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Late winter had settled into habit. Snow no longer fell cleanly; it clung to ruts and eaves, thinned by soot and foot traffic, refusing to melt even on brighter days. Breath showed in the air long after dawn, and the cold lingered indoors as stubbornly as it did outside.
Henry had learned to dress for it. He tightened his cloak as he walked, shoulders hunched against nothing he hadn’t endured before, and kept his pace steady. Winter was winter. It did not require thought—only patience.
And patience, in winter, meant work. Paths had to be cleared before they turned treacherous; stores kept in order; the shortage of wood and iron seen to before they grew worse. It had snowed again overnight, enough to make the ground slick, so Henry set to shovelling a narrow way around his forge before anything else, working until his breath came heavy and his shoulders warmed.
He had promised to repair an axe and shoe a horse, and once the path was clear, the forge gave him what the open air did not. Heat seeped into his skin as he worked, the hammer’s rhythm steady and familiar, the smoke thick in his lungs; he coughed once, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and kept working.
It was nothing taxing, and the morning passed without fuss.
By the time he finished, the sun was out, bright though still sharp with cold. He set off at once to deliver what he’d made; no sense in waiting, not on a day like this. Mutt, eager to be moving after the morning’s work, hauled himself up and followed.
“Finer than before,” said the butcher, turning the axe over with an impressed grunt. “Don’t know how you do it, Hal. The missus will be glad of fresh wood for the fire, though she’ll grumble about the smoke, as usual.”
Henry grinned and shoved a layer of snow aside before leaning against the fence. “And the children? Still pelting each other with snow, or have they tired of it?”
The butcher scoffed. “If only. They come stamping in with slush halfway up their boots and no thought for where they tread, and then the missus shouts up a storm about it. At least it’s not aimed at me.”
Henry chuckled, watching him slip a bite of sausage to Mutt.
“What about you, then?” the butcher went on. “You’re not getting any younger. When are you going to take a wife, have children of your own? Shame about that girl—Theresa, wasn’t it? Married last year. Could’ve been you taking over the mill after old Peshek. Her husband’s a good one, though—laid up with a cough, last I heard.”
“I like my forge,” Henry said mildly. “And it keeps me busy enough.”
The butcher raised a sceptical brow. “Aye? Seems you’re off running errands for lords more than most. Maybe that’s why you’ve not settled yet.” He gave Henry a cursory look, head to toe. “Think your lord father might have plans for a wife for you?”
Henry snorted. “I’m neither legitimised nor knighted. Radzig would sooner see another Talmberg siege than start arranging marriages on my behalf.”
The butcher shrugged. “Fuck if I know.” He scratched absently under Mutt’s ear as the dog begged for another scrap. “Still. People here like you, Hal. They want to see you settled. Happy.”
“Who says I’m not?”
Henry pushed away from the fence—the cold was creeping in now—and called Mutt to heel. “I’m well enough as I am. If that ever changes, I’ll do something about it. Until then, I’ve horseshoes to deliver. Take care now.”
“Tailor Václav’s daughter!” the butcher called after him. “When you change your mind!”
Henry shook his head, laughing. “Aye! I’ll keep it in mind.”
He had enough, truth be told—enough in Hans’ household, where Hynce was forever underfoot and full of questions. Henry did not mind that. He liked children, and sometimes, idly, the thought of sowing his own oats crossed his mind; but for now, he had everything he needed.
Delivering the horseshoes went without a hitch, and because he was already nearby, he continued along the snow-packed path until the mill stood before him. Theresa—practical as always, that lass—looked up from the chopping block, axe in hand and sweat beading on her forehead despite the chill.
She set the axe aside and wiped her brow with the corner of her apron. “Hal!” she called, breathless from the work. “Good to see you.”
Henry stepped into the yard proper as Mutt bounded forward with an excited yap and gave her a quick look. “Need any help with that, my lady?”
She scoffed, smiling as she planted her hands on her hips. Mutt plopped down at her feet, tongue lolling. “Came all the way out here because you figured I needed help, did you?”
“Nah,” Henry said, grinning. “I was in the area. Thought I might as well stop by and see how you’re faring.”
“Well,” she said, glancing at the firewood on the block, “I’ve been better. My hands are frozen solid—I can’t get a good grip on the axe.”
“Let me.”
He moved past her, righted the log, and grabbed the axe. His hands were chilled, but wrapped well enough that he was better suited for the work than she was just now.
She huddled closer in her cloak as he set about chopping, refusing to leave him to go inside when he was doing her a favour. She made polite—earnest all the same—inquiries into his week, occasionally throwing a stick for Mutt to chase, until she deemed his work sufficient. Then he set the axe aside and straightened his back.
He was short of breath after the effort, lungs burning from the cold and the work alike, but at least it had warmed him through.
“Caught a cough yourself, have you?” Theresa asked, giving him a glance as she patted Mutt on the head. “Don’t fuss over my husband—best give him a wide berth. He’s better than he was yesterday.”
“Aye, heard he was abed.” He coughed then, covering it in time with his sleeve. “It’ll pass.”
She hummed—then broke into a cough herself.
He laughed heartily. “See! Everyone has it these days.”
