jandrichov

[jandrichov]

Polite. Calm. Devastating. Sir Hanush, as seen by @playpausephoto. Immense thanks. And fear.

From Fire – Part XIV

Beating of Heart

—

The great hall of the Upper Castle lay in the gloom of early morning. Only two torches flanked the windows, casting flickers of light that clung to the stone like the chill of dawn. Outside the glass, the world hadn’t quite begun.

At the far end of the table, Hanush was hunched over a sheet of parchment. A servant stood beside him, holding a vial of ink, his face frozen in the kind of silence only fear could teach. Hanush dragged the quill across the page in halting strokes — clumsy, leaden — the hand of a man who never truly learned to write, yet insisted on doing it himself.

He didn’t lift his head when the doors creaked open.

Hans and Henry stepped in.

Their boots echoed for a beat, then stopped. They stood shoulder to shoulder, silent, rigid. Hans glanced briefly at Henry — no more than a heartbeat — then faced forward again.

“You sent for me, Uncle?”

Only then did Hanush look up.

He studied Hans — a long, unreadable look, like someone re-evaluating old numbers. Then a nod.

“I’m glad you came, boy.”

A pause.

“I don’t recall asking the blacksmith.”

Hans didn’t flinch. Neither did Henry.

The silence between them grew heavy. Not hostile — just immovable. Like cold air thickening in a room where nothing moved.

Hanush reached for the goblet by his elbow. Drank. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“But since we’re on the subject of whelps who loiter near anvils…”

A glance at the servant. A nod.

The man left without a word, slipping into a side chamber.

Moments later, a second door opened.

A guard entered, pushing someone ahead of him.

Pavel.

He wasn’t walking — he was being driven forward, his legs barely holding him. Each step looked heavier than the last.

He clutched at his side with one arm. The ribs.

His face was smeared with dried blood — cracked and dark, clinging to skin in hardened streaks. One eye was swollen shut, bruised deep black. His lip split, jaw puffy and discoloured.

He saw them.

And stopped.

His gaze found them — Hans and Henry — and held.

Then, with visible effort, he tried to straighten. His body pulled itself upright — as far as it could go. A gesture barely visible, but unmistakable.

He tried to smile.

It failed before it formed — twisted by pain. Broken before birth. But still a smile. Still for them.

The air changed — as if someone had blown out the last light.

Hanush sat motionless. Not even his head turned.

His eyes stayed fixed on the two of them.

Hans stepped forward — sharp, instinctive.

Then stopped.

His breath caught. His hand dropped to the hilt at his waist.

“What the fuck did you—”

“Me?” Hanush cut in.

Calmly. Almost with surprise. As though the question amused him.

“I didn’t lay a hand on him. I only arrived in Rattay at first light.”

He reached for his goblet.

Took a sip.

Set it back down with slow, deliberate care.

“My men found him wandering near the castle forge.”

A pause. A hint of something like a smile.

“So they… spoke with him.”

He leaned back in his chair. His palm brushed the edge of the table — fingers trailing across the wood, once, twice, rhythmically.

“For a while,” he added. “But he said nothing. Just that he was lost. By accident.”

Silence gathered again.

“Sir…” Henry’s voice, low.

Steady. But in his eyes — a held tension.

“He’s just a boy.”

Hanush didn’t look at him. Didn’t acknowledge the words at all. He kept to his own rhythm, like reciting facts already sorted in neat columns.

“When my men welcomed me this morning,” he said, “they brought him straight away. His face was familiar… even then.”

His gaze had remained on the table. Now it lifted — straight to Hans.

Sharp. Not abrupt. Just exact.

“I remembered where I’d seen him. That fine little procession you paraded into church with.”

The air didn’t move.

Hans said nothing. His eyes held on Hanush — but his jaw clenched tight.

Henry stood just behind. Still, but his fingers curled into a fist.

“But since I’ve got nothing more to hold him for,” Hanush went on, turning his eyes back to the goblet, “I’m returning him to Pirkstein. Where he apparently came from.”

A slight gesture of the hand.

The guard behind Pavel stepped forward and, without a word, turned him back to the door.

Pavel glanced over his shoulder one last time. Not at Hanush.

At them.

Hans didn’t move. Henry gave the faintest nod.

The doors closed behind him.

Silence settled. Just three men. And a table between them.

For a moment, nothing.

Then Hans spoke.

“What is it you want, Uncle?”

His voice was firm, but not loud. Taut. Coiled. With an edge that felt more like restrained fury than anger.

Henry stood beside him, unmoving. His hands hung at his sides, fingers pressed into his thighs — deep. He didn’t look away. His eyes stayed on Hanush, as if searching him for even a trace of something that made sense.

Hanush raised his gaze. Tilted his head slightly. Smiled.

“What do I want?” he echoed, as if the question had genuinely caught his interest.

“Why — your well-being, of course. Your safety, Hans.”

Hans blinked, startled.

Shook his head. Not sharply — just faintly, as though hoping he’d misheard.

Henry glanced at him. Just for a heartbeat. As if bracing for what might come next. As if holding his breath with him.

But Hanush wasn’t done.

“And that’s precisely why I’ll be resuming full stewardship over Rattay.”

His eyes dropped to the table, then back up.

“Pirkstein included.”

A pause. Short. Deliberate.

“For as long as I deem proper and necessary.”

Henry didn’t move. But his fingers had curled into fists.

Hans drew a sharp breath. The hand that had hung at his side now rose — quick, unfiltered — somewhere between a protest and a shield.

“This breaks the agreement!”

The words rang out across the hall — not a shout, but a clash of iron on stone.

“First, you denied me my inheritance unless I married. So I married.”

He gave a breathless laugh. Joyless. Abrupt. Almost as if it surprised even him.

“And still you refused — even after the vows.”

His gaze didn’t waver.

“And now this? And we’re meant to believe it’s for my safety?”

Hanush remained perfectly still.

But Henry didn’t.

A step. Barely more than the tip of a boot — but it was a step.

He stood just behind Hans now, close enough to catch him if needed — with a glance. A gesture. Anything. And yet he stayed silent.

Not out of fear. But because he knew this had to come from Hans.

Hanush leaned back in his chair — a little more comfortably.

“You know, Hans…” he said gently, “It wouldn’t be very good… or very safe for you… if word got out about who you share your bed with.”

Hans froze.

Henry stopped breathing.

Hanush didn’t even need to look at them. But he did.

“And worse still,” he went on, “for the safety of the one you share it with.”

His gaze didn’t flinch. Not an inch.

Hans swallowed. Said nothing.

Henry stood rigid, eyes locked on the floor, fists clenched, his whole body wound tight like a bowstring ready to snap.

“Do you think I’m blind?” Hanush’s voice was still soft. Almost amused.

“Think I haven’t got eyes and ears? Everywhere?”

Hans drew breath — but the sound that left him wasn’t the same as before. It cracked. Raw. Unshielded.

“What do you want from me…?”

Hanush gave a quiet laugh. Tired.

“Nothing.”

He shrugged. Let his gaze drift lazily across the table, like it was no more than a routine task.

“I don’t give a damn who you’re fucking.”

His eyes came back to Hans. And stayed there.

“But the family would care. And the Church — all the more.”

A faint smile touched his lips.

“I’m protecting you, dear nephew.”

Silence settled again.

Hanush leaned back, ran his fingers along the rim of his goblet.

“So…” “Do we have an understanding?”

Hans didn’t answer at once.

He looked at Henry.

And in that look — everything. Pain. Fear. Helplessness. He didn’t know what to do. And yet he did.

Henry looked back the same way. Like someone who’d just had the ground yanked from under his feet — and was still trying to stand tall.

Then came a nod.

Small. Painful.

Hans breathed again. And nodded too.

“Excellent,” Hanush said cheerfully — far too cheerfully — and clapped his hands together.

“I’ll have Bernard see to the details.”

Hans and Henry slowly turned. They were ready to leave.

“One more thing,” Hanush called after them.

His voice was calm — but unyielding.

They stopped.

“The people at Pirkstein,” he said, “they’re my vassals now. All of them.”

He looked at Henry.

“The blacksmith stays at the Upper Castle. He’ll serve with the garrison.”

The air thickened like clotting blood.

Neither Hans nor Henry said a word. They just looked at each other.

Henry leaned in — just enough for his breath to brush Hans’s ear.

“Remember that day on the hill above Hryzely?” he whispered. “What I said then still holds.”

Hans didn’t move. Just closed his eyes — tightly, once.

Then turned.

And left. He walked down from the Upper Castle.

Along the slope, past the houses. The path was rutted with wheels, slick with footsteps. Slush. Mud. Ash. Hoofprints.

He followed it — slowly. Like in a dream.

Rattay was waking.

Smoke rose from low windows. Someone was chopping wood outside a door. A goat bleated, tethered to a stake near the roadside. Wooden stalls on the square were slowly unfolding — canvas flapping in the wind.

A child ran past with a hunk of bread. A woman stepped out with a bucket of water in her hand. Someone greeted him — “Sir Hans” — perhaps more than one.

He didn’t hear them.

There was a noise in his head. Not wind. Something more like distant shouting. A faceless crowd, voices echoing off the inside of his skull, folding back in on themselves. A crowd that wasn’t there.

He was hot.

But he trembled.

His fingers twitched — he clenched them into fists. Again. And again.

His feet kept moving.

Without him. The body walked. The mind lagged behind. As if a thin, wet veil hung between him and the world.

His vision narrowed. Mud. A cartwheel. A horse’s chest. The sleeve of a man passing by.

The rest was grey.

Something inside him was swelling. Pressure. A shapeless force clenching around his ribs, crushing breath out of him, inch by inch.

He didn’t know if he was breathing. Didn’t know where he was going.

Only that he was.

He passed through the Pirkstein gate and headed for the palace.

He didn’t know he was there. Didn’t know how long he’d been walking.

Suddenly, he was standing in the doorway to the servants’ quarters. The door was already open. Or had he opened it? He hadn’t noticed.

Inside, it was quiet — a hushed kind of quiet. Homely. Wood. Warmth.

Pavel.

He was sitting on a low bench, hunched forward, barefoot. His face was tilted into Jitka’s hand, as she gently wiped it clean with a damp cloth.

“Don’t move,” she murmured, without reproach. “Let me finish.”

Pavel hissed through his teeth. Drew a breath, then bit it back.

Godwin stood nearby, arms folded across his chest, expression solemn. His eyes were troubled.

Hans stepped forward.

He moved closer. Knelt before Pavel — not all the way, but far enough for their eyes to meet.

“Is anything… broken?” His voice was low, uneven. “You’re not— I mean, is it bad?”

Pavel shook his head. Slowly. Carefully.

“No…”

He hesitated. Another breath, sharp.

“I don’t think so. Hurts like hell, but… nothing’s rattling.”

“Thank God,” Godwin muttered — mostly to himself.

Pavel was quiet for a moment. Then drew another breath.

“I was watching the forge. I just wanted to— just to see if anyone went in or out. I saw one of them… slip around the back.”

Pain caught him again. Jitka pressed the cloth gently to his lip. Steady. Unflinching.

“So I waited a bit… then tried to get a little closer. And… they got me.”

Hans watched him.

His eyes glistened — but he said nothing.

Pavel dropped his gaze.

“I’m sorry, my lord. I failed.”

Hans shook his head.

“No. You’ve nothing to apologise for.”

Jitka looked up at him.

She held his gaze for a long moment — silent — then raised her brows.

“What in God’s name is going on, Hans? And where’s Henry?”

Hans looked at her.

His eyes were empty. Dark. Bone-deep tired. He held her gaze as if trying not to drown.

Then gave a shake of the head.

Small. Helpless.

Almost imperceptible.

From the courtyard came the sound of hooves.

Steady. A single rider.

Hans turned wearily. Stepped outside — and saw Captain Bernard riding in beneath the archway.

He dismounted.

His eyes flicked to Hans.

There was duty in them. And — just for a moment — perhaps a flicker of sympathy.

Hans gave a quiet nod. Then turned to Godwin.

“Father… would you gather everyone, please. In the yard.” Moments later, Hans stood on the stairway landing. Jitka was beside him. Bernard on the other side.

Below, the people had gathered — Devil, Janosh, Kubyenka, a handful of others. Guards, servants, the cook. All silent. No one quite knowing what to expect.

Hans waited a moment.

Then spoke. His voice was calm. Steady. Just a touch slower than usual.

“By agreement with Sir Hanush…”

He paused before going on.

“…the governance of Pirkstein is being placed in his hands. From this point on, the castle will be undet Captain Bernard's command — as is the Upper Castle.”

In the hush that followed, there was only the wind — and the faint clink of a chain brushing against a shield.

Dry Devil stepped forward.

“What the fuck is this?” His voice rang out — full volume. No apology.

“Are we supposed to pack up and leave, or what?”

Hans looked at him.

His eyes were still. But beneath that stillness — something else.

“I don’t think that will be necessary.”

He turned to Bernard.

Bernard gave a small nod. Looked at Devil. His tone was even — but unmistakably clear.

“All remains as it was, Lord Kunstadt. I only want to be sure there’s peace here. And order.”

Devil sneered. Spat on the ground. But said nothing.

Bernard stepped back. Turned to Hans.

“I’ll return to the Upper Castle. Let Sir Hanush know the terms have been fulfilled.”

Hans said nothing.

He turned.

And walked slowly toward the living wing.

Behind him — silence. And heads that didn’t dare turn to follow. He stepped into the corridor.

His footsteps sounded hollow — as if through water.

He stopped.

The door to Henry’s chamber. The familiar frame. The familiar handle.

His hand rose — as if it already knew.

He stepped inside. Closed the door behind him. Slowly. Without a sound.

The room was dim. The air still, but warm.

On the bench beneath the window, Henry’s shirt lay folded. A candle sat on the table — half-burnt. A piece of bread no one would finish. One of his swords leaned against the wall — not the one for war. The other one. The one that was his.

The bed.

The same bed they had shared. Where they had lain side by side, warmed by fire and silence. Where they had loved each other.

Now empty.

The room was quiet. But full.

Henry’s breath wasn’t there — and yet it was everywhere. Too much of it. Too much of him, in everything.

Hans stood still. Shoulders rigid. Fingers curled into his palms.

His eyes brimmed with tears. But none fell. They stayed where they were — quiet, aching, like everything else.

He tried to breathe. Again. And again. And again.

Then he sat on the edge of the bed. Back hunched. Elbows on his knees. Head bowed.

And stayed there. In the silence. With his grief. And the kind of hopelessness that had no name.

He hadn’t moved.

Staring into nothing.

He tried to shape something in his mind — anything. A plan. A thought. A direction. Something he could still do.

But nothing came. Only fragments, phrases half-formed, images without meaning. All of it drowned beneath the same dull, relentless pain. Spilling through him like molten lead.

He rubbed his eyes. Let his face fall into his hands.

He breathed. Slow. Shallow.

Looked up again.

And then — a knock.

Soft. Almost shy.

He raised his head. His eyes were red. Dry.

The door eased open.

Jitka stood in the gap. She didn’t move. She just looked at him.

Hans gave a nod. Barely there.

She stepped inside. Closed the door behind her.

She walked to him — slowly. Quietly. Without rush.

“I knew I’d find you here,” she said. Her voice was gentle. No judgment. No expectation.

Hans exhaled.

Not in answer.

Just… surrender.

Jitka sat down beside him. Not too close. Not too far. Just close enough for him to feel she was there.

Jitka said nothing at first.

Then, slowly, she reached out and laid a hand on Hans’s forearm. Lightly — just enough for him to know it was there, if he wanted to lean on it.

“Pavel’s resting now.” Her voice was quiet. Simple. Factual. No demand.

“I cleaned the wounds. No bones broken — just bruises. A cut lip. And the ribs are bruised too.”

Hans looked down. No shift in his body. Just the breath — heavier, slower. A pulse of something behind his eyes that didn’t quite turn into tears.

Jitka didn’t move. But after a moment, her voice returned — still soft.

“His eye will heal. The lip, too. Another few days and he’ll be chasing Devil around the yard with a wooden sword.”

She glanced at Hans — just briefly. “He’s tougher than he looks.”

Hans gave a shake of the head. Not to deny her words. Just to push against them — like something too kind to deserve.

“I’ll never forgive myself for letting him go there.” His voice was low, rough. “I dragged him into this. I let him think he had to help.”

A pause. Then he exhaled — not relief, not surrender. Something in between.

“Still… I’m relieved he’ll be all right. At least I know that. Henry doesn’t. And that must feel worse.”

Jitka was watching him. Her gaze didn’t falter.

“Where is he, Hans?”

Hans didn’t answer right away. His gaze dropped to the floor. He stayed quiet for a moment — then gave a small shake of the head.

“Hanush ordered him to stay at the Upper Castle,” he said at last. His voice was low. Empty of force. “I couldn’t stop it.”

Jitka looked at him — her brow furrowed slightly.

“Can he even do that?”

Hans gave a tired shrug.

“If he holds Pirkstein… he holds everything in it. Including…” He stopped.

He didn’t say residents. Didn’t say vassals.

Just fell quiet — as if any word would have been too small for those he meant.

Jitka searched for words.

“What happens to him now?” It was barely more than a whisper.

Hans rubbed his face. Then let his hands fall to his thighs.

“I don’t know.”

A breath.

“He said he’s assigning him to the garrison. So… a guard, I suppose. Something like that.”

He stayed like that. Eyes fixed on nothing. As if saying the words made them hurt more than thinking them ever could.

Jitka sat quietly beside him.

Her hand still rested on his arm. She stroked it gently — without aim, without thought. As if her fingers were searching for calm that her mind couldn’t find.

Then, in a whisper almost too soft for the room, she spoke.

“His name was Martin.”

Hans turned toward her.

Not quickly — just slightly. Like someone turning toward a voice they thought they’d never hear again.

There was a flicker of surprise in his eyes.

But he didn’t ask. He waited.

Jitka looked past him — somewhere far beyond the room. She folded her hands in her lap, slowly rubbed her fingers together — one after the other, like counting.

“I fell in love a few years ago,” she said. “He led the guard in Kunstadt.”

A pause.

“I think he loved me, too.”

Hans said nothing.

But he gave a small nod. Slow. Quiet. Not agreement — understanding.

“He was a little older than me,” she went on. “Not much. But enough to seem… steady.”

She hesitated — then smiled, faintly, sadly.

“He was strong. In a way that filled a room. But he was gentle, too. He had hands that could knock a man to the ground — and still touch me so softly I forgot how to be afraid.”

Hans shifted slightly. Not toward her. But something in his shoulders eased.

“Of course,” she said softly, “a noblewoman and a soldier… it wasn’t allowed.”

“So we hid. Watched every glance. Every touch. Every word.”

She fell silent.

A shadow crossed her eyes. A memory brushing past.

“But it was worth it.”

Her voice caught — just a little. “Maybe we got careless. Maybe we just… wanted to believe we might have a chance.”

Hans bowed his head again. His hands folded between his knees. Listening.

“One day,” she said, “my mother found out.”

Long silence.

“She banished him from the estate.”

Hans looked at her.

Didn’t move — but in his eyes, there was presence. A silent I hear you.

Jitka didn’t speak for a long time.

“I heard, later, that he died in battle,” she said quietly. “Somewhere near Jevitchko.”

Her voice didn’t break.

