jandrichov

[jandrichov]

Lord Capon

[jandrichov]

[jandrichov]

Thank you to @playpausephoto for capturing this stunning photo for the chapter — it looks like a painting, and I still can't get over how beautiful it is.

Weight of a Name Part IX

Lies Ahead

—

The sun was already high, and the shadows between the trees lay short and close to the roots.

Light poured in gentle shafts through the canopy, spilling over needles and earth. The path beneath the hooves was soft but sure. The horse moved with quiet rhythm, untroubled by the road. Henry rode upright, gaze fixed ahead. He knew the way—Godwin had described it to him before departing for Devil’s Den.

He wore a fine ensemble, the kind that carried quiet confidence more than show — and looked more like a man of standing than he would have picked for himself.

What he had chosen was simple—perhaps too simple. But easy to overlook—which was the point.

Only— Hans had made him change.

“You may be riding for whispers, but there’s no harm in looking beautiful while you do it,” he’d said dryly. “Not that you don’t look bloody handsome even wrapped in rags…”

He paused, considering.

“Or best of all, in nothing at all,” he added with a small smile.

“But that changes nothing,” he finished, firm as ever.

Before Henry could find a word in reply, Hans was already helping him into his hose—quietly efficient, like a man going about a well-practiced task. His hands moved with sure confidence, fastening ties, smoothing fabric—but lingered, here and there, in places where no real adjustment was needed.

When he reached for the gambeson next, there was a pause—brief, but unmistakable. As if the next layer meant saying farewell to the view he’d had. Then he helped Henry into it too, careful and composed, as if the world had narrowed to this one task.

“Full service,” Hans muttered, not quite meeting Henry’s eyes. “Don’t get used to it.” He hesitated—then added, quieter, almost like a shrug, “Or do.”

Henry huffed a quiet laugh—low, but warm. “I already have.” The memory lingered—grounding, warm. But the road ahead was real and waiting.

Mutt ran at Henry's side. He didn’t bark, didn’t dart after deer. He simply stayed close, as if he understood this journey wasn’t like the others.

Henry didn’t think of the end. He simply rode. And somewhere beneath the quiet rhythm of hoofbeats and breath, he felt the weight of purpose.

They’d known it could likely be put off a few days more. They could have lingered at Foxburrow, held the silence close like a blanket, kept pretending the world outside had no claim on them. But Hans, too, had felt the shift. That something was nearing.

So Henry rode out this morning. Towards Rattay. To pass through a handful of villages, listen to the murmurings—the chatter of merchants, the talk of farmhands, the low hum beneath tavern rafters. To catch the drift of names. The tilt of voices. The undercurrent of feeling.

If someone mentioned Hanush. If someone spoke the name Kunstadt. But above all—Capon.

He rode to know. So they both would know.

How soon the thing would come— something neither of them had spoken of much, not lately. The thing neither of them wanted, yet which waited for them all the same, with the certainty of the turning seasons.

The wedding. And the day it would no longer be possible to pretend it might still be undone.

Henry did not know what shape it would take. Only that it was near. And that avoiding it further would make it no less painful.

Still, he felt like a man riding to hear a sentence he already knew by heart. Not because he sought suffering— but because truth, even when it cuts deep, is kinder than the slow, ceaseless drip of dread.

And if it must hurt— let it hurt now. So they might survive it before it grows too large to bear.

He let out a breath—sharp, and full.

And there he was again—in his mind, as clear as sunlight breaking through trees. His Hans. And the man caught at the heart of all this sorrow. The one marked to carry the heaviest part. And bear it in silence.

His stomach tightened. How easy it would be—for Hans to set it all aside, to do what was expected of him, and cast Henry from his life without a word.

And Henry would have accepted it. With pain in his chest, yes—but also with the quiet understanding of what must be.

But Hans had chosen otherwise. He had chosen to fight. For Henry, and for what lay between them. Even if that fight would stretch over years and never end in triumph.

It still astonished Henry, in some quiet place within him. But that only made their bond grow stronger by the day— and his resolve to stand with Hans through it all, unshaken. As long as they drew breath.

So if he was to learn how near the forced marriage had crept—so be it. He would find out. And then together, they would face whatever came next.

Because there was no other road. His thoughts wandered, but his senses did not. He passed through Squirnow without dismounting. The village lay quiet. A handful of children darted between cottages, and from one of the yards came the steady ring of a hammer striking iron.

Beyond the last house, the land opened wide. The fields had already been cleared; clods of dry earth caught the sun—shining pale as bone.. Far off, a haze of dust rose where someone was ploughing the stubble under.

He turned onto the road leading toward Smilowitz. If Godwin’s directions held true, this route would carry him to the woods east of Rattay—close enough to skirt the lower homesteads without ever needing to ride the main paths. Around midday, the path slipped into shadow.

The trees grew thicker here, their branches low and close, the sunlight slipping through only in brief, flickering patches that painted pale smears across the forest floor. It wasn’t wilderness, not quite—but something between. Deeper than a grove, darker than a common wood. In places, it felt like a true forest—one of those rare places a man might pass only once in his life, and never forget.

Henry slowed. Not out of fear—only because it felt natural. In a forest like this, one does not raise their voice. Not even when alone.

Birdsong rang out above—not one call, but many, overlapping in quiet conversation.

Mutt moved more softly now, near-silent, his paws falling light upon pine needles and leaf-covered earth.

Henry caught every sound now. So when it came, it hit like an arrow—sudden, sharp, a woman’s voice cutting through the trees. A single cry. Then nothing.

He froze in the saddle. Listening.

The second cry was louder. Drawn out. Laced with fear.

He nudged the horse forward. Mutt darted ahead, slipping through brush and branches—a streak of motion, close to the ground.

The forest opened for a moment. Through the trees, a clearing— and within it, a brief, harrowing scene.

Wolves.

Two stood over a motionless body in the grass. Three more crept forward, slow and silent, toward a a girl crouched against the base of a tree. She clutched a stick, but more from instinct than strength. The instant she saw Henry, her head snapped up.

“Help!” she cried— her eyes wide with fear, her face bloodless.

Henry was off the horse before it had stilled. His sword was out before his boots hit the ground.

��Sic 'em!” he barked at Mutt.

The dog launched forward without hesitation. He collided with the nearest wolf mid-air, a snarl ripping loose as the two vanished into the grass.

Henry reached those closest to the girl. He struck the first low across the ribs— it shrieked and collapsed to the ground— then drove upward into the second. The beast gave a strangled cry and dropped. A third lunged—Henry drove his blade straight into its chest.

The last one froze. Backed away. Then turned and fled into the trees. Somewhere beyond the treeline, a single howl rose — hoarse and furious.

Silence settled.

Only Mutt remained at it, teeth buried in the throat of the last wounded wolf, refusing to let go until the creature stilled. Then he returned to Henry, sides heaving, his coat streaked with blood.

Henry turned to the girl.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, calm and direct.

The girl gave a slight, tense shake of her head.

He stepped toward the body lying in the grass.

A man—middle-aged, bearded, broad-shouldered. But it was far too late. The arteries in his leg and neck were torn open—blood everywhere. The earth had drunk deep.

In the fingers of his right hand, he still clutched a hunting knife. The grip locked tight—his last strength spent holding it.

Henry exhaled, then gently closed his eyes.

He straightened, turned back to her. “There’s nothing more I can do for him,” he said simply.

And something in her gave way.

At first, only a tremble through her shoulders. Then a choked sob— and at last, the tears came full. Raw, ragged crying—not from sorrow, but from terror. From the thing that had just ended. From what would have swallowed her whole, had he been even a minute late.

She stepped forward—maybe without meaning to. Maybe only because her knees gave out.

Henry moved at once—steady, sure—and caught her before she fell. He held her firmly.

She collapsed against his chest and wept on. Her body shook, her hands gripped his arm, but all she could do was cling.

Henry held her. Tightly. Wordlessly.

And let her break.

When she had quieted a little, he offered her a water skin. She drank, somewhat awkwardly, then wiped the tears from her face with the back of her hand.

It was only now that Henry truly took her in.

She looked to be just past twenty. Dark brown hair, tangled and damp with sweat. Her cheeks were streaked with dirt, a scatter of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She looked worn, dishevelled— and yet, she was beautiful. Not polished, not poised. But raw. Real.

She wore the sort of gown young women from burgher households might choose for a ride. Deep blue, with modest trim. Gently drawn at the waist—practical, but finely made. The hem was stained with earth. On her feet, tall leather boots—clearly the work of a master’s hand, though now streaked with dust and a touch of mud.

And then there were her eyes.

Blue-green, with tiny flecks of gold scattered through the irises. Eyes like something from a child’s tale—a forest spirit, perhaps—yet utterly human. The way the light passed through them made them seem almost translucent. It was hard to look away. Not for their loveliness, but for the quiet strength that seemed to shine from within.

Henry’s throat tightened—for just a moment. That colour—those eyes—didn’t belong here. Not in this forest. Not among blood and dirt. And yet here they were.

And they were looking straight at him.

He realised he’d been staring. Looked away at once, fumbling for something to say.

“I’m Henry,” he said plainly. Then hesitated—not because he meant to lie, but because suddenly, he wasn’t sure how much of the truth ought to be spoken. “From Skalitz,” he added at last. Which was true. True enough.

She looked at him for a long moment, then lowered her gaze. “Elishka,” she murmured. “I live in Rattay.”