She shoved at his shoulder, laughing, and shook her head fondly. “At least come inside. I have a stew simmering over the fire.”
“Aye,” he said, teasingly, “I’m feeling quite hungry after the work you put me to.”
“You dolt,” she laughed, shoving him again. “You offered—left me little choice, even!”
She stooped to gather the split logs.
“Help me get this stored in the shed first,” she said. “Then we’ll go inside.”
~❆~
The stew was hot and filling—perfect on a day such as this. He had scraped his bowl clean before she was halfway finished; she giggled and offered him another ladleful, which he had cleared by the time she was done.
“Get home safe,” she said at the door as he prepared to leave. “Give your lord my regards.”
“Aye,” he said, smiling. “I will.”
“Come by again when the snow thaws,” she said.
“Aye, my lady.”
Mutt came darting out from beneath a brush as Henry left the yard. He chuckled, pausing to crouch and scratch the dog. “Good boy, Mutt. Let’s get home, yeah? I think I have a sausage left over from yesterday.”
Mutt weaved around his legs a couple of times before setting off. Henry shook his head, exasperated but fond, and went after him.
~❆~
Darkness settled earlier for every day that passed—but it was still many hours past nightfall before Henry found himself in Hans’ chamber at last. Even then, the warmth of the room took its time settling into him. He stretched his hands toward the fire, flexing his fingers until the stiffness eased.
“Long day?” Hans asked.
“Aye,” Henry said, smiling tiredly. “Didn’t much feel like stopping.”
“Is that so?” Hans drawled, dry enough that Henry couldn’t help but chuckle. “Our hero Henry—helping ants with their tunnels if only his big hands weren’t in the way.”
“I’m certain I could forge something that would make their homes less at risk of being besieged by haughty lordlings,” Henry said solemnly.
Hans barked a laugh, shaking his head as he slung an arm around Henry’s midriff and pulled him against his chest.
“I will have you know,” Hans said in a deliberately haughty voice, “I never laid siege to any anthills in my childhood.”
He squeezed Henry.
“It was much easier to kick them and funnier to watch them scatter in a panic.”
“You are terrible, Hans.”
He felt Hans shrug. “I was a brat, yes. Fortunately, a local turnip-picker was chosen to become my squire as punishment, and a few actual sieges later, I am the perfect gentleman. No anthills shall suffer me ever again—that is my oath, as a knight and as a lord, to you, my dear Hal.”
Henry scoffed, fighting the smile pulling at his lips, and twisted until he was facing Hans; the teasing glint in Hans’ eyes was all the brighter for the hearth behind them.
“Then I thank you, my lord, on behalf of the entire ant kingdom,” Henry said. “I am but a humble blacksmith—”
“Oh, come off it!”
Henry gently knocked his forehead against Hans’ as they laughed, warmth spreading through his body more surely than the hearth did. He wrapped his arms around Hans and pressed close, laughter quieting into chuckles until silence reigned instead. They lingered there, both content in its peace.
“You?” Henry eventually asked.
Hans hummed. “What?”
“How was your day?”
“Oh. You know.” Hans mumbled something unintelligible into Henry’s shoulder. Then, clearer: “Court, food storages, spring plans—nothing worth dwelling on. It’s all rather tedious, like this damned snow. I cannot wait for it to thaw.”
“Won’t be long now,” Henry said, eyes slipping closed as he swayed with Hans. “We’re at winter’s end, after all.”
“Quite right,” Hans said, steering them smoothly toward the bed. “But let’s cease this talk of the cold and instead seek warmth beneath the covers, shall we? Christ, Hal—your hands are freezing.”
He patted the back of Henry’s hand.
“Nothing we can’t fix in bed, I’m certain.”
“I’m not sure I’m up for much of anything except sleeping,” Henry murmured, lulled into a sense of peace by Hans’ presence and the warmth of the room despite the cold outside. Or perhaps because of it; no matter the season, Hans would always be his summer.
“That is quite all right,” Hans said lightly. “You spent all day toiling while I was warm inside. I can do the work now—so lie back and relax, my dear Hal.”
Henry chuckled, allowing Hans to push him onto the bed.
“Of course, sir.”
“Henry.”
“Hans.”
~❆~
The days that followed settled into a pattern not worth remarking upon. The cough came and went—roughest in the mornings when he woke from sleep, his voice sounding wrong before smoothing out as the day wore on. Headaches flared and faded without warning, annoying more than troubling.
He took to drinking a chamomile decoction in the evenings and sleeping on the pallet beside Hans’ bed. Hans grumbled about it, insisting he would relish the rest if the cough touched him too, but he acquiesced easily enough when Henry’s concern turned to Hynce.
The cough would pass—it always did—but Hynce catching it, his small lungs struggling with every breath, was not a risk either of them was willing to take.
Jitka would not have been pleased either, and Henry had learned that her temper was not to be invited.
He was mindful of not overexerting himself, sticking to simple tasks he could do around the castle or his forge. Mutt stayed close each time he went outside, running ahead but never out of sight, then settling by his feet whenever he stopped.
“Heard you caught the cough, Hal.”
Janek sidled up to him by the arena where he was watching Captain Bernard as he tried to shape a handful of unruly young men into something worthy of joining the garrison.
