Chapter Text
The bells of Trosky Castle ring for the tenth time since this morning.
Henry shifts uncomfortably in his seat by the window closest to the bell-tower. His hands clutch a wooden rosary as if it were a holy relic, while he keeps praying an endless sequence of Our Lords and Hail Marys for Captain Thomas’ swift recovery.
“...thy kingdom come, thy will be done, …”
He doesn’t even remember where he got it from, that rosary he clings to like it may well hold the divine key to salvation. Henry had been stripped of all his possessions after he and Sir Hans got arrested. He must’ve picked it up without realizing, while taking something actually useful. Or rather, while stealing.
Henry had tried to do this the proper way, the way he was used to—by helping people, he would in turn get their help, and his goal would be within reach in no time. But this situation is different to what he’s used to.
His heart hasn’t stopped racing from the moment he heard the guard dismissively spit those dreaded words:
“You’re getting the gallows for poaching.”
He’d tried to steel himself while going through the repetitive motion of a mindless chore assigned to him. When his mind caught up with the reality of what was happening, Henry felt like he was going to puke. He needed to save young Lord Capon from death, and instead he had been tasked with sharpening the very axe that would’ve been used to build the structure that they intended to hang Sir Hans from. It felt like a cruel joke.
As if on cue, the sound of the second bell pierced the sky. Henry gritted his teeth and pressed the blade to the grindstone until its edge became thin as a razor’s, then he affixed the weapon to his belt, faced away from the gallows, and marched up the hill to the castle.
Every fiber of his being screamed to grab the newly-sharpened axe and carve his way into the cell, drag his Lord out, steal a horse and ride back to Rattay with their tails between their legs... But what good would it be, when they’d be stopped by the garrison during their escape, or hunted down by the bandits still prowling the region?
He thanked all the Saints that working with Radovan recently had refreshed his blacksmithing skills enough for him to craft the required horseshoe—and more importantly, the lockpicks he’d certainly need to put to use soon.
He was somehow granted permission to enter the dungeons. He knew he was close to the cells, then, so without hesitation Henry quietly shifted towards the wall and made his way to where Sir Hans was still kept prisoner.
Hearing young Capon’s voice again grounded him, and his own reassurance that he had a plan, he was going to fix this, had been more prayer than truth.
“…and forgive us our trespasses, …”
He didn’t say goodbye. It wouldn’t be their last conversation together. It couldn’t.
Henry was talking with people, but it felt like he wasn’t truly going through the motions of his own volition. It was as if someone else had taken the reins, directing him to the fastest way towards saving Sir Hans.
He eventually found the alchemy bench, and the recipe book he was sure to need if the rumors he overheard about Captain Thomas lying in a fever were true.
He heard another of the bell’s clangs as he rushed to prepare the tonic, thankful that all the necessary ingredients were already in the chest. The worry in his heart left no place for any remorse about stealing them.
His worry carried him in the direction of the chapel where Sir Thomas was being tended to. He sprinted ahead, uncaring of the people he was shouldering away in his haste, hurriedly cutting through unfamiliar chambers and corridors that were forbidden to him.
The guards chased him and Henry just pushed past them, threatening that they shouldn’t dare to stop him, didn’t they know who he was? The words felt foreign on his tongue but familiar to his ears, and his heart ached with equal parts longing and fear.
It’s been hours since Henry and Adela had administered the potion to Sir Thomas. Henry has the utmost confidence in his own alchemy skills, but the sight of the feverish man worries him all the same. If the Captain doesn’t wake up in time…
“...pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death—”
Henry’s voice catches at the last syllable.
“—Amen.”
The final bell rings clear and cruel as the cawing of carrion crows. Henry turns to Adela then, finding her biting at her fingernails as she looks over her brother. He’s still not completely conscious, but it will do. It has to be enough.
Good God, let it be enough.
“Miss Adela, my friend has run out of time. I have to get the Captain down there before it’s too late.”
He’d already told her the reason why he is so adamant about helping her brother. He lets his exhaustion and his fear seep through his words, and he knows Adela understands—she herself had been worrying over a beloved family member for days now, and without Henry’s help it might’ve been the end of Sir Thomas. He knows she’s not going to argue, just as he knows that even if she did, he wouldn’t hesitate to grab her brother and run to the gallows all the same. He becomes aware of the weight of the carpenter’s axe on his belt.