Henry’s eyes drifted to the lifeless shape on the ground. He was quiet a moment. “Was he…?” he asked gently.

She nodded. “A servant of my father’s. His name was Vincek.” A pause. “My father is a merchant in Rattay. He sent him with me… on a ride.”

Henry glanced at her. “A ride?”

He looked around. There was no trace of horses.

“They bolted,” she said. “We’d stopped to rest when the wolves came. The moment they charged… the horses panicked and fled into the trees. I don’t know where.”

Henry looked around once more, then turned back to her.

“Will you stay here a while? I’ll have a look around.”

He whistled for Mutt and gestured. “Seek.”

The dog darted off at once, nose low, slipping into the underbrush. Henry followed, moving between the trees, alert to every sound and flicker. For several minutes, he saw nothing but leaves and shifting shadow— until Mutt stopped—perhaps thirty paces ahead—and let out a low growl.

Something lay ahead. A horse. Its body torn by deep gashes, the flank savaged where wolf fangs had ripped through flesh. Henry crouched beside it. One hand brushed the mane—his fingers stiff.

As for the second horse— there was no sign.

He made his way back. Elishka was sitting on the ground, arms wrapped around her knees, eyes cast downward.

“I found one,” he said. “But… it was dead. They’d torn it apart.”

She nodded. Wordless.

Henry knelt beside her. “I can take you to Rattay. If you’d like.”

For a moment, she hesitated. Then something shifted in her eyes. A quiet recognition—she had no other choice.

“Thank you. That would… that would be kind.”

Henry gave a small nod, but did not move. His gaze slid to Vincek’s body.

“Before that…”

He looked back at her. “We’ll bury him. Properly. As a Christian ought to be.”

He stood and glanced around the clearing. Between two trees, he found a patch of soil—loose, soft, free of roots. He put on his gloves. From the saddle, he took a small spade and began to dig.

Not deep. Just enough to hide him from sight— to keep the forest from claiming him like carrion.

It took longer than he would have liked. But he didn’t stop.

When the grave was ready, he returned to Vincek. Lifted him with care, using the full strength of his arms, and laid him gently within. He filled the earth back in. Pressed it down with his palms, smoothed the mound. When he was done, he stood a moment, bent slightly, breath heavy in his chest.

He found two straight branches, stripped them of bark, and bound them with cord. A simple cross. He set it into the ground at the head of the grave and gave it one firm push to anchor it.

Elishka had not spoken a word throughout. She stood a little way off, hands clasped, eyes fixed on Henry. She never once looked away.

When he straightened, he stepped slowly to the cross, pulled off his glove, and made the sign. He bowed his head. Stood in silence. Then spoke—softly.

“Lord, receive the soul of your servant Vincek. Grant him peace where none was given in this world. Give him eternal rest, and let perpetual light shine upon him.”

“Amen,” he murmured.

“Amen,” whispered Elishka.

She looked at him for a moment. “Why are you helping me, Henry?”

He hesitated. “Because you needed it.”

She gave him a faint smile. “Thank you, Henry.”

He straightened. “Don’t thank me yet—let’s get you home first.”

Mounting Pebbles, he turned toward her. “Come,” he said, offering his hand.

She took it, and with his help, swung easily into the saddle before him. Light and small, she managed it with ease. Henry steadied her briefly, then let her settle however felt right.

As he took up the reins, his arms came to rest on either side of her.

With a gentle nudge, they began to ride—slow and quiet beneath the trees. For a while, they rode in silence.

“I spent some time in Rattay a while back,” Henry said at last, “but I don’t remember seeing you.”

Elishka was quiet a moment. “Our family only arrived recently. I’m still finding my way through the town… and the woods around it.”

“Well,” Henry sighed, “today didn’t go so well.”

She didn’t answer at first. Then, after a pause— “I don’t much care for the town.”

Henry nodded. “Rattay’s a bit sleepy. It’s no Kuttenberg.”

“Not sleepy, exactly,” she replied. “Lately, everyone’s gone mad over the wedding of the young lord.”

Henry went still for the briefest instant, but recovered at once. “That must be quite the event,” he said with a light laugh.

“Well, what’s funny is that the young lord’s nowhere to be found,” she said, laughing herself. “His bride’s there already—with her whole retinue. Been waiting for weeks.”

She thought for a moment. “Poor girl… God knows who she’s actually marrying,” she added.

Henry shifted in the saddle.

“From what I know of sir Capon, he’s a good man. A little wild, perhaps—but kind. And clever,” he said after a pause.

She turned slightly to look at him. “You know him?”

“I served as his squire for a time in Rattay,” Henry nodded. “And if he gave his word, he kept it. I remember that much.”

Elishka tilted her head slightly. “Folk in Rattay talk like he’s some spoiled young noble.”

Henry gave a brief laugh. “Maybe he was. Once. But people grow. And change.”

She glanced toward the trees, as if weighing something.

“Was he a good lord?”

Henry gave a faint smile, then let out a breath.

“He didn’t have it all figured out at first,” he said. “But he worked through it. Faced things most men wouldn’t. And now? He’s the kind of lord I’d follow again. Without question.”

She didn’t speak at once. Just watched him for a moment, as if turning the answer over in her mind.

Henry glanced at her—slightly wary now, though not unkind. She only smiled.

“And what is it you do now, Henry of Skalitz?” she asked after a moment.

Henry hesitated, just briefly. “I do a bit of everything for a few nobles,” he said. “Running messages, escorting folk, handling things that need doing.”

Elishka smiled. “Well then, keep your secrets if you must.”

They rode on in silence for a while, until she spoke again.

“I don’t know many people in Rattay yet, Henry.”

She turned to glance at him, shrugging lightly. “If you ever pass through again, I’d be glad to see you.”

She smiled at him.

Henry returned the smile. “You can count on it. I’ll be heading to Rattay soon.”

She looked at him a moment longer, then turned forward again. And Henry felt it—just barely—how she leaned back, ever so gently, against his chest.

By then, they had come within sight of Rattay. Henry drew the horse to a halt.

“This is where I let you down, Elishka. I need to take a different road,” he said. “Will you be all right from here?”

“I will, Henry,” she smiled.

They dismounted. Now they stood face to face.

“You saved my life today, Henry,” she said softly. “I hope someday I’ll have the chance to return the favour.”

She reached out, took his arm, and kissed him on the cheek.

“Farewell, Henry,” she said with a smile.

“God be with you, Elishka,” he replied, watching her go.

And for a moment, in the quiet left behind, he saw again in his mind those blue-green eyes—threaded with gold.

He shook his head and swung into the saddle. He paused a moment, considering—then guided the horse gently to the right and urged him forward. Before long, a familiar shape appeared ahead— the Broken Wheel Inn.

Henry eased back on the reins, slowing Pebbles to a calm trot. As he approached the inn, his gaze drifted toward the walls of Rattay, rising in the distance.

He was still deep in thought. When a voice called out behind him—

“Mutt?”

Henry startled. He pulled his horse to a stop and turned.

From behind a thicket by the roadside, a figure stepped into view. A young woman—basket in one hand, apron around her waist, a shawl slung over one shoulder. She stopped and looked at him.

“Theresa…?” Henry breathed.

Her face lit up— she almost dropped the basket.

“God… Henry!”

At once, Mutt wagged his tail and bounded toward her with a delighted whine. Theresa crouched to meet him, wrapping one arm around his neck— though her eyes never left Henry.

He dismounted and looped the reins loosely over the saddlehorn, and stepped toward her.

Theresa stood motionless. Her eyes were wide— as though she still wasn’t sure he was really there.

They embraced—naturally, with soft laughter, the way old friends do when they’ve come through fire and found each other again. For a moment, they remained close, surprised by the strength of it— the unexpected weight of reunion.

"How do you come to be here, Henry?" she asked, once they'd drawn apart. She was still looking at him—almost as if seeing him anew.

"Felt like it was about time," he replied, glancing around, "to see how things were faring here again," he added with a smile.

Mutt danced at their feet, insistent in his demand for attention. Henry chuckled and reached down to scratch behind his ears, while Theresa studied him in silence—her smile held both light and shadow—joy, relief… and something close to wonder.

They made their way to the inn and settled on the bench outside. Mutt curled in the shade beneath them, tongue lolling, ears alert.

Theresa turned toward Henry, resting her elbow on the table. "And what have you been doing all this time, Henry?" Her voice was calm, but in her eyes there flickered the trace of a question truly meant.

Henry said nothing at first. His gaze fell to the ground.

"You wouldn’t believe half of it," he said at last, "Not if I told you everything that’s happened this summer— who I met, what I got myself tangled in…" He smiled faintly, his eyes flicking to her face for a breath.

Then something in him shifted. The smile remained— but it dimmed.

"And there were things," he said, quieter now, more to the table than to her, "better left unthought of."

Theresa watched him for a moment, then gave a small nod.

Henry drew a breath, straightened his back, and rubbed the back of his neck. "Still in service to sir Hans, anyway," he said. “Not always the easiest task,” he added, laughing for real this time.

"I can believe it," Theresa replied, smiling. She rested her chin on her hand. "So Capon’s finally coming back? Folk in Rattay have been chasing his shadow for weeks," she added with a wry little grin.

"Ay," said Henry. "I think he’ll be back soon." His voice was steady, but quieter now. One hand passed slowly over Mutt’s head.

Theresa shrugged, her gaze drifting toward the Rattay walls. "’Bout time, really—his bride’s already waiting in town, they say. And if the wedding doesn’t happen by All Saints’, she and her lot are leaving. Hanush would have a proper mess on his hands."