It just… faded.

Hans looked down. His left hand reached for hers — gently, unsure, but real. He laid his fingers over hers for a moment — then let them fall away again.

The silence in the room deepened.

Hans said nothing.

He stared ahead. Hands folded. Body hunched forward.

The words were somewhere inside him — but they had no shape.

And he didn’t know if he even had the right to say them.

Jitka turned toward him, slowly. She looked at his face — and gave a faint, gentle smile.

“I’m not in your shoes,” she said softly. “But I know how… beautiful and strong some things can be.”

She paused. Her gaze wandered, drifting past the room.

“And how much they can hurt.”

Hans looked up.

It took a moment before he drew a breath.

“Back then… the night after the wedding…”

His voice caught — cracked in the middle.

He fell quiet.

“I had no idea there was something so… real behind it.”

The word real hung there — like it had just been spoken for the first time. As if it was only now that he grasped everything he hadn’t seen.

Jitka gave a tired smile.

“Of course you didn’t know, Hans,” she said. “No one was ever supposed to.”

They stayed sitting side by side.

In silence that no longer cut — only lingered.

After a while, Jitka spoke again.

“I know you lost your parents… when you were still just a child.”

Hans didn’t move. Only closed his eyes. Briefly.

“And then came Uncle Hanush,” she added quietly. “Which sounds more like a curse than a comfort.”

Hans gave a dry, breathless snort. No laugh. Just something brittle in his throat.

Jitka turned her thoughts over before they made it to her lips.

“My father… he’s kind,” she said.

Hans glanced at her from the side. Not curious — just cautious.

“But he’s never been one for children. He cared more about the estate. About politics. About things you can write into books — not into memory.”

Hans gave a small nod. So slight it might not have shown at all.

Jitka looked away for a moment. Then spoke again, her voice quieter.

“And my mother…”

She stopped.

As if weighing whether to say it aloud.

“I think she loves us all. In her own way.”

Hans didn’t move — but something in his face pulled tight.

“But above all,” she said, “the family name always came first.”

She was staring ahead now. Eyes steady, but dark.

“And for the sake of that name… she’d walk over corpses if she had to.”

Hans had his hands folded in his lap. Fingers laced tightly.

He hadn’t even noticed when they’d done that.

He didn’t move.

Jitka leaned back against the bedpost. For a while, she just sat there — her gaze drifting across the room, still carrying the trace of Henry.

After a while, Jitka spoke — her voice no more than a breath.

“You know… I was truly happy to meet Dry Devil here.”

Hans turned his head slightly. A flicker of surprise in the movement, nothing more.

“We’re probably not kin. Or maybe just barely, by some forgotten branch… But he’s been more of a family to me than anyone else in years.”

Hans gave a soft laugh.

It was real. The kind that slipped free from somewhere deeper — older — like a thread pulling loose inside him.

“I think I’d want someone like him in the family.”

Jitka looked at him then. Head tilted. Eyes narrowed just slightly, not in doubt — in recognition.

“But you do, Hans.”

He blinked — a faint crease of confusion.

“I’ve not quite adjusted to the fact I’m married,” he muttered, half a smile in his voice, and something apologetic underneath.

Jitka smiled, too. Shook her head, slowly.

“I know. But that wasn’t what I meant.”

He turned to her — not fully. But enough to let her in.

“What, then?”

She reached out. Took his hand between her palms.

Held it. Not tightly. Not as comfort. Only as truth.

Her thumb brushed gently across the back of it.

Then she looked up and into him.

“Hans…”

A pause, but not from hesitation.

“Henry saved my life.”

The name struck something in him — visibly. His eyes closed, just for a second. A breath left him, slow and uneven.

Jitka didn’t fill the silence too soon.

“He didn’t know who I was. But he helped me. At once. Without hesitation.”

A beat passed.

“And you…”

She was still watching him. Calm. Clear.

“You saved my honour. My future. And you had no reason to.”

Hans drew in a long, careful breath.

There was a tremor in his gaze — caught somewhere between guilt and something more fragile.

But she didn’t flinch. She let the silence settle. Let it speak with her.

“Who else should I count as my family,” she said, quietly, “if not you? And Henry?”

Hans looked at her.

His eyes were holding back something sharp. His lips parted, just barely.

A breath shuddered through him.

Then a smile. Small. Tentative. But real.

And behind it… tears.

Jitka smiled, too. Full and warm.

And reached for him.

He froze — for the space of a heartbeat. His body taut, hands unmoving.

Then, slowly — he returned the embrace.

Not out of habit. But wholly. With what strength remained.

When they pulled apart, they didn’t speak. They simply looked at each other — as if nothing more needed to be said just yet.

Jitka let her gaze wander the room.

“And this place, Hans…” she said softly.

Her eyes returned to him.

“This castle… Pirkstein is my home. Our home.”

Hans exhaled. Not sharply. But as if some unspoken weight had just answered for him.

He nodded.

“We’ll take it back.”

Jitka smiled. “That’s what I needed to hear,” she said — her voice carrying something steadier than hope.

“But first…”

Her eyes held his. Her tone didn’t soften.

It deepened. And filled the silence between them.

“First, we bring Henry home.”

[jandrichov]

Henry glanced at him. Just for a heartbeat. As if bracing for what might come next. As if holding his breath with him. From Fire – Part XIV: Beating of Heart Soon.

[jandrichov]

[jandrichov]

Hans laughed long and loud, dropping his forehead into his palm and shaking his head. “You hear that?” he called over the roar, voice lifting above the din. “This miracle of a man would get himself lost on the way to the privy — if I didn’t keep him on a leash!”

Jitka raised her brows, lips curling into a knowing smile as she looked straight at Henry.

He rolled his eyes but failed to hide the twitch of a grin. “Ay, sure — and who was it pulled your noble arse out of Maleshov, eh?”

“Details,” Hans waved a hand with exaggerated dignity, though the corners of his mouth betrayed him. “Entirely irrelevant details.”

Can’t help it — writing Devil’s Pack drinking nights is my favourite kind of chaos, and with Henry back in the mix it hits even harder :)

[jandrichov]

Hans between light and shadow. Perfectly captured through the eyes — and the heart — of @playpausephoto.

From Fire – Part XIII

Stakes Ascendant

—

Water slipped from the eaves in slow, uneven strands. Drops drummed softly against the beams, vanishing into the thawing snow below — one by one. The ground beneath lay dark and heavy, loosened to mud. Somewhere lower down, the meltwater gathered into a narrow trickle at the edge of the clearing — a quiet thread of sound winding its way away.

It was enough to disturb the silence of the bare woods.

Henry opened his eyes halfway. Sunlight pierced the shutters in thin, slanting strips, laying soft, blurred seams across the floor. The air was damp, close — scented with wet wood and the faint smoke of a fire that had burned itself out sometime in the night.

Hans lay behind him, face pressed into Henry’s shoulder, his breath warm and slow.

Henry didn’t move. Didn’t want to. For a moment he let himself drift — into the warmth between them, into the slow shadows sliding along the wall. Then he reached back and found Hans’s hand. Laced their fingers. Gave a quiet squeeze.

Hans stirred, barely — more in sleep than waking. He leaned closer, pressed his brow to the curve of Henry’s neck, brushed his nose against his skin. Mumbled something indistinct, breathed out, and gathered himself nearer still.

Henry smiled into the pillow.

They stayed like that for a while, time moving differently here. Outside, water dripped from the roof, steady and soft. Somewhere far off, a woodpecker knocked against bark — quick, hollow taps.

At last Hans rolled over — slow, lazy — until Henry was on his back and Hans braced above him on one elbow. His hair was tousled, falling into his face, his eyes half-lidded with sleep.

For a moment he only looked at Henry — as if realising just now that he was awake.

“You’re grinning,” he murmured at last.

Henry cracked his eyes open. “I’m not,” he said softly. “Just… smiling.”

Hans gave a soft breath of laughter and rested his forehead against Henry’s shoulder. “Hope that’s because of me.” Then he leaned back, letting his palm drift across Henry’s chest — idle, unthinking.

Henry didn’t resist. Turned his head instead and pressed a slow kiss into Hans’s hair.

“We should get moving,” he whispered after a while — but neither of them shifted.

Hans smiled against his skin. “We can,” his voice rough with sleep, “whenever we choose.” A pause. “So… not yet.”

Light spilled wider across the floor, the drip from the eaves steady and sure, while the woods beyond the yard lay hushed and heavy, steeped in thaw.

They stayed like that a little longer, neither of them moving. Only silence. The drops. Their breathing.

Henry opened his eyes and watched the sunlit shapes crawl slowly over the boards.

“I miss mornings like this in Rattay,” he murmured. “Even when we sleep together there… it’s different. Noise. People…” He lifted a shoulder, as if no words would quite do. “Here it feels… ours.”

Hans’s mouth curved. “We’ll come back soon.” For a moment he said nothing, then his voice dropped, quieter, rougher. “Though honestly, I don’t care where I wake. So long as you’re the first thing I see.”

Henry turned his head towards him, a faint smile catching at the corner of his mouth.

He rolled over — slow, unhurried — until Hans was beneath him. Braced himself on his elbows, met his gaze, as though memorising it. Then leaned in, brushed a gentle kiss, and drew back just enough to look again.

“Like this?” he whispered.

Hans’s grin was lazy, playful. His hand slid lower, across Henry’s bare arse. “Almost exactly like this.”

Henry bent closer, his voice low and rough at Hans’s ear. “We’ll get to everything.” Then his lips traced down his neck, warm breath spilling over skin, until Hans shivered beneath him.

For a while longer they stayed tangled in silence, reluctant to yield to the day. But the light on the floor crept stronger, and the drip from the roof grew louder as the snow gave way to warmth.

At last Hans stretched — long, slow, like a cat — then turned on his side, reaching for the shirt folded neatly over the chest by the wall. Henry caught his wrist first, pulled him back into the blankets.

“No hurry,” he said softly.

Hans let out a quiet laugh and allowed himself to sink back down, his palm spreading over Henry’s chest, fingertips drifting along his collarbone, as if he might stay there forever. But after a moment he sighed, sat up.

“We should get going before the roads turn to mire.” He glanced towards the window, where sunlight already shone off wet patches beneath the eaves.

Henry rose more slowly. He crossed to the chest, pulled a clean shirt over his head and slung a linen tunic across his shoulder. For a moment he stood barefoot on the damp-cool boards, gaze wandering out the window.

The meadow beyond the yard was dark, sodden, softened underfoot, snow breaking into wet clumps where it lingered. Only a few ragged scraps of white clung to the branches now, and the woods beyond dissolved into a pale grey mist. The air was different than just days before — wetter, rawer, heavy with melt.

“The way back will be slow,” he said under his breath.

“All the better,” Hans threw in, reaching for his belt. “Gives us reason to take it slower still. Might as well enjoy it before Rattay claims us again.”

Henry smiled faintly, said nothing. He crossed back instead, bent down, and pressed a soft kiss into Hans’s hair before reaching for his own coat.

Mutt greeted them with a low, pleased rumble, stretching out, unhurried, before letting out a jaw-cracking yawn. Hans tossed him the last scrap of bread from supper; the dog snapped it from the air and set to chewing with quiet determination. Outside, the sun hung low, but the day was already bright. The sound of thaw was everywhere — drops falling from eaves, from branches, from stones warmed in the yard. The air was thick with scents: wet wood, damp grass, the slush of melting snow mingling with the faint smoke still drifting from the chimney.

It was time to leave — but they didn’t hurry.

They drained the tub in case frost came back. Brought up the remaining venison from the cellar, packed it carefully onto the horses. Walked the yard one last time, checked everything, barred the doors.

Then they stood by the saddled mounts. Foxburrow lay silent. Hans let his gaze wander — roof, woodshed, well — until it met Henry’s. A brief smile. The faintest brush of fingers. And then only leather, stirrups, the breath of horses. When they set off, the pace was slow. Hooves sucked softly at the damp snow, and puddles along the track glimmered with cold morning light. Foxburrow slipped behind them, past the trees, until the house vanished into the pale grey veil of mist.

The air carried the wet smells of thawing wood and leaves rotting beneath the snow. Now and then it leaned into the branches, shaking loose small showers of water.

Hans and Henry rode side by side. Mutt padded a little behind, his paws landing softly in the horses’ tracks. Every so often he stopped to sniff the air, nose lifting, head turning, then bounded forward again, tail carving lazy arcs through the damp light.

The forest lay bare and dripping, open to a haze where thin shafts of sun pierced through. Silence mingled with the soft patter of melt and the distant murmur of streams waking beneath the snow.

Neither of them spoke.

They were still half-caught in what they’d left behind — Foxburrow’s hush, the warmth of the bedchamber, the unhurried morning. The ride carried its own rhythm: the gait of the horses, the dripping from the branches, the sudden gusts that brushed cold against their faces.

Henry straightened in the saddle, letting his gaze drift along the road ahead. “What’s the plan once we’re back?”

Hans glanced sideways at him. “First thing’s finding out what’s new. If anything’s stirring in the castle or the town. And whether there’s trouble waiting that we’ll have to handle straight off.”

Then his mouth curved faintly. “My guess is Mikush is the one most eager to see you. After all this time, he’ll be glad not to do everything in your stead.”

Henry gave a low chuckle. “I can imagine how many times he’s cursed me.” He paused, thoughtful. “But I’m looking forward to it, truth be told. The ordinary duties… a bit of certainty, a bit of quiet. Not as thrilling as missions — but a good deal less dangerous.”

Hans smirked. “True enough. And if nothing pressing comes up, maybe we can finally breathe for a while. Get the castle ready for winter, while there’s still time.”

Henry nodded. “Wood, stores, repairs. I look forward to work where no one’s waving a blade in my face.”

Hans adjusted the reins, watching him for a moment with a strange, unreadable look. “God’s witness, Henry — I’m not letting you ride off alone again.” A sharp exhale. “That last venture of yours… was too much.”

Henry shook his head with a quiet smile, offering no reply.

For a while they rode without speaking. The woods around them lay damp and silent, wind nudging the branches and shaking down fine sprays of meltwater.

“And Hanush?” Henry asked at last, eyes still forward. “What now… since he’s refused to hand over the inheritance?”

Hans shook his head, shrugged. “I don’t know. Honestly — I don’t know what to expect from him anymore. Especially after ignoring him when I rode out to Nikolsburg after you.” He hesitated, then shook his head again. “No telling what game he’s playing now.”

Henry glanced at him. “You think he might try something… harmful?”

Hans sighed, more to himself than to Henry. “I don’t know.” He straightened in the saddle, eyes fixed ahead. “Best I pay him a visit once we’re back. Find out where things stand.”

A smile touched his lips — thin and joyless. “Though I’d sooner swallow a frog.”

Henry turned to him, reached over and brushed the back of his fingers against Hans’s thigh. “You’ll manage.”

But then the corner of his mouth tilted. “And back at Suchdol, you’d have been glad enough to eat one for supper.”

Hans looked at him, startled — then burst out laughing. Henry joined in, and for a time they rode on with their laughter snatched by the wind. Drops falling from the branches all around.

Hans wiped the corners of his eyes with the back of his hand and drew a breath. “I’ll stop by the upper castle the moment we arrive. Best to get it over with.” He cast Henry a sideways glance, a faint tug of a smile at his lips. “You can ride ahead to Pirkstein. I wager they’re more curious to see you than me.”

Henry grinned. “Just as well — gives them time to hide the wine and the light skirts before their lord shows up.”

Hans barked a laugh. “Let’s hope I still find you sober by the time I catch up.” They left the bare fields behind, rode past the woods above Rattay — and the upper castle opened before them.

Its stone walls lay darkened with damp, roofs stripped of snow, rutted paths glistening beneath the pale wash of afternoon light. The wind carried with it the smells of smoke, wet earth, and dung.

At the gate came the ringing of hammers, shouted orders, the sharp bark of dogs, the hollow clatter of wheels on stone. Below, Rattay stirred with its own restless life — traders calling out prices, men hauling sacks of grain, carts creaking into courtyards, chimneys spilling thick, biting smoke into the sky.

Hans drew his horse to a slower pace, running a hand over the wet line of its mane. “This is where we part ways.” He glanced at Henry, the corner of his mouth tilting faintly. “Try not to wander off before I find you again.”

Henry’s smile curved brief and dry. “Good luck with Hanush.”

Hans gave a soft snort. “I’ll need it.”

Henry nudged his horse down the slope, Mutt bounding after him, paws splashing in the mud.

The town was loud and smeared with filth. Men heaved crates and rolled barrels from wagon beds; thresholds were scrubbed, wet logs chopped down into splintered kindling. Everywhere, mud. Boots caked in it, puddles bursting underfoot. The air was heavy — damp grass, dung, the raw tang of resin, smoke drifting low while pale beams of sunlight broke through the ragged clouds overhead.

From time to time, a passing glance lingered on him, but no one stopped, no one asked. Henry felt the weight of being back — yet the town moved around him, as if it breathed on without him.

At the far end of the main street, past a curve in the road, Pirkstein came into view. Walls dark and damp, wet roofs gleaming faintly in the sun. Smoke from the chimneys curled low and hung in the air, thick enough to taste.

When Henry rode beneath the castle gate, noise and laughter met him in the yard. In the churned mud of the courtyard, Godwin, Janosh, and Kubyenka were struggling — and failing — to heave a toppled barrel upright. Boots slipping, shoulders straining, hands slick with mud. Every effort ended in another stagger, another laugh.

Henry watched them for a moment, amusement softening his face. “Need a hand with that?” he called out.

All three turned — and froze where they stood.

“Henry!” Kubyenka was already running to him, Godwin close behind, Janosh a step after. Henry swung down from his horse, barely finding his footing before Kubyenka clapped him hard between the shoulders and Godwin pulled him into a short, fierce embrace.

“Thank God,” Godwin breathed against his ear. “You’re back. And in one piece.” He stepped back, narrowing his eyes as though checking for cuts and bruises, then lifted his brows. “And where’s Hans? Tell me you two didn’t trade places, that we won’t be missing him now instead.”

Henry laughed. “His lordship is stopping by the upper castle. He’ll be along in a moment.”

He nodded toward the barrel. “Come on, before you lot break your backs.” Together they took hold of the rim and, on three, heaved it upright with a wet thud.

“What’s in it anyway?” Henry wiped his palms against his trousers.

“Beer,” Kubyenka grinned, his eyes bright. “And we’ll be needing it tonight — now that the two of you are back.”

From the doorway leading into the living wing, Jitka appeared. She halted when she saw him, and her face lit with an open, unguarded smile.

Henry inclined his head lightly. “My lady.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “Coming from you, my lady will always sound strange.” Stepping closer, her gaze softened for a moment. “I’m glad you’re back, Henry. And safe.”

The sound of hooves came before they could say more. Henry turned just as Hans’s horse tore through the gate, flinging up clods of wet mud. Hans slowed, guiding the animal onto the yard, and gave Henry a nod.

“He wasn’t there,” was all he said as he swung down from the saddle.

Jitka moved toward him, hesitated half a step, then brushed her fingers lightly against his sleeve. “Finally home, Hans,” she said softly — and her eyes drifted briefly to Henry. “Both of you.”

Hans’s smile was small, his nod gentler still.

Then the others closed in — Godwin, Janosh, Kubyenka — a tangle of backslaps, clasped hands, words tumbling too fast to carry meaning. Phrases made of relief rather than sense.

