want to leave as soon as possible in the morning.”

Why Henry has to rest alongside Hans, he’s not sure—but his weakness demands that he not refuse. Humiliation writhes in Henry as he makes his way toward the cots, unbuttoning the coat he shrugged on earlier in the day. Hopefully it won’t be too cold to need it during the night.

They get ready for bed in silence. Henry is faced away from Hans—and Hans is watching him. He can feel the burning line of his gaze follow every movement. When Henry gathers his hair into a loose knot at the crown of his head, bearing his throat, he can smell the need sit heavy on the air between them.

He tugs the lead connected to Hans’ muzzle, the rope pulled increasingly tight.

Their cots have somehow navigated their way back to each other's side. Where once Henry was camped out next to the entryway, now he’s lying alongside Hans beneath the window. The moon is beginning to wane in the night sky. Her light isn’t nearly as brilliant as it was the nights before, but she still caresses Hans’ face like a tender lover.

Once settled, Henry and Hans roll onto their sides to face each other. Too little room lies between them. Henry should move away.

“Do you really think I’m going to go and get myself killed?” Henry asks in a whisper. In this moment, they are children with their heads bowed close, sharing secrets and giggling in the night. “I’m not an impulsive young man anymore.”

“No, but you are Henry.” One of Hans’ arms folds beneath his head, bicep and forearm becoming a pillow. “I don’t think anything you do is impulsive. Doesn’t mean it’s not reckless, though.”

“Sometimes, I forget how much of a cunt you can be.”

“Rude. I should have you thrown in the pillory for speaking ill of your lord.”

“If we’re being technical, you’re not my lord anymore.”

“If we’re being technical, you don’t have a lord with Divish gone.”

“Eh, you’re not wrong.”

Banter comes easily between them. It’s as if that night never happened. Or, rather, as if that night changed everything. No anger ruminates in Henry’s chest. No frustration. No guilt. Only a sort of contentment from being close to Hans again.

He can see clearly where this is going, whether he wants it to or not.

To Henry’s shame and embarrassment, he desperately wants it to.

“You’re not still under Radzig’s command, right?” Hans never once looks away from Henry. “I would imagine he’d be pinning you to his side if that were the case.”

“No, I’m not. He let me go when I came here.” He hadn’t seen his father in… months. Maybe a year. Time is difficult to keep track of these days, when individual hours go by at their own variable speed. It’s felt that way ever since he gave birth, as if time is simply going. “He sends letters regularly, though.”

“Has he met Anna?”

“Mhm.” And nearly cried about it. Henry is always wary about bringing his father around Anna, not because he’d do anything to harm her but because the tears that spring to his eyes are disturbing to say the least. “He loves her. Naturally.”

A smile flickers at Hans’ mouth. “Naturally.”

Silence seems to echo from the village beyond the hill. Henry looks down from where he’s been locked to Hans’ gaze. His stupid moustache is messy. Again.

“Why did you even cut your hair like this?” Henry mutters, reaching forward to poke at Hans’ upper lip. “It’s so… foppish.”

Hans’ responding chuckle has Henry’s belly squirming. “Am I not foppish at heart?”

“I suppose some things never change,” Henry teases.

The entire inside of Henry’s mouth is utterly dry. A voice whispers in the back of his mind to let Hans wet it. Guilt grows over him when Henry sees Hans’ nostrils flare, taking in the scent of them.

“I should be annoyed, you know,” Hans comments after a moment of soft-eyed contemplation. “I promise not to do anything and here you are, smelling so sweet…”

“Sorry,” Henry chokes out. “I can’t help it.”

The longer than Hans stares at him, the tighter Henry’s stomach becomes. He can’t look at the alpha’s face. Not like this. He made a promise to himself and, although he’s unconsciously doing everything to betray that promise, Henry will stand by it.

(Yet, is it entirely unconscious?)

(Kurva.)

Warm, callused, and big, Hans cups a hand around Henry’s elbow. The point of contact nearly has Henry gasping. He bites back on the sound before it can leak out though his cheeks burn red.

“I… understand why you’re denying yourself.” Hans says it in a way that says how much he does not, in fact, understand. “You have to feel how difficult this is, though. Don’t you?”

Am I not alone? Do you want me, too?

Before Henry can open his mouth and reply, there’s a creak. It’s not uncommon for the house to creak—old wood and dry days tend to make the bones of his home shriek at times. This creak is not normal, though.

Henry shoves himself up onto one hand and looks at the entryway to the kitchen. Everything is dark beyond. A waft of the pup’s scents comes down from above, mixed with Godwin’s plain stink. He waits, eyes pinned to the darkness.

“Henry?” Hans’ voice sound as if it’s far away.

Several heartbeats pass by, each one beating against Henry’s ears.

“I should go see what that was about.”

A weary, weak laugh comes from Hans. “No, you should lie down. Nothing is happening. I don’t even know what you heard.”

It isn’t often that Henry ignores his gut. Lately, however, he’s been at war with what has become normal for him.

Nothing is happening.

No more creaks beyond the moaning of the house itself rings out. The door doesn’t open or close. The hallway remains empty.

That damn hand touches Henry’s skin once more. His eyelids flutter closed at the pressure on the side and back of his neck where Hans holds him loosely. He’s not sure if he should lean into it or bite at the hand that brings him such rest.

Slowly, Henry lowers himself back down to his prone position. Hans’ hand doesn’t move from his neck, his thumb brushing beneath the outwardly turned edge of Henry’s ear. He’s always found his ears a bit embarrassing with how much they stick out. Fellow children teased him relentlessly when he was small. Only, now that Hans is treating them like a treasure made just for him…

“Relax,” Hans hums. “Everything is alright.”

“You’re probably right,” Henry acquiesces, though his heart pounds heavy inside his chest. “Sorry.”

“Apologizing for caring about your family and wanting to protect them,” Hans drawls with a lazy smirk. “You’re a villain for sure.”

Henry snorts, fondly rolling his eyes. That smirk is too much to look at. He tilts his head down into his flat pillow, inhaling down and the lingering scent of Heinrich that hadn’t yet completely dissipated.

“It makes me happy, you know.”

Prying open his lids, Henry turns his head enough to look at Hans. He regrets it immediately. Such tenderness watches him from his eyes. For a moment, Henry feels important again.

“What does?” he asks, trying his best to force that feeling deep down into the rumbling abyss of his gut. He’s important to plenty of people. Being loved by Hans doesn’t complete him. “Embarrassing me?”

“That, too.” Unvoiced laughter plays at Hans’ lips. “No, it makes me happy that you seem to like Heinrich as much as you do.”

Apparently, his snuffling into the pillow hadn’t been very subtle. Henry groans quietly around his chagrin and hides his face again.

“Hey! I’m being genuine, here!”

“I know. That makes it worse.” It feels like he’s burning hot, a lit coal at Hans’ bellows. He didn’t lie when he said they can’t be anything—or when he said that he wouldn’t return to Rattay with Hans just because he said so.

But… wishing doesn’t change reality, does it? And the reality is that Henry has never stopped loving Hans. Not for a moment. All these complex feelings—the reactive anger and belligerence—are Henry’s mind fighting against what he knows he can’t have. Because if he convinces himself that he’s fallen out of love with Hans, then losing him again won’t be as bad… and Henry won’t feel as lonely as he did when he left the first time.

“What is happening in that pretty head of yours?” Hans murmurs into the plush skin of his own arm. “I can see the wheels turning.”

“Am I a water mill now?” Henry grumbles. Avoiding.

“If the wheel fits.”

“You’re a buffoon.” Lifting his head, Henry mirrors Hans and pillows his cheek against his folded arm. “I’m thinking of things I shouldn’t.”

Hans’ brows dance upward. “Running into the middle of the Order’s camp and fighting them bare-handed?”

That does sound fun. It’s been a while since Henry’s had a decent brawl.

“Now I am thinking of that,” Henry jokes through a flash of playful teeth. “But, no. Just… You.”

The playfulness on Hans’ face falters and dies a slow death. He looks to the side, away from Henry’s face. Lips open and close a couple times before he mumbles, “I am truly not trying to do anything.”

“Christ, I know.” Henry shoves at Hans’ shoulder. The alpha rolls dramatically onto his back with a pout. “I’m mostly thinking that it’s a good thing I left.”

The air itself seems to leave the room. Henry hadn’t meant it that way. Sakra.

“I-I—”

“No, I understand,” Hans interjects, his eyes fixated on the ceiling above. “You don’t have to explain yourself, Henry.”

“Yes, I do.” Pushing himself up, Henry bends over Hans’ prostrated, stiff form. One hand holds him up, pressing against the cot beside Hans’ head. “It’s a good thing I left because if I stayed, I don’t think I could resist you. This.”

Dark pupils flex in the moonlight as they gaze up at Henry’s hot face.

“Don’t get a big head,” Henry grumbles. “I’m only tired of lying to myself, is all.”

“Lying?” Hans’ voice doesn’t sound like his own. It seems to stick in his throat. “How?”

How could Henry explain? What could he say that wouldn’t send them spiraling further into places they shouldn’t? Why had Henry brought this up in the first place? All his walls have become flimsy and thin, and Hans has easily torn them apart without even intending to.

“Don’t—” A watery laugh leaks out of Hans. He swallows hard as his eyes become glassy. “Don’t break my heart, Hal. It has become tender in your absence.”

How beautiful Hans Capon is when he’s on the verge of tears. Henry’s heart twists in his chest as he watches those jeweled eyes threaten to spill over. He finds no joy in this, but Henry can’t simply ignore his feelings anymore.

He’s so fucking tired.

“I want to kiss you,” Henry whispers.

Hans swallows again, his throat clicking. “Didn’t you say we shouldn’t?”

“Yeah.” Henry chuckles weakly. “I think it’s stupid. And I’m not coming to Rattay with you.”

“But…?” The tears seem to have halted their advance, though they leave the whites of Hans’ eyes a pink color. It makes the blues stand out so distinctly.

“But I want to kiss you,” Henry repeats. His heart is beating on his tongue, stuck at the back of his mouth. “That night was… good. Too good.”

“It was,” Hans agrees with his own tremulous chuckle. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since I arrived. Kissing you made it so much worse…”

“We’ve never been very smart men, have we?”

A short laugh bursts from Hans’ chest. “No, we have not.”

Kissing Hans feels like coming home. As he cups Hans’ jaw in his free hand and tastes the sharp inhale through Hans’ parted lips, Henry gives in. Their tongues meet as Henry tilts his head to deepen their connection. He holds the bottom of Hans’ jaw, keeping his head in place as Henry feasts as a prized, noble cat might.

The heat of Hans’ hands radiates through Henry’s undershirt as he presses his palms into either side of Henry’s waist. Only a bit of pressure is needed to convince Henry to slip his leg over Hans’ hips and slot their bodies together.

“Mmh—this is such a bad idea,” Hans murmurs clumsily into Henry’s mouth. “You said—ah.”

Henry cuts him off with a pointed bite to his bottom lip. He can feel Hans’ spine arch and lift. The gasp that fans over his mouth has the needy creature that Henry once chained inside of him growling. With a gratuitous movement, he lets Hans’ lip fall from between his fangs.

“I know what I said,” Henry whispers against Hans’ silly moustache. “I know.”

A shift of his hips and their cocks are sliding alongside one another. Quiet moans fill the scant amount of space between their teeth. Henry lays both palms flat on either side of Hans’ head, bracing himself as he begins to roll his hips.

“Christ above—” Hans chokes out, hands scrambling to grip onto Henry’s waist, his hips, his arse. “What do you do to me?”

God, it feels good. Henry silently apologizes to the Lord for his blasphemy—You understand, don’t You?—as he lets his head hang between his shoulders. Even through their braies, the friction of their pricks against one another has embers of pleasure dashing up his spine.

“I feel…” Henry takes a slow breath, lifting his head just enough to meet Hans’ eyes. His hair has tumbled free of its useless knot, now catching on his quickly dampening skin. “…like I should be asking that.”

Hans’ entire face flushes a precious pink as he stares up at Henry. His hands fumble around Henry’s hips, fingertips pressing into muscle and fat. One slips down and grips the meat of Henry’s arse—he bites down on a moan, only letting out a choked whine through his tight teeth.

They can’t let the pups hear.

“You… come along, out of bloody nowhere,” Henry rasps as he presses his arse into Hans’ grip. “And mess everything up.”

“Hal, fuck.” Lids flutter as Henry finds an angle that has both of them shuddering with every pass. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean to—”

“That’s the most annoying thing about it.” Slowly, Henry lowers himself onto his forearms, allowing their noses to brush. “It’s just you.”

“I don’t understand.” Hans’ voice curls with pleasure and plea. “I’m sorry.”

Henry bites the words from Hans’ mouth, tangling a hand in that messy golden hair. Lithe hips beneath him jerk up in response, as if he’s already deep inside of Henry’s cunt.

“All you had to do—” Henry’s voice shivers as he speaks. “—was show your fucking face.” His spine curls and wet fabric drags up the stiff length of Hans’ cock. “And I folded.”

If Hans is taking in any of his words, it doesn’t show. He’s open-mouthed and lost in the feeling of Henry’s cunt through his braies, plush lips molding around Hans’ girth. But Henry can’t stop talking.

“S-Sometimes,” he whines. “I think I hate you.”

Beneath him, Hans’ hips rock upward and draw a sharp gasp from Henry’s chest. He can feel himself warming up, beginning to ache, ready to be split by Hans’ cock. All he needs to do is get these damn braies off.

“Hating you—” Henry dips his head and mouths at the vulnerable, tender skin beneath Hans’ jaw. His fangs slide against twitching muscle, making Hans’ hips jump again and sending pleasure spiking into Henry’s gut once more. “Hating you feels a lot like loving you.”

“Please.” The word bursts out of Hans’ throat. It’s a hot, needy noise that has Henry dripping. “Please, Hal. I’ll do anything—anything you ask. Use me. Just for now. Just tonight. Please.”

Henry’s fingertips only just brush the hem of his own braies when the bedroom door slams open. As if young lovers caught in a forbidden act, Hans and Henry lurch apart. Immediately, Hans turns away from the door, leg lifting to hide the tent in his underthings. Henry folds his legs up in front of him, his throbbing cunt pressed against the floor.

It’s not the pups that come running down the stairs, but Godwin. He hobbles as fast as he can, panic high and tight in his throat.

“Hans, Henry,” Godwin wheezes as his shoulder lands hard against the frame. “They’re gone.”

All the air is pulled from his lungs. Henry stares at Godwin, eyes widening. Gone? They’re gone?

He chokes on his voice. “What?”

“Anna, Heinrich. They’re gone.”

Notes:

i'm sorry for the whiplash :)

(no i'm not)

worldbuilding notes:

none this time, i think? except for the fact that divish of talmberg was technically henry's lord post-game in this universe until he died and now that his seat is up for grabs there's not really anyone doing lordly duties in the talmberg/uzhitz region (which is like uzhitz, merhojed, pribyslavitz... maybe rovna?? i actually don't know. but definitely everything to the north and east of the fortress.)

but haha yea :)

Chapter 18: XVIII :: Anna

Notes:

happy thanksgiving eve! have an extremely distressing chapter!

seriously it hurt my heart to write this one ;o; i just love my beautiful children so so much

warnings for this chapter: kids in peril and pain, mentions of vomit, panic attacks.

Anna runs.

She falls, knees scraping bloody against root and stone.

She scrambles to her feet, boots crushing fallen leaves.

Anna runs.

Tears stream down her face. They’re so cold it feels like they’ll freeze on her skin. Anna can’t stop them. She’s always hated crying. It feels so wrong. Pa said that sometimes people cry to feel better, but it never worked for Anna. She only feels worse after the hiccupping breaths and snotty inhales pass.

This is all her fault.

A sob rips out of Anna’s chest as she collides with the trunk of a grand oak tree. The knots in the wood tear at the scales on her hauberk, catching on those fine pieces of metal Pa made. She tumbles to the ground, rolling over one of the oak’s bulging roots. Pain lances up her back, forcing another gutwrenching sob out.

Heinrich, I’m so sorry.

It takes her longer to get up this time. Gloved fingers claw into the ground, dragging her aching body forward. Dirt has filled her mouth in the fall. Between hitching sobs, she spits out pebble-filled soil.

Slowly, horribly, Anna drags her body upright using the gnarled bark of the oak. She shivers with each step taken toward the edge of the forest. Unless she’s walking deeper in. Anna doesn’t know. She can barely see past the tears in her eyes.

The image of Heinrich’s bloody face and hazy eyes fills her mind, strong enough to make her stop and hunch forward. Anna barely has anything to give to the earth, but her stomach heaves anyway. Bile drips from her scalding tongue.

She—She has to get home. Heinrich saved her. Anna can’t fail him now.

Lurching forward, Anna stumbles in the direction her mind is telling her. It might not be the right one. She has nothing else to go off of. It’s too dark to see, too cold to think. Anna’s teeth chatter painfully as she half-runs, half-limps over stones and roots and bushes.

Don’t kill him. That’s what that skinny one said. Matthew’s orders.

It’s the only hope she has that Heinrich still lives. Anna clings onto that hope, tucking it into her chest next to her frantically beating heart. The rabbit that once lived there is now dashed across the stones of a deep gorge, chased by bloodthirsty wolves.

She doesn’t know what to do.

What the fuck is she going to do!?

Pa is going to be so mad. He’s going to be so, so livid that she convinced Heinrich to sneak out—because he would not have gone if she hadn’t pushed like she always does. Anna hates not getting her way. Her way has led to her best and only friend getting—hurt. He’s hurt. Alive and hurt.

Distantly, the yapping of a dog can be heard. Anna disregards it. Why should she care about some dog?

(When she was little, she would curl up with Princess and her littermates in the barn, before they all went to join other farms. Princess would be happy to be her pillow as long as she could tuck into Anna’s side and rest her head on her small shoulder.)

Another sob rattles her chest, morphing into a hacking cough. She hurts so bad. But her pain is nothing compared to Heinrich’s.

Kurva!

Heiny!

Anna whines high as she claws her way up a small embankment. The tears in her padded hose catch on stones jutting out from the edge and rip them further.

“Pa!” He’s not around. Anna doesn’t know why she’s yelling. “PA!”

Her sobs are heaving and heavy.

“I’m sorry! I’m so—so sorry!”

The ringing pain in her ankle flares as Anna trips over something. She hisses, teeth bearing as red-hot agony tears itself up her leg. She’d twisted it wrong getting away from those monsters. It’s only gotten worse.

“Pa… Please help me.” Anna buries her face into her arms and cries. It’s all she can do. She can’t run anymore. It hurts. Everything hurts and all she can do is cry.

Time becomes fuzzy. Her cries die out, all her tears having left her body. She shivers, the cold of autumn squeezing her tight. Anna can feel words leaking out from between her lips: quiet whimpers of help and prayer.

Hot wet drags across her cheek. A sharp scream leaves her, instinctive, and Anna tries to get away—

Princess’ familiar yap burns a hole through her eardrum, and Anna’s eyes open. In front of her, Princess’ stocky frame seems to span the entire world. The white of her paws has become dirty, muddy. Her tongue hangs from her mouth, dripping thick drool onto the ground. It’s really gross.

Anna doesn’t care. She shoves herself up and wraps her arms around Princess’ shoulders. The dog squirms, but doesn’t try pulling away. Anna sobs into her slick, short, warm fur while Princess barks and barks and barks.

“Good girl, Princess.” Someone’s voice. A person. A familiar person. Anna’s head is spinning. “Good fucking girl.”

The arms that scoop her up are strong and thick. Smoke fills her nose and for a moment, Anna feels like she’s burning alive. Only when Uncle Sam’s melodic mother tongue speaking comforting words breaks through the panic does Anna realize that she is safe.

Her ankle hurts. Her knees are bleeding. Stones have cut through her gloves. Her scalp aches.

“Shh, taybele. You’re alright.” Uncle Sam’s chest vibrates when he speaks. Anna pushes her face against the ragged scar that bisects his clavicle. “You’re safe. I promise, you’re safe.”

A tremulous whine shivers from between her teeth.

“It’s all my fault,” she chokes out. “It’s all my fault.”

“Try not to speak, Anna. The time for talking will come. Focus on resting.” Uncle Sam’s arms shift around her, pulling her even closer. It smells as if she’s next to a campfire, though the scent struggles to pass through her stuffed sinuses.

The vibrations of her uncle’s chest as he hums a soft melody has Anna’s body letting go, muscle by muscle. Her neck is the last to give, folding awkwardly against Uncle Sam’s chest. Thankfully, she’s not awake to feel how much it aches.

***

Stabbing, burning pain rips Anna from the void of sleep. She yips, yanking her leg away from the hurt. Dizziness sets itself upon her and Anna can’t stay upright—when had she lifted onto her elbows? Her body collapses back on the familiar, lumpy expanse of her bed.

“Easy, my lovely.” Pa? “I know it hurts. I have to set this bone for it to heal.”

Anna sniffles.

“Remember when you fell off Daisy?”

Her wrist had folded unnaturally beneath her. It hurt for weeks, but the wooden thingy Pa used to stabilize it helped. Sometimes that wrist hurts when it gets too cold.

Anna nods.

“It’ll be like that. A bit of pain until I get the splint on you.”

Anna sniffles again, her arms lifting to fold over and hide her face. A hand runs through her hair, slow and comforting.

It’s all my fault.

Something in her ankle snaps into place and Anna shrieks. Her arms lash out, knuckles catching on someone’s skin before falling limp at her sides. All up and down her leg, a throbbing ache travels. At least it’s not the awful searing stabbing from before.

Somehow, the pressure of the wood—what was it called?—splint Pa secures to her ankle feels good. Painful, but good. Secure.

“I-I’m so sorry,” she whispers. “I’m so sorry…”

“Everything is alright, birdie.”

Who…?

Anna’s lids slip open slowly. Above her bends stinky Lord Capon. There’s a red mark on his cheekbone, a fresh bruise. Did she do that? His face looks like Pa’s when she gets hurt, all tight and twisted and worried. His hand smooths back her hair.

She’s too tired to lash out at him for calling her that. For petting her. For looking at her like that.

“I-I’m sorry, L-Lord—”

“Hey, easy, love.” Capon’s thumb rubs against her temple. The throbbing in her head eases a bit when he presses firmly to the softer skin there. “Does that feel nice?”

“Mhm…”

“I bet,” Capon hums. He sounds so nice. “You were crying quite a bit, huh?”

Nevermind.

Immediately, Anna’s face twists into indignant irritation—before folding into despair. Heinrich. Heiny…

“I’m sorry,” she insists, trying to get anyone to listen to her. “I’m really, really sorry.”

“There. All wrapped up.” It feels as if there’s a weight tied to her foot. Not too heavy, but enough to bother. “Let’s take a look at that face, now.”

Pa. His head slips into view. His eyes are tight in a way that screams anger. Anna whimpers and the furrow between his brows immediately smooths.

“Aw, sweetheart,” Pa breathes as he leans over her. “My lovely. My birdie. I’m so happy you’re safe.”

In the dark warmth of her pa’s chest, Anna lets out one last warbling sob. A fresh batch of tears stains his coat, but Pa doesn’t pull away. He says something to someone. Anna’s head is too fuzzy to listen.

When she feels him beginning to let her go, Anna digs her nails into his coat where she folds her hands. Pa freezes for a moment before relaxing again… and not moving away.

“Stay,” Anna whimpers. “Please, please, please, stay.”

“Of course, my lovely. I’ll stay as long as you need me. Always.”

Consciousness is a distant friend. It comes and goes in waves, making Anna’s head spin whenever she comes to. Snippets of conversation catch when her eyes flutter open.

“You’re going now.”

“Yes, obviously, Hal. But—”

“Go, Hans.”

“Fucking listen to me.”

A weighty pause.

“Do not go into that camp alone.”

“I can’t believe—”

“Promise me. Swear to me. Give me your oath that you will not go into that camp by yourself. Please.”

Anna goes under the black water again. She sinks and sinks, dizziness making the space around her churn. She doesn’t know which way is up. Is there an up? There must be, because she gets there again.

“Do you think…?”

“He’s alive.”

“Henry, bruder, you can’t know that.”

“Heinrich is alive, Sam.”