“Aye,” said Henry. As though summoned by the word alone, he turned slightly away from Janek to cough. “I reckon it’s starting to get better, though.”
“Hope so,” Janek said, bumping their shoulders together. “What do you think of the newest recruits?”
Henry pursed his lips and kept silent long enough for Janek to chuckle. Then he said, “I’ve seen worse. Captain Bernard used to make sport of me, back when I was learning how to wield a sword.”
“We must all start somewhere,” Janek agreed. “And now you could best the captain in a duel! Who would have thought Henry of Skalitz would become such an accomplished swordsman?”
“Certainly not Pa,” Henry said, wincing at the brief pang of guilt in his chest.
Martin had warned him against becoming obsessed with vengeance. That warning had taken root only with time, and while he would never regret killing Istvan Toth, he had made himself walk away from a dying Markvart—and off that doomed path before he could see himself become just another man like them.
Instead, he sought to become what his pa had been: honest, hardworking, and loyal.
He cleared his throat, aware that Janek had gone silent beside him.
“You on duty today?”
Janek glanced down at himself and smiled faintly. “Soon, yes. Just passing the time—and caught you standing here.”
“If you two are just going to stand about gossiping,” Captain Bernard bellowed, “you might as well get in here and show these greenhorns how it’s done—unless you’re afraid one of them might best you.”
Janek winked at Henry and slung himself over the fence, to the cheers of the young men.
“Henry?”
“Sorry, Captain,” Henry said. “I’ve got the cough, so it’s best if I don’t.”
Captain Bernard nodded, brusque, and waved Janek forward. Henry lingered a while longer, laughing and cheering alongside the recruits as the captain and Janek engaged in a demonstrative bout, pausing now and then to point out flaws and strengths alike.
When the pounding behind his eyes became impossible to ignore, he called out a farewell and left.
~❆~
“Hal. Hal.”
Someone took him by the shoulder and shook him gently.
“Henry.”
He blinked open his eyes and squinted up at Hans.
“What?” he rasped, which promptly set off a brief coughing fit.
Hans did not look impressed, but there was a crease of concern between his brows.
“You’ve been coughing all night,” he said, mouth twisting. “I think you should rest today. Stay by the fire and have a servant fetch you something warm for your throat. It must be scratched raw.”
It did hurt, Henry had to admit—sourly.
He sighed. “All right. I will.”
Hans nodded, satisfied, and patted Henry’s head before rising from his crouch. “You slept through the morning—it’s already forenoon.”
Henry grimaced and let himself sink back into the covers. A chill lingered in the room; the fire must have burned low again. He would add more wood when his body remembered how to move.
“Rest, Hal,” Hans said, before slipping from the room.
~❆~
Henry did stay abed until well past noon, until boredom got the better of him. His throat felt easier after two cups of warmed wine, and he hadn’t coughed in a while; he reckoned he could manage a few small tasks inside the castle before turning in early.
He helped a servant carry piles of freshly-laundered linen, then stepped outside briefly to sharpen the cook’s knife when she complained about its dull edge yet again. She thanked him with a strip of bacon and a bread roll, which he nibbled dutifully before leaving the rest on the table. He fed the bacon to Mutt, who gobbled it up in the time it took a coughing fit to pass.
He rested in the kitchens for a while; then he helped the steward take inventory, and polished a young guard’s armour as the boy chattered about his sweetheart.
When the headache returned, he went back to Hans’ chamber. He stoked the fire in the hearth until the tightness in his limbs eased, then crawled beneath the covers on his pallet and drifted into sleep.
~❆~
He woke shivering. Still tired—bone-deep tired—as though he had not slept through last night’s supper, judging by Hans’ sleeping form on the bed. The cough seized him again and folded him forward, leaving him light-headed when it passed. He drew the blankets closer, but the warmth would not stay. It slipped away as soon as he found it, leaving him trapped between burning and cold.
Worry crept in with the fever. No mere winter cough, he realised dimly.
Time passed strangely. He did not have the strength to get up to… to…
At some point, sleep claimed him again.
~❆~
Hans was roused by another of Henry’s coughing fits.
He groaned, twisting until he lay facing him. The chamber was dark—the hearth reduced to dull embers, the shutters drawn tight against the cold and any stray moonlight alike. Hans rubbed a hand down his face and squinted toward the pallet as Henry coughed again. It sounded strenuous; painful.
He could just make out Henry’s figure in the darkness, quivering. Cold, then.
Hans swung his legs out from under the covers and fumbled his way through the dark until his fingers brushed the folded blankets piled atop a chair. He grabbed one blindly and crossed back to the pallet, crouching to tuck it around Henry’s shoulders.
The heat of Henry’s skin stopped him short.
Hans stilled, then pressed his palm more fully to Henry’s cheek, mouth tightening at the unnatural warmth beneath his touch.
Straightening, he turned and made for the bedside table, where a stub of tallow candle waited. He struck a light and carried it back, setting it near the head of the pallet before crouching again.
Henry’s face was flushed, the colour standing out starkly in the candlelight. A faint furrow marked his brow, as though his sleep had offered no real rest at all. Hans brushed his fingers over it just as another coughing fit jolted him.
A fever with a cough was no immediate cause for alarm.