Henry didn’t answer. His fingers traced the table’s edge, eyes fixed on something distant.

"He’ll keep his word," he said at last, firm and clear. "Capon doesn’t run from what he’s sworn."

The innkeeper stepped out, wiping her hands on her apron as she came toward them.

"Can I bring something for the two of you?"

Henry turned to Theresa with a questioning smile.

She gave a quiet nod in return, a smile that felt familiar— easy, grounded.

"Wine, please," Henry said, turning back to the woman. "If you’ve any that won’t bite come morning."

The innkeeper chuckled and disappeared inside.

When the innkeeper returned, she set down a small jug and two earthen cups.. Theresa poured, then handed one to Henry.

“To our meeting,” she said softly.

He nodded, and they touched rims. For a while, they drank in silence.

Then Theresa looked at him again— differently this time. More closely. More searchingly.

“You know,” she said at last, “you look rather different than you used to. More like a man. Steady. Like someone who knows what he’s doing.”

Henry froze. The flush rose almost instantly to his cheeks, and he turned his gaze aside, rubbing at the back of his neck.

“That… might be the clothes,” he said with a sheepish laugh. “But I still feel like the same lad from Skalitz, truth be told.”

Theresa smiled. “I’m not so sure you are.”

For a moment, she was quiet. Her fingers traced the rim of her cup, her eyes drifting toward the trees beyond the road.

“You know…” she said gently. “I liked you even then. That lad from Skalitz.”

Silence settled between them again. Henry let his gaze fall to the table, then glanced briefly down at the tips of his boots.

“Back then… in my head was only… Duty. Vengeance. Purpose. And whatever it took to prove I was worth something.”

He bowed his head slightly, as if only now admitting it to himself.

Theresa let out a soft breath—not sorrowful, but full of quiet understanding. Then she nodded, and a smile touched her lips—gentle, lit with memory.

“Ay. That makes sense.”

Henry looked up at her again, and smiled back—shy, but real.

Then Theresa leaned in a little, bracing her elbow on the table, and looked him in the eye.

“And now, Henry?” she asked softly. “Is your mind quieter these days?”

Henry didn’t answer at once. Then he nodded.

“Ay,” he said. “For the first time, I think. And maybe… it’s also because I’ve found someone I truly love.”

Theresa paused. A shadow passed over her face—something old, a path not taken, long since lost in the mist. But it was gone as quickly as it came. She smiled, took his hand in hers, and gave his fingers a soft, fleeting stroke.

“I’m happy for you, Henry. Truly.”

He smiled back—grateful, a little shy. For a moment, she simply studied him in silence.

“And who is she,” she asked at last, “the one who made you so happy?”

Henry’s gaze faltered. His voice fell quiet. Then he looked down, as though the right words might be hidden in the dust beneath the table.

“Maybe I’ll tell you… another time,” he said. “It still feels delicate. Like something I’d rather not jinx by saying it out loud.”

Theresa watched him a moment longer. Then gave a gentle nod.

For a while, they simply sat—each adrift in their own thoughts. Somewhere in the distance, a rooster crowed. From the inn’s kitchen came the warm scent of roasting meat. Beneath the bench, Mutt shifted closer and rested his chin on Henry’s knee.

Theresa laughed. “That dog truly loves you,” she said.

Henry smiled and ran a hand over Mutt’s head.

They fell quiet again, the silence easy between them. The wind carried a trace of autumn leaves. From inside, someone knocked a tankard against a table.

Theresa turned to look at Henry. “Will you be staying in Rattay now?” she asked.

Henry shook his head. “Not yet. I’ve still duties to sir Capon. But…” He glanced toward the road. “We’ll be coming soon—both of us. And this time, we’ll stay.”

He grew quiet for a moment, thoughtful. “Truth is, I should get going—if I want to be back before nightfall.”

They drained their cups, stood, and embraced. No hesitation. No pretence. Just warmth and honesty. Theresa held him for a moment, then drew back with a soft smile.

“Then I’ll see you again soon.”

“I hope so,” said Henry.

He gathered his things, fastened his belt, and looked to Mutt. The dog sat between them, tail swaying gently, gaze moving from one to the other.

“You’d rather stay with her?” Henry asked quietly, as if offering him the choice.

Mutt only gave a little shake of his head, stood, and trotted to Henry’s side. Theresa laughed.

“He’s got a good master.”

Henry smiled one last time, walked to Pebbles, and swung into the saddle.

He turned just once— Theresa stood with one hand resting on her hip, that same calm, quiet smile in her eyes. They exchanged a nod.

And then he set off. For a while, he rode toward Rattay. But then he reined in the horse and paused. What he had come to learn, he knew now.

And if something still pulled at him— it pulled him back to Hans.

Henry turned Pebbles and made for the line of trees. Soon, the forest folded in around him once more—quiet and dim, the path soft beneath the hooves, blanketed with pine needles. The sun hung low now, and the shadows between the trunks stretched like bands of water. The way home was familiar—and with every step, the tightness he had carried out of Rattay began to loosen, peeling away, breath by breath.

He rode steadily, but alert—like a hunter. Trained, watchful, ready. By the time he reached the fields near Squirnow, the hills had swallowed the last of the sun, and the sky burned red with its leaving. The wind smelled of earth, chimney smoke, and the dust of the road.

He gathered the reins tighter in his hands.

“Come on, Pebbles,” he murmured, giving her a nudge.

The mare eased into a trot. Meadows blurred past, the shapes of trees deepened into dusk. The forest ahead had already melted into shadow— and Henry knew what waited there: quiet, firelight… and home.

He had to make haste. Not just because of the road. But for the one who waited. By the time Henry passed beneath the gate of the lodge, night had fallen. Not the black, suffocating kind— but the quiet, familiar dark that doesn't frighten. It only wraps itself around you, gently.

He dismounted, ran a hand down Pebbles’ neck, and led her to the shelter. All was still. Not a sound stirred. Only silence— and home, waiting.

When he eased open the door to the main hall, he saw Hans. He sat slouched on the bench, body relaxed, head tilted to one side. An open book rested in his lap, its pages loose beneath fingers gone slack with sleep. The fire on the hearth cast a warm light across his face, flickering gently over cheekbones and closed lids, drawing soft shadows like the brush of a hand.

Henry stopped in the doorway and stood there for a moment. His heart stilled. Then he smiled quietly, shut the door behind him, and crossed the room.

He leaned in—slowly, so as not to startle him— and pressed a gentle kiss to Hans’s cheek.

Hans stirred. His brow furrowed, eyes pressed closed for a heartbeat longer, as though trying to sink back into the dream— but then he drew a sharp breath and opened them.

“Henry,” he breathed— and stood at once.

Before Henry could say a word, Hans was in his arms. He wrapped himself around Henry’s neck, his body pressed close with a suddenness that held everything— relief, joy, longing.

And then he kissed him.

“You keep holding me like this much longer and I’ll be crushed,” Henry murmured with a laugh.

Hans pulled back by barely a finger’s breadth— but didn’t let go. “Maybe so,” he said. “I missed you. Don’t act surprised.”

Henry closed his eyes and drew him close. They stayed like that, wrapped in the kind of silence that needs no explanation. Every movement spoke more than words could— arms tight around the waist, fingers at the nape, lips brushing now and then against jaw, cheek, the corner of a mouth.

“I couldn’t wait to see you either,” Henry whispered. “All the way back, I kept thinking how it would feel… to hold you again.”

Hans made a sound—somewhere between a hum and a breath— and drew him even closer.

But then he shifted slightly, just enough to look at him.

“So… how was the ride?” he asked. His voice was calm, but his eyes were keen.

Henry gave a slow shake of the head. “In the end, not as quiet as I’d hoped,” he said. “Near Rattay, I came across a girl in trouble. Wolves… I helped her.”

Hans only nodded, his gaze resting on Henry’s face as if reading it.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less from you, love,” he said, and smiled.

“And—you won’t believe this,” Henry added with a faint smile. “I ran into Theresa.”

Something in Hans’s expression shifted. Not sharply— more like a shadow gliding across still water. Henry, most likely, didn’t even notice.

“We talked for a while. Remembered the old days,” he said. “It was… kind.”

Hans didn’t answer at once. He only nodded, his eyes drifting toward the hearth. Then silence.

“Did you find out anything?” he asked after a moment, softly. “Anything that matters?”

Henry sighed and nodded.

“All of Rattay is waiting for you,” he said. “The wedding… they say it’s to happen by All Saints’, at the latest.”

Hans went quiet. He looked at Henry—though more through him than at him. Then he gave a slow, steady nod.

“Ay,” he said quietly. “That’s what I thought.”

There was sorrow in it— but no rebellion. Only the quiet weariness of a man who knows he’s carrying more than anyone should. And still carries it all the same.

Henry reached up and touched his cheek. “We’ll need to start planning our return.”

He looked into his eyes.

“But I reckon Rattay can wait a few more days for its lord yet,” he added.

Hans smiled at him— a look full of gratitude and love in equal measure.

“It can,” he said, and kissed him.

“Besides,” Henry muttered with a crooked smile, “we’ve still got to see you healed from that scrap with the bandits.”

He kissed him gently, near one of the bruises—careful, and warm.

For a while, they stood there without a word. No need. Just breath, and closeness, and quiet.

Then Henry spoke again, a barely-suppressed smile tugging at his mouth. “And also… we’re still waiting for that bath tub.”