“Hans, we’ve a whole barrel of beer,” Godwin grinned. “We ought to mark your return properly — if you’re up for it.”

Hans looped the reins over a beam, sent a quick glance Henry’s way, then back to Godwin. “We are,” he said, “but we’ve waded miles of mud to get here. Give us a little while to breathe. Tonight, count us in.”

Janosh’s mouth curved. “Devil should be back by then too. Took the horse out somewhere earlier.”

Hans hesitated. “And Zizka?”

Jitka shook her head lightly. “Before the snow came, he rode toward Budweis with Katherine. Said he had business there.”

Hans leaned closer, his voice low. “And… Hanush? He hasn’t made trouble?”

Jitka stilled a little, folding her hands at her waist. “A few days ago he sent Bernard. Offering us… help. With the castle.”

Janosh barked a laugh. “Few men can tell someone to fuck off as perfectly as the Devil did. Bernard won’t be forgetting it anytime soon.”

Jitka laughed too, nodding. “Uncle Hynek is a treasure.”

Hans’s mouth quirked faintly, but something in his eyes tightened for a moment. “We’ll talk on it later,” he said, quieter now. “For the moment… we need the rest.”

With a short gesture, he excused them both, then tipped his head at Henry. Together, they climbed the stone steps toward their chambers.

Upstairs, Henry gave him a brief nod and slipped into his chamber.

Hans lingered in the passage for a moment, then drifted towards the battlements. He paused there, gaze wandering across the courtyard below, then further — towards the upper castle, dark against the pale sky. Lost in thought. Then he shook his head once, as though to scatter it all.

He tipped his face to the sun, closed his eyes, and let the weak winter light touch his skin. Drew in a long breath, let it out slow. Then he turned, his stride steady, and made for his own chamber. Henry shut the door behind him and stood still.

It was strange to return — to this room that seemed to have waited, as though time itself had held its breath since he left. Everything was as he’d left it. A shirt draped over the back of a chair. The armour-mending kit resting on the shelf. A cup on the table, with a faint, dried ring of wine along its lip.

He set his sword down on the bench, then his satchel. Slowly, almost ceremonially. As though placing fragments of himself back into a space that had lived only as memory.

He unfastened his travelling coat, peeled himself out of the heavy gambeson. His movements slowed, then stilled entirely. For a time he only stood there, palm resting on the carved edge of the chair, breathing.

Then he reached for simple linen trousers and a tunic. Folded the rest of his clothes carefully atop the chest, setting the room in quiet order once more. After, he knelt by the hearth, laid down splinters of kindling, coaxed a flame to life. It crept along the shavings, caught, and licked at the first pieces of wood.

Henry sat on the bed, elbows braced to his thighs, hands clasped.

The room grew warmer, yet he could still feel the chill of stone seeping through his back. The silence here reached beneath the skin. It brought back every day that had passed while he was gone — and all those days had carried, and taken.

After a while he rose, crossed to the wall, and caught the heavy curtain between his fingers. He drew it back in silence. Knocked. Softly.

For a moment, nothing.

Then he pressed lightly on the door, and it opened into the adjoining chamber.

Hans stood by the table, dressed only in his underclothes, bent slightly at the waist. Sheets, scrolls, seals lay scattered across the boards, reshuffled more than once, left unsettled. His shoulders were drawn, hips braced against the table. No fire burned here yet; the only light came from a small candle guttering low.

“Settled back in already?” he asked gently, without looking up from the papers.

Henry stepped closer, stopping just behind him. He slid his arms around Hans’s waist, drew him in, and brushed his lips softly against the skin just behind his ear.

Hans smiled faintly, eyes closing, leaning into the touch for a breath. Then he turned within Henry’s hold, pressed his forehead to his cheek, and kissed him — brief, firm, certain.

“This,” he whispered, “was exactly what I needed.”

Henry’s mouth curved; he gave him another slow kiss. Then his gaze drifted to the table, over the strewn documents.

“What are you buried in?” he asked quietly.

Hans sighed, shook his head, fingers brushing Henry’s hand where it still rested at his side. “Trying to work out what to do about Hanush…”

“Leave it for now,” Henry said, calm, steady. “Breathe a little first.”

Hans nodded, let the tension ease, and slipped from Henry’s arms. He crossed to the bed, sat on its edge, elbows resting on his knees, and dragged a hand back through his hair.

Henry took up the jug, poured wine into a cup, and offered it to him. Hans accepted it without a word.

Then Henry crouched at the hearth and coaxed a fire to life.

For a time, there was only the crackle of kindling. Hans drank, gaze fixed on nothing, until at last he spoke. “Hanush isn’t in Rattay. No one could even tell me where he’s gone, or when he’s coming back.”

He paused, eyes narrowing into the flames. “Most likely off on one of his little forays,” he added, quieter, almost as an afterthought.

Henry turned from the hearth, leaning against the edge of the table. “What kind of forays?” His voice was low.

Hans gave a slow shake of the head, his eyes dropping to the floorboards.

Henry waited a moment, then rose, crossed to him, and sat down at his side. He slid an arm across Hans’s shoulders, pulling him gently closer. “I’m not prying,” he said softly. “But this isn’t the first time you’ve mentioned it.”

Hans drew in a breath, as though gathering resolve. “I suspect…” He stopped, frowned, shook his head. “No. I’m almost certain he rides out with a small retinue on raiding trips. To the roads, to isolated homesteads across the neighbouring estates.”

Henry stared at him for a long moment, then shook his head, as if he’d misheard. “How do you know?”

Hans was silent at first, his gaze lowered, fingertips turning the rim of the cup in his hand. “Even as a boy I kept noticing odd things,” he said slowly. “Strange faces appearing, then vanishing again. Snatches of talk cut short the moment I came near.” He paused, breath catching faintly. “It always felt as though something was being hidden… And later, the pieces began to fit. Not into the meaning they were supposed to — but into the meaning they couldn’t quite keep buried.” At last he lifted his eyes, meeting Henry’s. “And then I understood.”

Henry straightened slightly. “But why would he do that?”

Hans shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching — though it never became a smile. “He needs money. Always has. He’s never been able to keep it — and he’s never had enough.” Bitterness crept into his tone. “That’s likely why he won’t give up Rattay. Or anything else that was never his to begin with.”

Henry stared into the fire, fingers laced before his knees. “But that’s… forbidden,” he said softly. “Even for a noble, isn’t it?”

Hans gave a short, mirthless laugh. “Of course it is. But things like that rarely see daylight.” He rolled the cup slowly in his palm. “If it ever came out, though — before the other lords, before the king — it would ruin him. Entirely.”

He stopped, then sat up sharply, something flashing behind his eyes. “That might be it,” he breathed.

Henry turned, brow furrowing. “What might?”

“This could force him to hand me the inheritance,” he said slowly, as if testing the weight of it.

Henry’s expression darkened faintly. “You’re thinking of exposing him? Taking him before the court?”

Hans shook his head. “No. I’d never take it that far.” He set the cup down, leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “It’d be enough for him to know I could. That might be all it takes.”

Henry’s gaze deepened, shadows gathering there. “So you’d threaten him with it?” he asked, quiet but firm.

Hans met his eyes — tired, steady. “And does he play fair, Henry?” His voice was low, stripped of anger. Almost flat. “Does he act justly?” His gaze dropped to the scattered papers on the table. “Sometimes, the only way to answer treachery…” — a faint breath — “is with deceit of your own.”

Henry’s hand tightened slightly over the fabric at his knee before he turned back to the fire. The silence between them thickened, broken only by the faint crackle of the wood. After a while, he let out a slow breath, shaking his head the faintest bit. “I don’t like it,” he said quietly. “Scheming. Lying. Even when it’s deserved.” He stared into the fire. “It feels like losing something just to win.” A pause. “But maybe…” — his voice dropped — “maybe there’s no other way.” “Maybe you’re right.”

Hans shifted beside him, then leaned in — slow, careful. “I hate it too.” His voice was quiet. “But if it means protecting you… protecting what we have—” He let the thought trail off.

A moment passed. “We used to have one card to play. The wedding.” His jaw tensed. “As long as he wanted it done, we had leverage. A promise. A chance to be safe.” He looked down. “But now it’s gone. He’s made it clear — he won’t give me Rattay. Not even after.” Another breath. “And without that, we’ve got nothing. No claim. No protection.” His gaze flicked toward Henry — steady, raw. “If he wanted to ruin us tomorrow, he could. And we couldn’t stop him.”

He drew in a breath. “So yes — I’ll bear it. Even if it costs me.”

After a pause, Henry drew a deeper breath. “But you’d still need proof,” he said quietly. “Or someone to swear to it. Without that, Hanush would just laugh you off.”

Hans nodded. “That’s the trouble.” He rose and paced the length of the chamber in slow, measured strides. “And there’s no asking anyone close to him, of course.”

Henry spread his hands. “Then it’s no good, is it?” He pushed himself to his feet.

Hans turned, folding his arms across his chest, one brow lifting faintly. “Not so fast.” He stepped nearer, lowering his voice. “I think there’s a secret smelter up at the upper castle,” he said softly. “A way to launder the spoils from his raids.”

Henry’s gaze sharpened with thought. “A smelter like that would mean smoke. Stench. Much like a forge.”

Hans inhaled sharply. “A forge — Christ’s wounds. That makes sense.” He looked aside for a beat, as though pieces were falling into place. “I’ve seen men around the forge before… faces I’m certain had no business being there.” He nodded faintly to himself. “It’d be perfect cover.”

Henry studied him for a long moment. “Then should I go up there? Take a look around?”

Hans laid a hand on his forearm, shook his head. “They all know you by now. You’d be anything but subtle.”

“Maybe if I went by night?”

Hans shook his head again. “Nothing ever moves up there after dark.” Then he leaned in closer, his mouth curling faintly into a sly half-smile. “And at night,” he whispered near Henry’s ear, “I’d much rather have you here — in our bed.”

His fingers slid over Henry’s thigh.

Henry turned into him and kissed him — long, deep, certain.

The knock at the door sliced cleanly through the moment. They broke apart, a sharp glance exchanged, then both looked towards the sound.

Henry stepped over and opened it.

Pavel stood there, uncertain at first. “Shall I set out a late dinner in the hall, my lord? I stopped by the kitchens once I heard you’d arrived.”

Hans gave a brief smile and nodded. “We’ll be there shortly.” Soon after, they were seated in the hall, side by side at the long table.

On the trays before them lay roasted meat, soft vegetables, and warm bread with a crust still tender to the touch. Pavel filled their cups with wine, then stepped back, quiet and unobtrusive.

Hans carved off a piece of meat with his knife, bit into it without ceremony. Henry broke a loaf cleanly in two, the faint crack of the crust sounding sharper in the hush. Only the soft murmur of the hearthfire filled the hall, and the muffled voices from the yard beyond.

Henry cut himself a small piece of the roast and turned it absently in his fingers before lifting his gaze to Hans. “What about Dry Devil?” he asked, low.

Hans glanced up, brows drawn. “What about him?”

Henry shifted a shoulder. “Couldn’t he… take a look at the forge?”

Hans huffed through his nose, shaking his head. “Can you imagine Devil acting inconspicuous?” He reached for his cup and drank. “He’d be the last man for it.”

A faint, sheepish smile flickered across Henry’s face as he looked down at his food. “Right… foolish thought.”

Pavel returned to pour more wine and gather the emptied dishes, moving carefully, without lifting his eyes to them.

Hans set his knife down on the rim of his plate and idly turned a piece of bread between his fingers, thoughts pulling elsewhere. “If Katherine were here,” he murmured at last, “she’d be ideal. Likely no one up there at the castle knows her. An ordinary woman — she wouldn’t draw attention.”

Henry looked at him over the rim of his cup, a small curve at the corner of his mouth. “She’s not ordinary.”

Hans rolled his eyes, a soft breath of laughter escaping him. “You know what I mean.” He waved a hand, as though brushing the thought aside. “Doesn’t matter. She’s off with Zizka anyway.”

“We could wait for her return,” Henry suggested gently.

Hans stilled, his cup pausing halfway to his lips. “If she returns,” he said at last, voice quieter. “God knows what she and Zizka are about now.”

Then he straightened, drew a long breath, shoulders easing back. “But for now — this is our moment. Hanush is away, and some of his men with him.”

From the side came a quiet but steady voice. “My lord… if you need discreet eyes up at the upper castle, I can help.”

Hans went still, his head lifting slowly. He turned towards Pavel, standing by the table with the wine jug in his hands, and his brow drew faintly tight. He shook his head. “Absolutely not. You’re a good lad, Pavel, but this isn’t work for a boy.”

Pavel set the jug carefully on the table and straightened, shoulders squared, gaze steady. “I’m no boy anymore, my lord,” he said respectfully, though without hesitation. “I can take care of myself better than plenty of grown men.”

Henry lowered his head towards his plate, the barest flicker of a smile playing at his lips, though he said nothing. Then he lifted his eyes towards Hans.

Hans caught the look and held it for a moment, silent, before turning back to Pavel. The boy stood tall, arms hanging loose, his gaze level and direct.

“My lord,” Pavel spoke again, softer this time. “You’ve done so much for me. Both of you.” He cast a brief glance Henry’s way. “This is the least I can do to repay it.”

Hans shook his head again, though not as firmly this time. He set his cup down, gaze lowered to the dark wine inside. “I don’t like it,” he murmured.

Henry leaned towards him, elbow resting on the table. “But someone like Pavel could pass by the forge without drawing notice,” he said quietly.

Hans turned to him, a look in his eyes that was almost pleading. “He’s just a boy, Henry.”

“I’m not a child!” Pavel blurted out, his voice breaking upward. “I’ve had a girl already!”

Henry choked on a laugh and pressed his fist to his lips to stifle it. The corner of Hans’s mouth twitched, but he kept his expression composed. He turned to Pavel. “Pavel… would you give us a moment?”

The boy hesitated only a heartbeat before bowing slightly and stepping back. The door shut softly behind him.

Hans sat motionless for a while, eyes lowered to his cup, before finally lifting them back to Henry.

Henry regarded him with a faint, knowing smile. “Do you remember that stray from Skalitz?” he asked softly. “The one who could barely hold a sword straight and stumbled into Rattay?”

Hans exhaled, a slow shake of the head. “You had a few more years on you,” he said thoughtfully. “And men like you… they don’t come along every day.”

Henry’s smile deepened just a little; beneath the table, he nudged Hans’s thigh gently with his knee. Then his expression grew more serious, his gaze steady on Hans’s. “But it’s true, Hans,” he said quietly, “a boy born into a shit life only gets out of it if someone gives him a chance to show what he’s got.” For a moment, his eyes lowered. “If I hadn’t been given mine, I wouldn’t be sitting here now.”

Hans stared at him, wordless. His fingers curled tighter around the cup until his knuckles paled. He didn’t look away — not yet. Then, slowly, he let out a breath and set the cup down on the table.

“I know what you’re saying. And you’re right. He deserves a chance.” He paused, jaw shifting. “But I keep thinking… he’s just a boy. Barely had a life to begin with. And now we’re the ones asking him to risk it all — to put himself in the middle of something that could tear everything apart.” His brow furrowed, gaze falling to the table. “Feels wrong. Like I’m turning into Hanush myself.”

Henry’s voice was quiet, but steady. “You’re not.” He reached out — laid a hand gently over Hans’s. “You’re the one who sees him. Who cares if he gets out.”

He paused, his gaze steady. “And you didn’t force him into this. He asked for it, remember? You even tried to talk him down.” A faint breath. “He knows the risks, Hans. But he wants to help.”

Hans let out a quiet sound — not quite a scoff, not quite a sigh. “He thinks he knows,” he said. “He’s at that age where it feels like he’s got the world figured out.” He looked down, jaw tight. “But he doesn’t. Not yet. And that’s why we have to be the ones who do.”

Henry gave a slow nod. “Ay,” he murmured. “And that’s why it’s on you.”

Hans looked at him — then shook his head slightly. “No. Not just me.”

His thumb brushed gently over Henry’s fingers. “It’s on us.”

Henry gave a quiet nod. “Whatever you decide… you know where I stand.”

Hans sat still for a moment. Then he drew a breath — eyes lingering on that quiet place where their hands met.

“Then we’ll do it,” he said. His voice was quiet. “He walks by, sees what he sees…” A faint pause. “And comes back.”

Henry nodded, rose, and laid a hand on his shoulder for a moment.

Then he crossed to the door, resting his palm against the frame. “Pavel,” he called.

The boy returned, and they told him simply what needed to be done. Head out just before dusk. Circle near the upper castle, pass by the forge, keep his eyes open. See if there was movement there, strange faces, or any sign of work being done that shouldn’t be. Nothing more.

At the end, Henry leaned closer, one hand resting on the back of the chair. “Careful, Pavel,” he said softly. “Don’t try to prove yourself — and if anything feels wrong, you leave. Understood?”

Pavel nodded, his face set and serious. “Understood, my lord.” He bowed lightly and slipped away.

Hans and Henry lingered a while longer at the table, their cups resting before them. The hall was quiet, save for the occasional soft crackle from the fire.

Henry leaned his elbow on the wood, studying Hans’s thoughtful face. “He’ll manage,” he said, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “I trust him.”

Hans gave a slow nod, his gaze still sunk into the wine. “God grant you are right.” After a pause, his voice dropped lower, almost to himself. “If you are… we may be rid of Hanush. For good.”

Henry reached for his cup and raised it. “Then here’s to that.”

Hans’s mouth curved faintly as he lifted his own. The rims met with a soft chime.

From the doorway came a burst of laughter.

“Starting the celebration without us, are you?” Godwin strode in, face bright, eyes warm with amusement.

Hans smiled back, shaking his head. “Not yet.”

“Then let’s fix that, eh?” Godwin clapped his hands together, grin wide as a crescent moon. “Time we start properly.” The hall soon filled with noise and laughter.

Plates lay empty across the table, pools of spilled wine and ale mapping out islands between them. Bones from the roast, torn bread, scattered crumbs alike. Chairs were dragged aside — they sat wherever they pleased, or didn’t bother to sit at all. Devil had one boot hooked on a bench, Kubyenka leaned on the edge of the table, Godwin content with a cup in hand, and Janosh darted about, pouring refills while laughing louder than he spoke.

Jitka sat between Devil and Godwin, back against the bench, cup in hand. Her laughter rang as freely as theirs, her brow resting against Devil’s shoulder as she whispered something into his ear — and judging by how he choked on his drink, it wasn’t at all proper. Devil jabbed her in the ribs with an elbow in mock retaliation, but she only flashed him a grin and took another sip.

Hans sat at the corner of the table, elbows resting on the wood, turning his cup lightly between his fingers. Henry beside him — hair mussed, cheeks faintly flushed from wine, eyes bright with laughter.

“Come on then, out with it!” Kubyenka swung an arm wide, nearly sending Devil’s cup tumbling. “Where the hell’ve you been hiding all this time, eh?”

Janosh leaned in before Henry could answer. “And what happened to you? Samuel swore you were on your deathbed!” he rasped.

“Right!” Devil barked a laugh. “Spit it out, lad — where the fuck did you run off to?” He broke into laughter again.