Even so, Hans shook him gently until Henry’s eyes fluttered open, unfocused.
“You are not leaving this bed today,” Hans said, gripping his shoulder. “You hear me? That is an order from your lord.”
Henry mumbled something that might have been agreement, nodding as his eyes slid shut again.
“I am sending for the physician,” Hans added more quietly.
Henry only grunted in reply.
~❆~
The physician called it a low fever, nothing uncommon, and advised plenty of rest, warmth, and light broths. Healthy men often took a fever alongside a cough, he explained; the body simply worked to restore its balance by burning the illness out rather than letting it linger.
Hans breathed more easily once the physician had gone.
Henry had been awake for the examination, flushed but clear-headed, and resigned to the physician’s prodding. He had caught Hans watching him with open worry and, when the physician’s back was turned, had made a face and muttered something under his breath in an effort to coax a laugh from him.
Hans shook his head now, a faint smile tugging at his mouth at the memory.
Henry was abed again, sleeping deeply after a bowl of chicken broth and the fever tonic the physician had left behind.
Hans left him to his rest, pausing only to instruct the first servant he encountered to see that Henry stayed abed and was kept warm—though he had little doubt he would, this time. Henry had always pushed himself for others’ sake, but the years had taken their toll, and with them had come a measure of sense.
His body bore the marks of past torture and battles; of hunger endured and injuries that never quite let themselves be forgotten. Hans, who alone knew his man in ways no one else did, had traced the constellations of scars across his skin, rubbed ointment into them on days when Henry frowned more than he smiled.
His Hal was stubborn, yes—but not stupid. He had learned to rest when his body demanded it.
And thank God for that.
He took his meal in his study with Jitka for privacy. She had come from Rattay Castle when she heard of Henry’s fever and the physician’s visit.
“How is he?” Jitka asked, concern knitting her brows.
“Abed,” Hans said, tearing off a piece of bread and stuffing it into his mouth. “The fever will burn the sickness out. Before we know it, he’ll be back to his nagging.”
Jitka watched him for a moment, then reached across the table and laid her hand over his.
“It is all right to worry, Hans,” she said gently.
He frowned, glancing down at their joined hands before looking back at her. “I am not—I am worried.”
She snorted, unbecoming of a lady, but Jitka had never cared much for pretence—not here, and not around Henry. He liked that about her.
She squeezed his fingers.
“You don’t have to make a jest of it,” she said. “You could just say, Henry will be fine, and let that be enough.”
Hans opened his mouth, then closed it again.
“I did,” he said at last.
She smiled at him and, with a final squeeze, let go of his hand.
“Hynce’s Latin lessons are going well,” she said lightly. “He has begun reciting lines from the Bible—and his history tutor sings his praises every chance he gets.”
“Yet he is not so fond of the sword,” Hans huffed, though he smiled as he said it. “He must learn, of course—but if he never has to see battle, I would not mind. He will be a fine man without watching his comrades die.”
The image rose unbidden: Hynce in armour far too large for him, a sword he could barely lift dragging at his side. Hans shuddered. If anyone ever thought to ransom his son as he himself once had been, he would hand them the keys to his coffers without hesitation.
“Indeed,” Jitka said softly. “Let him grow up in a world not torn apart by war. Peace, and his happiness—that is all I wish for.”
“Amen,” Hans said, solemn, crossing himself.
“He wanted to come with me,” Jitka added after a moment, smiling absently. “I told him not today. I think he only agreed because he sensed my worry.”
“He is perceptive,” Hans said fondly. “I will go and see him when Hal is well again.”
“He would like that,” she said. “It has only been a few days, but he misses you.”
Hans’ mouth softened.
“And I miss him.”
~❆~
Hans looked in on Henry once during the day and was pleased to find him asleep. Duty then called him away until evening, when he returned to his chamber for his own rest.
This time, Henry stirred as Hans stoked the fire.
“Hans?”
“I’m here,” he said, setting the firepoker aside once the flames had caught properly and crossing back to the pallet. “How are you feeling?”
“Better,” Henry said. “Still tired. Mostly bored.”
“You would be,” Hans said, fondly ruffling his hair.
His skin was still warm beneath Hans’ hand, but not as it had been that morning. Hans felt the tension in his body ease and gave Henry’s shoulder a gentle pat.
“I’ll sleep at the forge tomorrow,” Henry said quietly.
“Absolutely not,” Hans said at once.
Henry sighed — that long, weary sound he made when Hans was being unreasonable, which he very much was not.
“Hans.”
Hans lifted his arm to cough into his elbow—and in his periphery, Henry bolted upright, eyes widening, hand already reaching out.
“Hans—”
Hans lowered his arm with a snigger, catching Henry’s hand between his palms.
“Oh, you arse,” Henry groused. He tried to pull away, but Hans held fast.
Henry’s hand was cold. When he ceased resisting, Hans started to rub warmth back into it without thinking.
“I will sleep with my back turned to you, if it assuages your worries,” Hans said. “And Hynce isn’t setting foot here until I say so.”
He squeezed Henry’s hand.
“So fret about yourself a little, instead of everyone else,” he said quietly.
Henry huffed. “Aye, aye, my lord.” He lay back down and drew the blankets up nearly to his mouth, though his hand remained in Hans’.