Hans raised an eyebrow.

Henry shrugged, eyes still on him. “And we’ll need to try it out,” he added—with a grin unmistakably mischievous.

Hans laughed—soft, but real. Then he pulled him close again, as if that alone was all he’d wanted in the world. After a light supper, they stayed by the fire. The room was warm and quiet, broken only by the occasional crackle from the hearth.

Hans sat at an angle, his legs stretched across Henry’s lap, his weight resting against Henry’s side. One of Henry’s arms lay draped around his shoulders, the other resting on his calf. Now and then, his fingers moved—slowly, absently—tracing small circles, as if to remind himself he was still there.

For a while, they simply sat, heads leaning close, their gaze fixed on the flames. Every so often Hans nestled a little nearer, and Henry pressed a kiss to his temple or his brow. Strange, how few words were needed.

“It’s running short, our time here,” Hans said softly after a while.

It wasn’t complaint, just quiet fact— but it carried a breath that lingered deep in the chest.

Henry looked at him, then laid a hand against his chest— right where the heartbeat thudded beneath his palm.

“Ay…” he murmured. “But nothing between us is running short.”

He leaned in and kissed him—slowly.

“And besides,” he added in a whisper, “we’ve still a few days left.”

Hans looked at him. His eyes softened. The corners of his mouth lifted.

“Every single day with you, Henry… is a gift.”

And Henry only smiled. Held him a little closer.

They stayed like that, wrapped in each other.

Still here. Still each other's.

[jandrichov]

Still, he felt like a man riding to hear a sentence he already knew by heart. Not because he sought suffering— but because truth, even when it cuts deep, is kinder than the slow, ceaseless drip of dread.

Part IX is coming. Inevitably.

Ready?

[jandrichov]

This hauntingly tender capture is the work of the brilliant @playpausephoto. Her art never just illustrates — it feels. And this one? It lingers. Thank you for letting me use it.

Weight of a Name Part VIII

Now and Forever

—

Henry stirred.

He didn’t open his eyes—just took it in. That kind of silence you only get in a house deep in the woods. The warmth under the blanket. And the steady heat of a body beside his own.

Hans lay still, turned away from him. Breathing slow and even, his face pressed into the pillow, one hand resting loosely on the edge of the covers.

Henry pulled him closer. Until there was nothing left between them.

Hans gave a soft, wordless sound. He didn’t wake—just shifted, leaning in more, as if he’d been waiting for it even in sleep. Henry felt his thigh, his hip, the weight of him fitting perfectly into the shape of his arms.

So he stayed there.

Held him. Breathed into his hair. No thoughts of the day. Not when he had this. Just letting it in, every detail—as if it were the first time. Or might be the last.

He didn’t know what he loved more.

The fact that he could hold this man in his arms—this man who was beautiful and strong, and yet so utterly breakable. The one who breathed calmly in sleep, but once awake could be sharp and decisive, remarkably arrogant at times, and just as capable of fierce kindness, quiet care, and a sense of justice that ran deep. A man who could, in a single sentence, make someone laugh, insult them, and save them all at once.

And every time, Henry’s heart nearly leapt out of his chest when he remembered he had him. That he could protect him. That he was allowed to love him.

Or—was it really that?

Was it not rather the feeling of being held by Hans? When he pressed close. When those arms wrapped around him. When he was surrounded by the heat of him and the quiet certainty that there was no other place in the world where he belonged more.

He didn’t know. And maybe it didn’t matter.

Because he had both.

A smile tugged at his lips as his thoughts drifted to the day before. The slope where he’d made love to Hans under the open sky, and the evening that followed—how they’d come together again, in the hush of home before the hearth.

For a moment, Henry felt a flush rise in his chest, even if only in the quiet of his mind. Because as he lay there, arm draped across Hans’s waist, face pressed between his shoulder blades, something stirred in him he’d never quite been able to name. A tenderness so fierce it hurt to breathe. The aching need to protect him, to soothe him, to be as close as flesh would allow.

And at the same time— he wanted him.

So sharply, so viscerally, it curled tight in his gut. The kind of want that would undo him if Hans so much as shifted, reached for him, touched him.

What unsettled him most was that the two didn’t cancel each other out.

The love and the want—they were one and the same. He used to think it couldn’t be like that. That tenderness had to be quiet and clean, and want was something else entirely. But with Hans, it all blurred. It was the love that made the wanting so fierce. And the want that set the tenderness alight, clear down to the marrow.

He’d never known anything like it.

And the truth of it made his heart beat so hard he had to take a breath to steady himself. He held Hans closer. As if the only thing that could quiet that wild rush inside him… was the very man who caused it.

Outside, nothing had changed.

They just lay there. One asleep. The other, quiet.

Hans stirred in his arms.

Not much—just a slight shift, as if searching for an even better place to curl back into sleep. His breath caught for a moment, sped up—then settled again.

“Henry…” he murmured, not turning.

Henry didn’t answer. He only leaned in and brushed a kiss against the side of his neck—light as breath, warm just beneath the ear.

“I love you,” Hans whispered, still facing away, eyes half-closed.

Henry’s arm drew him in a little more.

Not with force. Just enough to make it clear. That he’d heard him—and would say it back a thousand times over, if that’s what it took.

Hans turned slowly to face him.

His face was still creased from the pillow, eyes half-stuck with sleep, hair tousled in a way he’d usually never allow anyone to see. But Henry smiled—because in that moment, nothing in the world could have been more beautiful.

They looked at each other in silence. As if trying to tuck the sight away somewhere deep. As if what had been yesterday—and what might still come—had made them want to linger in this one moment just a second longer.

Hans wore an expression so soft, Henry might’ve been the only soul in the world who’d ever seen it. Quiet, intent, almost shy — like he couldn’t quite believe he deserved to be looked at that way.

And Henry thought he’d remember that look for the rest of his life.

He leaned in slowly and kissed him—gently, on the lips.

Hans just stayed there, resting on his side in Henry’s arms, breath calm and even— until, after a moment, his mouth curled into the faintest of smiles.

“I keep wondering if I dreamed it all,” Hans murmured. “Or if yesterday really was what it felt like.”

Henry smiled. “Then we’d have to be having the same dream.”

Hans rolled onto his back and squinted up at the ceiling. He looked sleep-soft, but content. “Yesterday was a good day,” he said slowly.

Henry nodded. “The best.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Hans let out a quiet snort. “Did we really manage it twice? And once in broad daylight on the slope above the village?”

Henry huffed. “Are you doubting it?”

Hans kept staring at the ceiling. “Not really. Seeing as… I can feel it in my back.” He broke into laughter. “I must be getting old.”

“No, my dearest,” Henry muttered. “You just need more regular practice.”

Hans laughed outright. “You planning to oversee that yourself?”

Henry leaned in and whispered against his ear, “Ay, love. You can count on it.” And pressed a kiss to his neck.

For a while they just lay there, side by side, hands loosely entwined.

The quiet lingered, until Henry shifted slightly against the pillow.

“Only thing that wasn’t entirely kind about yesterday… was that dip in the pond.” He gave a slow shake of the head. “Weather’s turning.”

Hans let out a quiet breath. “And it’ll get worse.”

They fell silent again.

“Closest bathhouse is probably in Zasmuky,” Hans said at length. “But that’s a proper journey.”

Henry rolled his eyes. “Spoken like true nobility.”

“What? Bathhouses are civilized. Hot water, towels, maids to scrub your back…” He lifted his head slightly and peered out the window. “Out here we’ve got nothing but the old trough in the yard.”

“Shame there’s nothing proper to bathe in,” Henry mused. “Assuming you wouldn’t mind a blacksmith’s boy doing the scrubbing instead of some fine maid.”

Hans turned to him with a gleam in his eye. “Best thing would be if that blacksmith’s boy fit in with me—so we could scrub each other.”

He drew a breath. “But alas, what we have is a trough full of cold water, so we grit our teeth and wash up, my Henry, if we’re to look halfway decent,” he said, and gave him a firm smack on the arse.

“Fine,” Henry grumbled, reaching for the covers with all the enthusiasm of a man sentenced to freezing death. Yesterday’s brightness was gone. Low grey clouds hung heavy over the woods, the light was diffused, shadowless—and the air carried the breath of autumn. Dew still clung to the grass, and the doorstep stones stayed cold beneath bare feet.

Hans ran a hand through his damp hair. Henry pulled a clean shirt over his head and gave a nod toward the forge.

“Got plenty to do,” he muttered. “Still need to finish those horseshoes. And one of the mail hauberks—side’s torn clean through.”

Hans watched him for a moment, then glanced over to the lean-to built onto the back of the smithy. The wood was old but solid, the roof intact, open on one side toward the yard. Something in his face shifted.

“Hey,” he said slowly, “that shelter… would be perfect for a proper bathing tub.”

Henry paused, turned to him. One brow rose—then he smiled.

“Ay. It’s sheltered, close to the forge… we could heat water in the cauldron. Wouldn’t take long.”

Hans shrugged. “Sure. Just that tiny detail—it’s missing a tub.”

Henry let out a quiet laugh. “Come on, my dreamer. Breakfast first.”

Inside, it was warmer than out. The door had been left ajar, but the fire was already burning, and the table looked just as it always did—nothing grand, just simple fare and a clay jug of water.

Hans finished his meal slowly, then leaned on his elbows and let his gaze rest on the grain of the wood beneath him.

“I’ll ride to Zasmuky,” he said at last. “There’s something I need to take care of.”