“Don’t push him,” Jitka cut in, though her smile didn’t falter. She set her cup down with a soft clink, shaking her head as though defending Henry — but her tone only fanned the flames. “Look at him — he’s turning red!”

Henry gave a low chuckle, leaned an elbow on the table, and shook his head. “The truth?” He leaned in as though to whisper, but pitched his voice just loud enough for all to hear. “Truth is, I only know one thing.”

He spread his arms wide, eyes glinting with mirth. “Somebody smacked me good and proper over the head.” A beat — then he broke into laughter. “And after that, it’s all a blur… till Hans came to drag me back.”

Hans laughed long and loud, dropping his forehead into his palm and shaking his head. “You hear that?” he called over the roar, voice lifting above the din. “This miracle of a man would get himself lost on the way to the privy — if I didn’t keep him on a leash!”

Jitka raised her brows, lips curling into a knowing smile as she looked straight at Henry.

He rolled his eyes but failed to hide the twitch of a grin. “Ay, sure — and who was it pulled your noble arse out of Maleshov, eh?”

“Details,” Hans waved a hand with exaggerated dignity, though the corners of his mouth betrayed him. “Entirely irrelevant details.”

Godwin was laughing so hard tears streaked his face, while Devil shoved an empty jug toward Janosh with impatient insistence.

Through the evening, laughter rolled loud and unrestrained, fists pounding the table, voices rising in bursts that broke into half-sung refrains — each attempt at song drowned quickly beneath another round of stories. The hall had grown quiet, the din thinning into embers.

Jitka had left some time ago, pleading weariness; Janosh sat slumped at the table, cheek pressed to his folded arms, drifting somewhere between waking and sleep. Devil leaned back against the bench with the look of a man already resigned to a brutal morning, and from somewhere at the garderobe came the muffled sounds of retching and curses. Even the laughter that remained was softer now, blurred by wine.

Hans set his cup aside, leaning closer to Henry. “Come on,” he murmured. “Let’s get some air.”

They stepped out onto the walls. The night took them at once — sharp and clean, edged with damp stone and the faint smoke of doused fires. Below, the castle lay hushed; only the slow rhythm of passing boots rang against the masonry.

Henry drew in a deep breath and rolled his shoulders, a quiet laugh in his throat. “Some celebration this is.”

Hans’s mouth curved faintly, his gaze cast into the dark beyond the battlements. “Ay… it’s been a long while since we had a night like this.” He hesitated, then huffed out a low laugh. “I reckon Kubyenka won’t be placing bets for a good while.”

Henry snorted, shaking his head. “Let’s wager on it.”

They both laughed then, the sound carrying strangely clear in the silence — then fading, leaving only the cool air between them. The chill crept steadily beneath their skin as their eyes adjusted to the dark.

The quiet broke suddenly — shouts, boots, the jangle of steel from the courtyard below. The guard was changing.

Hans stilled, brow furrowed as he glanced at Henry. “Midnight already?”

Henry lifted one shoulder. “Could be.”

Hans gave a slight shake of the head… then froze. Breath caught in his throat, his eyes sharpened, and he turned sharply toward Henry. “Pavel — has he come back yet?”

Henry stopped too, his brow creasing. “I… I don’t know. Maybe he’s in his room,” he said softly, though his voice wavered. “Maybe he’s been asleep for hours.”

They descended the steps, brisk but not quite running — though panic edged nearer than either cared to admit.

The courtyard lay empty. They asked the guards if they’d seen him — only shrugs and raised brows in answer. No one knew anything.

They searched the servants’ quarters, even the small side hall by the kitchen where the hearth still glimmered with dying embers. No sign of him.

Out through the gate, then. The cold struck sharper there, the air raw on their faces. They passed beneath the arch and stopped just beyond, gazes lifting to the upper castle.

Before them, Rattay slept — rooftops black against the sky, broken only by scattered points of torchlight drifting slowly where the night patrols moved.

Otherwise, nothing. Not a sound.

Hans let out a breath harsher than he’d meant to, fingers curling tight on the railing. “Gods, I hope nothing’s happened to him,” he said softly, almost voiceless.

Henry stood beside him, silent for a moment, staring into the dark. When he spoke, he pitched his voice steady, though it rang more fragile than he wished. “Maybe he just… got held up somewhere. Or…”

Hans glanced at him, something shadowed in his eyes that wouldn’t move. Henry met the look, nodded — more to settle Hans than from any true belief of his own.

They passed through the gate with torches in hand and made their way slowly up through the town.

The street lay empty, the ground still damp, their steps sounding strangely loud against the hush. The torchlight threw long, wavering shadows across the walls, shifting as they moved — as if the town itself were watching them.

They passed the tavern. It stood dark and silent now, only a jug overturned on the threshold and a blackened pool of wine glinting faintly in the firelight. Rattay slept; no songs, no drunken shouts, only the distant tramp of night watch boots. The faintest echo of voices drifted up from Pirkstein, scraps of laughter lingering where the last embers of celebration still burned.

They climbed higher. Winter’s cold bit at their faces, sharp and clean.

From a distance, they could already see the gate of the upper castle — high, shut, guarded. When they reached it, the men on watch looked down at them, surprised to find their young lord out at such an hour. Their faces were unreadable, their stares cool, with none of the warmth Hans might once have expected.

Hans said nothing at first, his gaze steady on theirs, as though waiting for someone to speak. No one did. In the end, he only drew a quiet breath, nodded once towards Henry, and turned away without a word.

They walked back to Pirkstein in silence. The torches lit their path, but behind the circle of firelight, the dark seemed deeper still. The hall was empty now. Cups overturned, scraps of food left scattered on the table, the fire burned low — embers faintly aglow.

They crossed the quiet space and stepped into Hans’s chambes. Inside, the silence lay thicker still, broken only by a muted breath of wind through the shutters. They sat together on the bed. Hans looked pale, his gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the room. Henry said nothing for a while, simply sitting there with him.

At last he reached out, laid a hand on Hans’s thigh, his thumb brushing lightly across the fabric. “As soon as it’s light,” he said softly, “we’ll go look for him. Even up at the castle.”

Hans nodded, his eyes still distant. Henry hesitated, searching for words, then spoke almost more to himself than to Hans. “I believe he’ll turn up. By morning at the latest. Maybe he just curled up somewhere to sleep.”

Hans breathed out, long and quiet, and finally looked at him. “I hope so,” he whispered.

Then, after a pause, his gaze dropped before he looked up again. “Pavel… he matters to me. I don’t think I realised how much until now.”

Henry drew him close, gentle, and pressed a kiss into his hair. “He’ll be all right,” he whispered.

Sleep came hard. They sat long into the night, silent, each lost in thought, until exhaustion finally pulled their eyes closed. When they lay down at last, only a few hours of uneasy rest awaited them. Before dawn, they were awake again. They crossed the courtyard, asking the guards if Pavel had been seen. Just shaken heads in answer.

Once more they searched through Pirkstein — chambers, halls, even the kitchen — but it was no use.

“We’re going to find him,” Henry said quietly, almost without pause.

Hans nodded. They took their swords and headed for the gate.

Then, from the misted morning, came the sound of hoofbeats — quick, hollow against stone. A rider emerged at last from the pale fog.

Bernard.

Hans turned towards him, eyes hard, a knot of anger, defiance, unease drawn tight behind them. Bernard reined in, and in the stillness, the horse’s heavy breaths steamed into the chill. He looked at Hans, and the glance held a fraction longer than it should have.

“Sir Hanush requests your presence at the upper castle, my lord.”

A brief glance at Henry. Then back again.

“Immediately.”

[jandrichov]

“I’d sooner swallow a frog.”

Hans prepares to pay his uncle a visit.

From Fire – Part XIII. Soon.

[jandrichov]

By request ❤️ @the-fatal-impact

[jandrichov]

Thanks to everyone who voted!

Here’s the split:

– Game canon: 40%

– Historical reality: 15%

– Doesn’t matter: 45%

And if you count only those who had a preference, the answer’s decisive — game canon wins almost by three to one.

So the fic will keep using groschen the way they work in KCD, consistent and familiar throughout. 🖤

The Groschen Dilemma ⚔️

So, here’s a very nerdy writer’s problem I’ve run into.

In KCD, a groschen works very differently than it did in real life.

– In the game: everything is wildly more expensive (a sword could cost 2000 groschen).

– In reality: the groschen was worth much more (such a sword might be only 100 groschen).

And now I need to pick one rule to stick to for the whole fic — so the numbers don’t get messy later.

Since you’ve been with me through all of this, I’m turning to you. What feels right for our world?

[jandrichov]

“Because you’re the only one

who makes the word love

in making love

mean what it’s supposed to.”

[jandrichov]

From Fire – Chapters So Far

For easier navigation, here are the links to all currently published chapters of From Fire.

This post will be updated as new chapters are released.

Part I – Lord of Pirkstein

Part II – Master Henry

Part III – Homecoming

Part IV – Of Miracles and Devil’s Doings

Part V – Of Staying True

Part VI – Tearline

Part VII – The Walls

Part VIII – Veils and Mirrors

Part IX – For Whom the Bell Tolls

Part X – Breaking Through

Part XI – Still Ours

Part XII – Of Making Love

Previous series:

Further

Weight of a Name

[jandrichov]

Breath caught, heart caught — thank you, @playpausephoto, for lending the chapter this quiet moment.

From Fire – Part XII

Of Making Love

Intimacy ahead — in more ways than one.

—

“So… he pretended to be mute… so the nuns would think he was harmless — and then… they’d just…?”

Hans smirked, propping himself half-upright against the pillow, the blanket slipping low along his hips. Henry was resting his head in his lap, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Hans flipped back a few pages. The paper rustled — soft and dry.

“Masetto da Lamporecchio si fa mutolo e diviene ortolano di uno monastero di donne, le quali tutte concorrono a giacersi con lui.”

He looked down at him with a raised brow. “Masetto pretends to be mute and becomes the gardener of a women’s convent,” he translated. “And every last one of them throws herself at him.”

A quick grin flickered across his face.

“So yes. You understood perfectly, my dear Henry.”

Henry shook his head, lips twitching with quiet amusement — almost unconsciously. The movement brushed the back of his head against Hans’s lap, sending a jolt through him like a struck string.

He shifted slightly, half-laughing. “Careful down there, you…”

Henry snorted — a sharp, muffled laugh — and then fell quiet again.

“What’s it called?” He frowned slightly. “Deka…?”

“Decameron.”

Henry let the name sit on his tongue.

“Strange thing, isn’t it,” he said eventually. “That people even write books like that.”

Hans shrugged and ran his fingers gently through Henry’s hair, slow, absent. Threading thought into touch.

Henry turned more fully toward him, let his palm drift up Hans’s side, fingers warm. Then he paused — brushed his thumb over his nipple, thoughtful, teasing. There was a glint in his eye.

“So if I’d pretended to be mute back in spring… think I would’ve gotten you into bed a bit sooner?”

Hans broke into laughter.

He leaned down and kissed him — a quick pass of lips along cheek, then mouth. “I can’t imagine you ever keeping your mouth shut.”

Henry grinned, a low chuckle rising in his throat.

His hand remained on Hans’s chest. Still. Familiar.

Hans lifted a shoulder. “I wasn’t exactly living a monastic life before, either.”

Henry let out a short laugh and gave him a soft pat across the chest.

“Ay. That much I figured.”

Hans raised his eyebrows, mock-offended. “Well. You were the one helping me woo ladies.”

Henry gave a scoffing sound. “I was ordered to.”

A pause. Then a grin spread across his face.

“Though I did try to sabotage it. Remember the butcher’s daughter…?”

Hans reached for him and pulled him into his arms. “You treacherous… insolent… sweet… gorgeous… mine,” he whispered between kisses.

They kissed long, full, and slow.

When they finally parted, Hans glanced toward the window. His eyes lingered there for a moment, listening for something that didn’t come.

“Is it still raining?”

Henry sat up and crossed the room, past the table, to the door. He looked out through the small window.

“No. Snow again. Heavy.”

Hans stretched, reaching for his shirt.

“Come on, then,” he said casually. “Let’s grab more firewood. I could use the movement.” They dressed without hurry. When they opened the door, the air met them with a damp breath of chill. Heavy snowflakes drifted down around them — catching in their hair, on their shoulders, melting as they touched skin. The yard was silent, save for Mutt bounding through the drifts, snuffling excitedly and gobbling mouthfuls of snow.

Henry watched him with quiet amusement.

Hans took in the scene — the roof, the white settled on the ground. “It’s been holding for four days now. Maybe five? Unusually long for this time of year.”

Henry nodded slowly. “We could stay at Foxburrow until it melts. Leave only when the snow’s gone.”

Hans gave a soft laugh. “Let’s not leave it all to the whims of the weather…”

He paused, then looked over with a raised brow.

“I figured we’d wait until the tub is fixed… then maybe finally ride down to Rattay. Show our faces.”

He let it hang there — then broke into a grin.

“For a few days, at least.”

Henry nodded. “That sounds wise.”

They crossed the yard for firewood. Logs, kindling, the hush of footsteps in snow.

Inside, the fire still burned. Flames licked at the wood, a soft snap echoing through the room — light glinting along the rim of a jug.

Henry poured the wine. Handed Hans his cup, then filled his own.

They sat down closer to the hearth. Warmth slowly unfurled around them. Mutt’s paws pattered faintly across the floor before he curled up again, silent in his corner.

Henry gazed into the flames. “Tomorrow we could build the pine channel. The one for the tub. So it’s ready when the cooper arrives.”

Hans nodded, took a sip, and licked the wine off his lips.

“Can’t wait to sit in there together. Hot water, this weather…” He smiled, eyes half-lidded. “Perfect.”

Henry chuckled, shaking his head. “I think I know exactly how that bath will end.”

Hans looked over — slowly — one brow arched.

“Well, I certainly hope so,” he said, the words tipping into a grin.

He took another sip. Crossed one leg over the other. Adjusted his collar. Firelight caught on the rough stubble of his jaw.

“Shame we don’t have something like this at Pirkstein,” he murmured.

Then glanced at Henry, eyes bright, tone innocent.

“Something Master Henry might consider once we’re back in Rattay.”

Henry took a sip, holding the wine in his mouth for a beat. Then nodded. “You can count on Master Henry.”

They sat in silence for a while longer. The fire kept burning. The wine kept going.

Henry’s face grew thoughtful as he stared into the fire. “So… how are we going to handle things now? At Pirkstein. With the lady of the house there. With Jitka.”

Hans took a slow breath. His eyes drifted toward the wall, where the window frame stood in silhouette against the flickering light. “We’ll have to find out,” he said. “But so far… she doesn’t seem like the spiteful sort.”

Henry turned his head. “What do you mean?”

Hans shifted a little. His gaze dropped to his cup. “When Samuel brought word that you’d been wounded… and I was getting ready to leave…”

He paused. “I went to her. To tell her I had to ride to you at once. Right away. And she—she just nodded. Told me to go. To bring you back.”

Henry said nothing. Just listened, quietly.

When he spoke again, his voice was low, contemplative. “I’ve felt from the start that she’s a kind and clever woman.”

Hans nodded. He drew in a breath. “She might be,” he said. “Though…”

His words trailed off. As if something within him had gone still.

Henry turned to look at him. His gaze was gentle — questioning, but calm.

Hans was silent for a long moment. Then he reached out and took Henry’s hand.

“There’s something I never told you.”

A crease formed in Henry’s brow. His lips parted slightly, but he didn’t speak.

Hans looked away.

“I had a chance to annul the marriage,” he said. “Legally.”

Henry sat up straighter. “What? How?”

Hans shook his head. Didn’t meet his eyes.

“The marriage contract stated that she was untouched. A noble virgin. It’s assumed. It’s always assumed.”

Henry stared at him. Didn’t say a word.

Hans turned at last. His eyes were steady — but heavy.

“The night of the wedding… I found out that wasn’t true.”

Henry frowned slightly. “How did you find out?”

Hans tilted his head a little. Looked him straight in the eye. His brows raised slightly.

He drew a breath.

And Henry understood.

He looked away. Long and hard.

For a moment, there was only silence between them. Then he inhaled deeply. “So why didn’t you do it?” he asked. “Why didn’t you annul the marriage?”

Hans kept his eyes on the fire. “I don’t know, exactly. I knew I’d ruin her. Take away her name. Her future. And it felt wrong.” He paused. “Because I’d walked into that marriage carrying a lie of my own. Knowing I’d never love her.”

Henry said nothing — only reached out and slowly stroked his fingers.

“I think you made the right choice,” he said softly. “Because you’re kind. Because you’re a good man. And… I think she might be good too.”

Hans nodded — gaze lowered, hands curled around the cup.

Henry leaned in and kissed his cheek. “I love you.”

Hans looked back at him. “I love you too,” he whispered.

They sat in silence again for a while. Each with a cup of wine in hand. The fire had burned low, the flames reduced now to glowing embers.

Hans shifted slightly. His eyes caught the flicker of light.

“Everything that was expected… it’s done. In full. And if God wills it… perhaps it won’t be needed again. Perhaps… I’ve already sired an heir.”

Henry’s gaze dropped. He stared into his cup for a long time — motionless.

Hans looked at him, letting his hand drift softly across Henry’s back.

“Something wrong?”

Henry drew a breath. Then gave a slow nod.

“I don’t like hearing it.”

Hans pulled him gently closer.

“Love. I’m sorry.”

Henry shook his head. “I’m not angry with you. We both knew it had to happen. And these past few days… I suppose I already knew. Somewhere deep down.” He paused — the words caught in his throat. “But hearing it… in your voice… what it really meant…”

His voice faded.

“… it hurts.”

Hans wrapped his arms around him and kissed his hair.

He swallowed hard.

“It makes me feel… sick,” he murmured. His voice cracked. “That it hurts you like this.”

Henry held him tighter. “It’ll pass,” he whispered. “Everything passes.”

They stayed like that. Just breath. Just quiet. And snow beyond the windows.

They said no more.

Only sat together, arms entwined. When they finally put out the fire and moved to the bedroom, the hush followed them.

They lay on their sides. Hans drew Henry into his arms — nose buried in his hair, arms wrapped firm around him.

He pressed slow, gentle kisses to his shoulder, his neck, the crown of his head.

Henry held his arm close, fingers laced with his.

After a moment, he turned his head slightly.

“Good night, love.”

Hans kissed his temple.

“I love you,” he whispered.

Henry turned back into his warmth.

Hans drifted off — slowly, gently — his breath rising and falling against the curve of Henry’s neck. Their hands still intertwined.

And Henry — held, silent — lay there a long time with his eyes open in the dark. Morning crept into the room like breath.

Not light yet — just the suggestion of it, diffuse and hidden in the folds of the curtains, in the quiet glow of skin still warm with sleep.

They lay close. Henry on his side, back to Hans. In sleep, he had curled toward the warmth behind him. Hans’s arm was slung over his chest, a leg tangled with his, hand resting low across his belly.

Their bodies moved together — not in rhythm, but in presence. In breath, in the soft adjustment of muscle, the unconscious draw of skin to skin. The hush that belongs only to morning — not quite waking, but no longer lost in dreams.

Henry opened his eyes. Just breathed. Felt. The heartbeat behind him. The scent of sleep and skin and something deeply known.

His fingers brushed across the back of Hans’s hand — light as breath. Hans stirred, barely. His grip tightened gently, reflexively pulling Henry closer. His hand moved across Henry’s chest without thought.