She tries to say something, to agree with her pa. Anna twitches and spasms and tries to pull herself out the inky lake she’s caught in. The current is too strong and she’s pulled down once more. She sobs into the water, her tears disappearing before they can leave her eyes. She squirms and pumps her arms and legs. Here, her ankle doesn’t hurt but it’s not helpful. Anna can’t get anywhere when all she sees is black.

Abruptly, the room blooms into being around her. Anna sucks in a breath, lungs screaming from their sudden expansion. A big hand settles on her sternum.

“Slow breaths, my lovely.”

“Pa…” Anna pulls her eyelids open. Her actual eyes spin for a moment, unable to focus until they catch like fish hooks on Pa’s worried face. The tip of his nose is red. He’s been crying. “Don’t cry…”

“I’m fine, Anna. No need to fuss over me,” he soothes while smiling. The smile looks really strained.

“Pa…” Her whine curls at the edges without her meaning it to. A punched out breath from her Pa fans hot air over her skin. Arms wrap around her once again. “No, Pa, I-I need to—”

“It’s okay, lovely. I promise. You’re safe.”

“Wait!”

“Go back to sleep. Everything will be alri—”

“Pa!” Anna’s voice cracks like a bullwhip. “Pa, I’m sorry.”

“I know. I forgive you. I do. You’re alright.” The feeling of his hand running over her head isn’t that different from Capon’s. “I’m not mad at you. I promise.”

“No…” That’s not what she wanted. Anna’s face twists. “No, I convinced him to come with me.”

Her pa’s brows pull together. “I figured.”

“It’s not his fault,” Anna insists. “Heiny’s—It’s my fault. It’s all my fault.”

“Oh, lovely…”

Something touches her dizzy brain.

“H-He’s alive.” Anna’s eyes pop open again, this time focusing better on her pa—who looks as if he’d just been whacked by a great big stick. He stares at her, eyes wide. “Heiny. W-We… We snuck in. I-I tried to knock out that skinny fellah. He woke up and—”

The tight grip of that man’s knobbly hand around her neck. Anna shudders and swallows. It hurts when her throat moves, something she only notices at that moment somehow.

“Heiny s-saved me,” Anna whimpers, her hands lifting to brush against the place the skinny man gripped. “He saved me. And—And he got hurt.”

“How?” Pa’s firm question confuses Anna for a second. Her mind continues to orbit around itself, like the sun’s neverending journey across the sky. The words eventually collide and she sucks in a painful breath.

When Heinrich’s head hit the ground, it sounded wet. A watermelon dropped onto stone.

“H-He… He g-g-got grabbed and—” Anna tries her best to calm her heaving chest. Pa’s hand on her sternum helps a little. “H-He stabbed someone and saved me and f-f-f-fell and—”

“Breathe.” Uncle Sam? Anna tilts her head and finds her uncle sitting on a stool beside the bed. His elbows rest on his knees, hands tightly woven together. His face looks severe, but that’s just because of his scar. Maybe. “The words will come if you breathe.”

Right. Anna sucks in a stuttering breath and exhales slow. And again. And again.

“Good girl.”

“We took your s-sword,” Anna admits in a small, still slightly hitching, voice. “A-And when we got caught, Heiny tried to use it. But… It couldn’t—he couldn’t get it out of its—its thingy.”

Both men nod in near unison, unsurprised. Neither of them seem very angry or surprised. Yet.

“And… And there were these—these fellahs that tried to get me.” The hunched figures of grinning wolves loom overhead. Gnashing teeth and wide, excited eyes. Their touch burned like nettle’s sting and she felt nothing but satisfaction when she saw Heinrich sink the entire sword into that monster’s body. “Heiny saved me.”

“Of course he did,” Pa murmurs. “He’s a good lad. A true knight.”

“But—!” Anna rubs her eyes with the heels of her palms. It hurts a little, but the pain helps her focus more. “But he fell or got pushed or something when we were running.”

Silence hums a dirge around her.

“A-And the guy that got him hit his head on the ground.”

Air sucks sharply through Pa’s teeth.

“His poor nose,” Anna whimpers. “I hope he can smell still. What if he can’t? What if his nose is broken forever?”

“It won’t be.” Pa’s voice has taken on a sternness that Anna recognizes. It eases her fear. When Pa talks like that, he’s always telling the truth. “You said he was alive? Are you sure?”

“Mhm.” No, she’s not. That little flicker of hope remains lit next to her heart, however. “One of them—he’s really skinny and tall. He… Um, he was the one I tried to hurt. But he choked me when he got up.”

Sakra, what was his name? Anna remembers hearing it, but names have never been her strong suit. Even important ones like this can slip from her mind like wet soap. What was his name?

(She doesn’t see the deathly stillness in her father. Sam looks up from under his lashes and frowns. Henry is stock still, eyes locked on his pup. Both pupils are drawn in tight. Sam’s only seen that manic look once before. Erik.)

“Engel!” The name seems to pop up out of nowhere. Anna grips her Pa’s sleeve. “Engel. His name is Engel. A-And he said to not kill Heiny ‘cause some guy named Matthew said so.”

“Matthew?” Uncle Sam rumbles in curiosity.

“I would be willing to bet there’s hundreds of Matthews in the Order,” Pa points out. His lips barely move with how stiff his jaw is as he talks. “That gives us nothing. Engel is only slightly better. German?”

“Yes. Strange name for a man.” Uncle Sam rubs his jaw, fingertips running along his scar. “Not common here. Maybe in Germany or… Austria? I do not know.”

Anna deflates. She lies on the bed and stares up at the ceiling. So, it was all for nothing. This pain and hurt and Heinrich… It didn’t matter. She got no additional information, she didn’t help, she didn’t do anything.

Pressure is building in her throat. Like a rising flood, it fills her entire body with a weight that is impossible to withstand. The sensation creeps up her neck, pulling her muscles tight. When the feeling reaches her chin, it forces her jaw to tremble.

“Damn it.” Uncle Sam rubs his fingers over his eyes. “All we can hope is that Capon’s horse is fast.”

A trickle of wet leaks from the corners of Anna’s eyes. Droplets slip down her temples, catching in her hair and pooling in her ears. She tries to keep quiet. She tries not to disturb her pa and her uncle. She does her best not to choke on her sobs.

“... I don’t know,” Pa mumbles. He shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

“What?” Hand lowering to rest on the mattress, Uncle Sam narrows his pretty eyes at Pa. “No. Henry, you will not. You promised Capon. You swore.”

Anna sees her Pa’s jaw jut forward through the haze of her tears. He doesn’t reply, though, because he turns his attention to Anna and startles when he sees her red, pinched face.

“Anna?” Tears are quickly wiped away by firm fingers, palms cupping her cheeks. “Lovely, why are you crying?”

“It’s my fault,” she squeaks out through her stiff throat. “It’s all my fault. A-And nothing—It…” Her breath hitches and a true sob escapes. “I failed and I hurt Heiny and I couldn’t help and—and—!”

As she cries, Pa’s forehead comes to rest on her own. Curls of brown hair fall around them like a thin veil. His scent fills her entire body, her face, her mouth. Anna sucks in a breath and chokes on her guilt.

“No more of that,” Henry whispers. “No more blaming yourself.”

“It’s true!”

Pa has nothing to say to that. He tucks Anna close and runs his fingers through her hair, careful of the torn skin where men pulled too hard.

And Anna cries.

She hasn’t ever cried like this.

Great, heaving sobs that wet her mouth and make her eyes hurt. But she can’t stop them. Every time she tries to breathe, her chest hitches and causes another wave of tears.

It’s all her fault.

Heinrich might be dead and it’s all her fault.

They could have just gone, left for Heiny’s city and been safe but—no, Anna had to prove that she was strong and smart and helpful and—

In the end, all she proved is that she is a curse on those she loves.

“It kills me to see you like this,” her pa whispers against the very top of her head. “Everything’s going to be alright.”

“No it’s not,” she groans. “H-Heiny mmmight’ve died an’ it’s all my fault.”

“He’s not dead.” Her pa’s big hands smooth comforting circuits on her back, sliding up to scent her at her neck before circling down again. “If the leader doesn’t want him dead, he won’t be dead.”

“How do you know…?”

Pa takes his time answering. His hot breath fans over Anna’s hair and face. Anna tries not to be comforted by it, spiteful and proud. Yet, she can’t help but sink into her Pa’s all-encompassing succor.

“I have met many bandits over the years,” he begins. “Men who were fighting for good reasons and bad. Those who were simply trying to survive.”

Anna can feel his voice through his chest. In her own chest, a small rumble begins. A purr.

“And while they are unpredictable and dangerous, they are also men.” Pa’s hand wraps around the back of Anna’s neck, palm cupping her head. For some reason, his breath catches before he continues to speak. “Men are desperate for guidance. They listen to leaders—or become leaders themselves. Everyone wants to know what they should do. Some can’t function otherwise.”

Darkness is threatening to pull her under again. Except, this feels different. Where before there was ink-thick water drowning her, now there’s a thick down blanket wrapping around her. Comfort swells to engulf her, even as Anna struggles to listen to her Pa.

“So, while I can’t be sure…” Pa’s cheek rests against Anna’s temple. The pressure is really nice. “I believe he’s still alive because I know men. Everything will be alright, my lovely.”

“Pa…” It feels as if her tongue weighs as much as a boulder.

“Everything will be alright. I’ll fix it. I promise.”

Notes:

there's going to a be a surprise next chapter :) i can't waaait for saturday.

worldbuilding notes:

on purring: while anna hasn't presented yet (and might not for a little; it's kind of like puberty so super subjective) her body is already physically an omega's. she just doesn't have the hormones churning around in her yet. so, she can purr. bc it's cute.

Chapter 19: IXX :: Engel

Notes:

:) hehe :)

i told you that we'd be learning more about engel

(also this chapter is the longest so far lol)

the chapter warnings are under a spoiler tag for this one, just in case no one wants to get spoiled for what's about to happen. but pls, just be aware there are massive amounts of period typical bigotry of all kinds in this one. there's also a fade to black non-con scene, but there are no details of the actual act.

warnings for this chapter (click here!)

major transphobia (toward engel), major sexism (also toward engel), implied/referenced sexual assault (not in detail), threats of sexual assault (unfortunately in detail), children in peril and pain, extreme violence and blood, religious zealotry, stupid fuckin dudes who need to get kicked in the balls

“You said you wanted Henry of Skalitz.” Engel’s voice has been rubbed raw over the past day. It comes out rough. Hoarse. He has to swallow before continuing to speak. “This is Henry of Skalitz’s former lord’s son.”

Matthew looks utterly bored. The svelte weasel of a man has draped himself over the veritable throne he’s made of some abandoned pew. They found it on their journey here and Matthew has refused to let it go.

“If I’m getting my history correct,” drawls Matthew in his raspy, snide voice. “Henry of Skalitz left Lord Capon’s retinue twelve years ago. Why in the world would that whore care about some pup from a lord he served for, what, four months?”

Easy on, mein Engel. His father murmurs in his son’s angry ears as his low purr fills Engel’s memory. Breathe.

“In all this history you’ve studied, the rumors surrounding them never came up?” Engel detests having to air a man’s business like this. His orders are absolute, however.

Matthew rolls his dirt-colored eyes. “What rumors?”

“It’s a bit suspect that Henry leaves Lord Capon’s command, goes off to some small farming village, and a blonde baby suddenly appears. Knowing what we do of Henry’s secondary gender, there’s no doubt in my mind that pup is his. And Capon’s.”

It baffles Engel to this day that a man so stupid can become so powerful. All Matthew cares about is what’s in front of him in relation to the end result. Everything else? That’s Engel’s problem.

“So he popped out some lord’s bastard.” Matthew groans and slumps further into his broken pew, draped along the side where the arm is still attached. “Engel. Get to the point.”

“Henry cares about this pup.”

“And why does that mean we keep the little shit alive?”

Engel had been lucky. Well, lucky and smart. Asher had been intent on killing that child. Engel’s lie was the only thing that stopped him—and Matthew’s appreciation towards his cunt is the only thing that saved Engel.

Pressing his fingers against his eyes, Engel tries not to scream bloody fucking murder. He mutters harshly under his breath in his mother tongue, knowing Matthew doesn't know German and doesn’t care about understanding him.

“Because if he’s alive, then we can have something to trade. Henry for the young Lord Capon.” The dull look in Matthew’s eyes tells Engel he’s not connecting—willingly or otherwise. “Look, I was ordered to get Henry of Skalitz. I will get Henry of Skalitz. But you have to trust me.”

The mere notion of trust has Matthew’s hollow cheeks pulling in even further. Distaste is painted in broad, obvious strokes across his ratlike visage. Engel knows he was taking a chance by saying that. Matthew only truly trusts one single man—and that man is certainly not Engel. But, he knows Matthew has a talent in securing loyalty. This fucking pack of sickly wolves is proof enough.

Matthew knows that having people on his side is better than having enemies. And he knows damn well that he doesn’t want Engel as an enemy unless he wants to find his tongue hanging down his cadaverous chest.

“Fine.” Like a petulant child, Matthew groans. “Do what you will. As long as it gets me that bitch, I don’t care.”

Of course he cares. He was the fucking one to exasperate Engel’s plan of announcing a crusade. He’s the fucking one who slit the bailiff’s throat for no fucking reason.

Perhaps he’d just been having fun—or he thought Engel wasn’t working hard enough. Going far enough. And the cunt rarely confers with Engel about any changes to their strategy. Why would he? Engel is only an iniquitous deviant with a decent brain in his skull. His opinion doesn’t truly matter in the end. And it certainly doesn’t outweigh Matthew’s own.

“Off you go,” Matthew dismisses with a flick of his fingers. “You’re the one that will keep that leech alive. No one else will help.”

“Fine.” Engel turns on his heel and stalks toward the flap of Matthew’s tent. He’s stopped short by a pointed ahem. Cursing in the privacy of his own mind, Engel turns again to look at his commander. “Yes?”

“Your conduct has become poor.” Matthew sneers, upper lip twitching. The tent fills with sulfuric disdain. “If you don’t start showing me the respect I deserve given to me by the will of God, so help me you will be in a collar by the end of this task.”

Engel’s stomach twists in barely contained rage. Fotze. “Aye, sir.”

“Begone. Return when everyone beds down.” A spark dances in Matthew’s eye. “Your loyalty will be tested, dearest Engeltrude.”

God has commanded you to follow his word. God’s will is absolute. God has a plan, even if that plan is fucking awful and horrible and makes you want to take the coward’s way out just for some fucking sleep.

Instead of saying any of that, Engel simply bobs his head and says, “Aye, sir.”

He shoves his way out of the tent. Men dally around, looking as bored as ever even with the dead laid to rest and the small murderer now stashed away like a bag of rotten grain. Engel supposes he should be glad of that. Having any of these men become interested in young Capon would mean the end of that boy’s humanity.

Engel makes his way through the camp, doing his best to mask his lingering fury. It doesn’t work. Every soldier he passes glances his way, the whites of their eyes flashing as they look without turning their heads. As if they were to look directly at him, Engel would strike them down somehow. Shit, he just might with how rancid his mood is.

Only one dares to look at him directly.

“Matthew finally tell you to get rid of this little prick?” Asher’s bawdy voice fills the air in front of the cage young Capon has been stored inside. The cage is large enough for one adult man, so the pup fits easily. “I’m gettin’ sick of looking at his mug.”

Asher stands beside the cage in a poor facsimile of guarding. He stands taller than the cage itself, broad shoulders nearly spanning the width. He’s a big bastard from the north, across the sea, who came to join the Order for the women and money—despite the women being strictly pure and the money being rare. Bitterness drives him. Engel loathes him.

“No, we are keeping the pup alive.” Engel breezes by Asher as he speaks, not daring to slow. “Now, fuck off if you please.”

The cage rattles as Engel is shoved against the side. His hands catch the bars automatically—a movement he regrets when Asher pins him to those same bars. His arms are locked into place, shoulders unable to reach any further back and hands unable to release or slide down roughly hewn iron.

Engel wills his heart to slow. There’s no use in panicking.

“You’re tellin’ me to fuck off?” Asher’s shit stink is making Engel nauseated. “You ungrateful, filthy fuckin’ doxy.”

The fact that Asher knows the primary gender he was born with has Engel’s skin crawling. Whenever he’s reminded of that unsavory fact, Engel wants to gouge the fucker’s eyes out of his skull for ever having set them upon Engel’s body without his permission.

“Get off me,” Engel growls from deep in his chest. “Or I will rip your balls from your disgusting cock.”

Asher’s body shifts behind him. Engel’s stomach sinks as he hears fabric hiss against itself.

“Disgustin’ cock, I’ll show you disgustin’—“

“Your name is Engel… Right?”

They both freeze like deer in torchlight. Engel looks down and finds hazy sapphire eyes looking up at him. Young Capon’s pupils flex as if trying to focus. Engel’s relieved to see they stay the same size, at least. He knows how to kill, not how to heal.

“Fuck this.” Asher shoves Engel hard into the cage before stalking off. It jars the entire structure, knocking Engel into the unrelenting metal.

He slowly lets out his held breath. Some bruises on his chest are nothing new. Easy enough to deal with.

“Ah, yes.” Looking down at young Capon, Engel sees the pup wobble in place and struggle to keep his eyes on him. “How…?”

“We saw you,” the boy admits in a small voice. This words slur slightly as he speaks. “Me an’ my sissster…”

Sister. The girl that tried to bludgeon him. Anna. Henry of Skalitz’s pup.

Sister.

Fuck, Engel hates it when he’s right.

“That was your sister?” Slowly, Engel lowers himself into a squat before the cage. His back screams at him. “What’s your name?”

Heinrich Capon. Engel would rather hear it from the source, however.

Only, Heinrich doesn’t say a word. He continues to stare at Engel. It looks as if he’s trying to say something. His lips open and close and pull taut. His slow blinks are telling—and a bit scary if Engel was willing to be truthful to himself.

Seeing this boy die would be a damn shame. A useless death in a stupid, useless crusade.

“It’s alright. You don’t have to talk.” Engel puts his hands through the bars. “You’re a noble, yes? Maybe you’ve seen some of this…”

His fingers shift into familiar shapes, hands tapping together and individual fingers folding. While Engel knows the unspoken language of the Benedictine Church isn’t universal, there are some similarities between parishes and many nobles find it to be “thrilling” to learn. Maybe it’s enough to jog a bit of the boy’s memory?

Unfortunately, Heinrich only looks mildly puzzled and perhaps a bit intrigued.

“Wh’s that?” Heinrich mumbles. “Is… um… monk…?”

“Aye. Monks and nuns learn it to communicate during vows of silence.” Engel retrieves his hands and wraps them around the bars again. “Some nobles as well. I figured it might be easier that way.”

Heinrich’s brows come together in adorable confusion. “Y’r a monk…?”

“I was.” A nun. Semantics. “Found a different calling.”

“Stupid callin’…”

Engel has to bite on his lips to keep his hysterical giggle from escaping. He quite agrees. To bad he’s fucking stuck.

“Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

Heinrich vomits.

“Wha—Scheiße.” Looking around, Engel can only see some poor sod’s blanket on a cot. Good enough. He grabs it and pushes it through the bars. Matthew still has the fucking key and Engel hadn’t thought to get it from him. “I can’t open this door to help, I’m sorry.”

Heinrich looks as if he’s kicked a puppy as he soaks the mess up using the blanket. Shame and embarrassment are so obvious and heartbreaking on that sweet face.

“Do you feel like you have to vomit again?” Engel asks, brows pulling together in concern.

Slowly, Heinrich shakes his head—and wobbles in place once again. He nearly topples, but manages to catch himself with a hand on the wooden base of the cage.

“Careful.” Engel’s seen plenty of head wounds that have led to dizziness, vomiting, death. Heinrich doesn't look that far gone, but nerves still churn in Engel’s belly. Things can go bad very quickly. “I’m going to get you some water. If we have any.”

If they didn’t, Engel would have to get some himself. Dragging buckets around has never been his favorite pastime. It’s not like the pup can get it himself, though.

“Push the blanket out of the cage when you’re done. Don’t worry about getting it dirty.” Both knees pop as Engel levers himself into a standing position. He grimaces. “I’ll be right back.”

***

Heinrich offers little else in way of conversation. He doesn’t vomit again, which is good. He also has abrupt, powerful dizzy spells while sitting on steady ground, which is bad. Engel’s able to give him some water to wash with and cold bits of linen to wet and place on his face. That always helped Engel and his headaches during his monthly flewsa. He figures it’s more or less the same here.

Soon, however, there’s no reason for Engel to linger any longer. He breathes out slow as he watches Heinrich curl up tight on his (new and clean) blanket and drift to sleep. He’ll have to come check on the pup later—and hope the boy isn’t angry with him waking him up too often.

Returning to the main portion of the camp is like walking into Purgatory. Thoughtless, aimless knights busy themselves with inane tasks to keep their hands busy. Engel knows they’re horribly bored. He also knows that they’d gladly tear innocent women and children apart if they were allowed. Makes it a bit difficult to feel sympathetic.

When he comes close to Matthew’s tent, Engel’s heart drops at the voices he hears within.

“They’re bored, Matthew. Give ‘em somethin’ to fight for,” Fritz says in his annoying, nasal squeak. He always sounds as if he’s about to sneeze. “Er, or just fight.”

“Why the fuck are people assuming they know better than me today?” Matthew is peeved. Somewhat. Not nearly as much as he would be with Engel. But this is Fritz—his best man. Matthew can’t ever be mad at him for long. “Whatever, Fritz. At this point, I don’t give a damn. Go pillaging all you want, I only require—“

“Bloody Henry. Aye, I know.” Fritz sighs, his glottis flapping. “This fuckin’ obsession with him is gonna kill ya.”

“Sigismund is going to kill me regardless, remember?”

Right. Because all of this is to save his own arse. When Matthew told Engel about his plan to offer this Henry of Skalitz to Emperor Sigismund, Engel had been a bit… baffled. How could one man, one omega, pardon a band of traitorous robber knights?

But Matthew is sure. And he’s the one wielding the authority here. To disobey would mean death or, worse, returning to the State. Engel knows this is the better option, though he’s not happy about it.

“Fuck Sigismund,” whines Fritz. “Why don’t we go off an’ find our own way? Like old times?”

Silence rings like a struck bell.

“You’re suggesting that I abandon my holy duty? I abandon God? Have you finally lost your mind, you pig?”

Fritz groans. “God don’t give a shit about you!”

“You shut your fucking mouth!”

Engel runs a hand through his curls. His fingers catch on small knots, but easily work themselves free. Fritz has a special way of riling Matthew up. He knows exactly what buttons to press. It never comes back on him, no. Engel’s stomach clenches, already bracing for tonight.

The two continue bickering about who exactly God favors and how Fritz should be fighting for the Lord and not money or glory. Preposterous. God’s all well and good, but a man needs to eat. He needs to be recognized. If it’s only God keeping them motivated, they’ll eventually fall. That’s what the fucking State didn’t realize until it was too late. They rested on false, holy laurels and ended up with their crops burned and their people turned to loose meat to feed bloodthirsty Poles.

“Get out!” Matthew’s voice is loud enough that it catches a nearby knight’s attention. They glance up—and look back down when they see Engel glaring at them. “Get the fuck out! And get Engel!”

“Christ,” Fritz bemoans. Engel can feel the way he rolls his eyes. “You an’ God. You an’ Engel. When’re you gonna get over yourself? We could be gone by now. Gotten rich, even!”

“I will not abandon my men to be cannibalized by that royal prick. And I will not abandon the word of God for mere silver. I thought you knew that.”

“Knowin’ and agreein’ are two different things.”

“Just—get out.” Exhaustion colors Matthew’s raspy tone. “And I was serious: get Engel. He’s taking care of the stupid little cunt who killed Jonah.”

“Wha? Why’s he doin’ that?”

“Because he’s a woman playing at men’s games, why do you think?”

“Bit rude…”

“Fuck off, Fritz!”

Engel doesn’t move from his position beside the tent flap when Fritz walks out with his hands up. The bear of a man looks as stupid as ever squeezed into barely-fitting armor and sporting a strange hairstyle only celtic tribes would dare to have. The sides of his head are shiny with sweat and it dampens the veritable horse mane of hair he impeccably maintains.

“Oh.” Fritz’s beady pig's eyes catches sight of Engel easily enough. “Hiya.”

“Afternoon.”

“Bet you heard all’a that, huh?”