Henry looked up at him.

“I’ll leave you here with the anvil and get moving. Should be back after midday,” Hans went on.

“I—” Henry began, then paused a beat. “Ay,” he nodded. “I’ll get started too, so we’ve got the afternoon to ourselves.” He smiled.

Hans reached out, brushed a hand over his forearm. “Shall I bring you something?”

Henry touched his face, thumb soft along his cheek. “Bring me you, Hans.” The horse snorted and shifted, impatient, but Hans kept a steady hand on the reins. He wasn’t mounted yet. Just stood beside him, and for a moment longer, leaned in to wrap his arms around Henry.

He kissed him—briefly, on the mouth—then brushed a hand across his cheek. “Try not to kill yourself in the forge,” he said with a faint smile.

“You just make it back in one piece,” Henry replied.

Hans let out a soft chuckle. “It’s only Zasmuky,” he said, then swung up into the saddle and turned the horse toward the gate.

Henry stayed where he was, one hand resting on Mutt’s head. The dog leaned into him, quiet and watchful.

Hans passed through the gate—but just before crossing, he turned. Twisted in the saddle, caught Henry’s gaze, and smiled.

Then he gave the horse a gentle nudge. The mane lifted, hooves struck stone, and Hans rode away.

Henry stood watching. And for a moment, Foxburrow felt just a shade more foreign. The forge smelled of iron and coal. The fire had long since caught, and Henry moved through the space with calm certainty—his rhythm practiced, his gestures sure. A few new horseshoes lay neatly on the bench by the wall, shaped to exact measure, just as they ought to be. The metal under his hands glowed, hissed, yielded.

But sometime near late morning, he paused. Lifted his head, wiped his brow, and glanced toward the wall where the old chest stood.

He walked over and knelt. Lifted the lid and searched through its contents until he found a small cloth pouch, tied with a thin piece of twine.

For a moment, he simply held it in his palm. Then he sat down on the bench, loosened the knot—and gently poured the contents onto his knee.

Two oval plates, lightly curved. One a pale silvery tone, the other a shade darker. Each had a tiny hole near the top edge, ready for a cord or a metal loop to pass through.

Henry ran his fingertips over them, as if reminding himself of every edge—every mark left by his own hands.

That was when he noticed Mutt watching him with keen interest. He smiled. “What do you think, hm?”

Mutt tilted his head to the side.

“They’re not done yet,” Henry went on. “Well—almost. You’ll see soon enough.”

Mutt sat down, mouth open, eyes fixed on him.

“Think your other master will like them?” Henry asked, glancing over.

Mutt lifted one paw slightly.

“I hope so,” Henry smiled. “Though he’s probably more used to precious metals than a pendant hammered out of an old clasp.”

He held out his palm with the plates resting in it. Mutt leaned forward, gave them a good sniff, then licked his nose and looked back at Henry.

“That’s right. From a clasp,” Henry chuckled. “This one was from the shoulder piece of Hans’s armour. And this—this came off my old cuirass. Kept them both when I swapped the sets,” he explained.

Mutt gave a shake of his head and resumed panting, tongue lolling.

“I’m doing what I can,” Henry shrugged.

Then he took up the chisel and hammer and, with all the care he could muster, carved a single, simple letter H into each plate. When he finished, he looked down at them, seemingly content with the result.

He turned them over. And on the reverse, slowly and with full concentration, etched three more letters into the metal: A F I.

“You know, Mutt,” he said after a while, “sometimes I wish I could say things as clearly and beautifully as Hans can.”

He let out a quiet sigh. “But I just… I don’t know how to put words together like he does.”

Mutt laid his head gently on Henry’s knee.

“And sometimes I think—maybe I don’t know how to properly tell him what he means to me,” Henry added, his voice low.

“Sure, he knows I love him,” he said, stroking Mutt’s head. “But what I feel in my gut when he looks at me… that, I can never quite put into words.”

He scratched Mutt behind the ears. “Or that every night, before I fall asleep, I say a prayer to the Virgin for him. And that I look forward to the morning—just to open my eyes and find him still there. Still part of my life.”

Henry’s gaze drifted across the yard, thoughtful. “That every pain of his feels worse to me than if it were my own. That if he ever needed it—I’d breathe for him.”

He looked down at Mutt and smiled. “That I love him more than my own life.”

With a quiet breath, he reached for a small bowl filled with ash and lard, and a piece of soft leather. He took one of the plates, dipped the cloth in the mixture, and began to polish the surface gently. He worked for a long time, until the metal caught the light the way it should—and then gave the same careful attention to the other.

At last, satisfied, he looked down at the dog lying at his feet.

“But I reckon you already understand all that, don’t you, you scamp.” He grinned. “Few months ago, Hans couldn’t stand the sight of you.” Then he laughed, scratching Mutt again with fondness. “And now? I’ve half a mind you like him better than me, you little traitor.”

That was when he heard hooves on the dirt outside. “Well, speak of the Devil himself…” he muttered.

He looked up— but it wasn’t Hans riding in through the gate. It was a smaller figure, mounted on a dapple-grey.

Henry stood, brushed off his hands, and walked out to meet him. The rider dismounted, and as he came closer, Henry realised he’d seen the boy before.

“Pavel?” he muttered under his breath.

“Jesus Christ be praised,” the boy greeted him.

“Now and forever,” Henry replied.

“Well, I hardly recognised you all washed up and in fresh clothes,” he said with a crooked smile—addressing the same young poacher he and Hans had caught in the woods only a few days back.

“Master Havel's taken me in, just like Sir Capon ordered,” Pavel replied. “And I wanted to thank you again. And his lordship too. My ma sends her thanks as well.”

Henry shook his head. “His lordship’s away, but I’ll be sure to pass it on.”

He paused, thinking for a moment. “But I’m guessing you didn’t ride all this way just to say thank you.”

Pavel nodded. “Master Havel sent me to ask whether Sir Capon needs any supplies restocked—and if he knows how long he plans to stay at the lodge.”

“Well,” Henry scratched his chin, “he’d be the one to give you a better answer on how long he’s staying.”

He hesitated. “But tell Havel we’ll be here at least till Michaelmas, that much I know.” He shrugged. “And as for the supplies, I can help you with that.”

He disappeared into the cellar for a short while, then came back and listed off what needed restocking. “Think you can remember all that?”

“Yes, sir,” Pavel nodded, already moving to mount.

“Hold on a moment,” Henry stopped him, reached into his pouch, and handed him a few groschen. “For the road,” he added with a smile.

“Thank you! Thank you kindly!” Pavel beamed, swung himself up into the saddle, and was gone a moment later, vanishing round the bend.

Henry smiled, gave a small shake of his head, and made his way back into the forge.

He threaded a thin metal loop through each pendant, tightened it carefully with the pliers, then reached into the chest for two leather cords. Once they were finished, he held them in his palms for a moment—just looking.

Then he tucked them into his satchel and returned to work.

He went back to mending the hauberk, humming softly to himself. The work was repetitive, but quiet—he lost himself in it, and time slipped past without notice. It wasn’t until he heard hoofbeats in the distance that he lifted his head.

He stepped out from the shade of the smithy and squinted toward the gate. Even from afar, he knew who was coming. And his face lit up.

But only for the briefest flicker.

The smile vanished before it had time to settle. Something pulled tight in his chest.

Hans’s horse was caked with mud. Its nostrils flared wide. And the rider looked barely able to stay in the saddle.

Henry took a step forward. Then another.

And then stopped dead.

Hans had blood on his face—a fresh gash across his cheekbone. His coat was torn in several places, one leg of his hose ripped open, and his calf swollen and flushed dark red.

The horse slowed only as it reached the gate.

Henry didn’t even realise his fist had clenched.

Then he broke into a run.

“Hans? What happened—?”

Hans slowed, swung his leg over, and managed to stay in the saddle until the very last moment. When Henry reached him, he helped him down. Hans stumbled, let out a sharp breath, and leaned against him, shoulder to shoulder.

“Bandits,” he murmured. “Past the woods. Two of them. I didn’t see it coming.”

Henry wrapped an arm around him and began leading him toward the house. Hans moved under his own power, but he limped, and now and then his face twisted with pain.

“Christ, Hans—” Henry tried to keep his voice steady, but tension bled through. “Was this your ‘something to take care of’?”

“This,” Hans muttered, wincing as Henry brushed his arm by accident, “was for thinking the ride home would be quiet.”

“Anything broken?”

Hans shook his head. “No. Just cuts. Nothing deep.” He paused. “Those two bastards won’t be a problem anymore.”

Henry nodded. “Come on. Let’s get you inside. Strip this off and see what we’re dealing with.”

Hans gave him a crooked smile—tired, and a little unwilling.

“I was hoping you’d undress me again. I just pictured it going differently.”

“Shut up and move,” Henry said—though the edge in his voice had softened now. He was already guiding him toward the door.

Inside, the house was quiet, save for the soft crackle of the fire. Henry led Hans to the stool by the hearth and helped him ease down.

“Here. Slowly.”

Hans let out a breath but said nothing. He sat, leaned back slightly, and let his arms fall to his sides.

Henry knelt in front of him and began to undo his belt. He worked in silence, calm and focused—though now and then, his fingers trembled.

Hans noticed, but didn’t speak.

“Lift your arm a little,” Henry said quietly. Hans obeyed, and the motion dragged a hiss from between his teeth.

“Sorry.”

“It’s nothing.”