“Coughing still hurts,” he admitted, more softly. “But the broths have made it less miserable.”
“That’s good.” Hans pressed a kiss to the back of his hand—which had the intended effect of making Henry flush beyond the fever, even to this day. “Stay abed tomorrow as well, please. Let the illness burn itself out.”
“Aye. I will.”
~❆~
By the time Henry roused from sleep, Hans was gone, and a bowl of broth—still faintly steaming—had been left on the bedside table.
He sat up slowly, clearing his throat of the remnants of the night’s coughing. He still felt heavy, but the pounding headache was gone, and his thoughts came easily enough.
His stomach complained about the thin fare. The idea of something more solid—bacon, perhaps—sounded like a feast just now. Even so, he reached for the broth and drank it down without trouble.
The warmth chased the last of the chill from his limbs. Whatever heat had troubled him during the night seemed to have retreated with it.
He dutifully returned to bed and dozed a while. Then, stomach grumbling, he got up once more and made for the kitchens.
At the sight of him, the cook rolled her eyes. “Henry! What are you doing here?”
Henry leaned against the doorframe with a small grin. “I was hoping for some sympathy. Would you deny a poorly man a strip of bacon?”
She scoffed, eyes flicking pointedly to the pot of broth simmering away over the fire. “If you’ve got your appetite back, aye, then I’ll get you some—but only a little. And drink some broth with it. You’ll upset your stomach if you don’t.”
“Aye,” said Henry and pushed off the doorway. He came inside proper, grabbing a bowl and ladling broth into it—then he plopped onto a bench off to the side, away from working hands. “Thanks.”
She handed him a piece of bacon, then went back to chopping up some winter root vegetables.
Henry took a hearty bite of bacon, asking around a mouthful, “How’s your daughter? She had her fourth child this winter, didn’t she?”
The cook brightened. “Oh, she did! And what a handsome babe he is…”
Henry listened with a rapt ear and a smile, content to finish his food to her excited chatter.
~❆~
“Like a sack of potatoes! I was right around the corner—heard the impact.”
“Oh, poor lad. Is he all right?”
“He stirred briefly when they moved him. Heard he was burning up.”
“What?”
The two servants startled at Hans’ flat tone and turned immediately toward him. They exchanged a look before the younger one stepped forward, wringing her hands.
“My lord?”
Hans’ jaw worked—what, why, when—but what he ended up asking was, “Where is he?”
“In your chambers, my lord,” she said, but he was already striding off.
He was crouched by Henry’s side before he knew it. At least the yokel looked sufficiently abashed to see him.
“Hans,” he murmured.
Hans did not answer. He went immediately to feel his forehead, his cheek, his neck.
The fever had not broken overnight.
“I wasn’t being stupid,” Henry grumbled. “Swear it. I just… I was bored of broth. And hungry. I had just a bite of bacon. I didn’t—didn’t feel unsteady.”
“Hal.” Hans cupped Henry’s face and waited for fever-bright eyes to focus on him—which took longer than it should have, his gaze slipping past Hans before finally finding him. “What happened?”
Henry’s brow drew tight as he squinted. “Went to get food. Chatted with the cook. Her grandson is tiny. Ate bacon.” He paused to cough into his fist. “And more broth. Left when I was done. Hallway spun, so I sat down.”
“You collapsed, Henry,” Hans groaned. “That was not you sitting down.”
Henry hummed, noncommittal. “Explains the headache.”
“When?”
Henry took his time answering. “Noon?”
It was almost supper.
Why had no one thought to tell him?
“I am sending for the physician,” he said, already straightening.
Henry caught his wrist—quick, sharp; jarring when his mind seemed to lag behind. “Don’t fuss, Hans. He came to see me once already; all he’ll do is advise more fever tonic and more rest. Just… I’ll be fine. Right?” His eyelids drooped. “Let me sleep it off.”
Hans dithered for a moment, then yielded: Henry was fevered, yes, but Hans couldn’t fault his reasoning. More fever tonic and rest would see him recuperated soon enough.
Not long after Hans helped him drink the tonic, Henry slipped into deep sleep.
~❆~
Hans slept fitfully through the night, waking every so often to check on Henry.
The coughing did not ease; his breathing turned shallow and laboured; his teeth rattled, even in sleep.
And the fever did not relinquish him.
By morning, sweat beaded his forehead and soaked his clothes beneath the blankets.
He did not stir when Hans shook him.
So he sent for the physician.
~❆~
The physician hummed and murmured as he examined Henry, now laid out in Hans’ bed, spectacles low on his nose. They slipped as he worked; he pushed them back up again absently.
Save for Henry’s coughs and the wet rasp of his breathing, his were the only sounds in the chamber.
Hans stood nearby, arms crossed and fingers pressed to his mouth, because pacing was beneath him: pacing was admitting to something he did not wish to name.
Jitka stood silent at his side, hands folded before her. She had arrived before the physician and had spoken scarcely a word since.
The examination dragged on for what felt like an eternity. Hans quelled the urge to demand answers. The man was working, and working carefully. He would not risk something vital being overlooked merely because he was an impatient bastard.
At last, the physician stepped back and nodded to himself. His gaze flicked to the pallet on the floor and then to Henry’s flushed face.