“Hard not to.” Engel doesn’t dislike Fritz any more than he dislikes the Order at large. As in, he only respects them enough to not get brutally raped, tortured, and killed before being strung up as an example. “Did you have to piss him off?”

“Sorry ‘bout that.” To Engel’s irritation, Fritz genuinely looks apologetic as he scrubs a meaty paw through his hair. “Jus’ can’t stand him sometimes.”

“You and me both, my friend.” If Engel spits the words out like venom, Fritz doesn’t seem to mind. Or care. Or even know that Engel’s certainly not calling him a friend. “What are you planning on doing next, then?”

“Iunno.” Massive arms cross over an equally massive chest. “I’m gettin’ sick of seein’ that village all nice an’ tucked away.”

Figures.

“Have fun causing horrific pain to innocent farmers, then. God will look upon you with pride, I’m sure.”

Before Fritz can respond—most likely to defend himself—Engel shoulders past him and into the tent. Matthew sits at the far end, arse planted on his bed and his hands gripping his skull.

“You look stressed,” Engel states with no care at all in his tone. “Fritz get to you again?”

“I know you heard everything, you sneaky cunt.” For a moment, Matthew simply squeezes his head as if trying to rid the mutilated meat inside of all his dark thoughts. Then, he lets himself go to look up at Engel. “You’re always sticking your nose where it don’t belong.”

(It’s a bit funny. Matthew talks all high and mighty and posh with every other knight, yet his country twang comes out in private. Engel feels horrifically special.)

Both of Engel’s hands splay in the air in sarcastic defense. As weak as it is, it’s the only shield he has. “Does that surprise you?”

“No. It pisses me the fuck off.”

“Fair.”

“Come here.”

There’s a series of checks Engel goes through before nights like these. All of them are done internally, secreted away from any prying eyes. Over his life, Engel has gotten good at simply turning off his mind. Not entirely. Not so much that he is nothing but a limp vessel. But enough that when the next morning comes, most memory of the night before is gone with only the wounds on his body to prove it even happened.

Stiffening his spine, Engel takes a deep breath and crosses the tent. He slips around the center table, not bothering to look at the countless papers and maps strewn about it. They’ve long since been memorized. Only a couple of strides are needed to come to a stop directly in front of his commander.

“You always look like you’re arriving at a funeral,” Matthew comments. “A smile wouldn’t fucking hurt.”

“Is that what you want?” Engel shifts his weight and places a hand on his hip. His white and black waffenrock catches on his gloves. “For me to be enthusiastic? Obedient? Willing?”

Matthew groans in pure irritation. “And you’re always so fucking dramatic. You’d be better off on a stage in fucking Rome.”

Engel opens his mouth to reply, but Matthew’s next words strike through his throat, pinning his words in place.

“Then again, that’s not woman's work, is it?” A horrible sneering smile pulls over Matthew’s face as he stands. Despite Engel’s God-given height, the prick still stands a head over him. Why must all these monsters be so big? “I don’t know why I keep your arse around sometimes.”

Real fear flutters at the base of Engel’s gut. He refuses to let it show. Not in front of this fucker.

“I should just tell the rest of ‘em. Not like you can get away. I’d keep you as my toy, I think. I’m good at sharing, see. I know your loose, wet gash would raise morale.”

Only three people know of Engel’s past and his original gender: Matthew, Fritz, and Asher. He would have hoped for no one to know, but that is as unrealistic as it is impossible. Quick thinking and his skill with a hunting knife convinced Matthew and Asher to keep quiet. Fritz wouldn’t even think to tell anyone, the moron.

But Engel knows his luck will run out.

He just hopes it’s not until his duty is done and he has a chance to run.

“Yeah,” Matthew growls. His fangs have slid down over yellowed teeth. The scent of sulfur oozes off of him. Engel has to close his mouth to keep from gagging. “That’s the face I want to see.”

No words come to Engel’s tight lips.

“That pup dead yet?” Matthew is so close that every word has eggs rotting beneath Engel’s nose. His body wants to collapse. Submit. Save itself from the wrath of the crude alpha looming over them.

“No,” Engel grits out. “I need the key to his cage.”

“Like fuck am I giving that to you.”

“What?” Confusion cuts through the revulsion. “Why not? How am I supposed to feed him?”

“Figure it out. You’re the smart one.”

Engel’s thighs hit the edge of the table. He hadn’t even registered that he’s been moving in an effort to keep his distance.

Both of Matthew’s hands press onto the wood tabletop, effectively boxing Engel in.

“Though, there is a way you could get it.”

Engel grimaces and closes his eyes against the growing urge to vomit filling his throat. After a heavy swallow, he chokes out, “What do I need to do, sir?”

“Nothing too big.” Lean hips shove between Engel’s knees. “Just be a good girl for me.”

***

It’s deep into night when Engel is set free from that hellish tent. Matthew had whined at him to stay, as if they were lovers. The look Engel shot him over his shoulder was enough to shut the fucker up.

Now, Engel slips through the camp on silent feet. His linen undershirt barely covers the bloody marks beneath, and his normal binding had been ripped to shreds. Engel has never had a very large chest, at least. A lazy hunch prevents his traitorous breasts from showing.

His feet are bare and the only things he wears on his lower half are a pair of braies—thankfully not stained. Yet. Engel can feel that changing with every step.

What a fucking monster.

One day, Engel is going to gut Matthew and squeeze his intestines until they pop.

He’s not really sure where he’s going until he arrives at the cage. Heinrich splays across his blanket. Engel meant to come earlier to check on him, but the wide-armed, childlike pose the boy is in is good. It means he’s been able to move in his sleep—something that permanently altered men cannot.

Slowly, slowly, Engel settles onto the ground in front of the cage. His hips and back scream. It’s an oddly comforting feeling. If he’s in pain, he’s alive.

As Engel watches the boy sleep, he thinks. It’s not that he likes children in particular. They don’t mean much to him at all. He knew from the moment he had an independent mind that there would be no pups of his on this Earth. No need to create more bad blood.

If the child had been older, Engel would have suggested the same thing. It enflames Engel’s already scant patience to know that Matthew thinks he only wants to save the pup because he’s a pup… rather than another living, breathing, thinking, innocent being deserving of life.

That makes him weak, though. He’s been told as much since he wriggled his way into the Order. His kindness, his soft heart, is going to get him killed at the hand of those he tries to protect.

It wouldn’t be the worst way to go.

Caught up in his thoughts, Engel doesn’t notice Heinrich shifting until a soft moan of pain catches his ear.

“Ow…” Heinrich gingerly rubs his eyes. They’re both horribly blackened. “Engel…?”

The fact that this boy and his sister had been watching them without anyone in the camp knowing is more than a little impressive. He idly wonders when they had an opportunity to follow them. Perhaps when he and Jonah and Asher were out cleaning up Fritz’s messes. Like cleaning a dog’s shit from the road.

“I’m here.” Lord, his voice sounds awful. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired…” Heinrich rubs his eyes again. There’s a fresh smear of red blood in his pretty sunset-colored waves. One of his head wounds must have opened slightly. “Why… What…?”

Engel can’t even imagine how difficult it must be for Heinrich to do something as simple as thinking. He’s hit his head once before—a Pole landing a lucky hit on his helmet that then rang the damn thing like a church bell. The amount of blood that came from his head that day was too much. Blood’s never been on Engel’s list of favorite liquids.

What the fuck is he thinking? Did getting fucked by Matthew really stir his mind up that badly?

“Why… ‘m I alive?”

The whimpered question has Engel freezing in place. That’s an interesting thing to ask. How old is this one again? Younger than twelve. How he’s connecting dots through his injury is beyond Engel.

“The leader of this group needs you alive.” A lie wrapped around the truth. Matthew would rather eat Heinrich for dinner and shit him out for fertilizer. “You are an important part of our coming plan.”

Heinrich is visibly, desperately trying to focus. His hands—torn from falling and grasping that monstrous longsword—cup his cheeks to hold his head in place. Engel doubts it helps much. The unsteadiness comes from within, after all.

“Important part?” The boy squints at Engel. “Why’re you bein’ so nice?”

“I don’t particularly wish to see you dead.” If Engel never had to see the face of a dead man again, he’d be more than happy. Such his duty and life. “You have been put in the middle of a mess you aren’t a part of. Having you killed would be pointless.”

“But… I snuck here,” Heinrich mutters. “With Anna… we didn’t tell our pa’s…”

The more Heinrich speaks, the more intrigued Engel becomes. He wonders if it’s the head injury or natural habit that makes Heinrich use such low class terms.

“I’m sure they’re looking for you as we speak.”

“Do they… they even kn—know I’m al’ve?” A subtle stammer interrupts slurring words. “Wha’ if… what if they never—“

“Calm yourself. Whether or not they find you, you’re going to be reunited with your father eventually.” Engel will make sure it happens—and he needs to convince Capon to not bother looking for his former squire when he disappears.

“Really?” Dubiousness squishes Heinrich’s face cutely—an action the lad immediately regrets when it jostles his angry, broken nose. “Ow…”

“I’m sure that hurts,” Engel hums in sympathy. “I’m sorry it turned out like this.”

“… Why?” Heinrich’s eyes are becoming fuzzier by the second. “You’re… bandit? Knight… person.”

“Believe me, I’d rather just be Engel than any of those things.”

He’s not sure if Heinrich hears him. The boy is already slumped back against his blankets and blissfully asleep.

Well, at least his mind is intact. Woozy, but there. Engel has the key to the cage now, but he still has to figured out how to take care of the boy… An annoying challenge for one whose hands are so stained. Engel continues to sit there for a handful of breaths, his hand propping up his head as he watches Heinrich’s little chest rise and fall.

There haven’t been animals around the campsite for days, now. The commotion and the fact that Michael can’t aim a bow for shit has chased them off.

What just passed through the trees?

Engel turns his head and peers at the forest. Flickering torches have been set up around the camp, allowing some visibility past the boundary. Not very much. And not very helpful in this case.

Getting to his feet is so much worse than sitting. Engel presses his hand to the base of his spine, urging it to stop throbbing like it’s never been abused before. When he walks, he wobbles, and Engel’s just happy most of the men are asleep and none the wiser of Engel’s vulnerability.

Shuffling to the main campsite, Engel looks around. Cots are filled, torch lights low. His brethren are doing as he thought and the same as he should be: sleeping. No one moves, not even in the pitch of the forest.

Sighing, Engel makes his way to his lean-to. It’s the smallest one, furthest away from the main tent. Both of his own choice. A smaller footprint means less to protect.

And there’s no surprise why he’d want to be far, far from Matthew on a daily basis.

“Verdammter Mistkerl,” Engel mutters as he shuffles to his cot. “Eines Tages werde ich—”

The sound of a man’s throat being cut catches the edge of his hearing. The drag and choked exhale that comes from death. It’s not nearly loud enough to catch anyone else’s attention as they sleep.

Engel spins around, all body aches and irritation gone. There, beyond the fire, a shadow hunches over Sir Aldo—one of the deeper sleepers in their pack. To his ultimate detriment, it seems.

Engel doesn’t move right away. He watches that shadow shift over Aldo—confirming its kill?—before the great, hulking shape begins to slink to another lean-to. This one, Asher lies in.

Oh, it does pass through his mind to allow this assassin his blood. The world with one less Asher in it would be better off. But Engel knows that if this person tries to kill every knight in this camp in that same way… Well, needless to say Engel can’t let him succeed.

Beside Engel’s cot is a Cuman shashka, stoutly bladed and impossibly sharp. His hand finds the handle like an old friend.

Crossing the camp, Engel doesn’t bother to keep his footsteps light. He can see the moment the shadow hears him—the way it twitches and jolts for the darkness. A shine of eyes catching the campfire is the only thing that betrays this thing’s humanity.

Before it can slip away, Engel pulls his hand back and throws his sword. The sound of it passing through the air is sharp with intent. When the blade bites into the dark cloak and pins it to the dirt, Engel can’t help but let out a pleased laugh.

“Where do you think you’re going, kleiner Schatten?” he asks, voice low but not low enough.

Asher wakes with an echoing snort, confusion fresh on his stupid face. Sleep-heavy eyes catch on Engel for just a moment before turning to spot the shadow beside him.

“Motherfucker!”

Movement explodes with the force of a lit black powder keg. Asher launches from his cot and takes the shadow down with a roar. The would-be assassin, surprisingly, holds his own against the stampeding bull he’s fighting against.

A massive crack of bone rings through the camp, drawing a yowl of angry pain from Asher as his head is forcibly knocked away. With the shashka pinning his cloak to the ground, the intruder has no choice but to wriggle out of the mantle.

Tall. Square-jawed. Brown, wavy hair. Ocean blue in his downturned eyes. A brow that could fell God. The scent of sage and marigold in his wake.

Fuck.

“Henry of Skalitz!” Engel bellows as he runs to join the fray. “Surrender at once!”

Henry spins on his heel, away from Asher’s body as he writhes on the ground, holding his broken face. Those eyes are their own kind of weapon as they slice through the air and cut deep into Engel’s chest.

Fangs flash. A low rumble echoes through the campsite.

“You.”

Little old me? Engel only has time to grab his sword before he’s beset upon by a very angry and very strong omega.

The yelp that spills out of him is as unintentional as it is embarrassing. Engel hisses as his back strikes the ground and slides, pressed into the ground by Henry’s significant weight. All the effort of grabbing his sword was for naught as it flies out of his hand at the sheer force he’s tackled with.

A snarl rips from his teeth as broad-fingered, scarred hands wrap around his throat.

“Let go!” Engel barks. The meat of his palm catches Henry’s jaw as he snaps it upward. Blood splatters on his face—a bitten cheek or tongue. “Get your fucking hands off me!”

The strike that met Henry’s face doesn’t shift the beast at all. He rolls with it, hissing in pain but not allowing it to prevent him from his goal: strangling Engel to death.

Fangs flash between lifted lips. “Is that what my pup said when you choked her? Didn’t listen then, huh?”

“I didn’t—” Engel can feel his breath turning thin as both of Henry’s hands tighten around his throat. Any movement, any kick, any hit is brushed off. As if Engel’s attacks are nothing but bites from a particularly irritating bug. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Fuck you.” Stars explode behind Engel’s eyes as his head is slammed against the ground. “Don’t fuck with me, Engel.”

Amazing. He so loves it when complete strangers know his name.

Both of Engel’s hands lift to grasp onto Henry’s forearms. Where black leather gloves end, fabric begins. There’s no place for him to dig his nails in, not here. Desperate and light-headed, Engel reaches up and claws his nails along Henry’s face. Blood erupts from where keratin bites skin, raining onto Engel’s face.

“Shit—” Henry jerks back, hands loosening.

Blood beneath his nails and defensive anger hot in his chest, Engel knocks Henry’s hands off of him entirely and rams his knuckles directly into his throat. More blood sprays from between Henry’s teeth, and the beast of a man finally staggers off of Engel entirely as he coughs hard enough to rip his throat.

He doesn’t give Henry a moment to recover. Engel’s shoulder rams into Henry’s gut, shoving up towards his lungs and forward. With no air in his chest and his throat refusing to work, Henry has no option but to fall back—beneath Engel’s heaving body.

Both knees dig hard into Henry’s arms, all of Engel’s weight pinning him to the dirt. One of his hands is wrapped in that stupid, long hair. The other is grabbing Henry’s jaw, forcing his teeth shut.

A horrible, chest-rattling cough shudders from Engel’s mouth. It feels as if tiny pins are poking his eyes and his throat. Another cough has copper-tinted phlegm filling his mouth. Engel tilts his head to spit it out. In Asher’s cot’s direction, of course.

“You’re strong for an old man,” Engel snarls through wheezing breaths. “Sneaky, too. If I hadn’t spotted you, who knows how many more you would’ve gotten?”

Fear and rage stinks like the inside of a collapsing mine. It stabs Engel through his sinuses, making his already dizzy head even more unstable. The only things keeping him up are his knees on the bend of Henry’s arms and the hand in his hair. If he were to let go now—to lose focus—Engel knows he’d be in the dirt, hacking up a lung and trying not to faint.

“Engel!”

Fucking Matthew has the gall to sound worried. Engel’s eyes close against the fury inside. Steady on, mein Engel. He opens them again and finds Matthew jogging toward them, Fritz at his side.

“Christ, what the fuck—shit.” Matthew’s words and feet come to a complete stop when he sees just who is pinned beneath Engel’s shivering body. A dangerous, feral edge comes to his eye, one that has even Engel’s belly clenching in fear. His snarl holds undeserved victory. “Henry.”

Henry, on the other hand, looks as if he’s seen the dead come to life. Two ragged wounds scrape down his face, forcing one eye closed to keep the blood from pouring into it. Blood flecks on surprise-softened lips.

“Fritz?” he breathes, sounding more like a lost pup than the powerful omega that nearly took Engel out. “Matthew?”

Notes:

ahaha...

worldbuilding notes:

on engel's gender: a ton of queer people back in ye olden times were carted off to monasteries and convents to rid them of their "sins" and teach them how to be good god-fearing lil freaks. engel (née engeltrude) has been... well, at the very least nonbinary ever since he was born. when he got found out, he was shoved into a st benedictine convent that he eventually escaped and went to the order for lack of anywhere else he could go. he hid his afab-ness from everyone there before matthew found out and... well. took advantage of it.

so, basically, engel says "fuck gender and fuck you"

st benedictine's sign language: it's true! one of the first structured sign languages in known history was in benedictine churches for the monks and nuns to communicate while taking vows of silence. nobles did also learn it, but more for novelty than necessity and it was pretty rare. and while it was structured, it definitely is nothing like sign today where there are reliable dictionaries depending on dialect. it was very loosey goosey.

on matthew and fritz: if ur not aware of who these two are: they are from the first game. they're old childhood friends of henry who constantly take advantage of his kindness to get money. and constantly fail. they can die in the first game, but they don't in this universe.

hahha :) surprise. i was rly debating for a while who should be running this whole operation. i first thought of erik but then i thought of/wrote his Extremely tragic ending and i loved it too much. but then i thought abt matthew and fritz who have been conning ppl and fucking up ppl's lives ever since skalitz. now imagine they survived kcd1 (but didn't move to prybislavitz) got extremely hurt and matthew became obsessed with god :)))) here u go.

on robber knights: with the order's state falling to pieces, i imagine matthew took his squad of knights (and engel) and ran for the fuckin hills while killing whoever they needed to along the way. then, as matthew does, he came up with this whack-a-doodle idea of capturing henry and selling him to sigismund as a show of good faith and loyalty. will it work? who tf knows lol

on henry: don't be mad at him :(

Chapter 20: XX :: Heinrich

Notes:

i hope yall enjoyed that engel chapter and the erik sidestory i posted yesterday :)

here's some more sad shit

(also, i've been sick since thanksgiving so apologies if there are any glaring mistakes sjdkgh)

warnings for this chapter: children in peril, lots of blood, referenced/implied sex slavery and sexual assault, nonconsensual shaving, heinrich having a concussion and being like 😢❓❓❓ for the entire chapter.

Heinrich is woken up by a loud shout.

“Motherfucker!”

He jolts out of sleep, body lurching further to try and stabilize as he overbalances. There’s no relief to the world’s yaw, however.

Swallowing around the urge to vomit, Heinrich pries his eyes open to look in the direction of the camp proper. The angle he’s at isn’t conducive to seeing anything important beyond the edge of the big main tent, but his ears catch the scuffle that’s happening.

Then, “Henry of Skalitz! Surrender at once!”

Ragged, yet commanding. Engel…? Wait. Henry?

Heinrich’s head spins for a completely different reason as his heart shoots into his throat. He must have imagined that. Head injuries come with confusion, right? Hallucinations. Images and sounds that aren’t really there.

Only when Heinrich hears Henry’s earth-shaking growl does he realize that, no. He’s not imagining it. Henry is there and—and taunting Engel about strangling Anna.

“Hhh—“ Speaking is impossible. It feels as if he forces any noise from his mouth, the rest of his head will go with it and he’ll pitch forward. He can’t yell out or tell them to stop fighting. He can’t even see them.

All he can see is that awful alpha, Asher, rolling on the ground as he cups his profusely bleeding face. Even then, Asher manages to roll out of his line of sight.

“Pll—“ Heinrich’s stomach heaves. “HHHHeeenn—“

The camp goes utterly silent. Heinrich scrambles over to the side closest to everything, hands catching his weight on the bars. Fuck, his head is throbbing. It’s so difficult to focus, but he must.

“…old friend?” It’s the raspy-voiced one. The leader, probably, because no voice rings out after. Matthew, maybe? Heinrich can’t know like this.

“Fuck you, you traitorous cunt!” Henry’s voice carries easily over the night breeze. “You’re no fucking friend of mine!”

“Heavens, no,” Matthew snidely remarks. He sounds like a weasel if one could speak. “Old friends. Have you gotten deaf in your later years?”

“You’re—let go—older than me, you obnoxious shit!”

There’s a low, lilting hum that Heinrich recognizes as Engel’s voice. It seems he rarely shouts, and only did so to stop Henry in his tracks.

“That never stopped you from acting so much better than us, eh?” This is a different voice. More nasal. “Look at you now, hero.”

“Come here,” Henry snarls from deep in his throat. “I’ll show you how fucking heroic I can be.”

“Mmmm… No, I don’t think so.”

Their voices die for a moment. Engel speaks. Matthew groans in irritation.

“Fine. While I think you’re a washed up old whore, I’ve got bids on your cunt that would make your eyes bleed.”

What…? Heinrich can feel his heart kick into a gallop. Bids? On Henry?

“Not the least of which is fucking Emperor Sigismund his fucking Glorious and Most Holy Self.” Matthew’s voice is becoming higher, more excited. Manic. Henry hasn't said a word. “You stole his silver and became such a pissant that he wants to chain you up and breed your sorry arse twelve years later. To teach you a lesson. You better hope your womb isn’t as fucking decrepit as that goddamn face.”

A ringing moment of silence passes before, raw and breathless, Henry asks, “Why?”

“Because you ruined! Our! Fucking! Lives!”

The sound of multiple impacts has Heinrich shivering. Or maybe it’s the dread that's filled his body. It’s so hard to think.

“I’m not giving you fuckin’ anything else, you putrid fucking gash. Engel, take him.”

There’s a scuffle, but no further fighting as far as Heinrich can tell. Just movement in the dirt. Voices raise as the knights all begin to move and check on each other. There are some curses. Some groans of sadness.

Heinrich watches with fluttering lashes as Engel—wearing nothing but exhaustion, his undershirt, and braies—drags Henry by the nape of his neck into sight.

Blood. That’s the first thing Heinrich sees. Blood pours from two scratches on Henry’s face, from his broken nose, from his lips. He leaks like a restless creek, red splattering onto his black coat and the ground.

That blood isn’t the worst thing, though. Not by far.

Henry’s eyes. Only one is open, but Heinrich can clearly see Henry’s terror in it. His disbelief.

“Hhhh—“ Heinrich tries again. Both his head injury and his stammer are working against him. Damn his body for being so weak! “Hhhheenn—reee.”

His single open eye snaps up and falls on Heinrich’s face. A noise Heinrich has never heard from anyone comes out of Henry’s mouth: a barking sob, both relieved and devastated.

“Heinrich,” Henry rasps as his voice shivers with tears. “Heinrich.”

“Inside.” Engel’s voice holds none of the kindness from before… or any other emotion. It’s as bland as unmilled wheat.

He must have gotten that key he said he didn’t have earlier, because the side of the cage swings open to allow Engel to shove Henry bodily inside. Heinrich yips in alarm, automatically putting his arms out to—to help or catch or something!

Henry collapses into him. The heat of his body is stifling as he wraps both arms around Heinrich’s twitching form. His nails dig into torn fabric and mail. It feels as if he lets go, he thinks Heinrich would simply turn to dust.

Trying not to vomit down Henry’s back, Heinrich lifts his arms and wraps them around his neck.

He’s not sure who starts crying first.

(Beyond the now locked cage, Engel stands and watches them with nothing but boredom on his face. Heinrich blearily wonders if he ever shows anyone what he truly feels. He wonders if that kindness was even real.)

“I’m here,” Henry coughs out. “I’m here, my lovely.”

A hitching whine bleeds into Heinrich’s cries. It only makes Henry hold him tighter.

“Christ, I’m so sorry.” They’re pressed so close that Henry’s sweet sage scent smears all over Heinrich. It’s comforting. It makes Heinrich cry harder. “This is all because of me. I’m so fucking sorry.”