Adela nods, and Henry’s already across the room, lifting the Captain up and balancing him over his shoulder best he can. It has to be enough.
They climb down the steps as fast as carrying the weight of a semi-unconscious man allows, and then make their way through the inner courtyards, past the smithy, the sheds, the cobbler...
The sight of the gallows had never been pretty, but today they look particularly dreadful. The heavens are heavy with almost-rain, and what little light of the sun peeks through the blanket of clouds takes a washed-out pink hue. It reminds Henry of the colour that the water inside a basin becomes after he cleans the evidence of the blood he spilled.
Below the ominous skies, Henry can see a mob of people blurring together in the muddy square, and past it, Lord Capon is being led to the scaffolding.
Henry practically runs down the hill, uncaring about jostling Captain Thomas anymore. The furious beating of his heart half deafens the words of the Chamberlain, and he doesn’t really hear himself as his voice demands to stop the madness, as the strangers part before him and he urgently explains the situation.
He can hear the dismissal, and his Lord’s protests rising louder in the air above the crowd’s chatter, and Henry’s own futile pleas.
After doing everything right, by saving Sir Thomas from the feverish delirium he found himself in since being attacked by those accursed bandits, and arriving in the square before the executioner snuffs the life from Hans’ breath… It is not enough.
The guards’ hands have to dig into his flesh to stop him from moving further, from trying to reach Hans. Henry can’t even bear to look at his friend’s face, so focused is he on the boot that draws closer and closer to the stump. Those two or three spans that are the tangible line separating Hans’ life from his death.
The trumpets announcing the arrival of Sir Otto von Bergow may as well be a choir from Heaven, the deus ex machina in the tragic tale that his life had become. A stinging reminder that Henry’s reputation and diligence and deeds and efforts and protectiveness and love, matter next to nothing in comparison to a noble’s mere presence.
The guards finally relent their hold on Henry, who immediately rushes to the raised platform, using the axe that he didn’t deliver to the carpenter earlier to sever the noose that is holding Hans captive. The blade is not meant to cut rope, just as the blacksmith’s son was not meant to wield a weapon, but its edge has been sharpened and it will do what is required of it.
In that moment, with his blood pulsing in his ears just as loudly as the twelve tolls had earlier, Henry can’t help but think back to when he rescued young Capon’s life for the first time.
Tied to a pole in that Cuman camp, the young Lord had been spewing insults as if the hateful conviction behind them would somehow breach the language barrier of his foreign captors, simultaneously acting as the red thread that led Henry to him through the mazelike woodland. Wounded as he was, Hans had looked and sounded full of life, much like a caged songbird would still let its melodies be witnessed by the heavens above and all of the earth’s living things.
But here in Trosky Castle, the same man appears an empty husk of himself. Capon is silent, shivering, and wide-eyed with fear, a cold mirror of the clouded sky that watches over the gallows’ muddy square. The noose may have spared the young Lord’s life, but it seemed to have stolen the words from his throat.
As soon as Henry lifts the thick rope off his neck, Hans jerks forwards, kicking away from the log, and even while his legs fail under him, Henry is ready to catch him before he can fall. Hans’ heartbeat drums the same quickened rhythm that Henry had felt on beasts that knew they were moments away from dying. His mouth pants small breaths, lungs incapable of filling to their usual capacity. His eyes look glassy and unfocused, as though watching something far, far away.
The guards that mocked and threatened them before are gathering around them now, awkwardly offering hands to help the two of them up, and the crowd, still eager for a lethal spectacle, has turned its attention to the desperate reunion in front of them.
“Move!” Henry snarls at everyone to let them through, as he moves to support his friend’s unsteady body and drag them away someplace where they wouldn’t feel as cornered by starved bloodhounds sniffing out a potential weakness in their prey.
Someone departs from the Lord of Trosky’s general vicinity and ushers the two of them back towards the castle, walking a distance ahead of Henry and turning every few moments to make sure they’re following.