“It was wise to move him,” he said slowly. “He needs warmth and stillness now. His body labours to right itself.”
He hesitated, fingers worrying the edge of his sleeve.
“His fever has not broken as I would have hoped,” he went on. “And his breathing… is more troubled than last. Still—he is young, and strong.”
Hans did not hesitate. “He will remain here. No one will move him.”
The physician inclined his head. “I would have him kept warm. Disturbed as little as possible. Light broths. No exertion. I will return before nightfall to see how he fares.”
“And will he be all right?”
Jitka’s voice was soft, but it struck harder than any demand.
The physician pursed his mouth and looked back at Henry, and that pause was enough to clog Hans’ throat. There had been none of these long silences two days past.
He knew physicians did not make promises they had no power to keep.
“I believe,” the man said at length, “that we are doing all that can be done at present. Fevers such as this may yet turn.”
He met Hans’ eyes.
“But we must watch him closely.”
“I will stay,” Hans said.
Jitka touched his elbow, but it was the physician, his expression gentler now, who answered him.
“There is nothing you can do, my lord, save give him peace. The body seeks to heal itself. We must allow it time to try.”
Hans wavered. His nails bit into his palms as he looked back to Henry, feeling as though he stood upon the Sasau River with the ice about to give way beneath his boots.
“You will be apprised,” the physician said quietly, “should his condition change.”
Hans rubbed a hand over his face and murmured a prayer before he could stop himself—then felt a stab of guilt for it. Henry was ill, not dying.
Even so, it felt… wrong.
“All right,” he said, breathing out through his nose. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, then looked to them again. “Jitka—stay with him, please. I will not leave him alone, but I trust you to summon the physician—and me, if… if there is need.”
“I will send a servant for my embroidery,” she murmured, laying her hand on his shoulder. “It will make him chuckle to see me working at his bedside.”
“Yes,” Hans said absently, his gaze drifting back to Henry. “Yes.”
~❆~
The day dragged by, as though even it were reluctant to yield to darkness—but time obeyed no one, and late afternoon arrived with a breathless servant.
“My lord—”
Hans did not wait to hear the rest.
~❆~
Henry was sitting upright in bed when Hans burst into the chamber. An ember of hope flared bright—then guttered at once when Jitka looked up, already at Henry’s side, his face turned into her shoulder, her arm braced behind his back.
It was the look she sent him that drove Hans forward in two strides.
Only then did he hear Henry: fragments of words, slurred beyond meaning.
“The fever has not released him,” said the physician.
Hans startled, drawing in a sharp breath—he had not noticed the man in the room at all.
“He has fallen into delirium.”
Hans swallowed—then flinched when Henry mumbled Hans’ name. His throat had gone dry as parchment.
“Delirium?” he whispered.
As though saying it again might make it mean something else.
“It is… rarely a good sign,” the physician admitted.
Hans gripped the bedframe until his knuckles blanched.
“Speak plainly,” he snapped.
The physician met his gaze.
“We wait.”
~❆~
Hans did not notice Captain Bernard enter the chamber.
But he caught the tail end of his exchange with another guard.
“Send word to Sir Radzig,” Bernard murmured. “He may not reach us in time—but he must be told. He should be prepared.”
Hans turned on them at once.
The younger guard had the decency to look away. Bernard merely inclined his head. In the set of his mouth and the tension of his shoulders there was no remorse—only the weary acceptance of a soldier who had seen too many men slip beyond saving.
~❆~
Evening fell, and the chamber seemed to draw tighter, though only Henry, Jitka, the physician, and Hans remained within it.
The air would not fill his lungs, no matter how deeply he breathed, and only crossing his arms kept the tremor from his hands.
At length, the physician shifted. He studied Henry for a long moment, then sighed.
“My lord… It may be time to send for the friar.”
~❆~
The priest arrived just as Hans had begun to pace. At once, he turned on him.
“Get out.”
The friar’s gaze settled on Hans only briefly before passing to the bed. To Henry.
Henry, who lay utterly still save for the shallow rise and fall of his chest.
Hans resumed his pacing.
“My lord,” the friar said quietly.
“There is no need of you,” Hans snapped. “Leave. That is an order.”
The friar did not move. He did not answer, either—only regarded Hans with patient eyes. The neutrality of his expression made Hans curl his fists, lest he strike someone who did not deserve it.
“Henry is not—” His voice cracked. He drew in a sharp breath, grounding himself in the pain from his palms. “He is not dying.”
The physician cleared his throat. “The sickness has reached his lungs, my lord. At this stage—”
Hans wheeled on him. “Then do something! I did not summon you to watch him fade. He is sick—so tend to him.”
The physician bowed his head. “His life rests in God’s hands now, my lord.”
For a moment—a dizzy, terrible moment—Hans could not draw breath. His gaze strayed to the bed and would not quite settle there; yet even that brief look was enough.
“Do not stand there and tell me he is lost,” Hans said, forcing his voice to steadiness. “Hal has lived through battle, hunger, and torture. He will not be taken by a fucking cough.”
No one answered him.
Jitka kept her eyes lowered, wiping Henry’s brow with the cool cloth the physician had set in her hand.