No, Heinrich’s mind silently protests. These monsters would have done this to someone eventually. Right?

“You’re only getting that blanket,” Engel remarks from where he stands at the edge of the tent. “Food might come in the morning. Sleep well.”

And he’s gone. Quicker than a whisper.

“What a bastard,” Henry grumbles through angry sniffles. Gently, his hands come up to cup Heinrich’s cheek. For the first time, Heinrich feels stable. Steady. “Has he been cruel to you? Retaliated in any way?”

“H-He gave… me a bla—blanket. T-To clean up.” Heinrich struggles to string the words together, even as his mind yells at him to just say it! “I threw up…”

“That’s alright,” Henry rasps as he runs his palm along Heinrich’s head, pausing when the pup grimaces. His fingers come back wet with the blood sluggishly oozing from Heinrich’s scalp. “Ouch. Anna said someone hurt you?”

“Uh huh.” Everything has become fuzzy. It’s as if two dogs are battling inside of him: a weak, smart as a whip pointer and a big, strong, dumb mountain dog. While one side of his mind yells at him to tell Henry everything, the other refuses to put the words and sounds together. “‘m sorry…”

“You do not need to apologize.” Henry looks firmly down into Heinrich’s face. “All has been forgiven. Everything.”

“...Anna?” Henry said he talked to her. Does that mean she’s okay?

“Princess found her in the forest. She has a broken ankle, a torn scalp, and countless scrapes, but she’s alright.”

Relief floods Heinrich down to his very core. A tension he didn’t realize he was harboring eases and Heinrich feels his body slump and begin to tremble. Pressing his forehead to Henry’s chest fills his senses with Henry and Pa and Father.

Carefully, Henry rearranges them. He leans against the side of the cage and pulls Heinrich into his lap. One hand cups the back of Heinrich’s pounding head and tucks him close to his chest, his neck. Greedy and desperate, Heinrich nuzzles against that spot that smells the most. He rubs his face against it, determined to drown in Henry’s comforting scent.

“It’s alright, lovely,” Henry murmurs. His throat vibrates with his voice. It sounds rough, as if he tore it. “You’re safe now. I’ll keep you safe.”

He can’t promise that. They’re in a—a fucking cage. Yet, Heinrich can’t keep himself from believing Henry. He can’t keep himself from sinking into the warmth and safety of Henry’s chest. Even as blood smears on his cheek where he rests it, Heinrich doesn’t want to pull away. For the first time in so, so long, Heinrich feels held.

***

“Four fucking men.”

Heinrich whimpers as he wakes up, the light of morning hurting his already sensitive eyes. He presses his face against Henry’s chest. He doesn’t care how childish he looks. Everything hurts.

“You slit the throats of four of my men and ruined the jaw of a fifth. He’ll probably never speak clearly again.” Matthew. The raspiness in his voice is still there. “If I didn’t have a use for you, you would be dead, my friend.”

Peeking out from the comforting dark of Henry’s chest, Heinrich peers up at his face. He’s wiped most of the blood off, though his skin and beard are stained with red rivulets. The cuts on his face look less dire, but still ragged. Both eyes are now open, the edge of one carrying congealed blood.

Henry looks furious.

“Like I said,” Henry growls. “You both are no friends of mine.”

“Fucking likewise.”

Heinrich slides his eyes to the side, curious what he can see without moving his head. Matthew stands beside the cage. He’s tall with sunken cheeks and dirty brown hair. The beard he sports isn’t trimmed like Henry’s. If anything, he looks sick.

Beside him, a massive man awkwardly fidgets. Big and broad, with a face that looks a bit like a pig’s. His hair is shorn at the sides and falls low in the back. It reminds Heinrich of a horse’s mane.

“What happened to you?” While anger still colors Henry’s words, there’s a deeper sadness there, too. “I thought you were doing well.”

“What, based on a lie we told a bloody decade ago?” Matthew hacks out a laugh, his body curling over the sound. “What d’you think they do with repeat petty criminals?”

“Forgive me if I don’t have much sympathy about you two getting forced to be monks.” Biting and sarcastic. Henry tightens his arms around Heinrich. Maybe he’s realized he’s woken up. “What, did facing God finally convince you that robbing people isn’t what good men do?”

“You know nothing of God’s glory.”

Heinrich feels Henry stiffen. Matthew’s words had been spit out like lit coals. Anger radiates through him, casting the cage in a sour, sulfuric smell.

“God has abandoned you, Henry.” Matthew prowls closer, long emaciated fingers curling around the bars. “He abandoned you the moment you were born.”

A lingering silence itches at Heinrich’s skin.

“And He favors you? A sickly robber knight with a pack of starving wolves?” Henry snorts derisively, deep in his chest. “Paint me green with envy, you stupid cunt.”

“HE—!” Matthew cuts himself off and closes his eyes to recenter himself. “He loves me.”

It’s different. The way Matthew says love, and Henry says love. With Henry, the word is warm and comforting, a big hug that scoops you up and squeezes you. With Matthew… it’s grotesque.

“He loves me,” Matthew repeats, bearing crooked, stained teeth and long, chipped fangs. “I wouldn’t have survived this long without His will and protection. He guided me to the Order. He put a sword in my hand. He told me to guide sinners toward goodness and virtue—and to cut the fat if they are lost to Him.”

The other one, Fritz, looks distinctly uncomfortable. He keeps glancing at Matthew from behind, lips twisted in a moue of concern. Sometimes, his eyes would move away and lock on someone or something else before returning to Matthew.

“He speaks to me, you know.” He whispers it, like a secret. “He speaks to me directly and tells me my duty. As His knight. His mortal hand.”

“God’s told you to sell me to fucking Sigismund? That’s God’s will?” Henry only sounds baffled at this point.

“No,” Matthew snarls. “God doesn’t care about you. He’s never even said your fucking name.”

Heinrich would admit that the thought is frightening. To be forgotten by God is to be abandoned in this life and beyond. What would happen? Where would one go once they passed? Would God’s eyes pass them by as they beg for guidance? Succor?

Where would Henry be left if God refuses to see him?

Against his cheek, Henry’s chest flexes and bends forward. A biting grin on his face—obvious in his tone—Henry snarls, “I couldn’t give less of a shit.”

The entire world jerks. They’re pulled abruptly forward. Henry’s body curls over Heinrich, squishing him slightly. Something hits the bars with a ringing thud and a groan of pain.

“You will fear our Lord and God.” Another rattling impact. Is Matthew hitting Henry’s head against the bars? “Or I will make you.”

“Stop fucking hurting him, you weasel.” Engel? “You want to sell him to the Emperor all fucked up?”

A breath goes by before Henry is allowed to slump back again. His eyes have a dazed look to them and fresh red marks appear on his forehead. Worried, Heinrich tries to lift himself to get closer. His own injuries protest and force him to wobble.

Henry is quick to shake off the daze, but his nose begins to bleed again, red dribbling over his matted moustache and upper lip to pool in the seam of his mouth.

“I can’t stand his fucking face any longer.”

Hardened leather digs into the dirt as Matthew turns and stalks back toward the camp. Fritz remains, his hands on his hips. Heinrich assumes Engel is still there, too. Somewhere.

“…Fritz?” Henry tentatively murmurs through blood-sticky lips.

“Don’t go actin’ all nice with me, Hal.” Fritz is quick to discourage any attempt to sway him. “I’m furious with you, too. I don’t care that you’re gettin’ carted off to be that red haired fucker’s baby maker.”

“What did I do to earn this ire?” Henry asks, obviously confused. “I didn’t… I didn’t do anything.”

Fritz scoffs. “Yeah, Hal. That’s the point. You didn’t do fuckin’ anything.”

When Fritz storms off, he’s much less manically irate than Matthew, but his posture is stiff and annoyed.

Without those two, it’s utterly silent. If Engel is around, he’s not saying anything. And Henry just sits there, breathing hard and even.

Meanwhile, Heinrich’s head is spinning like a top despite his body being held firmly in Henry’s arms.

“How’s he doing?” Engel asks.

Henry’s response is instant. “Like you care.”

There’s a low sigh. Then, the sound of boots on dirt. After a moment, Engel comes into view.

Skinny, lanky, with a mess of curly black hair and sallow cheeks. Tired, dark eyes hang heavy in their sockets as he looks down at Heinrich. At his hip, there’s the brilliant red handle of a sword. It doesn’t look Bohemian or German.

“His eyes look clearer.” Engel’s irises are so dark Heinrich can’t see their pupils. “How’s the dizziness?”

Despite the questions, none of the kindness from before has returned to Engel’s mannerisms. It almost seems like he’s asking questions that he’s required to and nothing more.

Hesitantly, Heinrich lifts his head enough to mumble, “Bad.”

“It should go away on its own,” Henry says, low enough for only Heinrich to hear. “In time. Rest, now.”

“Anymore vomiting?”

Heinrich shakes his head slowly as he presses it back against Henry’s muscled chest.

“Good.” A hint of something. Heinrich is too tired and dizzy to examine that something any further. “I’ll bring water and food. Don’t expect a royal feast.”

“Don’t worry,” Henry drawls. “I’ve been a prisoner before.”

The words they say might sound cordial enough, but the way they both speak is… telling. Henry hates Engel. Every syllable spat in his direction is full of venom.

How could Heinrich ever think Henry had been genuinely angry with Father? His hatred is obvious and raw and loud. Bruised eyes watch Engel’s every move from under long lashes. When Engel naturally comes closer to the cage when he passes by, Henry’s arms tighten around Heinrich’s body.

“After food, we’re shearing you,” is what Engel bafflingly leaves them with.

“Sh—shearing?” Heinrich mutters.

“Don’t worry.” The warmth of Henry’s hand against his nape returns and Heinrich melts. “Nothing will happen to you, my lovely. Not while I’m alive.”

***

To Heinrich’s horror, the shearing happens right outside the cage.

Initially, Engel wanted to drag Henry into a tent to do whatever it was that he was planning. After Henry grabbed the fingers of his left hand and bent until they snapped, Engel swiftly changed his mind.

(Heinrich can still hear the sharp, choked off whimper Engel let out when his fingers broke.)

“Let me go!” Henry yowls as two knights forcibly drag him from the cage. “Don’t fucking—”

“Oh, shut up.” Engel’s patience has run its course. The two middle fingers of his left hand are splinted with plates of cloth-wrapped iron. It looks bulky and painful, the skin that peeks out a horrid purple. “Cease your fucking shrieking and I’ll keep the men from taking out their grief on that little pup of yours.”

As if he hadn’t spoken to Heinrich directly. As if he hadn’t offered care and conversation until Heinrich couldn’t stay conscious any longer. It feels so wrong to hear him so detached. Then again, Heinrich doesn’t know Engel from any of the other men, does he?

“If you touch him, I’ll rip out your goddamn throat.” Henry would, too. His growl comes from deep in his belly, bubbling up like magma from the gates of Hell.

Engel looks entirely unimpressed. A muscle in his jaw twitches as he visibly gathers himself.

“Then stop fucking resisting,” he hisses as he grabs at Henry’s hair with his uninjured hand. “We’re not going to hurt you.”

“You’ll have to forgive—” Henry yanks at the men who hold his arms, nearly breaking free if not for Engel yanking his head back viciously by his hair. Pain visibly lances up his body, making him arch. “Fuck!”

“H-Henry…” Heinrich’s voice shivers like the final leaf on a tree.

Henry tilts his head as much as he can to look at Heinrich. He must see something on Heinrich’s face as his body goes stubbornly limp after a beat. Relief floods Heinrich. Maybe he’s naïve, but he believes Engel when he says he won’t hurt Henry. So, complying would be better for them all, right?

“Finally.”

No time is wasted. With a practiced hand, Engel takes a sharpened dagger at his hip and slides the blade effortlessly through long brown waves. Silently, Heinrich begs Henry to stay still. If he doesn’t, who knows where that blade might end up—intentionally or not.

Henry stays still. He slumps there, completely frozen, as his hair and beard are both shaved down to uneven stubble. Engel isn’t kind. He grabs at Henry’s jaw, his throat. It’s only a testament to his skill with a blade that he doesn’t cut Henry with the makeshift razor.

Once every strand of brown hair has fallen to the dirt, Engel uses his palm to shove Henry’s head back.

“Strip him and get them both something to wear.” Engel is already turning to the main tent’s entrance as he speaks. The blade of his dagger is drawn against his waffenrock, cleaned of hair and the congealed blood matted into it.

Heinrich watches with bated breath as the knights pull torn armor and sweat-stained linen from Henry until his entire body is bared. Countless scars mar his skin, pale lines crossing across strong planes. On his left shoulder, a knot of scar tissue sits beside his scapula. His arms and lower legs are darker—tanned like fine leather—than his trunk. A soft padding of weight rests on Henry’s lower belly and hips.

To Heinrich, he’s beautiful.

The knights laugh at what they see.

“This one is seriously going to fucking Sigismund?” One of them scoffs.

His partner in sinful crime snorts out a snide guffaw. “Guess it only matters if his cunt works.”

“God save him if it doesn’t.”

Heinrich scrambles back from the cage door as it’s pulled open and Henry is shoved inside. He quickly moves to keep the man from falling to the floor. Both of Henry’s arms, strong and sure, wrap around Heinrich’s body. They squeeze. And squeeze. Heinrich can barely breathe, but he doesn’t say a thing.

“Get dressed.” One of the nameless knights have brought a pile of unidentifiable clothes. He shoves them through the bars and onto the dirty floor. “You and the pup.”

“Fuck off.” Henry’s voice makes Heinrich’s entire being vibrate. It makes him dizzy.

For a moment, it looks as if the knight is going to say something. Do something.

An unconscious, wobbling whine slips from Heinrich’s lips. Henry grips him tighter. The knight flinches back before stalking off, cursing under his breath about pups and bitches and whatever else. Heinrich’s already forgotten his face by the time he turns away.

“Henry…?” he whispers, throat raw. “Are you okay?”

The silence that follows is answer enough.

Heinrich doesn’t know what to say. He wants to say something. He wants to help. Henry has done so much for him and Anna and Father… There has to be something that Heinrich can do that would help. No words come to his unsteady mind. No good words, that is. What actually comes out of his mouth is tiny and clumsy, the syllables slurred around his numb tongue.

“For what it’s worth,” Heinrich rasps in a barely audible whisper. “I think you’re pretty.”

He doesn’t know what the half-sob, half-laugh that bursts out of Henry means. But when he feels Henry’s grip on him ease just a bit, Heinrich knows it means something.

Notes:

heinrich: :((( ma... i frew up...

worldbuilding notes:

on matthew: u cannot tell me that the teutonic order didn't have religious zealots who thought they spoke to god. like u cannot tell me that. matthew got a bonk on the head (and then some), found god, and fell in obsessive, toxic love. with god.

on the shearing: the couple of times i've described imprisoned male omegas/female alphas before, they've all been stripped of their identities and muzzled. this is what they're getting henry ready for. also as a way to humiliate him in front of heinrich and eventually sigismund lol.

Chapter 21: XXI :: Hans

Notes:

i am still horribly horribly sick so pls ignore any editing mistakes... my brain is made of snot rn

in other news

alexander, step up to the original character plate!! do i love making poc characters in medieval europe bc white bigots think they weren't around at all (and then teach ppl who don't know better that same lie)? why yes, yes i do.

also pls dont think abt how alexander is the sun and engel is the moon it'll only lead you down the original character insanity pipeline

warnings for this chapter: tension, anna in emotional distress

It’s a damn good thing the men he ordered to come with him were quick to ready themselves. Hans imagines they’ve been biting at their respective bits to do something. Ever since Hanush’s death, they’ve been confined to Rattay’s walls as politics became more important than battle. Now that they’re ordered to mount up, every guard in the fifteen-man unit is practically vibrating with excitement.

Guard Captain Alexander stands beside Hans as they watch the men ready their horses. Even the beasts look excited at the prospect of doing something.

Hans should have done this days ago.

“The Teutonic Order…” Alexander’s round voice fills the air with ease. The golden light of the lowering sun casts his tawny skin in a color that would be at home among lakeside cattails. “I was always taught they were good men.”

“I was barely taught anything about them at all,” Hans mutters. He’s fiddling with one of his vambraces. It isn’t sitting correctly on his arm. It feels weird. “Other than tripe about their hard-won lands and their mission to bring aid to those who needed it.”

Alexander sighs, a hand rubbing over his golden-brown coils cut tight to the handsome shape of his skull. “I would bet it’s been a long damn time since they brought aid.”

He pauses for a moment before his face twists into a gentle grimace.

“Apologies, sir.”

Baffled, Hans lifts his head from glaring at one of the buckles on the underside of his left vambrace. “What? Whatever for?”

“My language. It isn’t befitting of a knight to—“

“Ah, fuck off.” Hans’ dismissive cursing stiffens Alexander's spine. “I know we haven’t known each other for long, so I’ll tell you this: I could give less of a shit about propriety when it comes to the men and women of my lands. Respect doesn’t mean you can’t curse your enemies for being bastards once in a while.”

He goes back to rebuckling the stupid, fiddly leather bits holding the steel to his forearms.

Alexander is quiet for several long breaths. When Hans looks up, he finds his guard captain looking curiously at him. As if he’s trying to figure out a puzzle.

“What?” Hans grunts. “I’m not the bloody king. No need to kiss my knot.”

Alexander’s startled laugh makes him jerk. “I—Right. I suppose I am more used to the royal way of conducting myself.”

“Hilarious, considering Wenceslaus can barely string words together without blundering in some way,” Hans grumbles. “Not that I would want anyone else to do what he does, but Christ. Speaking to him is like talking to an only slightly intelligent livestock dog.”

“Lord Capon!” The scandal in Alexander’s honey tone nearly has Hans bursting into giggles. He’s glad he doesn’t. He really doesn’t want to look like a goddamned lunatic in front of the seasoned knight Wenceslaus so kindly gave to him when Bernard passed a handful of months ago. A present of good will and friendship.

“I’m not wrong, though, am I?” Hans grins at his captain. He probably looked crazed even without the manic giggling, but there’s not much he can do about that.

Every single time he stops actively thinking about what’s in front of him, Hans’ mind cycles back to Uzhitz. To Anna’s poor little broken body. To the raw fury in Henry’s eyes.

Hans knows that Henry didn’t keep his promise to stay out of the camp. He knows Henry. Twelve years doesn't change how a man is at his very core. He saw the unsure look in the man’s expression when he promised—tactfully masked, but Hans knows the signs better than most.

He can only hope that nothing has gone wrong. Perhaps Henry killed every man in their sleep and smuggled Heinrich to safety among the dying breaths of horrible men. The chances are low, but hoping for that is much preferable to imagining his pup dead and bleeding in the mud.

“Sir?” Alexander’s voice has pitched low. Hans looks at him, realizing he’s been frozen in thought for a while. “We’ll get Heinrich back and protect that village.”

It is certainly heartening to have such a staunch optimist at his side. Hans nods slowly and tightens the buckle at his wrist one last time. Finally, it lies flat.

***

“This is a task of great importance and little time,” Hans states as he sits atop his horse before the gathered men. “If we are to fail here, the chance of these blackguards continuing their crusade to nearby villages—and, potentially, Prague—only increases. This might not be our lands, or our people, but they deserve protection as any other.”

The cheer he gets in response has Hans’ stomach firming in anticipation and appreciation for the soldiers that fill his barracks. These are men new to their station, as well as men who outlasted Hanush’s iron fist. They are skilled and honorable. Hans can’t bring—and wouldn’t bring—his entire garrison, but the fifteen men in front of him are more than up to the task.

“We will be riding through the night. Keep an eye on one another and idle conversation to a lull. There’s no knowing what bandits lurk in the forests between Rattay and Uzhitz—related to these villains or not.”

“Rations have been given to you all,” Alexander chimes in, his champagne mare dancing beneath him. “They should last the night and then some. Once we’re in Uzhitz, you will pay for whatever you eat. We aren’t there to make their lives harder. You will also conduct yourself with the same care and honor that our Lord Capon does regularly. These people need our help, not our attitude.”

Every guard acknowledges Alexander’s orders. While some of them might look a bit trepidatious, every man sits tall in their saddles.

“Alright! Two men wide—form up and let’s go!”

As they filter from the north exit of Rattay, Hans can feel his nerves beginning to rear their ugly heads again. What if they’re late? What if something did happen and they’re returning to death and destruction? Hans tries his best not to dwell on the thoughts, but he can’t help but clench his jaw.

A metal toe clanks noisily against his leg.

Hans looks over to find Alexander smiling. It looks a bit awkward on his face, truthfully. As if he’s not used to doing it. Yet, the smile is nothing but genuine.

“Ease up on the reins, my lord. We’ll get there,” he says. A smell much like the sun—whatever the fuck the sun smells like—oozes from the man’s pores. “Only a night and a half to go, eh?”

A snort rockets out of Hans’ chest. “Wow, that’s so reassuring, Sir Alexander. Thank you.”

Much like a kitten, Alexander’s nose scrunches when he laughs.

“I’m just trying to look on the bright side,” Alexander jests with another tap of their metal boots. “And you told me not to be so stiff. That must apply to yourself as well.”

“Hard not to,” Hans admits, voice low enough that the riders behind them couldn’t possibly hear over the pounding of trotting hooves. “My son, my—ah, a friend and his daughter, an old priest who helped us both through our battles years ago… They all are in danger as we speak.”

“Sounds like a lot to keep on your mind at once.” Alexander sounds nothing but sympathetic. “I have faith, though, that we will make it through this hardship and come out all the better on the other side. There’s no other option, right?”

None that Hans wants to think of.

“Right,” he breathes. “Let’s make haste. For a bit, at least.”

“As you wish, my lord.”

***

It feels as if this journey is taking so much more time than it needs to.

Hans stands beside his steed, shoulder resting on Balius’ broad shoulder. He watches his soldiers shovel their rations into their mouths as they sit anywhere other than a saddle. They’ve all been riding for most of the night at this point. To push them further would be cruel and ultimately detrimental to their mission.

But fuck if Hans isn’t itching to simply go.

“Have you eaten?” Alexander appears out of nowhere at Hans’ side—or Hans wasn’t paying attention to anything but his own thoughts. “Oh. Sorry for startling.”

“It’s fine,” Hans sighs. “I was lost in my own thoughts.”

“So?” A bun packed with fragrant, spiced pork and rabbit is waved beneath Hans’ nose. “Eaten?”

Without verbally responding, Hans grabs the bun and stuffs it between his teeth. Rich meats coat his tongue, the bread a perfect salty, chewy accompaniment. He hums in surprise, though he makes sure to chew thoroughly and swallow before speaking again.

“These are amazing,” he breathes, looking up at Alexander. “Did our cook suddenly become decent at her job?”

For some reason, a nervous look crosses Alexander’s face. He clears his throat and looks out at their unit.

“I cooked them, sir.”

Hans blinks. “What?”

“I cooked them.” Broad shoulders lift in a timid shrug. “I did not always have noble luxuries in my life. My mother taught me Misr cooking, and my father’s servants taught me more once they realized I could touch a pot without being scared it’ll scar me for life—“

Again, that grimace. As if he regrets saying such a thing. Hans chuckles in good nature, patting the awkward man on the back as he bites into the bun again.

“They’re not quite the same as what I was taught.” Alexander has a bun of his own, which he lifts into the air and examines. “Misr bread is flatter, less…”

“Bulbous?” Hans offers with a smirk.

“Ha.” Alexander shakes his head. “Aye. Bulbous. So these would be more… thin than this.” He takes a bite and hums in thought. “It’s not horrible, however. A bit bland.”

“Bland!?” Hans leans closer to peer at the bun in Alexander’s hand. Nope, it looks the same as his own, no visible difference in seasoning. “It’s amazingly rich, what do you mean?”

Why that question has Alexander fidgeting again, Hans has no idea.

“It—there are more seasonings in Misr or Constantinople…” Alexander shrugs weakly. “I think your tongue might burn away if you tried them, however.”

Gasping dramatically, Hans nudges Alexander’s arm. The man barely moves. Built like a fucking cliff, this man.

“Are you calling me uncultured?”

“Oh, no!” Alexander immediately shakes his head and holds both hands up. “Not at all, I just meant—“

“Easy, Alexander.” Shooting him a cheeky smile, Hans pops the rest of his bulbous, unseasoned bun into his mouth. “It was a joke.”