He is still supporting most of the weight of Hans, who is present enough to go through the motions of walking, but not enough to be able to stand by himself, much like Sir Thomas earlier. Unlike the Captain, Hans is gripping him tight, hands anchored to his side with the same strength Henry had used on the rosary earlier.
“Breathe with me, my Lord,” he murmurs, and counts. He feels the other’s lungs expand and contract, gradually growing steadier with each step they walk up the hill. Each exsufflare draws out the malediction put upon them by this fort built upon the gates of Hell. Each insufflare restores life anew into their worn-down spirits. Their breaths harmonize in the space between them.
They are led past the inner courtyard at the foot of the Crone tower, towards the half-hidden room that serves as Trosky Castle’s bathhouse. The woman who must be its owner hovers nearby, unsure of what to do as Henry marches inside, still clinging to Hans. Behind them, he hears the person that guided them here assuring her that the two are to be their guests for the moment, and to make them presentable for an audience with Lord von Bergow.
Once inside the room, the familiar scent of dried herbs, warm steam and candlelight is strong, and Henry can’t decide if he finds it soothing or too cloying.
He lowers his companion to the bench, eyes flitting to the still open door to the courtyard. As much as he wants to lock it shut, he remembers Hans’ unease earlier in the confined cell, and this room built in a nook in the rocks would certainly become too restricting without that single source of natural light. Henry tries to move his body to at least partially shield them from the entryway.
He finally loosens his grip on Hans, rubs his hands on the other’s arms in an effort to give him comfort, to restore the warmth that’s still missing from Capon’s frightened face.
“It's alright, Hans. I've got you,” Henry says, his throat still rough from screaming to free his Lord from the noose. His mind echoes, the same sentence had been spoken to him by Hans with the same urgency, back when they fled from the Rocktower bandits through the woods and Henry was so close to death's door that Skalitz's ghosts were haunting his waking moments.
Henry doesn’t have his usual stock of potions and remedies, and he had been in too much of a rush to brew anything more after the Fever Tonicum, but he searches his pockets for a bottle of Schnapps that he’d stolen from a shelf earlier, and uncorks it. It has to be enough.
“Here,” he offers, and Hans moves his own hand atop Henry’s, steadying his grip on the bottle. The movement exposes faint rope burns bruising his neck, yet the bobbing of his throat as he drinks the brew is a welcome reminder that Hans is alive.
Hans exhales and bites his lip, brows furrowed as though he’s searching for something to say. The clear blue of his eyes looks more intense than usual against the tear-reddened scleras. But his face suddenly steels back into a mask of neutral control when footsteps approach.
They stop just shy of the entrance, and a bathmaid knocks out of courtesy—the door is still open. She curtsies briefly before speaking in one breath.
“Lord von Bergow will receive you Sirs after his own injuries have been tended to. In the meantime, you are free to use the facilities here, and someone will fetch a change of clothes for you. Do you require assistance, Lord…?”
She pauses, unsure of how to address the pair of disheveled men before her.
“It’s Sir Hans Capon,” the young Lord talks for the first time since he was freed, “of Pirkstein.”
It isn’t quite his usual self. The voice lacks the usual cocksure attitude and his shoulders are still subtly raised in a defensive posture, but his words sound clear, and he holds his head high.
Repeating his name and title seems to be more for his own sake than anything else, a way to reclaim some manner of control when it was taken from him so wholly. Because in this land far from home, without the letter bearing his uncle’s seal, without his steadfast courser and made-to-measure armour and the fine clothes that befit his vibrant presence, Hans’ name and title are the only things that truly belong to him. His eyes flit to Henry, who hasn't said anything nor moved from his kneeling position at his Lord’s side.
“And this is Henry, my most loyal companion,” Hans finally concludes, “A warm bath would do us both good.”
The bathmaid beckons them both toward the tubs, and Henry hesitates just a moment to check that Capon is able to undress himself before doing the same.
There are so many things he wants to say to him—some of which he’s sure he’ll need to take to his grave, if he doesn't want to risk being chased out because of the secret feeling that keeps growing like wildflowers around his devotion to his friend—but that all will need to wait until they’re somewhere safer.