Henry smiled — just a flicker at the corner of his mouth.

He pressed back into him. Not from desire, but tenderness. Thigh to thigh. Hip to hip. His body resting into Hans’s like a return.

Hans was waking slowly. Still half-asleep, his lips traced the back of Henry’s neck — a soft path toward his collarbone, breath catching there for a moment.

Henry turned his head and kissed him over the shoulder.

Hans smiled against his skin and kissed him back. His palm found Henry’s waist and moved over it in one unbroken motion.

A sigh slipped from Henry’s lips. His hand slid along Hans’s forearm, and he turned onto his back, just enough to meet his eyes. Still heavy with sleep — but open.

Hans leaned in. Their lips hovered — not urgent, just there.

Henry met them. Gently. Slowly.

Then again. A little longer.

Their mouths moved with no intent, no destination. Only being. Skin brushed skin, damp with nothing but breath. Their hips pressed, shifted, aligned.

Hans’s hand moved to Henry’s chest, pressing flat and still. Henry’s fingers travelled down his back, finding the small of it, tracing circles.

He drew Hans closer. Chest to chest. Their hips met — slid.

A low, quiet sound came from Hans — half-moan, half-exhale.

Their mouths met again. This time deeper. Slower.

Breath shifted. Thickened. Sank.

Henry bent his knee, curling his leg around Hans’s. His hand moved down his side, across his stomach, lower.

Hans caught it — not to stop him, but to hold him there. His fingers curled around Henry’s. His eyes were smiling. So were his lips.

They kissed again. Long. Deep.

Hans’s hand slid lower. Over Henry’s hip.

Then paused.

And went on — to where the skin turns softer, where touch begins to mean something more.

And in that moment — that single, flickering moment — something inside Henry pulled tight.

Not sharply. Not in panic. He just… didn’t breathe.

Not held breath. Just… breath that never finished.

Hans didn’t move. But he felt it. Felt the change.

Henry’s hand stayed where it was — but no longer answered. And his body didn’t answer Hans’s hand.

The kiss broke.

Henry’s lips stayed parted — but empty. His body pulled back — not away, just inward.

Hans opened his eyes. Looked at him.

Henry didn’t look away. But something had drifted behind his gaze.

Their fingers unwound — gently, without pain. But with a hush like cold air between them. Hans slid his hand away. Not in apology. Only to stop asking.

Henry remained. But something was… different.

Hans touched his cheek. Full palm, warm and steady. Then leaned in and kissed him. Brief. Tender.

Henry closed his eyes.

Hans’s hand stayed there. Quiet. Protective.

He bent closer, his voice almost not a voice at all. “I love you.”

Henry didn’t open his eyes — but nodded. Just slightly. Certain.

Hans pulled him in again. His hand moved to Henry’s back — fingertips tracing slow lines down his spine, across his shoulder blades, to the small of his back.

Henry melted into him — closer now. His head found its place beneath Hans’s chin.

Silent. Eyes closed. Breathing.

Between them now lay something without a name.

It hadn’t taken the shape of words. And even if it had — they wouldn’t have known where to begin.

So they stayed. For a long time.

In quiet. In the closeness of one body against the other.

Until the silence was broken by a sound they both understood — a loud grumble from Henry’s stomach.

The quiet grew even deeper for half a second — and then they both laughed. Freely. The kind of laugh that unknots things inside.

Hans tugged him even closer.

“Fair enough — breakfast it is.”

He looked at him, grinning.

“Before you start gnawing the blanket. Or me.” They ate slowly that morning. Not across from one another — not today. Henry sat beside Hans, their thighs touching, sometimes their hands. Not deliberately. Just… incidentally.

Between them, a shared plate. The last of the bread. A few slices of cheese. Two apples.

And Mutt — ever hopeful, ever close. Sniffing. Nudging. Huffing gently. Earning scraps now and then, with a look too hard to resist.

“So,” Hans said, once he’d finished, “shall we start on that channel today?”

Henry nodded. “If the cooper comes tomorrow, timing’s perfect. We get the work done today — tomorrow we can start filling the tub, as soon as it’s ready.”

Hans smiled, standing up. A thought flashed across his face. “Amatores!” he said aloud.

Henry laughed — and something in his eyes went soft. “Amatores,” he echoed, smiling.

Mutt gave a little whine.

The piece of apple that had fallen to the floor was his. Later, they got to work.

First, they checked the old parts — what Hans had salvaged and stored under the lean-to beside the forge while Henry was gone.

“You did this alone?” Henry asked, eyeing the care — the timber stacked neatly, bark covered with cloth.

Hans shrugged, though the corners of his mouth gave him away. “Didn’t want it to rot.”

Henry turned toward him. “You already knew we’d rebuild it?”

“I don’t know… maybe not,” Hans said after a pause. “It just felt like the right thing to do.”

Henry watched him a moment longer. Said nothing.

Some pieces, they soon discovered, would need replacing. Near the edge of the woods, they picked out a young pine — straight trunk, dry to the touch, clean of damage.

Together, they brought it down.

When it fell, the snow swirled. Branches shook loose — and a whole heap of it slid straight down their collars. Hans cursed loudly. Henry burst out laughing.

Then Hans did too. Freely, unguarded. No front, no shield. Just laughter — pure and ridiculous and needed.

They stripped the bark. Measured the new piece against the rest. Fingers stiff from the cold, but warmed now by the work — and something else.

They knew what they were doing. They’d built this once before — and the hands remembered.

They moved quickly. The wooden legs cut lines through the snow, the new pine segments slid into place. The channel took shape — through the trees, across the clearing, all the way back to the forge.

Back home. By midafternoon, it was done.

They stood shoulder to shoulder at the edge of the clearing, Henry’s arm wrapped around Hans’s waist, his hand resting at his side.

He leaned in and pressed a quiet kiss just above Hans’s ear.

Hans’s gaze shifted — toward the lean-to. He walked over. Lifted the tarp that shielded the front of the smithy from the wind.

And paused.

Just looked.

The tub was there. Right where it had always stood. Still. Heavy. Split on one side — a wound in the wood that couldn’t be ignored.

He reached out and ran his fingers along its rim. Slowly. As if the touch might soothe it. His hand lingered there.

Then Henry’s arms came around him from behind. He leaned back, and Henry pressed close.

“It’ll be good as new soon,” he whispered into his ear. “Ours.”

Hans closed his eyes. Gave a small nod. Later Henry cooked dinner.

Nothing elaborate — but after the day they’d had, it tasted like a feast.

The room was warm. Mutt lay curled in his bed, fast asleep. Steam rose gently from the pot, and the scent of the stew hung low in the air. Candlelight shimmered on the wood of the table.

“We should restock soon,” Henry said, half to himself. “Especially the meat.”

Hans stretched out along the bench, a smirk flickering across his face. “We could go hunting tomorrow,” he offered. “If the cooper shows up, we’ll let him work and take the day for ourselves.”

He tilted his head back, eyes on the beams above.

“I’m looking forward to it. The woods. The hunt. Just us.”

Henry nodded. “Good.”

They ate in silence after that. Not rushed — just easy. Like the evening itself. Unhurried. Unfolding.

When the meal was done, they poured wine. Sat close, their shoulders leaning in. Heads tilted together, watching the fire.

No words.

The hearth crackled, sending a ripple of hot air up the chimney. The flames bent in its wake.

After a while, Hans stood and added another log. Then reached for his coat.

“I’ll get more wood.”

Henry rose as well. “I’ll help.”

They stepped outside.

The night was so bright it seemed to steal the breath from their lungs. Snow glittered like glass dust, tree-shadows cut the ground in sharp lines, and the moon hung still above it all — vast, white, and watching.

They stopped. Just stood there for a while, eyes lifted.

Henry took Hans’s hand in both of his.

He drew a breath — slow, steady, all the way to the end.

“Hans…”

Hans turned toward him. Silent.

Henry kept his gaze low. “This morning…”

He faltered.

“I… I don’t know how to say it.”

Hans’s thumb moved over his sleeve — one slow stroke through the fabric.

Silence.

Henry swallowed.

“When we were… when we made love— or, no…” He shook his head. “When we were about to—”

His eyes met Hans’s. “Something inside me locked up. Went stiff.”

He took a step back. Not away from Hans — just from the memory.

“It was like I was frozen through. Hollow. Empty. And all I could see—”

He hesitated.

“Was you. With her. That night.”

Hans didn’t speak. He didn’t let go, either.

Henry drew in another breath — sharper this time.

“It wasn’t anger,” he said. “It wasn’t at you. It was the image of it. How it happened. What it was.”

His voice sank low. “The truth of it.”

Hans stepped forward. Wrapped him in his arms — firm, but careful. One hand over Henry’s back, fingers moving in slow, almost imperceptible strokes.

Henry stood still against him for a while. Then shifted, easing back just enough to meet his eyes.

There was grief there. But not blame.

“I know you… you did what had to be done.”

He took a breath.

“I’d tucked it somewhere deep. But when you spoke of it— it all rose up. All at once.”

He gave a small shake of his head.

“The picture of it.”

He looked away. “And I… I can’t shake it. It’s holding me.”

His throat tightened. “I’m sorry.”

Hans exhaled — just a breath, quiet as ash.

He touched Henry’s face. Softly. Without rush.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

Then he brought their foreheads together. Closed his eyes.

“You know what we have,” he said. “You know what you mean to me.”

Henry pulled in a breath. Almost desperate.

“It’s not that I don’t want you,” he murmured. “God— I do. I want you more than anything.”

His voice cracked.

“But in that moment… I just couldn’t.”

Hans drew him in again. Closer this time.

He slid his hand down Henry’s spine — once. Then again.

“When the right time comes,” he said, “we’ll make love again.”

His voice was low, but sure.

“Because you’re the only one who makes the word love in making love mean what it’s supposed to.”

Henry nodded.

And they stayed there — in the hush, in the snow, beneath a moon that lit the yard as if it belonged to them.

They made their way back to the house, slow and wordless. But the silence no longer hurt.

Just before the door, Hans slapped his forehead.

“The firewood.”

For a heartbeat, they both stood frozen.

Then they laughed — soft, soundless, completely.

They went back for the logs. Only then did they step inside. When they lay down, Henry was on his back. Hans was with him. On him.

His head rested on Henry’s chest. One of Henry’s arms was wrapped around him.

Hans’s fingers traced slow circles on his shoulder. Gentle. Smaller with each pass.

Sleep began to claim him — Henry could tell. In the faintest twitches. In the slackening of muscle. In the way his breath changed, turning into sleep.

Henry lowered his head. Pressed a quiet kiss into his hair.

Then closed his own eyes.

And slept.

Peacefully, this time. At the edge of the clearing, the world was wrapped in that particular silence only snow can bring. Morning light sifted through it — pale and weightless, as if afraid to disturb the hush. Branches wore their soft, heavy layers of white, and in the frostbitten shrubs, red rose hips gleamed like beads scattered across the snow.

Above them drifted a thin veil of clouds, and the light was silver — diffused and cold.

On the far side of the glade, a small herd of deer was grazing. Four, maybe five — nibbling at young shoots, shifting slowly toward the northern edge.

They both stood still, bows in hand.

Henry drew his string. Slow. Precise. Fingers trembling — not from cold, but focus. He aimed. Held his breath.

A whistle split the air— and missed.

The deer startled — bolting, snow flying up behind them like powdered glass. But Hans was ready. His bow sang a beat later — and one of the does fell mid-run.

Then silence again. Only the faint retreat of hooves over snow.

Henry gave a sheepish smile.

Hans laughed — easy, light, and with a hint of pride, not mockery.

“Good thing you’ve got me.”

Henry smirked, shoulders shrugging. “I’ll never be as good with a bow as you. But then, who is?”

They walked over to the fallen deer. It lay on its side, half-sunk into the snow — a wide, red stain beneath its ribs. The air smelled sharply of blood, warm and metallic.

Hans knelt beside it, checked the wound. “Clean shot,” he said softly.

Henry held the reins while they hefted the carcass onto his horse’s back. It was heavy — but they managed. Tied it down well.

Henry grinned.

“Let’s hope we don’t repeat last time,” he said. “You remember — when you went arse over tit in that cold stream on the way back?”

Hans snorted, not even turning around.

“Ever since that day,” he said, “I’ve been bloody careful with that stream.”

Henry snorted back. Hans smiled briefly, his eyes flicking toward the deer now strapped across the horse.

“That should keep us fed a few days,” he said, satisfied.

They mounted up. Henry gave the glade one last glance.

Then they rode — into the trees, into the hush.

They kept a quiet pace, hooves crunching softly over snow. Above them, branches swayed with a slow, drowsy rhythm, as if the forest itself were half-asleep.

Hans glanced around, then gave a lopsided grin. “You know who I kind of missed today?”

Henry turned his head toward him.

“Mutt,” Hans added. “Bet he would’ve lost his mind over that deer.”

Henry gave a nod. “He would. But this far, through snow and trees — it’d be a bit much for him.”

Hans smiled. “At least he’s keeping an eye on the cooper and his crew.”

Henry gave a short laugh. “And mostly on their lunch.”

He paused a beat, thoughtful. “You think they’ll be done by the time we get back?”

Hans let the question hang for a moment, then shook his head. “Doubt it. That tub’s still got a way to go.”

Then he burst out laughing. “You see his face when he looked at that split side?”

Henry rolled his eyes. “I did.”

Hans lifted an eyebrow. “Well — he’s getting paid enough, isn’t he?”

Their horses plodded on. The path began to dip gently, and through the trees ahead, the stream caught the light.

It wasn’t high — a soft ribbon over shallow stones. The banks were laced with ice, jagged and thin, and little sparks of snow clung to the folds in the rock.

Hans rode in first. His horse stepped carefully, but the crossing was shallow, and they made it through without trouble. On the other side, he paused — turned back to look.

Henry followed. The deer shifted slightly on his horse’s back as they stepped into the water, but the animal kept steady. The stream barely reached its fetlocks.

They came up side by side. For a breath, they stood still.

Hans smiled — reached out, brushing his fingers lightly over Henry’s thigh.

Henry leaned in. Pressed a quiet kiss to his mouth.

Hans’s smile lingered.

“Let’s head home.” By the time they returned to Foxburrow, the yard was still alive with movement.

Master Herman and his two apprentices were putting the final touches on their work by the tub. Sawdust clung to their boots, and the scent of resin still lingered in the cold air.

Hans dismounted before they reached the shed. He made straight for the tub, eyes scanning the new planks with practiced care.

Henry slowed his horse and slipped one foot from the stirrup.

Mutt came charging out at once — tail wagging, tongue lolling, barking with uncontainable joy. Henry laughed, swung down from the saddle, and crouched to greet him. The dog licked his face, then promptly caught sight of the deer slung over the horse’s back.

He reared up on his hind legs and sniffed at it, enraptured.

“That’s a bit much for one dog, you greedy thing,” Henry chuckled, scratching behind his ears.

By the tub, Hans gave a nod of approval.

“This is clean work,” he said.

“Thank you, my lord,” Master Herman replied. His hands were black with pitch, but his eyes shone with quiet pride. “Held together better than we’d hoped.”

The tub looked almost new. Only the color gave away the difference — the replacement planks still pale against the older wood.

The coopers began gathering their tools. Hans fetched the coin pouch from his belt, drew a few extra coins, and pressed them into Herman’s hand.

“For the care you took,” he said simply.

Herman inclined his head and gave a small bow. Then he waved his men toward the horses.

Their farewell was brief but respectful — and soon the yard began to settle.

The chill crept back into the bones of the place, but the tub stood whole again.

They stood together beside it, studying the result. Hans reached out and let his hand pass slowly along one of the new boards — almost reverently. Henry bent to check the rim, ran a hand along its edge, then straightened with a stretch and a quiet sigh.

“We may as well start filling it,” he said, glancing over with a smile. “Let it be ready by morning.”

Hans gave a small nod and turned toward the aqueduct.

There were just a few pieces left to connect — the ones they’d set aside. They eased them into place, and the water began to run.

It started with a faint gurgle, then a steady whisper. Ripples formed, droplets danced. The wood darkened as the level rose.

They stood and watched — silent, still — with the quiet satisfaction that follows a task well done.

Then Henry glanced over at the deer, still lashed to the saddle.

“And now we’d better deal with our catch,” he said, grinning, “before Mutt decides to bury it somewhere.”

Hans gave a low laugh.

And together, they turned back to the horses.

The doe was larger than they’d expected. Heavier. Denser. The meat thick through the flanks, the frame broad with weight. Even before they began, it took effort just to hoist her.

They slung a rope between two beams, tied it tight, and pulled the body up to hang. Snow beneath them soon darkened with spreading stains.

Henry steadied her. Hans took the knife. Then they switched.

The hide came down in strips — thick, taut, reluctant. It clung to the flesh as if it meant to stay.

Then the insides — warm, slick, reeking. They worked slowly, carefully, hands sure but cautious. A single slip could burst the wrong sac, spoil the cut. Hans muttered in disgust when bile spilled down his wrist, and wiped it into the snow.

Mutt got his share the moment the liver came out. He tore into it like a starving wolf, growling low in his throat, blood stringing from his jaw.

Then came the carving.

Meat into cuts. Tendons trimmed, bones drawn out, sinew cleaned from flesh. One piece at a time. Each one deliberate.

It took hours. The sun dipped. Shadows slanted across the yard, bending through the white. Fingers grew numb. Palms stiffened. The wooden boards beneath them drank in the blood and turned dark.

They carried the meat to the cellar — laid it on shelves, packed in cloth and snow.

Outside, the yard was a churn of red-brown slush. In the end, only the frame remained, the coil of rope, the scuffed marks of boots. And silence.

Hans wiped his brow. Henry straightened, stretching his spine, gaze drifting over the scene.

“Looks like a battlefield.”

Hans glanced at the frozen ground, splattered and hardening.

“Won’t last,” he said. “By morning it’ll all be buried again.”

Henry gave a nod.

They picked up the final cut — a flank they’d saved for supper — and started toward the house.

Mutt followed, belly bulging, breath thick with content.

They were both spent. Hands stiff, shoulders aching, backs heavy with the work of the day.

Henry prepared the meat — salted it, rubbed in dried herbs, and laid the roast on the rack above the fire. The wood crackled softly. Its scent mingled with the first hints of fat warming over the heat.

Soon, the smell filled the room — rich and savoury, mouth-watering.

When it was ready, they sat at the table with greasy fingers and cheeks flushed from the fire. They ate slowly. With the look of men who needed nothing else.

Afterwards, they poured wine. Hans stretched out his legs. Henry leaned one elbow on the table.

They were full. They were tired. They were home.

“Tomorrow, we’re finally having that hot bath,” Hans said, content.

Henry smiled and nodded. “In this cold? It’ll be even better than that one at the end of summer.”

He paused. His gaze drifted across the table. Then he leaned in and kissed him — slow, lingering.

“But that time… was perfect too. Just different,” he murmured.

Hans smiled. And let his eyes close, just for a moment.

They lingered by the fire a while longer. Hans reached out and brushed Henry’s thigh — lazily, gently, as if just to remind himself he could. Henry tilted closer, kissed him under the ear, and rested his hand at the nape of his neck. He didn’t move. Just held him.

Hans let his forehead rest against Henry’s chest. “You’re so warm,” he mumbled.