Hans turned back to the friar, his chest burning with a fury hotter than any fever—one he knew he ought to master, and could not.
“Out,” he said again. “I will not say it thrice.”
The priest did not heed him. Instead, he walked slowly to Henry’s bedside. His mouth moved—words plainly spoken—but Hans could not hear them over the roaring in his head as he looked at Henry: chapped lips parted for each ragged breath.
Good God. This could not…
Hans tore his gaze away—and found that the chamber had emptied. The physician and Jitka were gone. There was only the priest. And Henry.
His knees weakened. He lurched forward and caught himself on the bedframe before he could fall. Bile rose unbidden to the back of his throat; he swallowed it down and felt it burn all the way.
“He is not dying,” he croaked.
Then, louder: “He is not dying.”
The priest laid his hand upon Henry’s brow and murmured something under his breath.
“Do not touch him,” Hans whispered.
He struck the bedframe with his fist. Still, the priest did not turn.
“Are you listening?” Hans shouted. “He is not dying!”
“Adesto, Domine,” the priest murmured, “supplicationibus nostris…”
“No.”
At last, the priest looked to him. “Lord Capon,” he said gently. “Let us pray for his health together.”
Hans looked at Henry again—and the sight blurred. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. His voice failed him before it reached the air. He tried again.
“Father, I can’t—”
Again, nothing.
“I can’t watch him die.”
The priest drew out the chair beside the bed. “Come,” he said. “Sit.”
Hans moved as though through deep water and let himself fall into it, shoulders bowed, head aching, everything aching.
“Domine, si vis…” the priest said quietly, waiting. “Potes eum sanare…”
Hans tried to answer. His voice broke once. Then again.
The third time, his prayer was scarcely sound at all.
By God, it hurt.
Hans threaded his fingers together and leaned forward on his elbows.
“He was never meant to die like this,” he choked. “Not so soon.”
He looked at Henry—really looked at him. Henry, his Henry, his Hal—laid upon Hans’ bed, looking more frail than Hans had ever seen him, even war-worn and half-starved.
“He already lost everything once. His home. His parents. His youth. Why must he lose his life as well? What kind of mercy is this?”
His voice cracked again.
“Hal’s soul is gentle. He gives and asks nothing in return. Few men live like he, Father—you know that.”
The priest was silent for a long moment.
“God has His reasons,” he said at last, quietly. “They are not granted to mortal understanding.”
Hans shook his head, breath coming fast.
“It is not just.”
He swallowed.
“Yes—he has sinned. He has killed. But never from hunger for blood. Never from cruelty. He should never have been made to bear such things. Why would God lead him through loss and war and fire—only to take him now, when the nightmares still wake him screaming in the night?”
But Henry had sinned in other ways as well.
Drink. Whores. Hans—
Hans clapped a hand over his mouth, a broken sound escaping him before he could stop it.
Was this God’s punishment?
For sodomy. For a man lying with another man.
His breath came shallow.
Then take me, he thought wildly. Not him.
God knew Hans’ soul was the fouler one. God knew that whatever Henry had done, Hans had done worse.
If he had not kissed him that night—terrified, starved, desperate—afraid Henry would leave and never return—
Why was Henry the one laid low with fever, and not him?
Why was Henry dying, when it should have been Hans?
Was this his doing?
Hans felt untethered. The room spun before him—yet he forced himself through it. Swallowing hard, he looked not at the priest, but at Henry’s face.
“Father… If a man has lived wrongly—”
The priest waited.
“Will—will God still receive him? When—if the time comes?”
The priest studied him for a long moment.
“Has Henry confessed?”
Hans shook his head. “He cannot. Not like this.”
“Then God will hear what the tongue cannot speak,” the priest said gently. “The heart confesses in silence as well as in words. And God is merciful—He knows the pain this one has borne. He will not forget such burdens.”
“If—if the time comes.” Hans blinked away the wetness in his eyes and swallowed past the knot in his throat. “Father… will you send him to God with prayers?”
The priest’s eyes softened.
“Of course,” he said. “I will walk him as far as prayer can reach.”
Hans pressed his clenched hands against his eyes and drew a shuddering breath.
“I need a moment. Alone.”
The priest rose slowly.
“My lord,” he said gently, “sometimes God grants the sick a moment of waking. A moment of peace.”
Hans did not look up.
“If it comes,” the priest continued, “do not spend it in fear.”
~❆~
“Hal.”
Hans cradled Henry’s hand between his own and pressed it to his mouth as tears slipped from his chin onto their joined fingers.
“Henry. If you can hear me, please…”
A murmur. A squeeze. A twitch. Anything.
“Just… let me know you are still here.”
Nothing.
He choked around a sob.
Henry looked beleaguered. Hans reached out and brushed his thumb over the frown in his brow, but it did not ease.
He swallowed.
Closed his eyes.
At last, he whispered, “I do not want you to go where I cannot follow. But you have always fought—harder than most. If this… If you must go, then wait for me. I will find you. No matter how long it takes.”
He did not try to stop the tears. His grief was his alone, held in this moment with only the two of them.
“But Hal… if it would hurt you, then don’t. Your parents. Bianca. Go where you are no longer in pain. Be at ease. You deserve that much. You deserve more than I could ever give you. And if you find it beyond this life, then… please.