Henry pulled off his coat, then his shirt— and saw everything: the bruises, the scrapes, the bloodied gash along the collarbone, another across the ribs, and the swelling around his calf, a bruise blooming dark.

He paused. Just looked.

Hans tried for a smile. “I look worse than I feel.”

Henry didn’t answer. He stood, poured water into a bowl, fetched a clean cloth. Set everything down on the table— but before returning to Hans, he stood still for a moment, his back turned.

Then he drew a breath, came back to him, and dipped the cloth in the water. Every touch was gentle—so careful it felt like even his gaze might bruise.

Hans clenched his jaw and hissed when Henry cleaned the gash on his shoulder. Then he caught the tension in his face.

“Hey. I’m all right,” he said.

Henry shook his head. For a moment, he said nothing. Then—quietly, unsteadily—he spoke. “I’m not. Not when I see you like this, Hans.”

Hans looked at him. There was a strange shimmer in his eyes, but he said nothing. Only reached up and brushed Henry’s cheek—right where the first dampness had begun to show.

“Henry,” he whispered. “I’m not made of glass.”

“No,” Henry nodded. “But I am, when it’s you.”

He cleaned the last scratch along Hans’s side, dried the skin with a piece of linen, then wrapped the swollen calf in a firm bandage. His hands moved with quiet steadiness now. And with every gesture, his breathing came easier.

“All done,” he said at last, sitting down beside him on the bench. “No more heroics for today. Just sit, breathe, and stay alive.”

Hans smiled. “I can manage that.”

They sat in silence for a while. The fire cast soft shadows along the walls, and the wind gave a low whistle past the shutters.

Henry leaned forward, elbows on his knees, turning a strip of cloth between his fingers. He said nothing.

After a moment, Hans turned his head toward him. “In about a week, we’ll have that big tub.”

Henry looked up. “What tub?”

“For bathing,” Hans shrugged. “I went to Zasmuky to order one from the cooper. It'll be nearly two fathoms across,” he added, with a sheepish smile.

Henry just stared at him. “You sweet fool,” he breathed at last. “You didn’t have to—”

“I know,” Hans said quickly. “But that thing you said this morning… about how it would be better if the water were warm…” He hesitated. “I couldn’t stop thinking about it. That image— the two of us, soaking in hot water. No rush. No cold. Just… you and me.”

Henry’s smile came slow, full of warmth and something almost shy. He shook his head, then leaned toward him.

“You’re impossible,” he murmured. “And if I wasn’t afraid I’d hurt you right now, I’d squeeze the life out of you.” He reached out instead, and gently laid a hand on Hans’s chest.

Henry kept smiling for a moment longer, but then his brow drew slightly. “You should’ve told me to ride with you.”

Hans looked at him.

“I mean it. The two of us could’ve handled those bastards. Or more likely—they wouldn’t have dared touch us.”

“I wanted it to be a surprise,” Hans said softly. “And honestly… there’s hardly anything I enjoy more than doing something for you. Just because. To make you happy. Do something that makes you feel good.”

He paused, then gave a small smile to himself. “Well… not that kind of feel good. Not this time. Wasn’t about the bed.”

Henry stared at him a moment, then slowly got up from the bench, bent down, and kissed him. Gently, carefully—avoiding every bruise.

Hans closed his eyes and let out a breath, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Then I suppose it was worth it.”

“Ay,” Henry whispered. “But next time, you take me with you. Or I swear I’ll tie you to the bed.”

Hans snorted—then his face grew more serious. “Well, that might be a bit tricky… once you’re gone.”

Henry stilled.

Hans rubbed the back of his neck. “When you leave for Vienna,” he said at last, voice lower. “I’ll have to manage on my own anyway.”

The silence returned.

Henry didn’t look away. But something softened in his eyes. He simply nodded. “Ay,” he said. “But I’m still here now.”

And he sat beside him again, close. So close their hips brushed. And they stayed like that. Silent. But together.

After a while, Hans turned toward him. His eyes lingered on Henry’s face, and he let out a quiet breath. “Sorry, love. I didn’t mean to sound bitter…”

He reached out, resting his hand gently on Henry’s thigh.

Henry caught it. Ran his thumb over the knuckles, held it there for a moment—just looking at him.

“It’s all right,” he said softly. A pause.

“I love you, Hans.”

Henry paused. Something flickered behind his eyes, like a thought returning. Then he lowered his gaze, reached into his satchel, and pulled out a small cloth pouch.

He weighed it in his palm for a moment, then let out a quiet breath—like he was gathering courage.

At last, he reached out, took Hans’s hand, and placed something into his palm: a small, oval piece of metal, strung on a leather cord.

Hans blinked and tilted his head slightly. “What’s this?” he asked with a smile, honest curiosity in his voice.

Henry swallowed. He looked suddenly uncertain.

“It’s… part of my armour,” he said. “An old clasp. It wasn’t holding properly anymore, so I flattened it, filed it down, cleaned it, polished it.” He reached back into the pouch and drew out a second pendant. “And this one’s from your buckle. The one you laughed at—said it was ‘only slightly cracked.’”

He gave a quiet, nervous laugh.

“I wanted to wear something close to my heart that once protected you. And I thought… if you’d want the same—something that once protected me—then I’d make one for you too.”

Hans said nothing. He just looked at him—first with a flicker of surprise, and then… something else entirely.

“You’re…” he began, but didn’t finish.

He closed his fingers around the pendant in his palm. Then reached out with his other hand and pulled Henry into him. Carefully, mindful of the bruises—but firmly.

They stayed like that, wrapped in each other, breathing the same breath. Hans ran his hand slowly down Henry’s back.

“I know God spoke the world into being,” he said, his voice low against Henry’s ear. “Just one word at a time, and there was light, and sea, and sky.” He paused, holding him closer.

“But for what I feel for you…” Another breath. “I don’t think even He left behind the right words. Not in any tongue I’ve ever heard. Nothing strong enough, or tender enough, to say how much I love you, Henry.”

Henry drew back just slightly, but stayed close. His eyes were still bright, but his voice had taken on a quiet shyness.

“Do you like it?” he asked softly. “The pendant.”

Hans looked at him—and in that look, there wasn’t a flicker of doubt.

“It’s beautiful,” he said. “The whole idea. You…”

He turned the oval over in his hand— and caught the faint etching along the metal.

“A. F. I,” he read aloud. “Audentes fortuna iuvat.”

His gaze rose to meet Henry’s. “You really are impossible,” he murmured with a smile—gentle and full of warmth. “And I don’t know what I ever did to deserve you.”

Then he held the pendant out to him.

“Tie it for me?” Hans asked, quiet as a breath.

Henry nodded. He took the cord, gently looped it around Hans’s neck, and tied the knot at the back. His palms brushed against bare skin as he worked—as if, in the same motion, he was shielding him and holding him close.

When he finished, he stayed near. And Hans, in turn, picked up the second pendant—Henry’s.

He held it up between his fingers.

“Now you,” he said softly.

And with the same care, the same quiet touch, he fastened it around Henry’s neck.

Their eyes met in silence. As if they’d just traded armour. Not for battle—but for the road ahead. Wherever it might lead.

They stood close for a while longer. No words. Just the quiet rhythm of breath between them, two figures lit by firelight, and two pendants swaying faintly against their chests.

Then they sat side by side on the bench, hips pressed close, fingers entwined. The fire crackled softly. A single log was burning low in the hearth. Outside, the sky had grown heavy, and from a distance came the first strong gust of wind, rattling the shutter on its hinges.

Hans leaned his shoulder against Henry. Henry tilted his head, resting his brow gently against him in return.

They sat there—in warmth, in silence, in the breath of a day slowly turning.

And just when it seemed nothing more would disturb them— footsteps sounded outside. Soft, steady, making their way up the path toward the door.

Henry stood and opened it before any knock came.

Godwin stood on the threshold. A little dusty, a little tired, but smiling all the same.

“Evening, boys,” he said. “Still letting an old man in?”

“Always,” Henry replied, smiling as he stepped aside.

Godwin entered, and his eyes landed squarely on Hans’s face.

“Well,” he said dryly, spotting the cut beneath Hans’s cheekbone, “looks like you’ve been keeping yourself entertained.”

Hans gave a faint smile. “Just a couple of bandits who thought I’d be easy pickings. Turned out they were wrong.”

Godwin nodded, then gave Hans a once-over—the quick, practiced kind of a man who’d seen his share of wounds.

“You held your own,” he said. “And someone’s patched you up proper.”

His gaze shifted to Henry.

Hans smiled again. “Couldn’t have asked for better care,” he said, fingers brushing Henry’s arm.

“Well then,” Godwin cleared his throat. “You’ve got a corner somewhere for a worn-out priest? Swear I nearly went deaf from my own grumbling on the road.”

Henry turned and gestured toward the table. “There’s always room here.”

A short while later, he brought out wine, sausages, and a bowl of cheese.

“Not much of a feast,” he said, “but it should do.”

Godwin had already made himself comfortable. He took the wine with a grateful nod.

“Thanks. This is exactly what I needed.”

They ate and drank in quiet for a while, the peace settling comfortably between them.

Then Godwin spoke. “Stopped by Uzhitz for a bit, like I said I would… but truth be told, I feel more at home with that merry lot back in Devil’s Den.” He paused, then chuckled. “Guess those rascals have grown on me. Someone’s got to remind them you can still drink like a human being and not a bloody goat.”

He fell quiet again, then offered a small smile.

“If it’s no trouble, I’d be glad to spend the night here and set out in the morning.”