Weakly chuckling, Alexander nods. His brown eyes catch the fire within as they dart away from Hans. “Right. Apologies.”

“Fuck,” Hans grunts. “We both need to relax a bit, eh?”

“A bit,” Alexander admits. “Like you said, it’s difficult.”

“We’re about to fight against one of the most vicious orders of recent recollection.” Hans sighs and idly scratches at Balius’ neck. The older stallion hums in delight. “At least they don’t seem to have an entire army at their back.”

“Hopefully,” Alexander murmurs. He might have been talking to himself, but Hans catches his voice—and the anxious smell of burning sweetness. He doesn’t say anything. “It is a very good thing you’re doing, however.”

“Hm?” Hans runs his nails along the length of Balius’ neck, smiling when his old boy shivers in delight. “What is?”

“Protecting this village you don’t preside over.”

“It’s only right,” Hans replies without hesitation. “Even if my greatest friends weren’t there, I wouldn’t want to leave an innocent farming village to their fate if a crusade suddenly came upon them—real or no.”

Quiet. Alexander is gnawing slightly on his full bottom lip with one of his fangs. They’re large, always seeming a bit extended. When he finally opens his mouth to speak, he’s nearly gnawed a hole in his lip.

“These friends of yours,” Alexander begins. “They’re the same that helped you save King Wecenslaus?”

“Mhm. Godwin, a priest we found in Uzhitz. Samuel, a Jew from Kuttenberg.” He probably shouldn’t mention Sir John, if the man is supposedly dead. Hans has no idea how far the lie has stretched beyond Wenceslaus’ station. “And… Henry. Of Skalitz. And his daughter, Anna. Have you heard of him?”

It’s always a coin toss whether younger people have heard of Henry. While no books or manuscripts would ever include him, the stories that the people of Bohemia tell are vast.

To his delight, a boyish kind of excitement fills Alexander’s eyes at the mention of Henry. Like this, Hans realizes just how young the captain is: twenty years and some change. Much like Henry and he were all those years ago.

“Yes!” Alexander clears his throat and his cheeks turn a dark russet of chagrin. “Yes. I’ve heard many things about Henry. When I was brought to Bohemia, I spent many years at Pribyslavitz. My brother was a groom there. A ferrier. We were close.”

“A fellow blacksmith, eh?” Hans chuckles and crosses his arms once more as he leans against Balius. The stallion leans back against him, one of his legs relaxing. “Cute. I can see you two getting along.”

“Truly?”

Hans looks over. Alexander’s got a dazed look in his eye—childlike wonder and delight. Christ. Did Hans run into a true Henry of Skalitz fan? How strange.

“Aye,” Hans says without acknowledging the man’s excitement. “He’s very humble. Like you. Horrible sense of humor. Not afraid to do menial tasks despite having a bit of blue blood in him.”

“He’s Sir Radzig’s, right?”

“Mhm.”

“I—” Alexander frowns as his thoughts circle. “This may be a bit personal, but do you know why Sir Radzig didn’t claim him?”

“I’ll admit, I don’t have the entire story,” Hans answers, dancing around the truth as if it is a particularly ugly partner waiting for a lead. “Henry said it was by his own choice. Henry’s, I mean.”

Alexander’s frown and the furrow between his brows grows deeper. “But… why? My entire life changed for the better when my Lord Father claimed me and made me his heir. To become the Royal Hetman’s heir would be…” He gives a nebulous, disbelieving shake of his head.

“I happen to agree.” Hans is convinced still that a good portion of their problems would have been solved—or at least eased—if he had simply allowed Radzig to claim him once Wenceslaus was free. “You’ll have to ask him that yourself, though.”

Hilariously, Alexander freezes. Solid. Completely still. As if he’s a hare caught in a hunter’s eye.

“… You didn’t think you’d be talking to him.”

“I—I mean,” Alexander stammers, his hands flexing in front of him as if grasping for his courage. “I just… I’ve heard stories from people I truly admire about his courage and strength and tenacity, and—I must look like a fool—“

“A bit, perhaps,” Hans jokes, nudging his elbow against Alexander. “It’s also sweet that Henry has such a dedicated fan.”

“I’m not—!” Alexander’s entire face is the color of rust, his blush darkening his cheeks and forehead. “Can’t a man admire a hero?”

A hero.

Hans huffs quietly.

“Aye. A man can certainly admire a hero all he likes. Especially one like Henry.”

***

The closer they get to Uzhitz, the more anxious Hans becomes. Crossing the creek past Neuhoff is harrowing in itself, as fifteen men—and himself and Alexander—have to cross a narrow, rickety bridge one by one. Alexander’s mare gets impatient and plods through the river even as the water brushes her belly and her rider squawks in alarm. A stubborn old girl, that one.

With that particular obstacle gone and Hans pointedly not looking around the campground they pass through, they’re within sight of Uzhitz. In the morning sun, she is radiant and silent as ever. Nothing happened.

Nothing happened to the town, that is.

“Lord Capon,” John calls from where he braces his arms on the pasture fence. “You must have ridden hard to get here this early.”

Surprised, Hans trots ahead to talk to the beta without having to shout over the impact of hooves and rumbling of weary men.

“Is Henry…?”

John’s lips thin.

“We couldn’t stop him. You know as well as all of us that he is an unstoppable force when it comes to saving those he loves.” John’s eyes flick over Hans’ shoulder and light up. “Little Alexander of Alexandria!”

As Alexander groans about John’s greeting—seemingly unsurprised the man is alive—Hans looks to the forest beyond the pasture.

He knew Henry wouldn’t keep his promise. The chances of him staying put when someone he knows is in immediate danger are slim to none.

Yet, the blatant disregard for Hans’ concerned wish still stings.

Now, Hans has no idea if Henry is alive or dead and doubts anyone else knows either. All he can do is hope that he won’t find Henry strung up between the trees, an omen of things to come.

“Come in, there’s more than enough space for all of you,” John says cheerfully, turning away from an extremely red Guard Captain. “I would advise some lookouts to be assigned. I’m sure those rats have seen you arrive.”

Alexander shakes himself of his childlike embarrassment and turns his mare to address his men.

Hans can barely hear what he says. All he can focus on, all he can see, are the trees looming beyond. Like if he looks hard enough, he’ll be able to spot Henry running back to the town with Heinrich in his arms.

A shuddering breath rolls through his aching lungs.

“My lord?” Alexander’s gentle prodding has Hans jolting from his daydreams to look at him. Concern is etched so clearly on his face. “They need rest. A few hours and a meal.”

“Of course.” Hans knows well how stupid it is to order tired men to charge into battle. With the Order holed up as it is, they are well-rested, well-fed, and watching. Hans and his men are at a distinct disadvantage regardless—but he will always opt to improve the odds of victory by any amount.

“How’s Anna?” Hans asks John as he desperately tries to calm his heart. “She alright?”

“As much as she can be.” John’s lips twitch into a smile. “She’s been riding on Sam’s shoulders since she woke up yesterday.”

“Let me guess, she hasn’t allowed the poor man any rest.”

“She certainly got your—“

They both stop short. Alexander sits beside them, curiosity and zeal practically vibrating from his form. Right. No more talk of pups and sires.

“Anyway,” John hums. “Come inside and rest, Hans. You’re of no use to Henry dead on your feet. You too, Little Alexander.”

“Lor—John.” Alexander’s imposing form slumps over his mare’s neck in dismay. “I need to captain a whole squad of men! If you could resist undermining me, that would be wonderful.”

“Mmm… Many of whom have made fun of you already for being Alexander of Alexandria, no?”

Alexander doesn't deem that with a response, huffing as he guides his steed past them and around the corner to enter the property.

Hans can barely get a chuckle out.

“He’s a good lad,” John says, watching the corner Alexander had turned. “Been through a lot.”

“Haven’t we all.” Hans doesn’t mean to sound dismissive, though he knows he does. Exhaustion and nerves are battling him at every turn. The need to sleep thrashes against the restless feeling of going. Going to the camp. Going to those bastards directly. Going to Henry.

“Come on,” John repeats gently. “I’m sure you’re hungry.”

***

The meal is tense. Henry’s pantry is thoroughly emptied by the voracious guards and every bit of the house is filled with bodies—to the extent that some have to eat outside or in the barn. They don’t complain, however. At least, not within Hans’ hearing.

Unsurprisingly, the only bright part of the last six hours since they arrived has been Anna.

Despite her gender—or, maybe, because of it—she has charmed even the most surly soldier. Sam has finally gotten out of being her sole steed as several guards have gladly taken on the mantle. They’re never allowed to go out of sight, but Anna has fun on each pair of shoulders she sits upon.

Except… whenever Hans looks at her, Anna’s poor, bruised, round face is always pulled into an expression that hurts to see. Guilt. Shame. Helplessness.

Hans finishes off his knob of bread—the last portion of his meal—and nods at the group of men around him. He either gets ignored or a friendly smile. Samuel is the only one who glowers at him like an irate dog, but he’s been doing that this entire time. Hans… tries not to feel insulted.

For the first time in a bit, Anna is not perched on a random soldier’s shoulders. She’s standing at the window, a makeshift crutch beneath one arm and her injured foot lifted much like a horse at rest.

A moment passes where Hans simply looks at her. He can see Henry in her even when she’s standing still. Something about the way she carries herself, the way she looks beyond without actually seeing, lost in her own rushing thoughts…

Idly, he wonders if anyone sees a bit of him in Anna. John joked earlier that she had his… probably his energy, if Hans were to guess how John would have finished that sentence. But that’s not quite what he’s thinking of.

If Hans were more honest with himself—something he battles with every day—then he’d admit what he’s truly wondering: does Henry think of him when he looks at her? Does he smile when Anna snootily wrinkles her nose or when she acts so haughty in the face of society’s expectations of her?

Does Henry think, you have your father’s smile, when Anna grins so hard her cheeks redden and the space around her teeth shows.

“Anna,” he calls gently, not wanting to startle her. The pup doesn't seem surprised when she turns her head to look at him over her shoulder. “How… are you doing?”

Her eyes flick up and down his entire body. Whatever she thinks of him is beyond Hans’ understanding, but he can’t help but feel like she’s disappointed in some way.

“Fine,” she responds, not bothering to put on the airs she has for everyone else. “What d’you want?”

“Nothing.” This is his daughter. Why is it so difficult to talk with her? “Just checking. On you.”

The cut in her bottom lip stretches as she sneers at him. “Why?”

“Because I have come to care about you...?” It feels like a lie under those judgmental eyes, despite Hans meaning every word.

Anna stares at him. Then, her lips thinning, she turns back to the window to watch what she can of the distant tree line. Or the rest of Uzhitz. Or at nothing at all.

“I—“ Hans sighs and shuffles forward to join her. He keeps out of arm’s reach, if only to make her feel like she isn’t being cornered. “Have I done something wrong by you?”

“You stink,” she grumbles.

Hans blinks. “What?”

“Ever since you came here, you’ve stunk up the place.” Anna’s eyes are locked on some point beyond the window. “And you’ve made Pa stink, too.”

“Ah, I apologize,” he weakly offers. “My family is known for their… musk.”

It sounds gross like that. Anna must think so, too, as she looks up at him with a curled grimace. All Hans can do is shrug.

“You would have hated me when I was young,” Hans remarks with a wry laugh. “It was much worse.”

“Why?”

And he thought Heinrich was curious.

“I don’t know.” Again, Hans shrugs. He looks out the window, the angle he’s at facing the wrong side of the town. “God made us this way and the men of my family have had to manage it throughout generations. Heinrich will, too, once he presents.”

“Weird.”

“Yeah.”

They grow quiet as they look in their respective directions. Hans wants to ask so many questions, but none of them come to mind. Not even the words that come with easy small talk. Hans has nothing to say to his daughter.

It seems she has something to say to him, however.

“Why aren’t you mad?”

Hans blinks at the near-inaudible question. He lowers his gaze to look at her and his throat fills with emotion when he sees silent tears dripping from her lashes. His hands twitch, wanting to reach out.

“Why would I be mad?” Hans asks instead, lowering his height to better match hers in a comfortable squat. “Have you done something? Hit one of my men with that splint? Hurt someone’s back from riding on their shoulders?”

“Wha—no.” Indignance overrides Anna’s sadness for only a beat before her lips are pulling to the side and more tears join the rest. “It’s… it’s my fault.”

Ah.

Hans thinks about how Henry would talk about this. He remembers the way he frantically reassured Anna of his forgiveness and love when they found her. That didn’t seem right in this moment. Appropriate. So, he goes with what he promised Heinrich earlier: honesty.

“At first, before we knew what happened, I was.” Hans hates to see her flinch. Steadily, he continues. “But… the longer you two were gone, the less angry I became.”

“That doesn't make sense,” Anna grumps as she leans over the windowsill to allow her tears to be swept away by the breeze.

“Not really,” Hans agrees with a chuckle. “Adults rarely make sense.”

A little grumble is all he gets, but Hans understands it fully.

“What I feel right now is concern,” Hans says. “I am worried about Heinrich and Henry. I am worried about how this rescue mission will go.”

He pauses, rubbing his thumb thoughtfully against his pointer. The cold is making his skin dry and itchy.

“I am worried about you.”

“Why?” Anna hisses, her little mouth twisting in despair. “It’s all my fault!”

“You may have given him an excuse but I know Heinrich was as eager as you were to act.” Hans takes a chance. He lifts his hand and places it gently on her head. He cards through the part of her hair not pulling at irritated scalp.

Anna doesn't move away or stop him.

“And, regardless of what happened in that camp, you are not to blame for the horrible actions of evil men.” Hans makes sure his strokes never get below the top curve of her ear. Any lower and it might seem like he’s scenting her. Claiming her. “So, I don’t blame you. How could I?”

“… it’s my fault…” Anna repeats in the smallest voice Hans has heard from her the entire time he’s known her.

“And yet, here you are, crying because Heinrich is hurt.” He lowers his eyes, thinking back to the gentle words spoken by Henry as he carded his fingers through Hans’ hair. Taking a breath, Hans says, “Mistakes will happen. What matters is how you make up for those mistakes, right?”

This must strike a chord in Anna. Her body stills and tightens in on itself, tears still freely dripping. When she stays quiet, Hans speaks.

“That’s what your father told me.” His hands return to where they originally hung between his knees, rubbing together anxiously. “And I agree with him. He’s much smarter than me, in any case.”

“That’s true…” Anna pouts. Her bottom lip juts out and her tearful eyes blink hard to chase away the salty droplets. “Are… you mad at him?”

Now that’s a much more complicated answer. Hans sighs heavily and crosses his arms, resting them upon his bent knees. Watching her face, Hans considers what he could—should—say. Honesty might chase her away. Honesty might allow her to finally trust him. Hans has no idea what the best path is through this thicket of emotional trees. All he can do is jump in.

“Yeah,” Hans replies. “I’m fucking furious with him.”

Anna sniffles and rubs at her wet cheeks.

“He promised me that he would stay here with you and your uncles and Godwin. He promised me he wouldn’t go into that camp alone.” Hans sighs and rubs a hand through his own hair, unintentionally mixing their scents into a soft, floral perfume. “I’m not surprised that he went back on his word. I know him too well. But that doesn’t mean I’m not angry.”

The pup seems to sink into herself, both arms wrapping around her ribs and holding tight. Tentative, glassy eyes glance at Hans quickly before returning to the window.

“Lord Uncle John and Uncle Sam tried to stop him,” Anna mumbles, as if telling a secret. “Pa and Uncle Sam got into a big fight… an’ Pa snuck out at night.”

None of that is surprising. Hans knows how much those two care for Henry. “Did it scare you? Their fight?”

“Kinda…” Anna chews at her bottom lip, looking as if she’s fighting off her tears and trying to gnaw through the soft tissue at the same time. “I’m more scared ‘bout how mad I am.”

Hans settles down onto the floor. His back hits the wall beneath the window. He thinks back to a handful of nights ago, when he and Henry were right here, drowning in each other’s want.

“Yeah?” he encourages, patting the ground beside him. “Sit with me.”

Anna hesitates as she looks down at Hans. Slowly, she acquiesces and carefully levers herself down to sit, the broken length of her leg stretched out before her. It looks as if her toes have begun to return to a normal color rather than the swollen purple that was there before.

Several long breaths pass as they sit together in relative comfort. Hans watches Anna the whole time, uncaring of what else might be happening in the room. Alexander can take care of the guards if they need anything—and Hans knows the man would avoid disturbing their conversation unless necessary. He seems to be the type to respect a man in that way.

The little pup plays with her fingers in her lap. She wears one of her dresses that was permanently stained at the hem. The foot not in a splint is covered by a thick woolen sock and a comfortable, wide-soled shoe. While she wears no bonnet, Anna does keep her hair tucked behind her small, oddly shaped ears.

It’s difficult to not reach out and touch her. Hans has this feeling inside that wants to tuck her close and blend their scents until they smell like family. He won’t. The respect he has for Henry’s ultimate decision of leaving extends to Anna as well. While she might not know her sire lives, it’s still within her every right to keep her distance from one of her father’s long lost friends.

Finally, Anna whispers, “I’m just so mad.”

“Did he say anything to you? Before he went?”

“Mhm.” Stout fingers wrap around each other and squeeze. They release and rub. A constant fidget meant to ease her mind. Hans knows the kind—he does many of the same things himself. “He said he loved me. And he’s sorry. And to trust you ‘cause he trusts you. An’ that he b-believes in me… an’ is proud of me…”

Her face has crumpled once more, tears catching on her cheeks and dripping toward her chin.

Silently, Hans hollers at Henry. They may not have a mates’ connection, but Hans likes to think that Henry can still hear him yelling from where he sits with his—their agonized daughter.

“That’s scary,” Hans states. “It makes you want to think the worst when he puts it like that.”

“He’s gonna die.” A hitching sob makes Anna’s entire body jolt. “He’s gonna die an’ it’s gonna be my fault and I’m gonna be alone—”

There’s no possible way Hans can keep himself from reaching over and drawing Anna close. The pup automatically turns in toward him, both of her arms wrapping around his chest harder than he’s ever felt before. It draws the air out of Hans’ lungs. Or, maybe, her hiccuping cries are what ruins him so.

“He’s not going to die,” Hans murmurs as he tugs his daughter even closer. Her tears are beginning to soak into the small amount of undershirt that shows at his neck. Anna burrows harder into him. “He’s not going to die and it’s not your fault.”

Anna will blame herself until the cows come home, Hans knows that. He’ll repeat it as many times as he needs to, however. And…

“You won’t ever be alone, Anna.” Her hair tangles around his fingers as Hans cups the back of her head and holds her tight. His sad mind brings images of her as a babe—she must have been so small. To hold his daughter in his arms would have been… life-changing. Now, all he has is the suggestion of that same feeling as he clutches her close.

And it’s enough. Because it’s Anna. Because she’s his girl.

Hans will never let her go again.

“Never,” Hans rasps. “Not while I’m alive.”

***

The forge is rife with bodies when Hans and Anna exit the house to get some fresh air. Leipa gold and black flash among the subdued browns and off-whites of the peasantry. The people of Uzhitz have come to the stables.

Of course, Hans has no idea who they are, but Godwin, Samuel, and John are doing well to communicate with them. Hans guides Anna over to join, rubbing lingering emotion from his face. She huffs as she hops along, one arm threaded in his.

(She refuses to use her crutch when she can get away with it, and Hans would let her get away with anything just to see her smile.)

A round blonde woman stands before Samuel, her bready omega scent nearly as strong as Hans’ own. Her eyes turn to Anna first, then him—and in an instant, Hans can tell that she knows. Somehow, this random woman knows that he’s Anna’s sire. The realization makes his skin itch. Hans ignores it the best he can.

“Lots of people here,” Hans comments cheerfully as they join the loose gathering. “When did they arrive?”

“The villagers of Uzhitz saw your entourage arrive,” the blonde omega says. She must have a bubbly voice normally, as her tone dances on her tongue even as serious as she is. “Those of us who are anxious to help came here to do just that.”

In less time than it takes to breathe, the woman bends down to take Anna’s precious face in her hands. They must be close. “Hello, my love, how are you feeling?”

“Bad,” Anna mutters, though she accepts the fretting without fuss. “My foot hurts.”

“I’m sure it does. Where is her crutch—?”

“Lord Hans Capon,” John gently interrupts, sensing the possible impending fight regarding said crutch. “This is midwife Luciana. She has aided in every birth within Uzhitz’s borders for the last thirty years.”

Including Henry’s, if Hans were to guess—though, apparently, it had mostly been a panicking Godwin there instead. Hans couldn’t see this Luciana panicking… well, ever.

“It’s a pleasure,” Hans greets with a nod and a tight smile. “Lord Hans Capon of Pirkst—”

“Spare me the titles,” Luciana says in gentle good nature. She’s stood from her stoop, her palms patting Anna sweetly on her cheeks and head and drawing a half-hearted giggle from the girl. “I don’t think we have the time to focus on such silly things.”

While his gut wants to recoil at his entire life being called silly, Hans also can’t keep himself from smirking. Jitka would have liked this one.

“Of course. Your town is in grave danger.”

“Doubly so with Henry and your boy gone,” John pipes in. He’s dressed in the clothes he arrived in: not too gaudy to be a true lord’s outfit, but fancy enough to know that John’s blood runs blue. “And I am sure that, just as the people of Uzhitz did, the Order has seen your men arrive.”

“You’re still calling them the Order?” Hans asks, eyebrows lifting.

“For lack of any better moniker, I’m afraid.” Round shoulders lift in a lackadaisical shrug. “Calling them simple bandits seems unsuitable for such an organized group.”

Samuel huffs from where he stands beside his mate. His arms are crossed tight over his chest. Anger radiates from him like heat from the sun. Hans doesn’t blame him, though he’s surprised that Anna’s appearance doesn't mellow him out even a bit. Then again, the girl herself is far from mellow as she leans on Hans’ hip and scowls at the dirt.

“Regardless of who they are, we need to come up with a way to take them down and rescue Heinrich and Henry, and—in turn—Uzhitz.” The already clipped tone Samuel naturally has is even further tightened by rage. If he talked any faster, Hans might not be able to understand him beyond the snapped syllables and throaty accent. “I suppose you and your guard captain have thought about our options?”

“One moment.” Hans leans back and looks around the property, keeping a hand on Anna to keep her steady. Guards and peasants alike are mingling, offering food and water and company to one another. It seems the men took Alexander’s words to heart and are treating these people with no less respect than they would each other. Good. Hans can only hope it stays that way as tensions rise.

By the barn, he easily catches sight of his captain. Even disregarding his rare complexion and coiled hair, Alexander stands out from the rest. The way he holds himself is enchanting in the way heroes of old are. As Hans lets out a whistle, he wonders if Alexander conducts himself like that on purpose—if he’d read those stories of valorous knights and old heroes and vowed to be just like them. Hans wouldn’t put it past the man.

Alexander looks up at the whistle, meeting Hans’ eyes. He nods and lifts a finger to give himself a moment to end his conversation with a sallow-looking man.

“While we were more concerned with getting our men here in one piece,” Hans says as he leans back into the group. “We did come up with some ideas that can be easily adjusted to fit our ever-changing circumstances.”

“I’ve got some ideas of my own,” Sam states. His eyes slip over Hans’ shoulder and he watches someone approach.

Alexander joins them, his back straight and firm. A true bloody knight.

“A strategy meeting, then?” he asks after glancing around at everyone. His eyes linger on Luciana for a moment, probably wondering why this comely goodwife is standing among soldiers. He doesn’t ask. “Have there been any changes since Lord Capon left?”

(His eyes only stutter once over Anna before he returns to his strong center. Alexander has been avoiding the girl all day. Hans suspects it has to do with a certain folk hero.)

“Besides Henry’s pup getting back on her feet, so to speak—“ Anna tiredly returns the smile she gets from her uncle. “—and Henry himself attempting to rescue our dear lord’s son… no.” John tilts his head and looks in the direction of the forest. “Now more than ever feels like the calm before the storm.”

It always does. Hans has never gotten used to the building tension that arises before a battle, a siege. Time moves both too fast and too slow at once. He is glad they’re actually talking out plans now, however.

Clearing his throat, Hans nods. “Well, does anyone have a map of the surrounding area?”

Godwin affirmatively grunts before pulling out a map stained by ink and water. It’s legible, but well-used. He spreads it out on the forge’s table—the same one Hans found Heinrich’s waffenrock left behind that night. The fabric still sits at the corner of the table, folded perfectly and silently. At his side, Anna casts a guilty look toward it.