“And you smell good,” Henry whispered, pressing a kiss to his hair.

They stayed like that. Still. Breathing in rhythm. Touching — both giving, both held.

After a while, Hans pulled back just enough to kiss Henry’s neck. His shoulder. His mouth. Henry kissed him back — slowly, drowsily, but with pleasure.

“Think we should go to bed?” Hans murmured, settling against him again.

Henry nodded and rose first. “Come on. Before we pass out right here on the bench.”

They undressed and slipped beneath the covers.

Henry curled up behind him — arm draped over his waist, palm resting on his stomach. Hans caught his hand, fingers pressing into it. He could feel Henry’s warmth wrapped all around him, soothing every muscle. And Henry could feel Hans melt against him — softening, loosening, sinking.

“I love you,” he mumbled, already drifting.

Hans only murmured back in his sleep. The night broke open with sound.

A crash from the stables. The horses screamed, hooves pounding against the wooden walls. And Mutt — barking like he meant to rip the silence in half.

Henry shot upright. Before he could draw breath, Hans was already on his feet. They turned to each other — just a flash of shared alarm — and then they were moving. Pulling on linen trousers. Running for the door.

Mutt stood in the middle of the main room, fur bristling, a growl boiling in his chest. He barked toward the door, unmoving. Undeterred.

Something was out there. Close.

Hans grabbed a torch without hesitation. Thrust it deep into the embers. Flame caught fast, with a hiss like warning. His pupils were blown wide. His jaw set.

He stepped toward the door. Slow. Measured. Henry was right behind him.

Hans slid the bolt. Cracked the door just enough to see— And closed it again, softly but with force.

He turned to Henry, breath dry in his mouth.

“Bear,” he whispered. The word stuck in his throat like gravel.

Henry spun toward the wall, already reaching for his bow.

But Hans didn’t wait.

He flung the door open and charged barefoot into the snow — torch raised high, a battle cry tearing from his lungs. Fire lashed through the dark like a drawn blade.

The bear was there. A great, black shape — hunched, massive. Its back arched, hackles flared. It roared and rose onto hind legs, towering. Fangs bared, saliva glistening at the corners of its mouth.

Hans didn’t stop. He bellowed again, slashing the torch through the air in wild arcs. Beside him, Mutt lunged forward with the fury of a creature who had nothing to lose.

The bear rocked slightly on its heels. A mountain in motion. It growled — roared — stepped forward— And then an arrow struck its side.

A shriek. A jolt. Its muscles twisted with pain.

Hans glanced back — just enough to see him. Henry. Bow in hand, breath caught in his ribs.

Hans roared again. Drove the torch in a savage arc — flames scattering before the bear’s face like shards of wrath.

The beast dropped to all fours. Slammed its paws into the snow. Roared one final time—

Then turned.

It bolted — thunder in motion, lungs heaving like a bellows, steam pouring from its coat. Through the trees, over roots and underbrush. Branches cracked. Shadows splintered. Then silence.

Hans stood, torch low at his side. His heart was a war drum in his chest. The pounding in his ears made the world go still around him.

He turned.

Henry stood in the doorway. The bow had slipped from his hand and fallen at his feet.

His eyes were wide. His whole body trembled. Sweat beaded on his brow — And then, without warning, he doubled over and vomited hard into the snow.

Hans was there in an instant. A hand on his back — steady, warm, anchoring.

Henry was shaking. Still.

When he finally straightened, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes were red. His breath ragged. As if he’d just been dragged, gasping, out of a nightmare.

Hans didn’t let go. Just held him — steady, quiet — his palm resting between Henry’s shoulder blades.

“Are you alright?” he asked, voice low.

Henry nodded. Slowly. But said nothing.

Hans slipped an arm around him and led him back inside.

He eased him onto the bench, then fetched a small bottle of brandy. Henry took it, stared at it for a moment — then drank. Long and slow, eyes closed.

Hans sat beside him. He didn’t speak.

For a while, Henry didn’t either. He just sat there, breathing. Then, finally, in a voice edged with strain:

“I don’t… I don’t even know what that was.”

He shook his head. Stared past the firelight.

“When I saw you out there… almost naked… and it—standing over you…”

His eyes shut tight.

“I was so fucking scared for you, I— it was like everything else just disappeared. I couldn’t think. Just knew it couldn’t get to you. That it couldn’t—”

He broke off. Somewhere, wood creaked. Just Mutt, curling up near the hearth, eyes on them both.

Hans didn’t move. But his hand stayed firm on Henry’s shoulder.

Henry drew breath again.

“I don’t even know how I aimed. How I let the arrow go. Just that the moment it was over… the moment it ran…”

He swallowed hard.

“…it was like something inside me tore loose.”

Hans nodded. Gently reached for his nape and pulled him in.

“I know,” he murmured.

Henry leaned into him — forehead resting on his shoulder, breath deep and slow. The tremors in his hands were fading now.

Hans held him. One hand stroking slowly along his back. Nothing spoken.

They stayed like that for a long while.

Safe.

Alive.

Later, they went out to check the horses.

The animals were still restless — stamping, ears twitching — but unhurt.

Hans stroked their necks, whispered to them softly. Henry stood nearby, snow crunching underfoot as he bent to retrieve the snapped half of the arrow. Mutt sniffed around in circles, but no longer barked.

When they were sure all was well, they went back inside — and slipped under the covers once more.

They didn’t sleep.

They lay close, bodies wrapped in blankets and each other. Henry facing Hans, one arm beneath his neck, the other tight around his back. Legs tangled. Hans’s hand resting lightly on his hip.

Warmth. Touch. Quiet.

“Bears rarely come this far down,” Hans said softly. “But sometimes one wanders in from the Highlands. When there’s no food.”

Henry pulled him closer, felt his breath graze his cheek.

“Maybe it was the deer,” he murmured. “The smell… blood… scraps.”

Hans nodded, thoughtful. His fingers drifted along Henry’s spine.

“Ay. That’s likely. There was a lot of it. And fresh.”

A pause.

“And winter came early this year. Might not’ve eaten enough yet. Or maybe it was young. Curious. Still dumb.”

Henry pressed a kiss beneath his jaw — soft, steady, just skin against skin.

He stayed there.

“It’s gone now,” he murmured.

Hans nodded. Turned until their foreheads touched.

He closed his eyes.

“Thank you, love,” he whispered.

And they remained that way. In each other’s arms — breath for breath, heartbeat to heartbeat.

And after a time — finally, softly — sleep found them both. Morning came grey.

The sky was a dull wash of cloud. The snow lay silent, brittle with cold — and the tracks remained.

They crossed the yard in a slow arc — broad, deep, clawed. You could see where it had turned. Where it had risen. Where it had come too close.

Hans crouched low, pressed his hand to one of the prints. “He must’ve had the scent in his nose,” he muttered. “Blood, meat… and then the horses, maybe.”

Henry stood a few steps back, coat drawn close. He didn’t answer — just nodded once.

They went back inside.

Their steps were heavy, slow — as if the weight of the night still clung to them.

They ate in silence. Movements sluggish, heads still fogged. Every now and then, they looked at each other. Eyes bloodshot. Shadows beneath them.

“You look like a dead man,” Hans murmured, half a grin. “And you like a man who’s killed too many,” Henry shot back. A dry chuckle. Cracked. Like it belonged to someone else entirely.

Henry looked down into his mug, fingers curled tight around it. “You know what we need?”

He lifted his gaze. “A hot bath.”

Hans gave a slow nod. “Ay. That’d do.”

Not long after, they were in the forge.

Smoke curled from the fire, sharp and bright in the frozen air. Buckets filled, water heated, poured into the bathing tub. Steam lifted — slow, fragrant. Mutt sat nearby and watched, as if standing guard. The water was hot. Steam gathered in the chill.

They sat together in the tub — bodies submerged, close. Not quite touching. Henry’s eyes were closed. Shoulders slack. Arms resting at the edge. His breath was slow and deep. Skin flushed, damp with heat.

Hans leaned in. Took a soft cloth, dipped it, then laid it gently on Henry’s shoulder. Henry shifted slightly, but said nothing. Just stayed. Ready.

Hans moved the cloth across his skin — slow strokes, quiet and certain. Over his arm, back to his shoulder. Across his collarbone. Down to his chest. The water ran in warm rivulets, dripping into beads.

Henry’s body was alive to the touch — pulsing beneath his fingers, moving with each breath. Skin rough and smooth. His back solid. His chest steady, deep. Hans traced his sides, with cloth and hand alike, unhurried. Every inch noticed. Every movement felt.

The cloth slid down over Henry’s belly. Hans followed with his palm, just a little. Henry’s fingers tightened on the edge of the tub.

His eyes remained closed — but his breath had changed. His body leaned into the touch. Willing. Hard.

Hans stilled. Just for a moment. Hands resting on his hips. The water stirred gently between them.

Then Henry opened his eyes. Lifted them to meet his. Leaned forward and kissed him — soft, but deep, with a breath that held nothing back.

Hans met it at once. Answered. The kiss deepened — slow, deliberate. Not hungry, but wholly present. Tongues that met and opened. Mutual. Certain.

Henry shifted, moved in closer. His thighs pressed against Hans’s. He slid his arms around his shoulders, drew him in.

The water rippled between them — their bodies met, fully.

Hans let the cloth fall, forgotten. Pulled Henry close, with both arms — across his back, over his hips. Held him, full-body, like he couldn’t get enough.

Henry’s lips slipped along his jaw, down to his neck. Then back to his mouth — open, more heated. It was a silent dance. All steam and breath and skin on skin.

Hans touched him. When his hand slid down his spine to the small of his back, Henry arched — a soft breath escaping his lips.

Bodies on each other. Not just in touch — in motion.

Henry’s hand moved down Hans’s side. Found his hips, then gripped him there, pulled him closer still. And kissed him again. Long. Open. Until the world shrank to nothing but taste and breath.

Hans moved against him. Answered with pressure. Their arousal pulsed — bodies sliding, rubbing, reaching. The water didn’t separate them — it joined them. Witnessed them. It was warmth all around, when their hands moved over slick skin.

Henry buried his face in his neck and kissed him under the ear. Again. Then with a soft bite. Hans’s breath caught — he felt it.

Hans gave back, every gesture — with hands that knew him, and still touched like it was the first time. Every inch of Henry. Every shift of breath. As if relearning him. As if claiming him again.

They moved. Together. Slowly. No haste — but an intensity that climbed with each heartbeat, each drawn breath, each slip of wet skin. A quiet gravity pulling them into each other.

Then — a stillness. Forehead to forehead. Breath fast. Eyes open. Locked. The space between them gone. Nothing left to reach for.

Their mouths met once more — a kiss carrying fire inside its tenderness. Everything beyond words, everything they were, everything that held.

And after that — they made love.

In every sense of the word.

[jandrichov]

Henry is a strong man.

But some things hurt different.

How strong is he, really?

From Fire – Part XII. Soon.

[jandrichov]

From Fire – Chapters So Far

For easier navigation, here are the links to all currently published chapters of From Fire.

This post will be updated as new chapters are released.

Part I – Lord of Pirkstein

Part II – Master Henry

Part III – Homecoming

Part IV – Of Miracles and Devil’s Doings

Part V – Of Staying True

Part VI – Tearline

Part VII – The Walls

Part VIII – Veils and Mirrors

Part IX – For Whom the Bell Tolls

Part X – Breaking Through

Part XI – Still Ours

Previous series:

Further

Weight of a Name

[jandrichov]

The Groschen Dilemma ⚔️

So, here’s a very nerdy writer’s problem I’ve run into.

In KCD, a groschen works very differently than it did in real life.

– In the game: everything is wildly more expensive (a sword could cost 2000 groschen).

– In reality: the groschen was worth much more (such a sword might be only 100 groschen).

And now I need to pick one rule to stick to for the whole fic — so the numbers don’t get messy later.

Since you’ve been with me through all of this, I’m turning to you. What feels right for our world?

[jandrichov]

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

[jandrichov]

Light, shadow, and something between two souls — thank you @playpausephoto for this quiet miracle.

From Fire – Part XI

Still Ours

Warning: multiple cases of undressing may occur.

—

The sun had risen higher now — the light at the window was white, sharp as bone. Henry opened his eyes and lay still, watching the beams above — his body still cradled in sleep’s slow, dissolving hold. And then, just barely, the corners of his mouth stirred.

He was here. Truly.

And everything that had happened wasn’t just some dream he hadn’t wanted to wake from.

Across his stomach lay Hans’s arm — heavy with sleep, warm against him, as if it had always meant to rest there. Fingers slack. Breathing slow. Henry didn’t move. He wouldn’t break it.

His gaze drifted down the length of that arm — sun-darkened, strong, grazed here and there, the knuckles rough from the road, the tendons still drawn even in rest. Across the shoulder, where skin had folded softly into the pillow’s creases, and up to his neck.

He was deep under. Gone to the world.

His lips had parted slightly, his breath a slow hush in the quiet. At his nape, the hair was damp with sleep, clumped into unruly strands. A faint mark crossed his temple where fabric had pressed too long. His brow, just barely furrowed — even now, even here, he didn’t surrender completely. But he breathed like a man who, if only for a while, had come far enough to stop watching for danger.

Henry watched him. Didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just breathed. And looked.

His eyes drifted lower, tracing the line of his spine — that familiar back, solid and sure, drawn in a subtle arch. His narrow waist. His hips. And his arse, half-covered by the blanket, half-bared to the cold air. Hard, unyielding, carved like the rest of him.

And still — soft, when he knew he could be.

The man lying beside him looked like someone had hewn him out of stone and then let him fall apart a little — but only here.

Henry closed his eyes and let out a slow breath.

All those days. In winter. In mud. Without pause.

After the wedding, after all those weeks of holding steady — holding himself, holding everything around him — of keeping silent, of waiting.

And then he just rose, mounted his horse, and rode.

For him.

Because of him.

And what had he given him in return?

Maybe only this quiet. This closeness. And the fact that he loved him — plainly, wholly, without a single guard left standing.

But if that wasn’t enough — then he knew he’d give him anything. Anything, any time, without question.

Because nothing else made sense.

Henry turned onto his side — slowly, carefully, so he wouldn’t shift the arm draped across his stomach. He leaned in toward Hans, caught the scent of his hair, and kissed him lightly on the cheek.

Just a brush. As if to seal it — the truth that it had really happened. That the man beside him was here.

He lay back again, settling into the pillow so he could keep Hans in view. Watched him with that quiet smile — the kind that would stay with him always, even if the walls around them came crashing down. Small. Still. Grateful.

Hans murmured something in his sleep — low, contented, like something warm had reached him even there. His lips twitched slightly, but his eyes stayed closed. He kept sleeping. Deeply. And his hand — still resting over Henry’s side — slid upward without thought, over his ribs and to the hollow of his throat. Fingers slipped into the hair at the nape of his neck and stayed there.

Just a silent answer.

His breath moved slow, steady. Now and then, a flicker stirred behind his eyelids — some quiet dream he wasn’t letting go of, not even now. He looked younger like this. And unbearably tired.

Henry stayed there a while longer, unmoving. Just watching. Then he took that hand — slowly, with the kind of tenderness he gave to nothing else — and kissed the back of his fingers. Softly enough that nothing changed.

He laid it down beside him, careful not to disturb the quiet wrapped around them.

And only then did he move.

He rose from the bed without a sound. Didn’t want to wake him. Not after everything he’d been through. Not after all the sleep he hadn’t had.

He lingered at his side just a moment more. Then left the bedchamber — barefoot. Silent. When Henry opened the door, he had to raise a hand against the glare.

The light hit him straight in the face. White. Blinding. The sun bounced off the snow so sharply that for the first few seconds, it was impossible to look.

Then his eyes adjusted.

The courtyard lay blanketed in drifts — soft, billowing, untouched. Nothing but white.

The ground, the roof, the forge, the timber along its side — all of it swallowed beneath a thick quilt of snow. Even the last traces covered over. As if someone had rewritten the world overnight. Erased yesterday. Left only silence and light.

Above, the sky was clear — a crystalline blue. Sunlight glinted in every single flake, so bright it seemed the snow wasn’t solid at all, but scattered light, poured out over the earth.

The air was icy. Sharp, clean, utterly still. It smelled of nothing — only winter. Only the cold.

And it was quiet. Unnaturally so. The kind of quiet that even your own footsteps might ruin.

Henry stepped into his boots, drew his cloak around his shoulders, and made his way outside. Snow crunched underfoot, soft but sure. Everything around him remained white — even the trees, their branches heavy with powder, bent low to the ground. The sun caught them from the side, and every needle sparkled like glass.

It looked like another world. Not yesterday’s. Something new. As if the two days didn’t belong to each other at all.

He stepped toward the trough. A thin skin of ice shimmered on the surface. He broke it gently with his palm, and the shock shot up through his fingers like needles. He cupped a little water, splashed his face — and hissed through his teeth. It was cold enough to sting, to scatter prickling fire across his skin.

He stood there a moment. Then turned without a word and headed for the woodshed.

A while later, the sound of the hatchet echoed from inside — short, clean strokes. Steady. Rhythmic. Then quiet again.

When he returned to the house, he carried a bundle of thick logs and a mound of fresh kindling in his arms. His shoulder was dusted with wood shavings, cheeks flushed from cold and work alike. But in his eyes — there was calm. Or something close to it. Satisfaction, maybe.

He stepped inside, nudged the door shut behind him, and crossed quietly to the hearth in the main room. He knelt, laid the kindling down, coaxed breath into the ember, and waited for the flame to take.

When it finally rose, slow and sure, he stood and lingered — hands outstretched to meet the warmth.

Wood cracked softly. Henry added a few more logs, then turned toward the stores.

He poured a handful of millet into a pot, covered it with water, added a pinch of salt. From a cloth pouch he chose a few dried plums, half an apple, some broken walnut pieces. A touch of honey from a small jar.

He cooked slowly. Unhurried. With the movements he’d known since he was a boy.

There was something grounding in it — doing simple things in a silence that felt anything but ordinary.

When it was ready, he sat at the table and ate. Spoonfuls of warm, sweet porridge melting on his tongue, tasting of winter.

He wasn’t chasing any big thoughts.

He was home.

And the quiet stayed with him.

After breakfast, he stood, cleared the bowl, and padded barefoot across the wooden floor back toward the bedchamber.

Inside, the light was dim — only a faint glow filtered through the window, reflected off the snow. Henry paused at the edge of the bed. Smiled faintly as he looked down at Hans, still sprawled beneath the covers, hair a tousled mess, one leg kicked out and bare.

From the pillow came a low, half-muffled grumble. “Get back in bed right now, love… that’s an order.”

Henry snorted under his breath, amused. He pulled his shirt over his head, shook off his trousers, and slipped beneath the blankets.

Hans pulled him in without hesitation. The heat of him wrapped around Henry, like it had been waiting.

“Where d’you think you’re going again, Henry…” he mumbled against his ear, the words barely clearing his lips.

“Letting you sleep,” Henry whispered. “You needed it.”

Hans finally opened his eyes. Blinked. And then those blue eyes — still a little clouded — found his. Fully. Clear.

They kissed. Slowly. Without hurry. Mouths finding each other, a tongue brushing gently over a lip, as if to make sure this wasn’t still a dream.

“I love you,” Henry said softly.