Hans nodded with a smile. “Of course.”

Godwin took another sip, then, almost between bite and swallow, added, “And what about the two of you?” He glanced around. “Nice place you’ve got… but I don’t imagine Hanush is planning to wait until snowfall before you decide to head back, is he?”

Hans straightened slightly, casting a brief look at Henry. He picked up a piece of bread, but didn’t raise it to his mouth.

“We haven’t thought that far ahead.”

Henry looked at him. Then reached for the jug and topped off both Godwin’s cup and his own.

“But Godwin’s right, Hans,” he said quietly. “We can’t put it off forever.”

Hans let out a breath and nodded. “I know, Henry. We’ll figure something out. We always do.”

They fell silent.

After a while, Godwin glanced between them, eyes twinkling. “On my way here, I ran into three washerwomen,” he said with a grin. “Now that’s a story you’ll want to hear.” The bedroom was still. Only the wind touched the roof now and then, brushing past the shutter.

They undressed in silence—each at his own pace, slow and tired. Bodies that knew each other well. No shyness, no shame. Just a quiet rhythm, worn in like the softness of a shared bed.

Each wore a pendant around his neck. A simple leather cord, a small oval of metal—pieces of armour, smoothed to a dull shine that caught the last glow from the dying fire.

They lay down beneath the blanket and drew close. Henry pressed in behind, arm draped across Hans’s chest, his face resting against his shoulder.

They didn’t sleep.

Hans stared into the dark.

“Can’t stop thinking about what Godwin said either, can you?” he murmured.

Henry nodded, his face still pressed to his skin. “About Rattay… ay. And besides—” He hesitated for a moment. “Havel’s already asking how long you’re staying.”

Hans turned in his arms, brow furrowed. “What? When?”

“While you were gone. Pavel came—the little poacher. Came for a list of supplies. And brought a question from Havel.”

Hans nodded slowly. “Right.” His fingers drifted absently to the pendant resting on his chest.

“How long have we been keeping Hanush waiting?” Henry asked after a pause.

Hans thought for a moment. “Two weeks? Three, at most. I’ve lost track a little.”

Henry pulled the blanket up higher and pressed a kiss to his shoulder.

Hans watched him for a moment, brushed a hand over his cheek.

He stayed close, eyes on his.

“Best thing,” he murmured, “would be knowing what’s going on in Rattay. Whether Hanush is even there. Whether he’s planning something. Or if someone else already is.”

Henry said nothing, but pulled him in a little closer.

“We could think things through better,” Hans went on softly. “Plan when to go back. See if there’s still time to wait, or if we’ve already used it up.”

He paused— then a thought struck him.

“Do you think… we could ask Godwin to listen around a bit? Not to drag him into anything, but—if he happened to hear something.”

Henry shook his head slowly. Not a refusal—more a careful weighing of the thought.

“Godwin’s heading the other way. And he’s already done more for us than he ever had to.”

“You’re right,” Hans murmured in reply.

For a while, they simply looked at each other. Their bodies still, calm. The pendants at their chests brushing faintly, metal to metal.

“You know what, Hans?” Henry said at last. “Maybe I could try.”

Hans met his eyes. “Try what, exactly?”

“To head toward Rattay. Not into the town—just the outskirts. The villages below. Quietly.” His voice stayed steady. “I know that land. I know how to vanish in it. And not everyone there would know my face the way they know yours.”

Hans said nothing. For a long while.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“Maybe it isn’t,” Henry admitted. “But we haven’t got a better one. And at least we’d know where things stand. What’s happening. What people are saying.”

Hans let out a sigh—not out of frustration, but thought.

“Ay,” Hans said at last. “It makes sense.” “And if you keep your head down… it might just work.”

“At least we’d know where we stand,” he echoed quietly, then exhaled long and deep.

Henry pulled him in a little closer, and Hans let his head rest on Henry’s shoulder.

Silence settled again.

“We’ll handle whatever comes, love,” Henry whispered into his hair, brushing a kiss into the strands.

Hans ran a hand gently along his back. “Together,” he murmured.

And slowly, they let sleep take them.

But somewhere—in the dark, in the quiet— something hung in the air. Something was waiting.

[jandrichov]

Hans wore an expression so soft, Henry might’ve been the only soul in the world who’d ever seen it. Quiet, intent, almost shy — like he couldn’t quite believe he deserved to be looked at that way. Part VIII is on its way. Softly, like fog lifting from the hills. But it’s coming.

[jandrichov]

Don’t you ever feel like Henry is basically a golden retriever?

Loyal, gentle, a bit of a goof, loves pretty much everyone — but one person desperately. Loves to cuddle, loves to eat, and when needed, he’ll turn into a fierce protector who’ll tear you apart. And when Hans touches him, his eyes light up like a puppy that just got a biscuit.

And the best part?

That doesn’t make him any less of a man. Or weaker. Quite the opposite — retrievers are strong, hard-working, and loyal to the grave. And when a crisis hits, they don’t hesitate to jump into fire or flood.

They just… look adorable while doing it.

[jandrichov]

“And still I know you’ll go,” he said at last, low but certain. There was no bitterness in it. No resistance. Only the quiet weight of something long understood.

“Because that’s who you are. Brave. Just. Steady. Loyal.”

- @jandrichov

How funny that I found my own companion for this #Hansry road.

[jandrichov]

Some lines just don’t survive being taken out of context. Like this one.

“…It’s bigger than I thought,” he said at last, his voice low.

[jandrichov]

“I bought you something.”

Henry looked at him, surprised. He unwrapped the cloth — and froze.

A red gambeson. Deep, rich in colour. Simple, but exquisitely made.

He lifted his gaze to Hans. “What… why?”

Hans smiled. “Because before I even bought it, I saw you in it. And you looked beautiful.” He gave a small shrug. “And I wanted to give you something that would protect you.”

A moment passed.

“And just because I love you,” he added.

I'll be back. I promise you. And everything will be alright.

[jandrichov]

Credit to @playpausephoto — who keeps capturing images that feel like chapters I haven’t written yet, but should have.

Weight of a Name Part VII

Fairy Tale

Once upon a morning, a blacksmith and a nobleman rode into the woods.

Mature content, but it’s the quiet kind.

—

Hans blinked awake and stayed still, his eyes drifting to the ceiling. Sunlight filtered in through the windows, warming the room with a softness more suited to the height of summer than its slow descent into autumn.

He stretched slightly, then turned his head.

Henry lay on his stomach, arms tucked beneath the pillow. The blanket had slipped down to the foot of the bed, leaving him entirely uncovered.

Hans let his gaze wander over him— broad shoulders, the quiet rise of his spine, the curve of his arse. Then down to the firm lines of his thighs, the sculpted shape of his calves.

He knew that body. Knew what it had endured. He could name every scar carved into its surface. There wasn’t a part of it he hadn’t traced. Every contour, every muscle, every taut line beneath the skin.

He reached out.

Let his fingertips trail slowly across Henry’s lower back, then down to the soft hair at the base of his spine, pausing at the curve of his thigh. Not as an invitation. But like one might touch a sculpture—carefully, reverently—trying to feel it with more than just their eyes.

Henry stirred.

A slight shift, a breath of movement as he nestled against Hans’s chest, not yet fully awake. Then turned further, drawn to his warmth like something instinctive. Their bodies aligned, thigh to shoulder.

Hans slid his hand into his hair. He dipped his head and pressed a kiss against Henry’s shoulder.

Let his lips linger there and breathed him in. The scent of Henry’s skin was so familiar by now, he might’ve stopped noticing it—but it still sent the faintest shiver through him.

Henry stirred, turned his head slightly, and met Hans’s gaze. For a heartbeat, he just looked at him—thoughtfully, as if he were studying something precious.

Then his lips curved into a fond smile. “How d’you manage to look this good every bloody morning, Hans?”

Hans smirked. “Blue blood. Can’t help what runs in the family.”

He took in Henry’s body—deliberate, but not a hint of vulgarity in it. “Besides—you’re such a bloody distraction, I barely sleep next to you. Face it, love—you’ve got it in your veins too.”

Henry laughed—quietly, and a little self-conscious. He shook his head and buried his face back into the pillow. “Oh, come on, Hans. You’re making me blush… and horny,” he mumbled.

Hans chuckled low in his throat. “Well, good. That makes two of us.”

Henry turned his head just enough to glance at him out of the corner of his eye.

Hans ran his fingers through Henry’s hair.

“But it’s shaping up to be a beautiful day,” he murmured—then leaned in closer, “—and not everything worth doing needs a bed,” he whispered into his ear. Then kissed the side of his neck.

Henry blinked. Then grinned. “Well then—what the hell are we waiting for? Let’s get up.” The main room was quiet, a window left ajar to welcome the soft breath of morning. Somewhere beneath the table, Mutt lay snoring contentedly, already fed and at peace with the world.

A jug of cool water stood on the table, fresh mint leaves floating lazily on the surface. Beside it, a bowl of soft curd mixed with honey and raisins — a simple, hearty breakfast with the scent of summer in it.

“I’m not sure what’s better,” Henry said as he sat down, “the food—or the fact that you made it.”

Hans raised an eyebrow. “Is that praise for my culinary skill—or are you still reeling from the sight of a broad-shouldered man stirring curd… stark naked?”

Henry burst out laughing. “Oh, the latter. Definitely the latter.”

“Don’t you get used to it love,” Hans said with mock drama. “Once we’re back in Rattay, I’m giving the kitchen back to the servants and never touching curd again.”