“This is a good start,” Hans hums as he moves Anna and himself closer to the table. She goes, if a bit reluctantly. “Have we determined where their camp actually lies?”

A small hand reaches out. Every man and woman watches as Anna puts her fingertip on the stables and slides it up the road that skims the side of Uzhitz. She hesitates for only a bit before wandering off the beaten path and into the forest.

“The graves are… maybe here?” she says, poking at a copse of inked trees. “And their camp…”

Again her finger moves. Hans can hear her count beneath her breath, too quiet for anyone but him to notice. Her finger comes to a spot a ways into the forest. A creek is within spitting distance, but not directly on the camp. The map itself indicates there are wolves and deer there—though Hans doubts that's the case anymore.

“I… I think it’s here?” Anna murmurs. “And… I ran…”

She guides their eyes down the length of the forest until Anna’s hand stops and lifts.

“Princess got me around there. Maybe.”

Hans stares at his daughter, eyes wide. Several grown, trained men couldn’t use a map nearly as well as her. And to have somehow counted her way to the camp to remember the length—

“You’re amazing, Anna,” Hans breathes as he leans to copy the route she’d pointed out with a charcoal stylus helpfully provided by Godwin. “Fucking brilliant.”

“Lord Capon,” Alexander admonishes. “Language.”

That makes Anna truly giggle.

“That was certainly impressive, Birdie,” John praises, also leaning over the map. “Are you absolutely sure?”

“Mhmm,” Anna hums. “Heiny left a weird-looking groschen at a rock um… here on the path.”

Another prod of her finger on the actual road they traveled. A small illustration of a rock sits beside a beech tree.

“I made sure to remember how to get there,” Anna admits, tucking herself against Hans’ side. “I counted an’ everything. Like how Pa taught me.”

Hans… doesn’t even know what she means. Is that how Henry never seemed to get lost, despite his rampant habit of walking in his sleep? One landmark spotted and he could count his way to civilization?

Closing his eyes, Hans prays.

He needs to tell Henry how amazing he is.

He needs to show Henry that he’s nothing but strong and smart and—and fucking beautiful.

“Although I trust our little Birdie’s sense of direction, a scout should be sent to check on the camp,” John says, returning his attention to the map. “We only have a general idea of where they might be—narrowing it down to a specific point of contact would be valuable.”

Anna practically molds herself to Hans’ side. One arm circles his waist, her hand gripping his hauberk firmly. The other is tucked up close to her chest, fingers on her hand curled loosely. She looks so much like the child she is. It pains Hans to see her so small.

“Wilk can see to that. He’s our best pair of eyes.” Alexander crosses his arms in thought, his brow furrowing. “How will we be able to get to them without having the entire forest hear our every step?”

Samuel, who had been watching Anna like a hawk the entire time she guided them through the map, lifts from a slumping lean against the forge wall. “I have a thought on that…”

Notes:

alexander of alexandria just sounds funny and i bet it'd sound funny back then too. kinda like moon moon. idek if alexandria was still called alexandria at this point i just wanted to make a hehe haha

also, i know this is an energy, tension switch-up but like... this is medieval times shit doesn't happen fast much to the annoyance of literally everyone on earth at this point. i like to highlight that sometimes :) just to make y'all suffer :)

but i hope u enjoyed the hans/anna bonding

worldbuilding notes:

on alexander: like fuck am i gonna go through egyptian history at this time because it's wildly complicated socially and politically. just know that misr is the arabic name for egypt that was used in this timeframe. our dear alexander was born in alexandria as a bastard of a traveling noble, lived with his mom until she died, moved up to turkey, then constantinople (istanbul), then eventually to bohemia to live with his father who claimed both him and his brother despite his brother not being a bastard. alexander's dad is chill.

on our hero henry: you cannot tell me that henry wasn't venerated as a folk hero in bohemia with all the stuff he did for everyone. and even after he left rattay in this universe, he still helped a ton of people all the time because he's physically unable to not. so, yeah, there are stories spread all over bohemia about his deeds for the common man, something alexander in particular admires very much.

on luciana: she's kinda like an easter egg lol she's been mentioned a couple of times in multiple stories in this series and she was the one who helped henry give birth once godwin realized he could not fuckin handle that shit. i imagine midwives in general were pretty tough people, both from examples in history and the fact that like... these women (mostly women) were saving the lives of underfed mothers and babies in a time where infant and birth mortality was insanely high. we see the pressure that's put on them with bozhena in-game and that's only just skimming the surface of the shit midwives willingly put themselves through.

Chapter 22: XXII :: Henry

Notes:

:) this one's a bit intense so read the warnings pls

(the off-screen assault isn't detailed but it's very obvious what's happening)

!! warnings for this chapter: transphobia/transphobic language, religious zealotry, lots of verbal fighting, victim blaming, off-screen non-con (matthew and engel), child in peril

Something’s happening.

Henry tightens his arms around his pup, his palm fitting over the back of Heinrich’s head. It isn’t bleeding anymore, but cleaning his hair is an impossible task with the scant amount of water they’re given. Both of their faces are stained with red for the same reason.

But…

They are clothed. They are fed. They haven’t been cut at the throat like slaughtered cattle.

A soft groan rattles out of Henry’s chest as he wakes. There are voices talking, arguing. Raspy against nasal. Matthew against Fritz.

The mere fact that they’re both alive rattles Henry to the core—that they, apparently, have some horrid resentment toward him and would gladly sell him off to the same tyrant that is destroying their home…

Fuck, Henry just wishes he had recognized them earlier. He had seen Matthew on the pillory platform. He’d heard him. Time changes men whether they like it or not—and time has destroyed the men who had once been his friends.

“Henry?” Heinrich’s small voice vibrates against Henry’s clavicle as he struggles to put the words together. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” he replies just as quiet. “Stay down.”

Heinrich curls up tighter beneath the ratty blanket provided to them. Henry unravels himself from the pup and slowly sits up. Cold air brushes along his jaw and scalp where Engel’s blade had shorn him to near bare skin.

“You’ve succeeded, Matthew! We can just leave!” Fritz bellows. “Go to fucking Venice or wherever the fuck that red rat is and drop Henry off.”

“No.” Matthew’s voice pitches down into his hollow chest. “No, he needs… he needs to suffer.”

“What—Matthew, y’have to hear yourself.” True, real concern colors Fritz’s voice. Despite everything, he still cares for the man he’s called brother since they were small. His loyalty is damn near unshakable. Unfortunately for Fritz. “This was a stupid plan anyway—“

“You agreed!” The sound of a meaty impact echoes from the main tent. Henry wonders how much the rest of the camp can hear this tiff. “You said he deserves it! Where is that certainty now? Where is your sense of justice?”

“Justice don’t mean terrorizin’ innocent farmers for no damn reason! When we’d get nothin’ but more blood on our hands! You think they have groschen here!?”

“And yet you were ready to sack this entire town just a few days ago out of boredom. What changed?” There’s a low, snakelike chuckle that hisses from between Matthew’s teeth. “Tell me… did Engel put those hobbles on your fucking ankles?”

Fritz stays quiet. Henry wonders what face he’s making.

“She did.”

She?

“I should have killed that bitch long before now,” Matthew barks. “Making me talk to her like a man, respect her like a fucking man! When all she is, is a goddamn succubus! She is the cunt of the Devil come to change us! Corrupt us from our duty!”

“Matthew…” Fritz sounds tired. “Engel didn’t do nothin’.”

“Bullshit!” Something gets thrown. It impacts against the side of the tent so hard it makes the canvas shudder. “You’re going to raze this fucking village to the ground, Fritz. You will take the men and you will whet their dry maws with the blood of these traitorous heathens.” The chuckle that slithers from the tent has Henry’s stomach twisting. “Trust me, Fritz, the men’ll be more than happy to feast.”

Fritz, apparently, has nothing to say to that.

“Now get out. Do your duty as God and I command. Beg the Almighty to not feed you to the fucking wolves. Beg me.”

Many of the things spewed from Matthew’s mouth are strangely disjointed. In one moment, he’s making very dangerous sense. In the next, he’s spitting rhetoric that Henry struggles to follow.

Something’s wrong with Matthew. Something deep in his soul. There’s a corruption that no medicine or priest could touch now. Perhaps if someone had come to him years ago, when this inky black insanity hadn’t taken root so deep… perhaps he might have been saved.

Now, he’s lost. Completely lost.

“You gotta give us time, Matthew.”

“Sunset, then. What do I care? All God demands is the erasure of these pagan beasts from His perfect land… and for your hand to be His sword.”

“Christ,” Fritz mutters, the curse nearly inaudible through the tent wall. “Whatever. Fine. I’ll do as you command, your holiness.”

“And get—!”

“Get Engel! I fucking know!” The flap flutters open on the opposite side of the tent from the cage. “Don’t come cryin’ to me when he guts you like a fuckin’ fish for talkin’ all that bloody nonsense!”

Fritz’s heavy steps are gone by the time Matthew responds. His voice creaks and breaks at the edges. Henry can imagine the cracks the Devil carved into the inside of his throat leaking black infection.

“I’d like to see her try.”

Henry settles back on his arse as the camp goes utterly silent once more. There are known unknowns that Henry is not privy to. His curiosity is running rampant and wild, demanding answers to questions that he cannot ask.

Sighing, he rubs a hand over his nearly bare scalp. The cut is uneven and sloppy. For all the man’s apparent skill with a sword, shaving doesn’t seem to come naturally to Engel.

… because he’s is a woman?

Henry shakes his head. He’s not going to fucking believe that madman. And it’s got nothing to do with Henry anyway. He just needs to get out.

“Henry…?”

Immediately, Henry turns to face Heinrich. He moves forward, burrowing beneath the thin blanket to join his pup. Heinrich curls against his chest automatically, seeking Henry’s warmth.

“Are they… gonna hurt Uzhitz?” Heinrich’s voice shivers and each syllable either runs into the next or stops dead in his throat until it decides to escape. Henry’s heart hurts to hear him so injured, so broken. “Anna’s there…. Pa’s there…”

When did Heinrich start calling Hans Pa? It sounds odd coming from such a posh face. A breathless, tired chuckle leaves Henry. His fingers carefully run through pale copper strands, always gentle when he comes across a knot or a clump of congealed blood.

“Maybe,” Henry says, pained that he can’t simply reassure the pup. “Your father won’t let that happen.”

Disbelief and uncertainty oozes from Heinrich’s curled form. He doesn’t say anything to dispute that claim, though.

Rustling comes from the tent. Henry tilts his head to listen in as much as he can.

Engel’s voice naturally pitches low enough that it sounds muffled through the walls, but Henry can tell he’s saying something along the lines of, “What the fuck do you want?”

Matthew’s voice, on the other hand, filters through the canvas clearly.

“You… You’ve been influencing my men, haven’t you?” There’s a dangerous tremble to his reedy voice. “You fucking whore.”

Engel must come closer to the back of the tent, as his voice becomes a bit more understandable.

“—to anybody. Unless you’re talking about me telling them to shit downstream.” A sharp chuckle comes from between his teeth. “But I have a feeling that’s not what has you so incensed.”

“Fritz.”

“What about him?”

“You’ve been—been seducing him.”

“… Fucking excuse me?”

A thought comes to Henry’s mind. A memory, more like.

Back in Skalitz, back when everything was simpler, Matthew had a crush on Theresa. He was convinced he could tempt her into a marriage on charisma alone despite having so little. Perhaps if Theresa had been much more desperate and much less confident, he might have had a chance.

When Matthew caught Theresa and Henry fighting with their wooden swords behind the shed, he had become enraged. Like Henry personally betrayed him by being friends with Theresa. Nothing Henry said could convince the boy that he had no interest in the girl. Even reminding him of Henry’s secondary gender by making up the excuse that he would never go for a beta woman.

It didn’t matter. Matthew’s envy and jealousy grew a new head that day. Henry can see the same thing happening now—only much worse.

“You’ve used your fucking witch’s cunt to save that village,” Matthew sneers. “You convinced my best mate—my partner that leaving them be is a good fucking idea.”

“Did Fritz tell you this?” To his credit, Engel sounds genuinely bewildered by this whole conversation. Either he’s a damn good liar, or he really didn’t try and convince Fritz of anything.

“He didn’t have to,” Matthew snarls. “His hesitancy has your fucking name written all over it, Engeltrude.”

“My hesitancy.” Bewilderment is quickly leaving Engel’s tone. What replaces it is decidedly unhappy. “I’m sorry, what fucking hesitancy did I have in taking Henry down and not just letting the fucker save his pup and escape? You’re doubting my loyalty now?”

“No—No, you did this to him.”

“Matthew.” The word hits like a father’s disappointment. “I have done nothing but be your blade since we fled from the State. I have stood by you as you have lost your fucking mind to whatever this is. Fritz? He’s been loyal even longer than I. He followed you to the fucking State. Like a goddamn puppy searching for its fucking mother’s teat.”

There’s a shifting and a gentle impact.

“Maybe,” Engel hisses, barely audible through the tent. “We’re just getting tired of your shit.”

Both Henry and Heinrich tense as skin impacts skin. Someone was just hit, and Henry suspects it wasn’t Matthew.

“How… How dare you.” Matthew sounds breathless with anger. “How dare you speak to me that way when you’ve been nothing but insolent. Disrespectful. Sullen.”

A thin chuckle trickles from deep within the tent.

“I wonder fucking why.”

There’s a scuffle. It’s intense and rough. Growls transform into enraged snarls. Engel’s voice attempts to raise, but he’s quickly interrupted.

When things go quiet, Henry thinks that perhaps one of them has died.

Then, he hears a low, distressed whimper and an all too familiar wet sound.

Immediately, Henry places his hands over Heinrich’s ears. The pup frowns up at him, but doesn't try to break free. He trusts Henry. He doesn’t need to hear this.

Henry tries not to listen. He tries. Whatever bad things Engel has done, no one deserves this. Not even the man committing it.

Matthew’s rutting growls get louder. Henry forces himself not to squeeze Heinrich’s head too hard, knowing that would do nothing but hurt him further in his injured state. He can’t stop his hands from shaking, though.

It doesn’t last long, thankfully. Engel stays horribly, horribly silent for the entire assault—even as Matthew groans out his… victory. Their panting seems louder than their argument earlier.

“Fucking demon.” The sound of spitting. Then, Henry can hear the tent flaps open with an audible snap as Matthew stalks from the tent.

Engel doesn’t move. Not as far as Henry can tell.

Slowly, Henry lifts his palms from Heinrich’s ears.

“Alright, lovely?” Henry murmurs to his pup. “I didn’t hurt your head, did I?”

Heinrich shakes said head and promptly buries his face back into Henry’s chest and throat.

God, Henry silently pleads. Let him be spared from hearing such sinful, torturous acts.

He has a feeling his hands didn’t do too great a job at keeping everything out. But what’s done is done and Henry can only hold Heinrich close to ease the way they both shiver.

An unknowable amount of time later, Henry hears movement from the tent. A soft hiss. The sound of fabric against skin. Eventually, the tent flap opens.

After a held breath, Henry spots Engel turning the corner and coming toward their cage. He’s straight-backed and looking more exhausted than ever. Fully clothed in a tunic and hose carefully affixed to his body. No part of Henry wants to feel sympathy for the man—but it’s impossible not to.

Their eyes meet as Engel comes to stand in front of the cage. He smells like sweat and release and sorrow.

“Is he okay?” Engel asks quietly, heavy eyes lowering to where Heinrich curls against Henry.

The unspoken question lingers in the air between them. Did you hear what happened?

“He’s alright,” Henry says. Yes, comes silently after.

Engel’s eyes close and he sways forward to rest his forehead on the bars. Why had he come out here after something like that? To show Henry his vulnerability tells his enemy of his weakness. His humanity.

Henry doubts that’s on Engel’s mind right now. He doubts much of anything is on his mind except the basal instincts guiding his body.

“…Why?” The question escapes Henry’s lips without his permission. He stands by it. “Why do you stay?”

Thin lips twist and pull tight. For a moment, it looks as if Engel is going to cry. He doesn’t, and when he opens his eyes, they are cold and hard. Far from tears.

“Where am I supposed to go?” Engel mumbles. “God commands me to stay, so I stay. Anywhere else would mean death or—or madness.”

All Henry hears is, I’m fucking scared.

“Is that because you’re a woman—“

“I’m not.” Engel’s words snap like a whip. “I’m not.”

A sharp breath.

“I’m not.”

Henry doesn’t understand. He doesn’t need to understand, though. Arms still tucked firm around Heinrich’s small body, Henry observes Engel through the bars.

The man stands abnormally stiff. There’s no trembling or shaking. His breath is hard and faster than it should be, but he is steady otherwise.

Or… is he frozen?

“God would not want to see you suffer like this,” Henry says. “All that shit about God’s trials and selfish demands? It’s greedy priests trying to shame good men in givin’ them coin.“ His voice hitches as anger presses against his trachea. “God loves us. All of us. Even when we do wrong. Even when we follow a difficult path. He loves us. He would not want you to suffer like this.”

A raw laugh rips from Engel’s belly. “How do you know? Maybe He does. Maybe He does actually speak through Matthew. Maybe He does want me to be beaten down into the dirt for being—wrong.”

In that moment, Henry understands. He understands Engel better than he could have ever thought. They might not be in the same position or have the same problems, but Henry knows what it feels like to be intrinsically wrong. A male omega. A bastard. A survivor. A rebel. A peasant. Henry has never been right in the eyes of the people around him at any given moment.

He considers his next words carefully.

“Matthew is insane.” Henry lifts his eyes to meet Engel’s. “There is something corrupt within him. Whoever speaks to him is not God. You know this to be true. You know it.”

Bony fingers wrap tight around the bars. The iron splint on Engel’s left middle fingers clinks against the metal. For the first time, Henry sees Engel shiver. It’s small and nigh imperceptible. The stench of sorrow wafting from Engel’s form says it all.

“I don’t need your fucking sermon,” Engel snaps abruptly. He slams his palms against the cage, grimacing at his self-inflicted pain. Heinrich jerks slightly in Henry’s arms. “I don’t need you fucking with my head.”

Every protest sounds weak.

“Just—shut up,” Engel quietly pleads. “Stop talking.”

Henry hasn't said a word. He wonders who Engel is begging.

There are no goodbyes given when Engel turns away and leaves. He doesn’t give any indication of what he’s feeling or thinking. In a blink, he’s simply gone.

A spike of cold pierces Henry’s chest. He pulls the blanket tighter around both him and Heinrich. The pup breathes steadily. Hopefully asleep. Probably not.

The only thing Henry can do now is protect the little life placed in his hands, and that’s what he’ll do.

***

The camp is alive. This time, it’s not fighting that wakes Henry, but the sound of metal scraping stone. The familiar shriek of a grinding wheel has Henry sitting up swiftly, naturally placing his hand on the other side of Heinrich to keep him safe.

He hates how he can’t see a damn thing beyond Matthew’s tent. The suggestion of shadows in the afternoon sun is all that visually indicates that men are moving.

“What’s…?” From beneath him, Heinrich mumbles sleepily. “Pa…?”

Henry’s heart gives a sluggish beat. He shakes his head to rid him of that feeling of rightness.

“They’re getting ready for the raid,” Henry murmurs. “Sharpening their weapons and putting on armor.”

He can’t tell how many, only that there’s a decently sized group preparing. The men don’t speak to one another as they do. Truthfully, it sounds like warriors preparing for a battle they know they’ve already lost.

“Raid—Uzhitz!?” Heinrich’s voice squeaks as he sits up. He tries to, at least. He quickly realizes he’s caged in by Henry’s body and lies back down with a bereft huff.

“Probably,” Henry acknowledges. His mind is rapidly turning, a mill’s wheel in a sudden flood. “That means less men here, however.”

“But more men hurting Uzhitz…”

Henry lifts his hand from the cage bottom and strokes Heinrich’s head, thumb running across soft skin and greasy hair.

“I trust your father to protect them as best he can.” And he does. “Hans Capon has more than proven himself to be a good leader and commander over the years. They’ll be okay.”

If he’s even back by now. Fuck, Henry hopes he is. He’s heard murmurs and quiet arguments among the soldiers. The entire fight between Matthew and Fritz didn’t indicate there was anyone protecting Uzhitz specifically, but Henry can imagine the addition of defenders would only make Fritz more hesitant in attempting to sack Uzhitz—and Matthew more determined.

Regardless of what Engel might or might not have said.

Continuing to stroke Heinrich’s head, Henry looks to the main campground. They’ll be getting ready for some time if they only just began to sharpen their blades. Even a rough grind takes time—and they have ten or so weapons to go through. Any little bit counts.

Someone turns around the outside corner of the tent and begins walking their way. The afternoon glow of the sun makes it difficult to tell who at first.

Then, Engel’s sallow face appears above his loose white tunic and hose. He pauses for a breath when their eyes meet, surprised by Henry’s attention.

“Apologies for the rude awakening,” Engel says in a way that doesn’t sound very apologetic at all. “We’ll be moving soon.”

“How kind for a guard to tell the prisoner their plans,” Henry states blandly. Whatever understanding they had earlier certainly eases their tones but doesn’t, ultimately, change anything.

“Fuck me for wanting to warn you so you won’t go biting the hands that lift your cage.”

“Might do that anyway.”

That makes Engel’s gently bruised lips twitch in amusement.

“Go ahead. Spare mine, however. You’ve already done enough to them.” The splinted middle fingers Henry broke are waved between them. The swelling has gone down, though Henry’s sure they still hurt. “It seems unfair to be bitten as well.”

“No promises.” It oddly feels like they’re bantering rather than sniping at each other. “Want to tell me what they’re getting ready for? I don’t think you need sharpened weapons to transport one man and a pup from place to place.”

Engel’s dark eyes watch Henry for several breaths. Then, he snorts. “If you heard Matthew and me, you certainly heard their fight.”

“The entire camp did.”

“True enough…” Engel shakes his head. Stray curling strands of black fall in front of his eyes. He swipes them away. “Fritz is leading a raid on your quaint little village.”

“Why?”

“You know damn well why, Henry. Stop trying to get me to reveal anything further.”

Henry only barely resists the urge to pout.

“Look,” Engel mutters, rubbing his eyes. “You and your pup will remain safe. Once you’re in Sigismund’s hands, we’ll ransom young Lord Capon while treating him like a noble prisoner should be. He’ll return to his sire safe and sound.”

It almost seems as if Engel is trying to reassure him. While also condemning him to a future of indefinite imprisonment, constant rape, and unwanted pregnancies.

Charming.

Henry doesn't bother replying. He rolls his eyes and settles in the cage again, tucking Heinrich close to his side.

A contingent of this group of robber knights is going to raze Uzhitz. The rest will sneak them out to… wherever fucking Sigismund is. Italy or Austria or wherever. Heinrich would probably know. Henry doesn’t ask him, not while Engel lingers nearby, fiddling with things around the cage.

Each one of his movements look painful. Not unbearably so, but enough to tighten the muscles around his eyes and force him to limp or readjust in certain positions.

Henry frowns. He would consider himself an observant, smart man. There’s something here that doesn’t seem to fit, or something unusual. Unfamiliar. Different.

“He never hurt you like that before.”

Engel freezes.

“Matthew,” Henry clarifies as if he needed to at all. “He never treated you that way before.”

“Fuck off,” Engel mutters. “Don’t speak like you know what’s happening here.”

“I don’t,” Henry acknowledges. Beside him, Heinrich shifts to lean against his side. Henry wraps his arm around Heinrich’s shoulders, the warmth of the pup grounding him. “I’m not sure why I brought it up, truthfully. You’re a cunt who hurt my daughter and—Heinrich. You’re selling me off to fucking Sigismund of all goddamn people.”

“Then why speak at all?” Engel hisses. His movements have gotten sharper, harder. He throws supplies and ammunition into their respective crates and barrels, uncaring that some things audibly break. “Just shut up and nurse that fucking pup or whatever it is sows like you do.”

Against him, Heinrich twitches. A tiny sound of distress warbles from his lips, bringing Engel to a complete standstill once again. The noise had been unconscious, a plea for comfort from a boy who can barely focus on the present.

Henry pulls him even closer until Heinrich is once again curled up in his lap, head tucked beneath his chin.

Meanwhile, Engel has continued to pack. And, it seems, guard Henry.