Hans smiled, and his fingers traced Henry’s cheek.

“I dreamt of you,” he murmured. “But this… this is even better.”

They stayed like that. A while longer. Bodies fitting into each other without having to search. Henry’s face resting against Hans’s chest. Hans’s hand buried in his hair.

Henry had his forehead pressed to Hans’s collarbone, eyes closed, breath slow. He could feel Hans’s chest rise and fall beneath him — steady, quiet. The last traces of cold melted away in the warmth between them.

They just lay there. No plans. No haste. Just that one touch — enough on its own.

Hans stroked his back — once, then again. More with his thumb than his whole hand. Across skin that remembered. The muscles beneath Henry’s skin tightened — not in alarm, but in that quiet, inner shiver that comes when the body already knows.

They said nothing. Just breathed.

Hans’s hand drifted lower. Paused at the base of Henry’s spine — in that narrow curve where the body shifts from strength to sensitivity. And Henry knew that if it stayed there even a second longer, there’d be no going back to silence.

Hans slid his hand down to Henry’s arse. Gripped it. Firmly. Like he meant it.

Henry pressed against him. No hesitation. With his whole body.

They pressed into each other — hard, burning, skin to skin. There was no missing it. No mistaking it. Hans breathed into Henry’s mouth and moved his hips — slow, deliberate. A grind that left nothing hidden.

They kissed. Deep, open-mouthed, tongue meeting tongue, breath already ragged.

Hans slid his hand between Henry’s thighs and wrapped his fingers around him. Firm. Certain. Stroked the full length — thumb brushing the tip.

A quiet moan slipped from Henry’s throat.

He answered in kind. Took Hans in both hands — knowing the shape, the pull, the rhythm. Moved against him, slow at first, countered with steady pressure.

Their bodies moved. Breath hitching. Hips locked together, heat flaring sharp as flame.

They were in it. All the way.

And then—

Hans stopped.

He went still. His hand stayed, but didn’t move. His breath faltered. He pressed his forehead to Henry’s shoulder.

“Wait, love…” Whispered. Brief. True.

Henry stayed close — still flushed, still burning, breath caught in his throat. “What is it?” he managed.

Hans held him, but didn’t move again. “I just don’t want to push your body too far, Jindro. I’m afraid it might bring the pain back. Your head’s barely healed.”

Henry looked at him. Slowly loosened his grip. Not because he didn’t want to go on — but because he understood.

He gave him a soft smile. “I’m alright,” he said gently.

Hans met his eyes and kissed his forehead. Long. With that kind of warmth that didn’t ask for more — only to stay.

“I know. But… I was so scared for you, love. I still don’t have the words for it,” he said quietly.

Henry looked at him for a moment, then brushed a hand along his cheek. “Come on, then. I made you breakfast.”

Then he winked at him and gave a crooked grin. “And maybe Henry’ll prove he’s already back to being a proper man again.” Hans stood in the doorway, staring out into the winter day. Hands tucked into his sleeves, breath curling in soft clouds.

“Remember what I told you back in summer — how winter can come to Foxburrow all at once?”

He glanced back over his shoulder. Grinning wide, hair a mess, eyes bright.

“This is what I meant,” he said with a laugh.

Then he gave a visible shiver, slipped back inside, and tucked into breakfast with a clear appetite. Henry, meanwhile, had stepped out — and returned with a bucket of water. He poured it into the iron pot and hung it over the fire.

“Trust me,” he said wryly, “you don’t want to be splashing yourself with what’s in that frozen trough outside.”

Hans took the spoon from his mouth, gave a crooked smirk — then rose, crossed the room, and wrapped his arms around Henry from behind. Pressed against him, chin resting on his shoulder.

“With this kind of care, you’d think I was the one who got hurt.”

Henry turned to face him. Set his hands on Hans’s hips, thumbs resting along the line of his ribs.

“I told you — I’m alright,” he said quietly. “And after everything you did for me… this is nothing. Really.”

They kissed — long and deep. Tongues found each other without hesitation. Hands slipped beneath shirts, tracing familiar paths, gliding over backs, flanks, thighs. Body to body. A moan breathed into a mouth. A pause — and then more.

Henry’s hands slid down Hans’s back and cupped his arse, firm and sure. Hans groaned into his mouth and ground against him. He could feel him — hot, hard, ready, pressed right to his skin.

Their mouths moved again. Their hands didn’t search — they claimed. Over ribs, down bellies, further still. Palms roamed bare skin. They pushed into each other, hips to hips, want against want.

Their breathing wasn’t steady anymore. It hitched, broke, came in bursts of heat and sound.

And then Henry pulled back. Not far. Just enough to look down — then back up at Hans.

He smiled. “Maybe we should stop — unless we’re planning to end up back in bed.”

Hans huffed a laugh, slid a hand down and gave his arse a light smack.

“Don’t mock me, Henry — I was genuinely worried about you.”

But when he looked at him again, something had shifted. Softer now. Warmer.

“Come on. It’s a beautiful day. Let’s walk into the woods, take the bow… maybe we’ll bring back something fresh.”

He grinned. “Not that your porridge wasn’t excellent — but a bit of roasted meat wouldn’t go amiss either.” After washing with the warmed water and drying off, they dressed in layers — thick, soft, warm — and took up their bows and knives.

As they stepped outside, the snow crunched beneath their soles. Henry reached out his hand. Hans smiled and took it. And so they walked into the trees, hand in hand.

There was no clear path, but they didn’t need one.

The snow that had blanketed the woods overnight was light and soft, but underneath it, patches of autumn still lingered — ochre, rust, deep red, mingled with the pale quilt above. When the sun slipped between the branches, the forest lit up with colors it didn’t usually wear.

As if the seasons had argued — and then decided to settle here together. Winter had arrived — but autumn hadn’t let go.

On the thin branches of the rowan trees, bright red berries gleamed, rimmed with frost like sugared sweets. Now and then, they startled a bird — it rose in a hush of wings and vanished.

The forest was quiet — but not dead. It breathed.

They walked slowly. Not because they were tired — but because there was no need to rush. The snow softened every step, made everything gentler, quieter. Sometimes they looked off to one side, pointed at something. Hans would smile now and then, lean a little closer, brush his shoulder against Henry’s — like he needed to remind himself this was real. That they were here. And not dreaming.

And each time, Henry answered. A quick kiss to the cheek. An arm slipped around his waist.

Their pace settled into a slow, steady rhythm. Two sets of footsteps. Breath. The crunch of snow. Cold air sharp in their lungs.

They stopped beside a fallen tree. It was wide and solid, blanketed in snow like a featherbed. Hans reached out and brushed the snow from its surface.

They sat. Side by side, hips touching, shoulders too. Each resting a hand on the other’s thigh — without thinking, without question.

For a while, they said nothing. Just breathed the silence of the forest and watched the dusting of snow still clinging to the branches.

Then Hans spoke — softly, almost to the air. “You know Pavel brought down his first stag?”

Henry turned to him, a little surprised.

Hans caught the look and gave a crooked smile. “I took him hunting. Now and then. While you were gone. Taught him a little — he wants to learn.”

Henry looked at him. A smile curled at the corners of his mouth — genuine, quiet. There was admiration in it. And maybe a hint of warm surprise.

Hans saw it. And lowered his eyes.

“We’ve grown a bit closer, I suppose. He’s a good boy. And I think… I think he might turn out to be a good man. For Pirkstein.”

Henry slipped an arm around him. Drew him close and pressed a kiss into his hair.

“Pavel’s lucky,” he said after a moment, his voice thoughtful. “To have a lord like you.”

Hans snorted with a laugh. “Pavel’s lucky his lord has a man like you. Boy’d be dead by now if you hadn’t saved his arse in those woods.”

Henry chuckled. Nodded. “That’s possible.”

Hans turned toward him a little. Ran a hand over his thigh — slow, steady, with the kind of ease that no longer needed to prove anything.

“And I’m the luckiest of all.”

Their mouths met in a kiss.

Hans laughed softly and shook his head. “Speaking of which… maybe we ought to bring something down too, hm?”

They stood from the log, brushed the snow from their coats, and set off again into the forest. The sun had begun to dip when they made their way back through the woods toward Foxburrow, slow and unhurried. Each of them carried a hare — slung over a shoulder, swinging lightly with each step.

They walked in single file along a narrow trail, breath rising in pale clouds — when suddenly Hans felt a soft splat of snow land square between his shoulder blades.

He stopped.

Turned slowly — and there was Henry, face half-serious, half-grinning, trying and failing to stifle a laugh. His eyes were alight.

Hans frowned. Or pretended to. The corners of his mouth twitched, just barely.

Without a word, he set down the hare at his feet and stepped toward him. One slow pace at a time. His eyes locked on Henry’s. Never flinching.

He came close. So close that Henry’s grin flickered — but didn’t vanish. There was still laughter playing in the corners of his mouth.

And then Hans raised his right arm and slapped his palm against the trunk of a young tree beside them.

Snow cascaded from the branches above — light, powdery, sudden. It buried them both.

They burst out laughing.

Before Henry could get a word out, Hans let out a shout and tackled him straight into a snowdrift. They landed in the soft, white heap — covered head to toe, flushed, breathless with laughter.

They lay on each other, shaking with it, gasping for air — and still holding each other, soaked, freezing, radiant with joy.

The laughter ebbed. Melted into breath. Into that hush that stays when laughter has passed, and something else takes its place.

Hans looked down at him. Henry’s hair was a wild mess, his forehead red from the cold, eyes sparkling like stars in frost.

“You know what I’ve got?” Hans muttered. “The most impossible man in the whole damn kingdom. And his only saving grace is that I love him more than anything.”

Henry snorted, reached up, and buried a hand in his hair. “That might be true. That I’m the most impossible man in all of Bohemia.”

He looked up at him. “But I’m definitely the happiest.”

They kissed again. In the wet snow, cold to the bone, faces flushed and burning. Their mouths met and stayed — slow, certain.

Above them, a blackbird stirred from the branches and flew off into the fading light. They returned to Foxburrow a little while later. The sky had begun to let down a light snowfall — soft, fine. In the courtyard, they made quick work of skinning and gutting the hares, fingers stinging from the cold, boots full of snow.

Inside, they brought the fire back to life. Wet clothes came off, one piece at a time — until there was nothing left but bare skin, bathed in the warmth of the flames. The fire painted red and gold across their bodies, each flicker a brushstroke.

Hans looked at Henry — naked, fire-lit — and felt his throat go dry. In the heat. In the silence. In the light.

And Henry wasn’t faring much better.

Hans reached out. Ran his fingers down his chest, over his stomach — slow, like he was remembering every muscle one by one. Henry pulled him closer, drew him in and wrapped him there, stroking the bare skin of his back. Hans let out a breath — uneven, almost trembling.

They kissed. Slow, deep, drawn-out. Their tongues warm. Their hands steady. Time didn’t move. Just the kiss — and the breath between them.

Then Henry smiled. His hands still resting against Hans’s back.

“I should make dinner out of one of those hares.”

Hans closed his eyes, tilted his head back with a sigh.

“Alright. But get dressed. If you don’t, I will put my hands on you again.”

Henry laughed, reached for his undershorts and shirt, and began pulling them on with a grin. Hans did the same — half-heartedly, for the gesture.

Soon, the pot was bubbling over the fire, the scent of hare meat curling through the room. Logs crackled in the hearth. Outside, the wind was beginning to rise.

And inside — it was warm.

After supper, they poured wine. Two cups, dark red and glinting, with firelight dancing between them. They sat by the hearth, leaning toward each other, legs stretched out, calves touching, loose and easy.

Then Henry spoke.

“You know what I’d like tomorrow? To ride up above Hryzely. That slope. I’ve always liked that spot.”

Hans looked over at him and smiled — his eyes lit up with something soft.

“That sounds perfect. I love riding — when nothing’s chasing me or waiting at the end. And riding with you beside me?”

He paused, took a sip of wine — and then burst out laughing.

“Though I doubt we’ll be making love on that hillside this time.”

Henry let out a quiet laugh. Shook his head and slid a little closer.

“Winter’s a bastard.”

“Ay,” Hans muttered, rubbing his cheek against Henry’s temple.

Henry turned toward him — slowly. There was a spark in his eyes, heat in his breath. He leaned in, close to Hans’s ear.

“And what would you say to making love in our own bed?” he whispered, his breath warm against Hans’s neck.

Hans froze — just for a heartbeat. Then he wrapped his arms around him and looked at him — close, deep. There was a fire in his eyes that needed no translation.

Henry’s hand drifted down his thigh. Slow. Certain.

“I promise,” he said. “I’m alright.”

Then he smiled. That quiet, cocky grin that was entirely his.

“And besides — if I don’t get to make love to you tonight… He grinned, a little wider. “I might just die.” The door to the bedchamber burst open — their bodies tangled in a tight embrace, mouths pressed together, breath hot and uneven. Their hands roamed blindly, catching fabric, trailing down backs and sides. Their feet stumbled through the room, knocking into boots, bumping into a chest — but they didn’t stop. Not for a second.

At the edge of the bed, clothes came off fast — not gently, but with hunger. Fingers tugged at lacings, pulled strings loose, dragged shirts down off shoulders until they slid to the floor.

What remained were lips. Hands. Bodies — hot, close, aching.

And so they fell into bed. Into warm blankets, into shared breath.

Into the night — beginning now.

The kisses deepened. Not rushed. Not clumsy. But starved.

Their bodies strained into each other, as if needing to close the last inch left between them — as if that last inch mattered more than air.

Their breathing staggered.

Hands slid over skin — seeking, pressing, holding.

Henry lay on his back, chest rising and falling in a broken rhythm. Eyes half-lidded. Mouth slightly open. Arms wrapped around Hans.

Hans kissed along his jaw, lips brushing under his ear, down the slope of his neck. He paused at the hollow of his throat — just breathed him in. Salt and skin and something that was only Henry.

Then he moved lower. Slowly.

Henry let out a breath. His hand drifted down Hans’s back — from nape to the base of his spine, steady, sure.

When Hans circled his tongue around his nipple, Henry shuddered. Goosebumps rose across his skin, his hips jolted up — as if his body had decided to surrender before his voice could.

Hans smiled — a smile buried against his skin, unseen.

He came back up. And Henry met him without a word — hands in his hair, mouth open for a kiss that was anything but quiet. Anything but innocent.

Their hips ground together — hard, hot. Each thrust landed in time with breath, deeper with every movement, every tightening grip.

Henry cupped Hans’s face in both hands — and just looked at him. Then brushed a thumb along his lower lip. Softly, as if he meant to finish the sentence that want hadn’t found words for yet.

They kissed again. Slow. Open.

Hans’s breath trembled — and his mouth began its descent: along the jaw, down the neck, across the chest…

All the way to Henry’s stomach, where breath started to break apart.

He paused. Just for a second. His hand moved over Henry’s arousal — hard and burning hot — and his eyes fluttered shut at the feel of it.

Then he took him into his mouth. Gently. Slowly.

Henry exhaled with his whole body — as if the last month’s worth of ache had been drawn straight out of him.

His back arched. His hands threaded into Hans’s hair.

Hans moved with care — lips and tongue guided by memory. He knew where breath caught, where hips jumped, where thighs went tight with heat.

He lifted his head — only briefly. Their eyes met.

Henry smiled — fire in his gaze, a tremble in his hands. He pulled Hans up and let out a low, breathless laugh.

“Love,” he whispered, “I wouldn’t last much longer like that… not after a month without you…”

Hans smiled too.

He came back up and kissed him — deep, tasting what lingered on his tongue.

Henry moved — smooth, breath still close to Hans’s. He rolled him gently onto his back — slow, but sure. Stayed above him, braced on one elbow, his other hand resting on Hans’s chest.

Mouth to mouth.

The kisses came deep, drawn-out — carried by breath that burned between them like flame.

His hand slid down along Hans’s side — lower, until it found the heat and tension waiting in his lap, pulsing beneath his touch. He stayed there for a moment, fingers curling, coaxing, feeling the way Hans’s hips shifted — slow, involuntary, drawn to the touch. A faint shudder ran through Hans. His stomach tensed. Then Henry moved on, trailing lower, to the curve of his arse, where he closed his hand around it.

Hans shivered. His back arched, hips tilting upward, eyes gone wide — locked on Henry.

And then they kissed again. Close. Long.

Henry shifted above him — not much, just enough for Hans to tilt his hips and welcome him — with breath, with trust, with every part of him open.

And without breaking the kiss for even a heartbeat, Henry eased inside.

He moved slowly. With care. Let Hans’s body take him in and follow — and all the while, their mouths stayed pressed together. It wasn’t kissing anymore — it was breathing, shared and open, mouth to mouth.

Hans’s hands roamed his back — feeling the flex of muscle beneath skin, the tension in his lower back, the faint tremble in his thighs. He held him — closer, always just a little closer.

Henry’s hand moved down along his side, came to rest between them — took Hans in his palm. Stroked him, slowly, in a rhythm that shifted with the rhythm of their bodies.

A breath escaped Hans’s parted lips — raw, quiet.

Their movements stayed in sync. Gentle. Unforced. Built on a trust deeper than anything words could carry. Every breath, every touch, was a kind of vow.

And everything else — inside, around them — fell quiet.

There was only this. Their bodies. Their breath. The warmth between them.

Henry’s hips moved faster now — with purpose, with rhythm, with a certainty that came from the way they found it together — through breath, through touch, through the look in each other’s eyes.

Hans’s arms were looped around his neck. Their mouths still met — though breath came in broken pieces now, hot and gasping through parted lips.

Sweat fell from Henry’s brow — hot and salty against Hans’s skin.

The hand still wrapped around Hans followed the rhythm of his hips — deep, steady, unhurried. Every movement grounded, but gaining strength. Henry stayed with it — stayed in it — not chasing, not rushing, just letting the tension gather.

He could feel it. In Hans. In himself. The way their breaths stuttered in the same places. The way their bodies leaned in, held on — more desperate for closeness than for release.

Hans arched into him, and Henry’s own body answered, a slow shudder rolling through his spine, through his chest, through his hands.

It was like a tide. Each stroke built on the last — harder now, deeper, more certain — until they were no longer moving in rhythm, but becoming it.

Closer. Closer to that moment when the body arches — and the soul goes with it.

Henry felt it hit him first — a sharp wave rising from deep inside, breaking with no warning, no control. His cry tore out of him, straight from the center of his chest, and his whole body followed — gripping, clinging, pouring itself into Hans with a force that left him breathless.

And Hans was right there. One last breath — one last thrust — and then he broke too, with a sound raw enough to tear, his hands seizing on Henry’s back, his release crashing through him like a fire unchained.

They stayed like that — pressed together, hearts racing, foreheads touching — until breath slowly found them again.

Their chests rose and fell in uneven gasps, lungs trying to catch up with what had just passed through them.

Henry’s lips were pressed to Hans’s temple — hot, damp, trembling still. His eyes shut. His arms locked around him.

Hans lay beneath him — quiet, shattered, and holding on like he couldn’t afford to let go. His arms still trembled faintly. There was heat between his thighs — slick, pulsing with what remained.

Both of them were sheened with sweat. Skin to skin. Stuck together. Still joined, still too alive to move.

Henry finally lifted his head. Looked at him — close, so close.

Their faces were flushed, their skin warm and damp, eyes glazed with what hadn’t yet faded.