Neither of them speaks during the bath. The maid brings them soap, brushes and washcloths, and periodically pours hearth-warmed water in their tubs.
Henry watches Hans clean himself, and wishes he could take the soapy fabric from his Lord’s hands and gently take care of him.
Instead he merely mirrors the other’s movements, as if matching them would somehow project his want of being the one who washes away the filth of the cell they were held in, the blood on their knuckles from the previous evening’s brawl, the bruises from being manhandled by the guards, the dried tearstains hidden in the corners of their eyes.
Eventually, a second bathmaid enters the room to leave a fresh set of garments for them. Both of the servants curtsy again before leaving the two men alone.
The whole scene appears to Henry a somber, warped reflection of their merry escapades to the Rattay bathhouse. The carelessness of those days—mere weeks ago—seems to somehow ricochet from the rocky walls, carried by the sound of that oppressive silence they find themselves in. A bitter-sweet phantom conjured up by their memories of more mirthful times; candles and steam and marigold its offerings, and wooden basins on wet stone floors its temple.
Henry gets up from the tub at once, grabbing a towel to dry himself and extending a second one to Hans by habit. To his surprise, he feels the other’s hand, still damp with bathwater, grip around his wrist before he has a chance to pull away.
They meet each other’s eyes for a few breaths, until the young Lord lets him go and sighs, “Thank you, Henry.”
“Don’t mention it, my Lord. I’m just glad you’re safe now.” He pauses, suppressing the words he wants to say but doesn’t dare to. I care about you, more than you could imagine. They, too, taste bitter-sweet on his tongue.
Instead he starts putting on braies and hose, pointedly not looking at Hans while he gets out of his own tub to dry-off, and continues, “And I’m sorry I couldn’t set you free sooner.”
Capon doesn’t say anything for several moments. Henry finishes donning the tunic and hood over himself and he can hear Hans fumbling with his borrowed clothes. Henry glances at him again in time to take notice of the faint line that furrows his brows, only for it to smooth out again when he replies.
“Nonsense. You saved my life now, I saved yours earlier, and we could go on and on until the sun sets, if we were to recall every time we pulled each other out of danger. It seems that’s just how things go with the two of us—a debt for life. Besides, if it wasn’t for your timely interruption delaying those fools… Well, what matters now is we stick together, alright?”
“Aye. Together.” I don’t want to ever take my eyes off you again, he wants to say.
Instead he walks up to Hans and motions at him to let Henry reach his sleeves. Helping him with the buttons of his ornate clothes or the straps of his armour became routine, first during their visits to the Rattay bathhouse, then while assisting the young Lord with his armour in the days of the siege of Talmberg. The last time they did this was weeks ago, on the journey from the Sasau to Trosky.
The feeling of yearning that awakened from the coal inside Henry’s belly, flaming as if spurred by bellows whenever he let himself really look at Hans, was familiar by now as well, but not any less startling.
Somewhere between here and their first, rough meeting in Rattay, he’d stopped seeing Capon as just a stuck-up insensitive prick of a boy posturing as a noble, and recognized him instead as a young man trapped by layers and layers of rules and expectations, which he evaded not out of lack of competence, but out of fear of proving right to everyone that didn’t believe in him.
Henry had started noticing the human being who craved kinship and freedom, and discovering the halls of Pirkstein empty of both, found it in the taste of fine wine and in the arms of bathwenches,in the hiss of arrows rending the air and in chivalrous tales or love poems that he enjoyed far more than he would let anyone believe.
Henry takes his time with the task of buttoning up the sleeves, relishing in the warmth of his friend’s body, and notices with relief that he doesn't look anxious anymore. Hans’ eyes gleam like a silver ore vein in the low light of the room.
“Good. Come now, Henry, I don’t want to stall our meeting with von Bergow for a moment longer. And I’d like to give that Chamberlain a word or two about his treatment of noble envoys!”
As they walk out and up onto the balustrade that leads to the Burgrave’s chambers, the dark clouds over Trosky Castle move just enough for a few more of the sun’s rays to become visible. The day looks brighter: no trace of blood-pink tints the heavens anymore.