“Could I ask something of you?” Henry murmurs after heartbeats pass.

“No.” Another snap of poorly-made arrows being crushed in their barrel. Engel sucks in an angry breath and slams both of his hands down on the top of a crate, grimacing as he jars his broken fingers. “What?”

“I want to talk to Fritz before he leaves,” Henry says. “All I want is for him to come here and listen. Five minutes. Less.”

Engel seems to be thinking about it as his muscles begin to slowly unlock. They’re still horribly tense when they do, but Engel doesn't look like he’s about to rip his own flesh off anymore.

Eventually, Engel responds. “If he doesn’t want to, I won’t force him.”

“Understandable.” The thought of Engel forcing Fritz to do anything is a bit laughable. Fritz is as pigheaded and stubborn as they come, as well as being the size of an elephant. No one except for, apparently, Matthew could order him about.

“… Fine.”

It doesn’t take long for Engel to return with Fritz, subtly limping behind the brute with a glare in his eyes. Fritz is as round as he always has been—only now with muscle instead of fat. He’s an imposing figure. Henry would be a bit more intimidated by him if he hadn’t seen him piss himself laughing and throw shit at buildings when they were children.

“Hal,” Fritz greets as he comes to stand before the cage. Meaty arms cross over his broad chest, his Order gambeson barely able to button properly. The mane of hair he has is braided into a thick whip. For one dedicated to an Order of God, Fritz certainly looks tribal.

“Fritz,” Henry replies. “Talk to me. Please.”

His old friend’s flat face twists into an uncertain grimace. Fritz glances behind him at Engel, who pointedly looks away. A universal sign of I’m not listening, though they all know that’s a lie.

“Say what you’re gonna say,” Fritz grumbles. “I’ll decide if I want to talk.”

That’s good enough for Henry.

“What happened?” It’s the main question that has been on Henry’s mind ever since his attempt at rescue was thwarted. “You say I didn’t do anything, but now Matthew wants to destroy my home because I deserve to suffer?”

Fritz tries to keep his expression neutral. Henry can see him struggling, lips tightening and his jaw squaring. He’s gotten slightly better at not reading like an open book—but Fritz has never been very good at hiding what he feels. It’s half the reason why he got into trouble so often. When one can’t suck up to the right people, their opportunities narrow significantly.

“I thought…” Henry sighs. “Back then, I refused to help you ambush the quarry’s pay wagon.”

A muscle jumps in Fritz’s jaw.

“Is that all this is about?”

“Fucking—“ Fritz turns away, his hands clawing at his head in pure frustration. “No, Hal. It isn’t!”

“Then tell me what I did.”

“You abandoned us!” As Fritz roars, he turns and kicks at the cage so firmly the bars rattle. Behind him, Engel freezes. Heinrich whimpers and holds Henry tighter. “You had every fuckin’ opportunity to help your fuckin’ friends an’ you just dropped us when you became some noble’s bitch!”

Bewildered, Henry stares. “I… I did try and help. You two refused to do honest work—“

“‘Cause workin’ beneath a boss who fucked us over daily is honest work?” Fritz is fuming. Normally, his scent is as stale as morning breath, and not half as pungent. With his rage, the stench of standing water and rot fills Henry’s nose. “‘Cause bein’ exploited ‘cause people think we’re fucking stupid is honest work!?”

Henry does understand his point.

He also thinks that all of this is fucking stupid, not just Matthew and Fritz.

“Any opportunity at work had you cunts running for the hills!” Henry’s own anger is bubbling over. “I had to beg that miller to take you in because you were so well-fucking-known as lazy arseholes that you couldn’t convince them yourself!”

“Fuck you!” Fritz barks. “If you’d just helped us get that bloody money or—or lent it to us yourself, Matthew an’ I could’ve made names for ourselves!”

“Horseshit,” Henry growls, his chest vibrating. “You would have pissed it away on dice and drink and whores until you were back exactly where you stood before.”

“You don’t know that!” Fritz’s yelling has become so strained that he almost sounds like he’s whining. Not like a pup, but like a child who thinks he’s been wronged by a parent. “We could’ve been fucking kings, but you had to go an’ abandon us and—“

His voice cuts off suddenly, teeth gnashing. As a beta, he has no fangs, but the points of his canines are sharp nonetheless.

“And what?” Henry snaps. “You two had to go into a fucking monastery? Boo-fucking-hoo.”

“And Matthew got fuckin’ hurt okay!?” Fritz’s fists are clenched and curling up by his ears, the pressure of his anger becoming too much. “He got his goddamn head bashed in an’ started talkin’ nonsense an’ got worse an’ worse an’ made us do shit things—“

“Made you do them.”

“Yes, Henry! He made me!” Angry tears have filled Fritz’s eyes. “What the fuck else could I do!?”

“Leave!”

“TO WHERE!?”

“Fucking Rattay! Pribyslavitz! Uzhitz! Goddamn Poland!” Henry slams his foot against the bars. It makes them rattle, but the rough iron stands strong. “Anywhere other than at that addled man’s side! You enabled this, Fritz! Because you’re a bloody coward!”

“NO!”

Before Fritz can fling himself forward and do whatever his furious mind wants him to, Engel gets his arms hooked beneath each shoulder. Using momentum and his sturdy trunk as a fulcrum, Engel manages to yank Fritz to the side, throwing him to the ground and nearly going with him with the effort. He stumbles, good hand catching on the bars to keep himself upright. His narrow chest flexes with each panting breath.

“What the—Fuck!?” Fritz scrambles up from the ground. “You fuckin’ heard him, Engel! I’m not a fuckin’ coward! It’s not my fault! None of this is my fuckin’ fault!”

Suddenly placed in the center as some sort of lawman, Engel looks between them with wide eyes. His lips twist as he struggles to find the words.

“IT’S NOT MY FAULT! IT’S NOT!” In Fritz’s place, there stands a child that has never been heard. He stomps his feet and screams at the top of his lungs, begging for someone to acknowledge that he’s only just a child—he doesn’t know better, he never has, he never learned how.

That may be so.

But Henry feels less than unsympathetic. He pities the poor fools drawn in by Matthew’s pull, who are convinced they cannot leave through whatever excuses they’ve made for themselves—or whatever excuses Matthew told them to believe. Because Fritz and Engel said the same fucking thing:

Where could I go?

What use do I have outside of this maniac? Outside of God?

I’m stuck and scared to do anything but obey.

Matthew’s snide rasp lingers in every single one of those pitiable excuses. They might not be able to see it, but fuck if Henry is going to be kind about telling them that their savior is fucking insane and that they’re strong enough to leave if they wanted.

“Neither one of you is going to change that goddamn monster,” Henry snarls at them. “Whatever has happened with Matthew has happened. He cannot see reality for what it is and he’s dragging you both into Hell with him. I, frankly, don’t fucking care if you go—but you both have the opportunity to leave. Get a job as a farmhand, a tailor, an apprentice. Get a home. A family. A life outside of killing people in the name of some false God or a tyrant king.”

Both of his hands grasp the bars. Heinrich has curled up behind him, his heavy pants audible. Henry needs to make his point before tending to him. Silently, he apologizes to the pup and pleads for a few more seconds to make his point known.

“Neither one of you is helpless or weak. Matthew is fucking sick and there’s no goddamn cure. Wake the fuck up! Do something! Because Matthew fucking won’t!” Henry shakes the bars, the door to the cage clanging loudly. “He’ll continue to yell and fight and rape! And you’ll die at his hand, convinced by a madman that you can’t resist! It’s bullshit! Utter fuckin’ bullshit!”

While fat tears of anger stream down Fritz’s face, mixing with the wet from his nose and spittle from between his teeth, Engel stands completely still. Frozen in time. Only the wind moves his hair and the edges of his tunic.

“Do whatever the fuck it is you think you must,” Henry snarls, leaning in to stare at Engel’s black eyes directly. “But don’t come asking for sympathy when you know damn well Matthew is gone.”

Abruptly, Fritz turns on his heel and stalks off. Probably to tell Matthew about their spat, or to make sure the torches used to burn Uzhitz down are properly soaked in oil.

Engel stays. He looks without seeing, his face falling into a blankness that betrays how rattled Henry’s words made him. He can’t even meet Henry’s glare before turning toward the supplies and slowly beginning to return to work. One item, one crate at a time.

No other words come from the man. Only the sickly scent of sorrow.

Anger still radiating through his body, Henry turns to face Heinrich—who automatically scrabbles back into the furthest corner of the cage. Henry’s heart falls at the sight.

“Hey, hey…” His voice is ragged from yelling. “Oh, my lovely, I am so sorry for scaring you.”

Heinrich’s chest pumps in fast pants as he stares at Henry, eyes unseeing and fearful. He’s just a child. For all the brilliant thoughts in his mind, Heinrich is a child.

Fritz was never heard, so Henry will listen.

Engel was never understood, so Henry will understand.

Because isn't that his duty as a parent? To make one’s child better than he could ever be? Heinrich may not be of his blood, but Henry cannot say he isn’t his any longer. And every thought he gives to Heinrich applies to Anna as well. They both deserve a life much better than this.

And Hans. And Sam and John. And his father. Everyone.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” Henry murmurs, trying to put his voice into that space of purring comfort. It’s difficult with his own heart still racing. “Breathe, please.”

That small chest continues to pump before—it hitches. Heinrich’s lips open to suck in air, tiny fangs peeking from beneath dry lips. He tries. He is trying.

“That’s it,” Henry purrs. “One big breath after another. Slowly, slowly…”

Henry does the same. Heinrich isn't the only one worked up with his mind melting from his ears.

“See? In…” Henry pulls in a noisy breath. “And out.”

Thankfully, Heinrich mimics him. Out of instinct or conscious thought, it doesn’t matter. Eventually, Heinrich’s breath has slowed and lessened until they are breathing in easy unison, energy leaving their bodies in trembles and shivers.

Silence stretches as they catch their breath.

Then, quietly, gently, Heinrich whispers, “Pa…?”

“He’s not—”

Henry’s immediately cut off by a warm weight slamming into his belly and thin arms wrapping around his waist. Heinrich clings to him with all his might, fingers gripping dirty linen. In his chest, Henry’s heart swells so big that it’s difficult to breathe with it pressing against his lungs, his stomach. He wraps both arms around Heinrich’s shoulders and holds him tight.

“I have you, lovely. I have you.”

Notes:

:))

henry's got a bit of tough love to dish out despite not loving either fritz or engel lol it's just in his blood

obvi (and i hope y'all already understand this) the views and actions of matthew are Not my own... misgendering and assaulting people are like not cool yknow

worldbuilding notes:

on henry's off-hand tribal comment: celtic tribes are all over europe at this point (considering they're some of the indigenous peoples of the area rip). so, henry's talkin about old european tribes, not african ones. idk why i felt like this had to be clarified... but shrugs better safe than sorry i Guess. fritz doesn't have white boy braids, he has one big ol plait (that some warriors of the North did actually put weights on to whack ppl with lol)

Chapter 23: XXIII :: Anna

Notes:

lets get it fuckin started in here

warnings for this chapter: animals (horses) and children in peril, horse death

The adults are talking for so long that Anna begins to doze as she leans against…

Well, she’s not sure how to refer to him now. Stinky Lord Capon sounds mean. Lord Capon sounds wrong. Capon alone isn’t… right. Hans? Lord Hans? The thought batters the inside of her throbbing skull, distracting her from listening to the plans that her uncles and the people around the forge are making.

If it were her, Anna would just go. It doesn’t matter if they’re expecting them or if they’ll hear them. These guards are supposed to be good fighters, right? So, up against bandits, they’ll prevail every time.

(She knows that’s not how it works. She knows that bad people win battles all the time. Pa has told her of Sigismund and his swarm of rats that have been destroying the country. Anna only wishes everything were simpler.)

The pain is coming back. Sitting with… Lord Hans took some weight off her aching foot and the way he pet her hair made her scalp stop hurting. Now that she’s experiencing neither, Anna can feel her body begin to burn with hurt and exhaustion. All she wants to do is sleep.

She could, probably. The guards would make sure she’d be safe, curled up asleep on her bed.

But Anna doesn’t want to. She wants to stand at Lord Hans’ side. She wants to know what’s going on. She wants to help.

“It’s possible they could come here,” the wide-shouldered man with skin the color of dried soil says, his tongue curling around his syllables in a way that makes Anna want to ask where he’s from. “If they saw us arrive, they could try and catch us unaware. Ambush us here.”

“It’s possible,” Lord Hans acknowledges as he looks down at the map and the written out notes on a clay tablet beside it. “We need to move. Now.”

“Then let’s move,” Uncle Sam grumbles. “We’ve been talking for far too long.”

“I’m not sure…” Lord Uncle John has tucked his arms in close to his body, hand pressed to his mouth as he stares at the map in front of them. “Too many unknowns could have innocent men killed.”

“With all due respect, Lord Lichtenstein,” the new fellah says, his voice gentle in the way Pa’s gets when nightmares come. “This is why my men and I came here. To fight. Injuries and death are a risk we must—and expect to—take.”

Lord Uncle John’s mouth pulls in at the corner. He doesn’t say anything in response.

The sound of feet pounding against dirt has Anna twisting to look toward the road. A sort-of familiar man soaked in sweat and ash sprints onto the property so fast that he can barely stop without falling. Automatically, Aunt Luciana goes to greet him, her hands cupping his shoulders to keep him upright.

“Antony?” she hisses, eyes dragging over his entire form. Black soot smears across his face, sticky with running sweat. There’s a rip to his left sleeve that looks as if someone grabbed it, but he was able to pull away. “What in God’s name—”

“Uzhitz,” Antony wheezes, slumping into Aunt Luciana. “Burning. Fire. Uzhitz is burning.”

As a loud cough rattles his chest, every person in the forge moves as one collective to the center of the stable’s courtyard. At first glance, it looks like nothing is wrong. Except… no one has lit their hearth in days and now several steady smoke stacks rise to the golden evening sky.

“Shit,” the new fellah snarls. “Men! At the ready!”

All at once, the entire world bursts into action. Anna squeaks quietly as bodies flood past her and Lord Hans, threatening to bowl them over with their enthusiasm. Men yell at each other, readying their weapons and what armor they shed for comfort’s sake. The people of Uzhitz gather around Aunt Luciana, each face wary but determined to keep their home safe.

Bitter envy and regret fill Anna’s belly as she watches bodies churn and move faster than she could ever hope to now.

“We’ve got to get you inside,” Lord Hans says, his voice firmer than Anna’s heard it so far. At her protesting whine, he sends her a look that immediately stops her complaint in her throat. “You cannot help right now, Anna. I know you want to, but you can’t.”

Anna knows that. She fuckin’ hates it, but she knows it all the same.

At the door, Godwin stands. He ushers those who can’t fight inside to sit, hidden for now. Aunt Luciana takes the extra cots they have and begins to set them up as a makeshift physician’s gallery while the rest of the older Uzhitz residents stick to the walls and floors. Lord Uncle John skitters around the room, checking on everyone and making sure they have everything they need.

“Take care of her Godwin,” Lord Hans says in a severe pitch. “Do not let her out of your sight.”

“Aye, Lord Capon. Of course.”

Anna has no say. Godwin wraps his arm around her shoulders to take her from Lord Hans without hesitation. She can’t pull back, either, as her splint causes her to overbalance and forces her forward. Only when she regains her footing does Anna wriggle away from Godwin enough to turn and look at Lord Hans.

He stands at the bottom of the stairs, an unreadable, wide-eyed look on his face. When their gazes meet, Lord Hans stiffens to attention. No words come to Anna’s mind as she stares at him.

The corner of Lord Hans’ lips twitch up, a gentle and kind smile. One of his hands cups the front of his waffenrock as he dips into a low, sweeping bow. For a moment, all Anna can see is the burst of golden hair at the crown of Lord Hans’ head. Then, he looks up and meets her eyes once more.

“I vow to protect you and your home, Anna. I promise.”

An equally unknowable emotion swells in Anna’s chest and brings wet back to her eyes again. She nods, rubbing away her tears with the butt of her palm. Somehow, she believes Lord Hans. She believes he’ll be their protector, their knight, their hero.

“Don’t cry, my dear,” Lord Hans murmurs as she stands up. “I’ll be back at your side before you can miss me.”

“‘m not gonna miss you,” Anna lies through thick lips.

“Ha. Right, of course.” Fondness makes Lord Hans’ smile grow. “Stay safe with Godwin, alright? Please.”

Hesitation forces her to freeze for a beat. Anna forces a weak nod out.

“Thank you, Anna. Godwin.”

“Lord Capon.” Anna can hear the smile in Godwin’s tone.

One last goodbye-wave passes between them before Lord Hans’ face hardens and he turns on his heel to stride toward the gathering guards. The new fellah offers him his sword, which he takes and buckles into position at his hip with succinct, practiced movements. Lord Hans’ voice carries on the smoky breeze, unintelligible but unmistakably his.

“Come, Anna,” Godwin hums. “Inside.”

She hobbles inside—and immediately to the nearest window. They’re closed, but the shutters have always been a little too small for the frames. Anna peeks through the narrow gap at the bottom.

The smoke above Uzhitz is growing in thickness, becoming darker with every added flame. She can’t see the actual tongues of the fires, but the smoke is billowing so powerfully that Anna knows they’ll be visible given time. The breeze is not helping matters any, either.

“Anna…” Aunt Luciana’s voice draws Anna away from the window just enough to look up at her. Her round, matronly face is pulled into a sweet smile. “I know you’re curious, but it’s dangerous to be near the windows.”

“‘m not curious,” Anna grumbles. “‘m scoutin’.”

Aunt Luciana’s responding chuckle is more than a little condescending. Her fingers brush Anna’s shoulder, moving to gently pull her back. Anna immediately shrugs her off.

“An arrow could come flying at the window, Anna.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Anna.”

A low, grumbling chuckle comes from Anna’s other side. Godwin sits on one of the benches that line the kitchen-turned-medical bay. His bad leg is stretched out in front of him. A crossbow rests against the other, bolt already armed and pointed toward the ground.

“Leave her be,” he says. “She’ll know if she has to move.”

Aunt Luciana’s huff is rife with irritation. She leaves them be, though, so Anna doesn't really care.

Little silver-black-yellow men are making their way down the main road, moving to cross the bridge and do whatever it is they’ll do to help. At the end, different colors flash from Uncle Sam and other people from Uzhitz. At the head, Lord Hans’ black and yellow waffenrock stands out among the rest. She tries to keep her eyes trained on him, but once they cross the bridge, they all mesh into a singular gray unit running up the hill.

The smoke continues to grow. A thick pillar now rises to the sky from one of the buildings. Little flickers of flame can be seen among the dusty gray. When she inhales, the smell of smoke makes her entire face hurt.

Distantly, a yell rings out. Steel strikes steel. The two forces have found each other.

Heart in her throat, Anna tries her best to focus through the growing haze to the opposite hill. Like a swarm of rats of different colors, it’s difficult to tell when one ends and the other begins. It’s a mess of bodies too far away to observe properly.

Yells and snarls ring out above the din.

Everyone’s breath stops in their chests as they listen.

Anna scowls. There has to be something she can do. Something! Anything! Anything that doesn’t mean sitting here on her arse, squinting through the smoke to try and see the group.

The dark swarm is shifting. More flashes of white appear. They bear down on Lord Hans and his men, pushing them back. Some tiny bodies are left in the mass’s wake as it rolls forward in rage.

Are they… losing?

Mind whirling, Anna stares at where she thinks she can see Lord Hans fighting. He’s a spot of light among the dark, a flicker of a daisy among foliage.

Daisy.

Daisy!

Anna glances at Godwin and finds the man sitting with his eyes closed. He looks as if he’s sleeping, but Anna doubts he truly is.

Gingerly, she grabs the crutch she abandoned by this same window back when she was talking with Lord Hans. Some adults watch her hobble away. They don’t try to stop her, either too weary or too trusting. After all, what could a girl with a broken ankle do?

Across from the kitchen, on the other side of the hallway that leads to the staircase, is a small supply room for whatever material goods they need stored. It’s pretty messy and disorganized—much like most of their stockpiles—but Anna isn’t looking for anything inside the mess.

What she’s looking for is a particular board covering a particular window on the far side of the room. Pa had put the board up to protect the room from the cold when the shutters broke from a bad wind storm. He’s never gotten around to actually fixing it.

Trying to move the board is difficult on its own. Trying to move it quietly is doubly so. In the end, Anna ends up having to push it to the side to fall onto a crate and reveal the window. Before anyone can check on the noise, Anna is slipping out and into the smoke outside.

The haze and stench has gotten so much worse. Anna has to bury her mouth in her free elbow to keep from coughing as she wobbles her way to the barn, leaning heavily on her crutch.

Horses nervously whinny and grunt as they uneasily occupy their stalls. The smoke and the tension in the air has made them anxious. Only a handful of the horses are stoic and quiet, listening intently but not alarmed too badly by the smoke.

One of them is a big, broad, wheat-colored mare with sleepy brown eyes and dainty feathering around her hooves.

As Anna passes each stall, she unhooks the rope keeping their occupants in—and is swift to move before she gets any nervous, stray kicks to the face. She has to go past Daisy for a couple of stalls to get them all, but she makes sure to get the steady mare last.

Unhooking the rope from both sides, she uses it as a makeshift halter to guide Daisy out and to the nearest stretch of fencing in the pasture.

Around her, horses dance nervously, their energy growing as they influence each other. Anna knows horses. She knows how they work. She’s been around enough her entire life to understand that—like her—they are prey at heart.

Anna has to abandon the crutch to pull herself up the side of the fence. Slim arms shiver slightly the higher she gets, but Anna manages to reach the third-highest rung and plant her good foot on it. Daisy watches her and somehow knows to shift in her direction to allow Anna to sling her bad foot across Daisy’s back and fall awkwardly onto her back. Only Anna’s fingers tangling in her pale mane keep the girl from continuing to slide and falling off entirely.

Shivering with mounting adrenaline, Anna breathlessly whistles. Only a second passes before Princess’ hesitant whine hits her ear.

“It’s okay, girl,” Anna whispers as the dog weaves between shifting horse legs. “C’mere, Princess.”

Over the horse’s din, an alarmed shout comes from the direction of the house. Anna’s scant amount of time is up.

“Go far!” She mimes tossing a stick to the center of the pasture. Though anxious, Princess obeys with a relieved focus. She knows what to do when her girl says that—and she knows what to do when Anna yells out, “Okay, girl, bark!”

All the horses are used to Princess. What they aren’t used to is Princess’ loudest, chest-rattling bark ringing out suddenly as smoke fills their nostrils and their sight becomes muddy with the haze.

Pietro, a freshly adult stallion, is the first to jerk into motion. He yells in alarm, voice straining as he darts for the barn. He’s never much liked Princess in general.

Naturally, the rest of the horses follow.

(Herds protect themselves, Pa once said while she sat against his old mare Pebbles’s slowly stilling belly. Around them, the herd gathered to watch the final moments of their matron. They care for each other like I do you. So, when one is scared, the rest are, too. When one is hurt, the rest make sure they’re okay. When one dies, the rest mourn.)

Even Daisy startles beneath her as the entire Uzhitz herd kicks up dirt and grass, and sprints blindly forward. All Anna has to do is close her hands around Daisy’s pale mane and squeeze her legs to encourage her to join. The mare gladly takes the permission and joins the flow of horses making way through the barn and toward the front of the courtyard.

Men and women leaving the house shout at the horses, alarmed at the sudden onslaught of panicked steeds. It only makes it worse. Once a half-hearted trot to get away from the scary pest they know now becomes a rocketing gallop to get away from the scary, yelling people they don’t know.

Anna has to wrap both her arms around Daisy’s neck to keep from flying off as they jump into a dead sprint. She thinks she sees Godwin as she’s carried past, but Anna’s vision is hindered by smoke and the jarring movements of Daisy’s body. In her mind, she apologizes again and again and again.

She desperately hopes this fucking works. From the front of the stable all the way to the other hill is a straight shot. It’s a singular, wide, swaying road that spears straight through the village—their main thoroughfare.

If she’s lucky, the stampede will follow the easiest path: that very same thoroughfare.

Clenching her teeth, Anna can do nothing but hold on. Smoke presses tight around them as they run, only scaring the horses further. Their hooves pound against packed dirt and she can hear some run into property fences and signs that reach into the street. Sharp screams of alarmed pain ring out and spur the stampede further until the sound of their hooves is near-deafening.