And still, he smiled — a quiet smile, like he couldn’t quite believe it. That Hans was here. Beneath him. With him.

“God…” he whispered.

Hans just looked at him. “I missed you so fucking much.”

Henry reached up, stroked his cheek — fingertips gliding gently along his temple. Brushed a damp strand of hair from his forehead. Leant in and kissed him — soft, slow, with breath that hadn’t quite calmed yet.

Only then did their bodies drift apart.

Hans shivered as the cold touched his sweat-damp skin. Henry pulled the blanket over his hips without a word, then lay down beside him, turning to face him.

Hans turned too — slipped back into his warmth, traced his arm with slow fingers. His smile was more in his eyes than on his lips.

Henry wrapped an arm around him, drew him close. Let himself fall gently onto his back.

Hans curled in. Laid his head against Henry’s chest. Closed his eyes.

He could hear his heartbeat. Steady. Unhurried.

And with each beat, he sank deeper into the stillness, until he barely noticed the kiss Henry pressed into his hair — gentle, slow.

And before long, sleep gathered them both into its quiet hold. The morning forest was white. Not silent — but still. The sound of hooves on packed snow drifted between the trees like part of the woods’ own breathing. Each step soft, but clear. Now and then, a quiet snort from one of the horses.

Thin icicles hung from the branches — glittering, delicate — caught in the golden slant of early light. Sometimes, one gave way — fell like breath, vanishing into the snow without a trace.

The air was cold. Sharp. But clean.

Sunlight filtered through the trees and stretched long shadows over the white. The drifts on either side of the trail rose high and heavy, and yet they seemed weightless — as if the whole forest could be blown apart with one exhale.

Where the snow lay untouched, it shone so brightly it made their eyes water. But where the two of them rode — side by side, leaning gently into their saddles, with steam curling from their horses’ nostrils — there was warmth.

Henry looked ahead, calm, at ease. One hand resting loosely on the saddle’s pommel.

Hans was smiling. Not all the time — but every time Henry turned his head, that smile was there. Like it had been waiting, just for him.

The horses slowed as the path curved, where the trees closed in a little, softening the trail.

“It’s a shame Mutt isn’t with us,” Hans said, thoughtful. “A forest like this, covered in snow… he’d love it.”

Henry smiled. “He definitely would.” “How’s he doing?” he asked.

Hans thought for a moment before answering. “He’s settled at Pirkstein so well I’m starting to think he believes it’s his estate. Walks the corridors like he owns the place.”

He gave a short laugh — but then his voice shifted.

“When you left… he went looking for you. Sat by the door, sniffed the floor. It took a while before he gave up. And even then…”

A small, quieter smile. Touched with something else.

“I think… the two of us weren’t all that different.”

Henry looked down. He didn’t know what to say. He just sighed.

Hans pulled his horse to a stop. Henry did the same — slow, wordless.

Hans turned toward him, smiled, and reached out. Laid his hand on Henry’s thigh — stroked him lightly, once.

“I’m not saying that to make you sad. Or to make you feel guilty.”

He leaned in and kissed him. Gentle.

“I’m just glad you’re back.”

Henry looked at him — and the smile returned to his face.

“I’m looking forward to seeing Mutt too. Even if he ends up licking my whole face.”

Hans chuckled. “That’s highly likely.”

He nodded and nudged his horse forward again. The path ahead unwound gently. They spoke only now and then — a word, a glance, a shared smile. The horses walked slowly. Snow muffled their steps. Their breath rose warm into the morning air.

When the forest finally opened, they stopped at the edge of the familiar slope. Below them stretched the valley — blanketed in white. Fields. Meadows. And in between, the village — quiet, drowsy beneath the snow.

Henry dismounted first. He unfastened his cloak, spread it over the ground, and nodded to Hans.

They sat, side by side.

The land before them was one they knew by heart — but in this light, beneath this snow, it looked almost unfamiliar. As if time had let them step outside it for a while.

They sat in silence.

Then Hans spoke — low, almost hesitant. “Henry… you remember how we used to say we’d ride off somewhere one day? Just the two of us?”

Henry turned to him and nodded. Then leaned in and kissed his cheek — simple, brief.

Hans smiled. “Today, sitting here with you… I believe it more than I ever have.”

“Why?” Henry’s voice was quiet — but honest.

Hans searched for the words. Looked out across the snow, then back at him.

“Before, there was always something waiting in front of us. Something looming. The wedding. Your mission. That fear for the future — for ours.”

Henry nodded again — silent.

Hans took his hand. Held it between both of his. Warmed it. Kept it.

Then met his gaze.

“But now… now I feel calmer. Freer. Like we’ve crossed something. Like the threats are behind us now — and we’re still here. Still together. Still ours.”

Henry smiled — gently, from deep within.

“It brings me a kind of peace… and certainty. Even I didn’t expect it,” Hans added softly.

Henry was quiet for a moment before answering. “We’ve already been through so much. Just think back — to spring… and summer.”

His gaze drifted, as if seeing it all again. “When it came so damn close to ending before it even began.”

Hans nodded slowly. “Feels like a lifetime ago.”

“But what we’ve made it through now…” Henry went on, “…after this… I’m not afraid of the future anymore.”

Hans turned to him — attentive, searching.

Henry shook his head. “I don’t mean there won’t be more trials. There will be. But I don’t doubt anymore that we’ll face them — together.”

He fell quiet for a moment. “Hans… I’m sure that what we have… wasn’t chance.”

He lifted his eyes to him — steady, quiet. “The Lord gave us to each other. Because He meant to. Because it’s right.”

Hans looked ahead — his hand still resting over Henry’s. Warming him with a quiet, constant pressure, shifting now and then into a soft stroke.

“I think you’re right,” he said gently. “I prayed for you. Every day. To Christ… and to the Virgin Mary.”

He paused again, then looked back at him.

“The day’s just beginning. We could ride to Zasmuky. There’s a beautiful church there — the Assumption of Our Lady…”

He hesitated — only for a heartbeat — but his voice remained steady.

“I’d like to thank Her. For keeping you safe.”

Henry looked at him — and there was a shine in his eyes. Not quite tears, but something close.

He smiled, nodded gently, and stood. Held out his hand to Hans and helped him up.

Hans stumbled a little — caught himself on Henry’s shoulder. Henry laughed, brushed the snow from his own coat.

“Let’s ride, then.” They took the northern edge of the woods, then veered deeper between the trees — where the shadow still lingered, but the snow had begun to glitter with the first higher rays of the day. Their horses moved steadily, hooves carving a single flowing line in the snow behind them.

Soon, the forest opened.

Before them unfolded a wide country — fields and slopes stretching white to the horizon, and above it all — like a vaulted roof — the sky arched sharp and clear, impossibly blue. The sun blazed down, bright and biting, and everything in sight seemed to reflect its light — as if the land itself had decided to shine.

The air was freezing, but in motion, it warmed. And the view that spread out ahead held something so open, so vast, that a man could almost believe if he simply rode — he might reach the end of the world.

Hans turned in the saddle, squinting against the glare, a mischievous smirk curling at his lips. He gave Henry a long, obvious look.

“Well? Think today’s the day you finally outrun me?”

Henry smiled and nudged his horse a bit closer. “Outrun you? Me? Now? In this state?” He smirked. “Anytime.”

His gaze slid forward, narrowing.

“Where to?”

Hans tipped his chin toward the track cutting between the fields. “That fork in the road. Then up to the cross on the rise — under that tree.”

Henry nodded. “Alright. But if I fall apart on the way, you’re picking up the pieces.”

“No excuses,” Hans chuckled.

They looked at each other — just for a breath — and then, on some silent cue, kicked their heels in.

The snow — hardened slightly by the morning frost — burst beneath the hooves. Air whipped past their faces, cold and bracing, but alive. The land blurred at the edges. And with every flash of sunlight on the snow, it felt as if the road was running with them.

Hans laughed out loud — full-throated. And Henry, a horse’s length ahead, tossed it back to him with a shout of his own.

Their cheeks flushed pink, breath came quick, but their movement felt weightless — almost intoxicating.

Even after they slowed, the sound of hooves and their laughter lingered — scattered into the air, stinging their faces like quiet joy.

“Wait…” Henry slowed and pulled gently at the reins. Hans stopped as well — the horses snorted, stamping softly, their hooves crunching through the snow.

Henry looked at him. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes alight — and in them, that look Hans knew too well. The one no one could fake.

Hans was a mess — hair wild, grinning wide, his shoulders still rising with the aftershocks of their gallop, though his breath was beginning to settle.

Henry smiled.

“Love… admit it. You let me win, didn’t you?”

Hans pressed his lips into a line, pout tugging at the corners — as if trying not to laugh. He shook his head, and his hair fell across his brow. He said nothing for a second, then looked down — and back up at Henry with those eyes.

“And if I did,” he said innocently, “it was only because I love you.”

Then he burst into laughter — leaned a little closer in the saddle.

“But no. Really. You’re just a damn good rider, Henry.”

He paused — just for a breath, like something had struck him.

“Or maybe you lost a few pounds on that lovely little month-long journey of yours. Lighter now. Faster.”

He snorted into his own joke, laughing out loud.

Henry’s eyes went wide — mock outrage — and he slapped Hans on the thigh. “You—”

Hans yelped with laughter, jerked his leg back — but too late. Henry gave him another smack.

Both of them doubled over with laughter — sharp, bright. The snow around them sparkled. The horses snorted, shifting under them, and over the fields still hung that rare kind of joy you can’t force. Only meet.

Henry shook his head, chuckling. “Just you wait.” Soon, Zasmuky welcomed them from afar — the church tower rising like a sentinel above the snow-covered rooftops, watching over a silent town. The last time they’d come here together, during the Marian summer, the place had been alive — stalls, pilgrims, the scent of roasting meat and herbs, singing, laughter. Now, the town was quieter. Graver. The square lay snow-covered and nearly empty — and yet, it still felt kind.

They stopped a little way from the church.

It was large, stone, beautiful — its wide arches and weathered facade seemed to remember every prayer ever been spoken within. Without a word, they dismounted and made their way to the main entrance. The heavy doors creaked — but inside, there was only silence.

They crossed themselves.

The air inside was cool — thick with the scent of stone, wood, and incense. A monk knelt in the distance, unmoving, whispering his prayers. Otherwise, the church was empty.

Henry looked around. The tall columns rose like tree trunks, and the stained-glass windows held their colours close — dimmed by winter light. Everything felt quiet. Lofty. Deep.

They drifted apart — without needing to speak. Each found his own place. And prayed.

Hans stood with one shoulder resting against the cold stone, eyes downcast. Henry knelt in a side chapel, hands folded tight. Neither spoke — but something passed between them anyway. Through the air. Through the silence. Through the stone beneath their feet.

When they finished, they each stepped up to the alms box. Pulled a handful of coins from their purses and let them fall in — more than anyone would expect.

Then they looked at each other. Just a glance. Just a smile. Shared. And stepped back outside — into light and frost.

“Well, since we’re here…” Hans said, rolling his shoulders, “…I’d say we’ve earned a proper lunch.”

Henry nodded. “And a beer.”

They found a tavern on the square. From the outside, it looked like nothing special — but inside, the warmth wrapped around them like a cloak. The smell of food clung to the beams overhead, people talked, ate, drank.

A few heads turned as they entered — curious glances — but they soon turned back to their bowls.

They sat at a table by the window. And not long after, steaming plates were set down before them, along with a pitcher of dark beer.

They didn’t speak much. Just ate. Drank. Savouring the heat, the full stomach, the red cheeks from wind and laughter still clinging to their skin.

And each other.

After the meal, they lingered.

The hot food and beer had slowed them in the best of ways — their hands warm, eyes drifting, thoughts quiet. A word here and there, but mostly, they just sat in silence. And it didn’t feel like a lack at all.

Hans leaned back, then tilted slightly toward Henry — slow movement, low voice, almost conspiratorial.

“There’s that cooper here in town. Remember him? The one who made us the tub.”

Henry nodded. “I do. Why?”

Hans smiled — a small, private thing — and waited a beat before saying it aloud.

“I was thinking… we could stop by. Ask him to repair it.”

Henry raised an eyebrow — surprised, but not dismissive. “Really? Thought you said it wasn’t worth it. That it wouldn’t be the same.”

Hans gave a small shrug, a crooked smile, and shook his head.

“It won’t. But we’re not exactly the same as we were, either…” He looked at him — steady, open. “…and maybe that’s the point.”

Henry looked back at him for a long moment. Then smiled — slow, honest.

“Ay. Good idea.”

He leaned in a little, eyes glinting. “And besides… in this weather, I wouldn’t mind not freezing my arse off every time I bathe.”

Hans burst out laughing, shook his head, sniffed.

“You really have to ruin the moment, don’t you?”

But then he smirked. “Though I’m sure my noble family jewels would be grateful, too.”

They laughed again — quiet, unguarded.

Not long after, they paid and stepped back out into the cold — full stomachs, frosted breath, and a new plan between them. Not a grand one. But a real one.

Before long, they disappeared into the cooper’s workshop — and when they came out again, the air bit at their faces, but their eyes held a settled kind of peace.

It was done. In a week, the tub would be fixed.

Henry stretched, slipped his hands into his gloves, and looked at Hans.

“So that just leaves the water part. Rebuilding the channel from the stream.”

Hans nodded, lightly, as if it were nothing.

“It’ll be easier than last time. I gathered most of the bark and wood while you were away. It’s stored under the forge roof.”

Henry chuckled and shook his head — then looked at him, long and steady.

“You never stop surprising me.”

Hans only smiled and nudged him in the ribs with an elbow.

“Come on. Let’s head back. I’m looking forward to being warm again.”

Henry nodded — same quiet smile still lingering — and they made their way back across the square. Snow crunched beneath their boots, and the town closed gently around them. The ride back was quiet.

Their horses kept an easy pace, hooves tapping steadily against the hardened road, while the snow at its edges softened under the fading noon light. The sun had begun to dip, yet still clung to the sky — golden, sharp, stretched like a string drawn tight.

They weren’t in a hurry.

Now and then a word passed between them, but mostly they rode in silence. There was no need to rush, no need to speak. They’d travelled far — but this time, they didn’t feel it in their backs. They felt it in their chests. Like warmth that hadn’t faded.

As the woods drew near, the shadows among the trees had grown longer — but the light still played in them. Frost nipped at their faces — and still, they laughed. Breathed. Looked. Foxburrow greeted them in the hush of afternoon. When it emerged from between the trees, it looked almost drowsy.

Then came the sharp bark.

Both horses stopped short, ears flicking, heads raised. And then it burst from the trees — a brown-and-white blur bounding through the snow, yapping like mad.

“Mutt?” Henry breathed.

He hadn’t even swung down yet when the dog reached them.

The barking melted into joyous whines, and in a heartbeat, Mutt flung himself at Henry’s legs — tail wagging, whole body squirming with excitement, licking his hands, his cheeks, even his nose, like he hadn’t seen him in years.

Henry laughed and dropped to his knees — and the dog promptly collapsed into his arms, trembling with delight.

Hans watched them with amused disbelief.

“Where in God’s name did you come from, you little rascal…?”

Just then, the gate creaked open — and Pavel stepped out. His face lit up the moment he saw them.

“Sir Hans! Master Henry!”

He hurried toward them, a bit breathless, but clearly glad to see them.

“You’re here? I thought you’d still be days off!”

Hans nodded. “So did we. But the horses were fresh… and, well, we didn’t really feel like stopping.”

Henry chuckled. “What about you? What are you doing here?”

Pavel scratched the back of his head, a little sheepish.

“A few days back, a rider came to Pirkstein — said you were both safe and on your way home. So I figured I’d come get the lodge ready… Look the place over, restock a few things, split some wood — just in case you wanted to come out here.”

He shrugged, grinning.

“Didn’t think you’d beat me to it.”

Hans laid a hand on his shoulder, warm and steady.

“Well done, Pavel.”

Henry nodded. “Sir Hans told me how well you’re doing at Pirkstein. Said you’ve got a good head on your shoulders — and that people there know they can count on you.”

Pavel flushed — maybe from the cold. Maybe from pride.

“The supplies are inside. There’s plenty of firewood. And if you need anything else…” His gaze shifted to Mutt, who now sat pressed close to Henry’s leg. “…I’ll leave him with you, sir. Doesn’t look like he’s keen on going back anyway.”

Henry smiled and gave the dog a fond stroke across the head.

“Thanks. We’ll be back soon enough — just need a bit of rest. After the road…”

Pavel nodded quickly. “Yes, Master Henry.”

He started toward his horse — but Hans called after him.

“Wait. Is everything all right at Pirkstein? And in town?”

“Ay.” Pavel gave a quick nod. “It’s quiet. And since your message came through… everyone’s looking forward to seeing you back.”

Hans was silent for a moment. Eyes on the snow. Then he smiled — quiet, thoughtful.

“Don’t tell them we’re back just yet. We’ll see them in a few days anyway.”

“You have my word, sir.”

Pavel mounted up, gave one last wave — and then rode off through the trees, the last of the light on his back.

Henry shook his head with a soft grin. “You weren’t exaggerating. About Pavel being handy.”

Hans gave a crooked smile and stepped closer, giving him a light pat across the arse — more like a caress. “Come on. Let’s get you warm.”

Henry grinned. “I’ll just check what Pavel brought us.”

He headed for the cellar, and Hans stepped inside — added a few logs to the hearth and nursed the fire back to life. It caught slowly, with gentle crackles, and the first flames were already drawing shadows across the walls when the door opened again — and Henry walked back in.

In his arms he carried a slab of smoked meat, a loaf of bread, and a small bottle.

“He stocked us up well,” he said with satisfaction. “And we’ve got some brandy, too.”

He popped the cork, took a sniff — and the corners of his mouth lifted.

“Plum,” he added, winked at Hans, and handed it over. “For warmth.”

Hans took a swig and gasped for breath.

“Sharp stuff…” He passed it back.

Henry took a proper pull and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Hans laughed. “Careful. Don’t get drunk before we’ve even sat down.”

Henry shot him a cheeky look. “So what? Are we in a hurry?”

Hans pursed his lips as if considering — then plucked the bottle from Henry’s hand.

“No. Not really.” And drank again.

Henry chuckled and headed for the table.

“I’ll get the food ready. Can’t drink on an empty stomach.”

Moments later, they were sitting across from each other — shirts loose, brandy warming them from the inside, and the meal already gone. The room was warm, fire dancing in the hearth, and dusk was falling slow behind the windows.

Mutt, his belly full, was snoring softly in his corner bed.

Henry leaned his elbows on the table. “Got a plan for when we head back to Rattay?”

Hans gave a shrug. “Not exactly. We shouldn’t keep them waiting too long… if they really are looking forward to it, like Pavel said.”

Henry nodded. “I’ll be glad to see them too.”

Hans smiled — eyes fixed on him. “But what matters most… is that we’ll go when we say it’s time.”

Henry’s fingers slipped into his hair. “Let’s not,” he said quietly. “Just not yet.”

Hans leaned in and kissed him.

And for a moment— it felt like they had all the time in the world. Just for themselves. Here, and now.

[jandrichov]

“Alright. But get dressed. If you don’t, I will put my hands on you again.” AH SHIT, HERE WE GO AGAIN. From Fire – Part XI. Soon.