“Go in peace.”
~❆~
Jitka was quiet as she moved around the room, lighting candles and murmuring prayers, her rosary beads held close to her mouth. Hans sat bent over the bed, cloth in hand to wipe Henry’s forehead and dipping it regularly in the bowl of water on the table to keep it cool.
Beside him, the priest murmured in Latin—prayers for health, for Henry’s soul, for God’s mercy—and opposite sat the physician, lips moving in an echo of the friar’s.
Atop Hans’ feet, still and watchful but not asleep, lay Mutt. Ever faithful, a maid had mentioned the old dog lying forlorn at the foot of the castle stairs. Hans had not even thought twice about fetching him.
Henry would have wanted his dog by his side.
“Hans.”
He startled so hard his chair scraped the floor.
“I’m here,” he said at once. He swallowed past the pain in his throat—his chest—and left the cloth upon Henry’s brow as he took his hand instead.
Henry’s eyes struggled open. They found him.
A ghost of a smile touched his mouth.
“Good,” he murmured—and slipped back into sleep.
Hans felt the priest’s hand settle heavy but kind upon his shoulder. His voice filled the room, alone at first.
“In manus tuas, Domine…”
The physician joined him. Then Jitka.
Hans squeezed Henry’s hand and began to recite through his tears.
“In manus tuas, Domine…”
~❆~
The fever did not break overnight.
But it did loosen its grip.
~❆~
Hope was fragile. Hans dared not cradle it too close, lest it fell apart in his hands.
“His breathing is more even,” the physician said by morning, pushing his spectacles up. “It… is yet too early to make a prognosis, my lord.”
“I understand,” Hans said quietly. “I will keep watching over him.”
With his head in Hans’ lap, Mutt whined softly, looking longingly toward Henry.
“You should rest,” said Jitka gently.
Hans smiled, mirthless. “It is no use trying.”
She did not argue with him. Instead, she settled at his side and absently scratched Mutt behind the ear.
Together, they sat vigil at Henry’s bedside.
~❆~
It happened quietly, like a breath long held let go.
The fire burned low in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the room. Day had given way to night, but supper was still some time away. The physician and the priest had withdrawn to the chamber Hans had seen prepared for them. Jitka had fallen asleep on his shoulder.
Hans did not notice it at first—too spent, his eyes burning from fatigue and the occasional tears.
But he did notice.
The tears fell harder then, as he pressed his prayers into Henry’s hand.
“Merciful God above…”
The fever had broken.
~❆~
Recovery was not swift.
The day after the fever relinquished him, Henry stirred only briefly—neither awake nor asleep—when Hans coaxed a few mouthfuls of lukewarm broth past his lips. It went down slowly, and Henry drifted off again, too weak for anything else.
His breathing eased, but his sleep was still troubled by coughs—waking once to vomit up everything he had eaten that day, which was not much at all.
Hans, in a panic, sent for the physician, who, after an examination, declared the purge of the stomach unfortunate, but not unexpected after days of severe illness.
Water and thin herbal broth—that was his recommendation, and to keep at it until Henry could hold it down. Only if the fever returned was there cause for concern.
The first time Henry woke clear-headed was not long after.
“Hans?”
“I’m here,” Hans said at once, squeezing Henry’s hand—his throat tight at the echo of days past, when Henry had also woken with his name on his lips.
Henry frowned. “I feel like I survived another bout of torture, then got trampled by a—Hans!”
Hans collapsed into Henry’s startled embrace, his body shaking with laughter and tears alike.
“You utter fool,” Hans said, muffled against Henry’s shoulder. “Please—please don’t ever scare me like that again.”
“What did I do?” Henry asked weakly. “Hans.”
“Forget it,” Hans groaned. “Just… focus on getting better.”
Henry’s mouth turned down, but he yielded and held Hans close until the tears dried.
~❆~
The cough lasted longer than the snow; no more than an annoyance for the most part, though it worsened if Henry exerted himself too much, and Hans gave him firm orders not to.
Henry, understanding how close to God he had come, did not argue.
Spring flowers were in full bloom by the time Hans realised the cough was gone, even when Henry laughed or pushed his body.
It soothed the part of him that still woke with a jolt at the sound of Henry coughing, with his heart in his throat and memories of Henry upon what could have been his deathbed—
He doubted he would ever entirely be rid of it, that reflex to check on Henry in a panic whenever he coughed, whether from illness or from eating too fast.
Henry rarely teased him for it. More often than not, the solemn understanding in his gaze twisted Hans’ insides, but he was grateful not to be made light of. Henry, after all, had not been where Hans had. He bore his own fears—ones Hans allowed him and soothed him through—but this one—
This one was Hans’.
He would take a lifetime of sleepless nights if it meant he could look upon Henry beside him, breathing easy and sleeping in peace. It was a small price to pay.
Whether God had granted them mercy or Henry had fought even His will to stay with Hans—or both—Hans did not know.
And he would not ask to understand what he was not meant to.
He would cherish every moment with Henry—be they full of joyful laughter, angry shouts, or pleasured moans—and thank God in every prayer.
He reached for Henry in the dark and felt him stir, warm and alive beneath his hand.
This was enough.