Not every horse makes it easily across the bridge. It’s decently wide—wide enough for a cart and an ox walking side-by-side to get by—but the herd swells larger than it by far. The horses in the center of the pounding swell of muscle and sweat-foamy hide are lucky and make their way over the bridge without issue. Others catch sight of the narrowing pathway and manage to redirect in time.

Anna tries not to listen to the ones who don’t manage to stop or change path. They splash into the river, legs folding over the high bank made deep by regular floods. Screams of true terror fill the air as a handful of horses fall into the river.

If they haven’t broken their legs in the sudden fall into ice cold, rushing river water and the rocky bed below, the horses will manage to make it out.

Anna chokes back a sob at the thought of what happens to the ones who don’t make it.

She has no time to mourn, though the tears stream down her cheeks freely. Daisy runs with the majority of the herd across the bridge and the impacts of hooves only become louder as they follow the incline up.

A distinctly human yell is the first indication that she’s made it to the village green where the fighting is thickest.

“Stampede! Fucking move!”

Anna buries her face in Daisy’s neck to ward off the screams of men and horse alike, and prays desperately to God that she’s helped Lord Hans instead of messing up again and killing the people who are trying to save her home.

Notes:

shakes my ass real hard

worldbuilding notes:

on pebbles: poor pebbles... she was already considered an older horse when henry got her in 1403, there's definitely no way she could survive until 1415 (or if she would, she would have been Very old) but she passed peacefully among her buddies ;u;

Chapter 24: XXIV :: Hans

Notes:

surprise!! double chapter update :) i'm feelin kinda sad and i wanted to cheer myself up so... here!

also pls make sure to look at the warnings this is another intense chapter.

make sure to go back if you haven't read yesterday's chapter!

warnings for this chapter: graphic description of violence, death, corpses, and injury, eye trauma, face trauma, a very brief mention of vomit

They decide to forgo taking the horses. Too many bodies in such a narrow battlefield would only hinder them. A stray kick from any horse they ride could very well hit one of their own. So, plate noisily shuddering and heart in his throat, Hans guides the group of guards and Uzhitz people down the hill and to the village green.

Beside him, Alexander keeps step with him, and Hans knows Sam brings up the rear, keeping an eye out for any sneaking bandit ambush from the alleys. Hans hasn’t seen any indication of such—most of the spaces between buildings are barricaded or their doors locked to save the entrances to houses within. Hans doesn’t let his guard down, however.

The closer they get to the village green, the harder it is to breathe. Fire has clawed its way across wooden structures and thatch roofs. Smoke lifts from dancing flame, depositing ash and detritus into the air. Hans locks his jaw to keep from inhaling, knowing his tongue would only burn if he did.

Behind him, a rough cough echoes out from an alpha who hadn’t thought that far.

Alexander jars into action at the sound. He wears a Leipa-black hood around his shoulders. With quick fingers, he tugs it up and, before tying it in place, shouts, “Mouths closed! Wrap your waffenrock or hoods around your head if you need to!”

Hans follows suit. He pulls his waffenrock up above his nose and ties the back until it fits securely in place. For good measure, he tucks it beneath the lip of his helmet to stay up. Pulling his arms through the holes, the waffenrock turns into a makeshift hood.

They collide with Order forces faster than Hans can process.

Vision in the village green itself is next to nothing with the weak breeze unable to carry the smoke away quick enough. Only vague shapes and shadows move through the thick brown miasma. Yells and screams from the villagers who stayed behind pierce through the gloom from what feels like every fucking angle.

Hans abruptly rams his shoulder into a black and white-covered chest. They both are shocked at the sudden meeting—though Hans draws his sword first. Metal maile links part as Hans uses both hands and his entire body weight to ram the tip of his blade into the bandit’s gut. He twists as he rips it free, not willing to have this man to suffer through a slow gut death.

Blood soaks into his front as the man’s insides leave his body. His maile catches most of it.

Violence erupts around him with the force of a spark to black powder. Guttural yells of battle echo around the burning village green, catching on smoldering buildings and crackling straw. There are pointed commands given from the depths, the words lost to the clamor of steel.

Another Order knight rushes to meet him once Hans shoves the now limp corpse on his blade to the side. Swords noisily jar against one another as his opponent lunges forward. They stumble back at the force and the idiot’s toe catching on his friend’s body. There’s no breath to yell in surprise.

Bell-like and loud enough to hurt, Hans’ elbow slams into the side of the man’s head. His couter dents the side of his helmet and effectively knocks him to the side. Momentum forces them both to stumble further.

“—to leave!” A voice snaps out above the rest. Not one Hans recognizes. “Let’s GO, Fritz!”

Fritz? Why the fuck did that sound so familiar?

Hans grips the tip and hilt of his sword, slamming the pommel into the same place he hit with his elbow. Blood drips down past steel as it dents even more. The man snarls in pain and catches Hans around the waist to throw him to the ground.

Breath loud in his ears, Hans’ back hits dirt and cobblestone. His helmet shudders at the impact of his head, but arrests any further force. Dizzy, breathless, and aching, Hans uses all of his strength and weight and energy to flip them over.

His sword is lost to the dirt. Hans brings his fist down. Again. Blood sinks into the joints of his gauntlet. He feels bone and tissue give with one last slam of his knuckles against the mess his opponent’s face as become.

Scrambling for the hilt of a nearby blade, Hans grabs it and slams the end through the bandit’s skull and into the dirt beyond.

Breathless, Hans curses as he uses the now stuck sword to stand. The weight of his armor hangs heavy on his limbs. He could get used to the heft all he wanted, but the reality of moving under a load the same heaviness as an entire other man will never not be difficult.

“Lord Capon!” Alexander’s found him in the haze. A hand around Hans’ arm, he yanks him the rest of the way to his feet. “Fuck, am I glad to see you.”

“I can’t see goddamn shit in this smoke,” Hans growls around a reedy cough. “What’s going on?”

“I’m in no better shape than you,” Alexander replies with a cough of his own. He looks down at the sword-pinned corpse. “Christ.”

“He fucking threw me to the ground.” Petty anger has Hans’ jaw clenching. “Stupid cunt.”

“Come, let’s find—”

Reflexive instinct has Hans lifting his arm and catching the falling sword in the divot of his couter. It glances off, metal squealing against itself as it slides. Grimacing, Hans scrambles back to get space between him and his assailant.

“Fuckin’ Lord Capon.”

The pure venom in the thick voice that thunders through the smoke surprises Hans. He doesn’t recognize this voice any more than any other.

“It’s your fuckin’ fault.”

Again, the blade comes down. Hans grunts as he lifts his arms, catching the blade and shoving it aside once again. Whoever is attacking him is tall. Big, too. A fucking bull of a man.

“If you hadn’t gotten your fuckin’ knot stuck in Hal—”

Hal? What the fuck—

Hans yelps as the sword hammers down on him once again. He’s too slow to lift his arms and the blade scores down his chest, his maile and chest plate allowing it to slide down. His clavicle screams at the initial impact.

“—and made him go fuckin’ soft—”

A sharp tip comes lunging at his gut and Hans has to throw himself to the side to keep from getting caught on it. His shoulder meets the side of a building, but it’s enough movement to evade the eager stab.

“—then we would be fine!”

Hans kind of doubts that. Not that he has much space to think at all as the blade falls again. This time, something most definitely snaps in his chest as it lands.

“Fuck!” he snarls, teeth bearing. “Who the fuck are you!?”

The laugh that echoes from beyond the haze is full of raw, frustrated fury. Disbelief. Hans grips his arm to keep it in place, knowing letting it go would pull at whatever the fuck broke. At least he can still move his fingers. He’s not out of the fight yet.

“And you don’t even know who I am.” In front of Hans, a shadow swells and breaks through the smoke. The man is certainly fucking big. Tall, wide, and with a braid lining the top of his head like some tribal warrior. “D’ya even recognize the name Fritz?”

Clenching his jaw around a weary, sarcastic laugh, Hans says, “Sorry, pal. Not ringing a bell.”

It only makes the behemoth angrier. Unsurprising, but Hans still curses himself for being such an arse in the face of an already incensed bull.

“PAL!?” Instead of a blade, a fist flies through the air. Hans hisses and bends his knees to duck beneath the swinging club of an arm. “FUCK YOURSELF, HANS CAPON! THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT!”

“I haven’t done shit—”

The sharp shriek of a horse sounds from down the hill. It’s a distinct noise—he’s never heard it from any other being on Earth. A handful of other scared, pained screams follow. Then, the thundering of hooves.

This Fritz doesn’t seem to care. His other fist catches Hans’ distracted temple. Hans hits the other side of the alley he’s been forced into. His own scream of pain joins the Hellish chorus from below.

“You took Hal from us,” Fritz snarls. It holds no power besides the anger of a madman—which is more than enough in Hans’ opinion. “You put that little demon in his belly for what? Was his cunt really that good?”

Pain radiates through Hans’ entire body. Thoughts come slow and stuttering.

“What are you talking about?” How does he even know about that? “Where is Henry!?”

Thunder swells. The air itself feels as if it shudders with the noise. Smoke heaves and shifts as wind is shoved along the thoroughfare. Confusion joins pain in dancing across Hans’ consciousness.

“Stampede! Move!” Alexander’s voice lifts above the Heavens in his alarm.

A fucking stampede?

What the hell is going on!?

The ground trembles beneath their boots. Smoke blows past them, allowing decent visibility for the first time since they arrived. In the golden glow of the dying sun, a mass of horses rushes by, a river’s rapids among the stones of Uzhitz’s burning buildings.

Wait. Hans watches with wide eyes as his own stallion rockets by, head tossing in the air and the whites of his eyes visible in stark relief to his black hide. Something terrified him. Something caused this.

“Bali—”

What he sees next has Hans’ heart rocketing into his throat.

A massive, pale form stands apart from the rest of the herd. The beast is big and broad, its head pulled high but tucked in—determined rather than terrified. And on it’s back?

“Anna!”

Before he can move, a fist collides with his head again. Hans groans around a guttural snarl as his skull bounces off the side of the building. There’s only so much a helmet can protect against—and having his entire head grabbed and ground into the stone isn’t something it was built for. Hans can hear the metal scream as it flexes beneath Fritz’ immense strength.

Lashing out does nothing. His bloody metal knuckles glance off maile and muscle, unable to hit with any power. A kick is much of the same: his heel slamming into padded hose and catching in the fabric.

“Fucking—Let me go!”

“Yeah?” Fritz sounds almost excited in his rage. “You sound a lot like that pup of yours, my lord.”

“Fuck you!”

“He squealed real fuckin’ nice when his skull caved in.”

Hans roars as he grabs at the fucker’s face. His finger catches on bone and Hans digs in. Fritz lets out a bloodcurdling scream that easily rises above the horse’s panic as his eye bursts beneath Hans’ finger.

Finally released as Fritz reels back, Hans follows. He sinks his teeth, sharp and fully extended, into Fritz’s fucking face. Blood fills his mouth and drips down his tongue. The man’s yells make his entire being shudder. Fritz tries to yank his head away, he tries to stop the animal from tearing his nose from his skull.

He fails.

When Hans’ teeth rip free, they take skin and tissue with them. He quickly spits it out and gags around the blood coating his mouth. Stumbling away, Hans fumbles with his misshapen helmet before being able to tear it off with his one uninjured hand. He tosses it aside and leans over to vomit.

Blood and stew and stomach bile pool on the dirt. Hans doesn’t look at it after spitting out the remaining mess in his mouth.

Looking at Fritz isn’t much better.

The man is curled up against the wall, panting in pure agony as he cups the remnants of his eye and nose. Bone can be seen between torn, ripped flesh. Fritz sobs in great heaves, his remaining eye wide and unseeing.

Hans doesn’t care about his pain. The earthquake caused by the stampede has ceased. Some horses still squeal beyond sight, but what remains of the herd has gone by. In the lingering smoke and dust, lit like fire itself as the sun sets, Hans stalks toward Fritz. His ears ring in the relative silence.

“Where is Henry?” he growls. “Where the fuck is Henry!?”

The eye rolls in its socket before snapping to Hans’ face.

“You—You fuckin’ bit—“

“Where’s Henry!?”

“I…” Somehow, tears still flow from the gore of Fritz’s left eye. They dribble down his cheek in fat drops, taking thick blood and more gelatinous liquid with it. “I—I’m sorry—“

Hans’ bellow echoes, deafening in its righteous anger. “TELL ME!”

“Wit—With Matthew!” Fritz sobs, both hands now trying to keep his face together. “Matthew! They’re goin’ to goddamn Sigismund!”

For a moment, Hans’ anger stalls and stops short. Sigismund?

“Fucking Matthew,” Fritz continues, his own anger mixing with pain and sorrow. “Fucking cunt! I sh-should’ve never fuckin’ listened to him—GODDAMNIT!”

Hans watches as Fritz hunches over. His yell makes the air shake, much like the pounding sound of the stampede.

“I fucked everything up,” Fritz whines, sobbing like a child. “I shoulda—fuck, I shoulda—“

“Where is Henry now?” Hans isn't going to stick around to watch this man regret the path he’s been set on in life. He’s uninterested. If he didn’t have to get information, Hans would end his sorry life and spare him the misery of his own actions—if just to have him stop whining.

“Iunnoooo,” Fritz moans. “I dunno! Th-The camp? Iunno…”

It’s a place to start.

Just as his fist rears back to finish what he started, a hand catches his forearm. Hans spins to snarl at whoever stopped him—but freezes when he sees Sam there, face covered in soot and blood.

“You’ve done enough, Capon,” he rumbles. “Go. Anna’s with Alexander.”

All thoughts of ending this pathetic man’s life leave Hans’ mind. Breathless, he whispers, “She’s okay?”

“The stampede split once it reached the village green.” Sam sighs as he releases Hans’ arm. “Now we have scared horses and trampled men on our hands.”

“Our own?” Hans asks. His breath continues to come in hard. “And the fires?”

“Some. Mostly his.” Sam’s jaw juts toward Fritz. “The fires will burn until they don’t. There’s no stopping them now, only keeping them from spreading.”

Right.

Right…

Hans tears the remnants of his waffenrock off his body. It had been torn by the blade that came down on him. Whatever relief it offers is moot when it’s no better than rags.

“Anna,” Hans pants. “Alexander.”

“Yes. Go. I want to ask this one some questions.”

He goes. He stumbles from the alley. The evening breeze has picked up, encouraged by the billowing smoke. The haze is still difficult to see through, but bodies moving about and water being thrown clears it bit by bit.

The first step Hans takes reminds him that something important is broken in his chest. Pain cracks against his mind and Hans has to stop moving or he’ll fall right over.

He needs to immobilize his arm. He has no sling, no splint…

Around his waist, the scabbard that once held his sword hangs empty. The belt it’s attached to is flexible and long, tucked over itself to stay out of the way.

Using his good hand, Hans yanks the belt free. The sheath is sewn into it, so he uses the length of it to stabilize his upper arm. Yanking the rest around his body and the lower portion of his arm, Hans straps the useless thing securely to his chest. It hurts and is probably far from conducive to good healing, but at least walking isn't agony anymore.

Hans spots the horse first. The massive mare stands beside the pillory, head lowered to avoid the smoke and nibble at the blood-fed grass at the bottom of the supports. On her back, a small form sits and shivers. Next to her, Alexander.

“Anna!” Hans nearly trips over a very much dead Order knight as he runs over. Catching himself makes his shoulder scream, but that doesn’t matter. “Anna!”

Her small round face turns to him and tears immediately burst from her eyes.

“Hans,” she whines, her arms reaching out. Hans easily catches her as she slips from the horse’s back, wrapping his arm around her small body and holding her close. Ignoring the burgeoning agony in his chest and shoulder is easily with Anna against him. “I-I—“

“Easy, love. Breathe.” Hans lifts his head and looks to Alexander, who politely brushes his fingers through the mare’s mane instead of watching them. “Alexander. What happened?”

His captain stands at attention. The mare’s ear shifts in his direction curiously as if she wants to know as well.

“There were more of the Order than we expected, and we were pushed back into the main thoroughfare,” Alexander begins his report. “The smoke is thickest there, so we couldn’t tell the stampede was happening until it was on us. I managed to get… many guards out of the way. The Order wasn’t able to move fast enough—and once the herd got to the green, they split up and covered the entire area. Not a lot of places to run when horses are galloping from every angle through dense smoke.”

“Jesus,” Hans mutters. “That’s terrifying.”

“I imagine so… I was stuck in a niche as they went by.” A breathless laugh leaks out of Alexander. It sounds nearly hysterical. “I was damn worried I might get caught by a stray hoof.”

“I don’t blame you.” Looking down, Hans can only see ash-covered golden locks. “Darling.”

Anna shivers against him.

“Anna, did you make them stampede? Or did something happen?”

Anna shakes her head, rubbing it against his hauberk. It can’t be a very nice sensation.

“That doesn’t answer my question, Birdie.” It’s so odd, referring to his daughter by his own childhood nickname. “Come on, be brave for me, my girl.”

After one long, shuddering breath, Anna pushes herself upright. Her narrow chest expands as she breathes steadily. Her poor cheeks are soaked with tears.

“I-I started th-the stampede,” she whispers. “I was just tryin’ to help.”

God, save him from his own blood. Though, Hans will gladly blame Henry more for this particular quirk.

“You did,” Hans truthfully replies. “You did help. Anna.”

Blue eyes lower, refusing to look up.

Hans keeps his voice gentle. “Anna, look at me.”

Slowly, she does. The whites of her eyes are bright red from smoke and tears. He wipes the smears of waterlogged ash from her cheeks with a tender thumb.

“You did so good, my girl. That was a very, very smart idea.” Risky as all fuck and capable of going wrong in a million different ways, but ultimately smart. “You did good. You helped. I’m proud of your ingenuity, Anna. Truly.”

All he can hope is that the fresh wave of sobs are happier than the last. Anna collapses back into him, her little shoulders shaking with her cries.

As he cards his fingers through her hair—palm slipping down to her nape before he lifts his hand to start the circuit again—Hans looks up to find Alexander watching him. There’s a look in his eye. A curious one.

Hans doesn’t address it. Not now.

“That man I fought against—“

“I’m sorry about that, by the way.” Alexander looks startled at himself when he interrupts. His hand lifts to rub at the back of his neck. “Sorry. I mean. For not being able to help.”

How can one man be so sweet? If Henry and a saint made a child, it would be Alexander from Alexandria.

“Don’t worry,” Hans says. “Battles are a mess in the best of circumstances. Come, let’s get out of the smoke and talk more.”

All four of them—Hans, Anna, Alexander, and the horse—make their limping way to one of the paths that leads out of the village. They walk toward the breeze, happy to finally be able to breathe without tasting ash immediately.

They come to stop by the road that lines the eastern side of the town, the same one Anna showed them on the map.

“That man I fought against,” Hans starts again. “He seems to know their leader fairly well… and Henry.”

Alarm catches Alexander’s lips. “What? Sir Henry?”

Hans doesn’t correct him.

“Mm. Said… things that implied he knew him before this.” Hans looks down at Anna. Her cries have eased into tiny hiccups.

He squealed real fuckin’ nice when his skull caved in.

No. He’s not going to believe that monster’s cruel words. Heinrich is alive. Henry is alive.

“He said Henry is with Matthew. My guess is he’s the leader. Fritz talked of him like one would a saint or something.” A saint that betrayed them, but a saint nonetheless. “He also said Henry was still at the camp. Presumably with Heinrich.”

Alexander nods slowly, peering down the long, straight road that leads north.

“If I were a mad bandit—“ Hans chuckles at Alexander’s dry tone. “—then I’d treat them both fairly well. Ransom alone could make them rich with Heinrich, and I doubt Henry would be a good prisoner with no collateral.”

“You talk as if you know him,” Hans says, amusement heavy on his tired tongue.

Alexander’s eyes widen again. “No! Oh, no, of course not. I-I apologize—“

“What I’m saying is that you aren’t wrong. Henry is an awful prisoner. Can’t keep that one in a cage for long without the lock being broken and a corner being pissed in.” After sharing a handful of cells with Henry, Hans knows this to be true. “So, aye, I think keeping them both safe and locked up would be most beneficial. Though, that’s assuming these men are thinking at all.”

“Every move has been calculated in some way,” Alexander counters. “Someone is thinking in that camp, even if it wasn’t…”

They both look back to the town. Guards and Uzhitz townspeople are gathering waterlogged blankets to drape on the sides of burning buildings, trying to prevent the embers from landing on other roofs. God speed.

“Yeah, he’s certainly not one of the thinkers,” Hans mutters. “Alright. Well. I’m going to find Henry. I would enjoy some company.”

“I could send some men with you…” Alexander shifts on his feet. He looks relatively unharmed with the exception of a shallow cut beneath his eye. A sword must have glanced off his helmet. “Or I could go with you myself.”

“You just want to meet your hero.”

“Lord Capon!”

Hans coughs out a chuckle. “I’m teasing. I wouldn’t mind your company at all, Alexander. Could you fetch Samuel of Kuttenberg as well? I left him with Fritz—that bull of a man.”

Who is hopefully bereft of life now. Hans doesn’t want to think about the agony of living with a gouged out eye and bitten-off nose. The thought almost makes him feel bad. Almost.

“Yes, Sir.” Alexander pounds his chest once in a slightly sloppy salute. “Anyone else?”

“If you can think of anyone who hasn’t been majorly hurt or isn’t helping with the fires, sure.”

“Alright. I’ll be back with Samuel… and a couple of horses.”

Hans watches him scuttle off. The man seems to be running on adrenaline and nerves. He’ll sleep like a babe after this, that’s for sure.

Huffing out another chuckle, Hans looks back at Anna. She’s stopped crying all together. Now, she looks mildly embarrassed. Hans gets it. He hates crying.

“Alright, love?”

Anna slowly nods against his belly. She’s careful to not lean on his strapped up arm.

After a beat, her small voice asks, “Are we gonna get Pa…?”

“I am, along with Captain Alexander and your Uncle Sam.”

Her spine stiffens. “I’m comin’.”

Honestly, Hans should have expected that. “Anna…”

“You can’t stop me!” Little fangs peek from between her lips. “I’m comin’!”

Well, that’s certainly the fucking truth. Any attempt to kennel this girl has been met with (usually stupid) action.

“She’s good with a bow,” Samuel states as he jogs to join them. “Are you alright, Anna?”

To Hans’ surprise, she doesn’t let go of him for Samuel’s arms instead. Anna continues to hold onto his hauberk with one hand, bracing herself on his hip.

“Yeah, Uncle Sam.”

Samuel’s lips twitch. The scar through them makes even his smile look like a grimace. “You’re fucking insane, y’know that? Proud of you.”

Wordless grumbles leak from Anna as she pouts.

“That’s right… You did tell me you were a decent archer.” Hans looks to the town. “Do we have any bows she could use?”

The chances of an eleven year-old girl being able to pull a war- or longbow is laughably low. A hare-hunting bow or crossbow? Potentially. Then again, she’d need two working feet to use a crossbow properly. Hans doubts there’s any of those fancy self-arming ones around here.

“I’m sure,” Samuel says. “I’ll be back.”

Once again, they are left alone.

“So…” Hans looks to the horse that has been haunting his peripheral. The bulky mare is chomping away at some grass, looking utterly at peace. “Who’s this?”

“Daisy.”

The mare lifts her head to look at Anna, obviously recognizing her name. Hans snickers.

“Daisy’s a good name for her, I think,” he says. “They’re hardy flowers. Miss Daisy here is certainly hardy.”

Anna is quiet. Then, “Heiny said the same thing…”

Fuck.

Immediately, Hans folds her against his belly once again. His hand fits around the back of her neck. He knows he’s scenting her, their fragrances twisting into a mess of florals and silver. He can’t help it. Not when sadness is painted so plainly on her face.

“We’ll save them, my girl,” Hans murmurs. “I can guarantee you that.”

While Anna doesn’t respond, Hans can feel a bit of hope bloom in them both.

Notes:

i liked writing this one hehe

worldbuilding notes: none!

tho imagining the air displacement from a horse stampede through a somewhat narrow street makes me dizzy. them bitches would bowl you over without being near you at all lol

Notes:

relevant links:

bsky
twt

i might possibly make a playlist for this hmhmhmhm

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 4 of to be known.