Henry grinned, shooting him a wink. “All the more reason to appreciate the breakfast—and the view.”

They ate in a comfortable silence. Birdsong drifted in from the trees.

Then Hans looked up.

“Want to see the strangest place around here?”

Henry glanced at him. “Strange how?”

“Near Hryzely. There’s an old earthwork in the forest—long, winding. Feels like it goes on forever. When I was little, I used to call it the Fairy Castle.”

A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “I spent hours out there. Used to imagine some forest folk lived there… fairies, elves, all the things a boy dreams up when he spends too much time alone.”

Henry leaned his elbow on the table and gave him a warm, amused look. “Ever meet any?”

“No,” Hans said, wrinkling his nose, “but there’s something about it. That ridge looks like it’s been there since the time of Christ.” He paused, then added quietly, “And you know what? Maybe something really was there. Or still is.”

Henry smiled at him. “Then I want to see it.”

Hans’s smile deepened. “Then we’ll ride out. It’s not far—just a bit of a ride. Part of the trail you already know. Same one where I went arse over tit into the stream.”

Henry hesitated, his brow drawing slightly. “I’d rather not think about that day, Hans… not what came after.”

Hans reached across the table and ran his fingers along the back of Henry’s hand.

“Today’ll be different,” he said softly. They set off mid-morning. The sun was already climbing, and the air was warm—rich with the scent of pine needles and sunbaked earth. They rode at a slow, easy pace along a forest path winding through the trees. Mutt trotted along beside them, sometimes stopping now and then to investigate a scent, before bounding ahead again to catch up.

Hans rode in front.

“Haaaans?” Henry called from behind.

He turned in the saddle. “What?”

“Are we there yet?” Henry said, grinning.

Hans rolled his eyes and snorted. “We’ll be there when we’re there, Master Henry.”

A beat of silence.

“Haaaaans?”

Turn, glance.

“Yes, Henry?”

That same wide grin. “Are we at least more there than we were before?”

Hans covered his face with a groan. “Lord in Heaven, what did I do to deserve this impossible man?”

Henry’s laugh rang through the trees behind him.

A few more minutes of quiet riding.

“Haaaaans?”

Hans reined in and waited for Henry to catch up. Henry wore that look—the one Hans had learned to dread — and love at the same time.

“No, we’re still not there,” Hans said flatly.

“But that’s not what I was going to ask.”

Hans let out a sigh of resignation. “Then what?”

“Well,” Henry began, “since we’re headed to the Fairy Castle… isn’t it technically my castle? Seeing as I’m a fairy?”

Hans closed his eyes and rubbed them slowly. “I’m sorry—what?”

That grin spread across Henry’s face like mischief made flesh. “You know. Back in our ravine — the one near Devil’s Den. The blacksmith fairy.”

Hans stared at him — then cracked up. It took him a moment to stop laughing. “Get off the damn horse.”

Henry hesitated for a second, then swung down from his horse. Hans followed, coming to a stop just a breath away.

“I think I know how to shut you up,” he said dryly—then pulled Henry in and kissed him, all heat and no warning.

When they broke apart, Henry was slightly breathless. “Fair enough,” he muttered. “That does work.”

Hans nodded. “And also, I’ve been dying to kiss you—” his hands slid down, “—and to get my hands on this perfect backside.”

He gave him a wink, turned on his heel, and sauntered back toward his horse.

“Hans,” Henry called after him, “you’re just going to leave me here? Hard?”

“Ay,” Hans replied without looking back. Then threw a smirk over his shoulder. “Serves you right for the fairy questions, love.”

Henry grumbled something under his breath. Adjusted his trousers. Then climbed back into the saddle to catch up—Hans was already vanishing around the bend.

It wasn’t long before the stream came into sight.

On that freezing day, it had been deep and swift—muddy and dangerous, when Hans’s horse had thrown him off in the middle of it. Now it was a gentle, cheerful thing, tumbling over stones and pebbles in a soft, steady rhythm.

Hans looked down at it and smiled. “Barely ankle-deep today.”

They dismounted, tugged off their boots, and rolled up their trousers. Then, barefoot, they stepped into the water, leading their horses by the reins.

The stones underfoot were smooth and slick, but the current was shallow and warm—more soothing than treacherous. Sunlight sparkled on the rippling surface, and the water murmured around them in soft, playful sounds as they moved.

“Not bad,” Hans said, glancing down. “Almost feels good in this heat.”

Henry cast him a look, a spark of mischief catching hold. Then he stopped.

“Wait,” he said.

Hans turned. “What is it?”

“I think I still owe you something.”

Before Hans could say a word, Henry grabbed him by the neck, yanked him close, and kissed him—deep and sudden, with enough force to make Hans nearly lose his footing on the slick stones. Water leapt up around their thighs.

When Henry finally drew back, they were both breathing a little harder.

Henry grinned. “Now we’re even.”

Hans just looked at him—then huffed a laugh and shook his head.

“There’s no winning with you, is there?”

He reached for Henry’s hand, and they made their way through the rest of the stream. Water dripped from their legs, but the sun was strong, drying it almost as fast.

Behind them, the stream kept murmuring between the stones, as if humming to itself in the quiet warmth of the day. When they reached the ridge, Henry barely noticed it at first.

Overgrown with moss and young trees along its crest, it stretched farther than anyone would expect—long, nearly straight, and quiet. The path atop it muffled every footfall.

Henry dismounted and stood still, taking in the sight in silence.

“…It’s bigger than I thought,” he said at last, his voice low.

Hans nodded. “I know.”

He walked ahead, slowly, leading the way, to a place where the trees thinned, and a broad oak cast a quiet shade over the softened ground.

“I used to sit here,” Hans said. “When I was a boy, I imagined that beyond this ridge was another world. And this tree”—he gestured gently—“was the gate that led to it.”

Henry looked at him, but said nothing. He only smiled—quietly, as if not to disturb the place, or the memory.

Hans settled against the tree, arms folded over his knees. Henry sat between his legs, leaning back against his chest and letting his head tip onto Hans’s shoulder. Mutt curled up nearby beneath a dense bush, dozing on the cool earth.

For a while, they just sat. The air was warm, and the leaves whispered gently all around them.

“I spent a night here once,” Hans said, after a moment.

Henry lifted his head. “You did?”

“Ay. Ran away from Foxburrow… Well, not ran, exactly. Hanush left me here, and Havel didn’t stay at the lodge overnight. So I just walked off. No one really cared.”

He paused for a moment.

“How old were you?” Henry asked.

“Nine? Maybe ten. Thought maybe I’d stay out here forever. That the fairies might let me in,” he said and gave a small smile. A little bitter at the edges.

“Did anything… strange happen?” Henry asked. “I mean, that night?”

Hans looked away for a moment, his eyes distant.

“When night fell, everything went still. And then—these little lights started to appear in the air.”

“Fireflies,” Henry nodded.

“Ay. Fireflies,” Hans echoed. “But there were… so many of them. Thousands. All I could see were those greenish dots swirling in the dark. And then suddenly—” he paused, “—it was like the whole forest vanished. There was nothing left but the lights. And the silence. The kind that presses in, like the world stopped breathing.”

He fell quiet again. Then gave a faint smile and shrugged.

“Maybe it just felt that way because I was a little boy.”

Henry shifted a little, then turned to face him.

He knelt on the soft ground, leaned in, and slipped his arms around Hans’s neck. His thumbs brushed gently through his hair at the nape.

For a moment, he just looked into his eyes.

“Hans?” he whispered.

“Yes?” came the quiet reply.

“Every time I get to know you a little more,” Henry said softly, “I find myself loving you more than I did before.”

Hans’s expression softened. Something settled in the corners of his eyes—gratitude, maybe. Or wonder. Like he still couldn’t quite believe it was real.

“When I was a boy,” Hans said slowly, “I used to come here hoping to meet fairies.”

He pause.

“But I never imagined—never even dreamed—I’d one day sit here with the love of my life.”

His eyes stayed locked on Henry’s. He didn’t move, just let out a slow breath.

“I love you so damn much, Jindro,” he whispered.

Henry’s throat tightened. He smiled, arms tightening just slightly.

“I love you too, Jendo.”

Their lips met—slowly, without haste. The kiss was full of everything they’d become to each other.

There were no fireflies swirling through the air this time.

But for a moment, the world around them went still— and vanished.

For a while, they simply looked at each other in silence. Soft smiles. Eyes lit with quiet knowing.

Then Henry shifted, settling once more between Hans’s knees. Hans slid his fingers into his hair.

They stayed like that a while longer—quiet, close, in a stillness that belonged only to them.

“What’s out that way?” Henry asked after a while, nodding toward a gap in the trees where a strip of sky was visible.

Hans glanced in the direction. “That’s where the forest ends. Then there’s a slope. And below that… Hryzely.”

Henry nodded but said nothing. He rose slowly, then held out his hand.

“Shall we take a look?”

Hans smiled and took it.

It was only a short walk through the thinning trees. And then the hill opened up before them—broad, sun-drenched, sloping gently down toward the distant village. The houses of Hryzely were just small specks below, nestled among fields and trees.

The grass was tall and soft, heavy with the scent of late summer. In the warm breeze, insects drifted lazily through the air.

Henry stretched out and lay back, hands behind his head. Hans joined him a moment later, settling close.

Henry reached out, found his hand, and laced their fingers together.

Above them stretched the sky— the quiet, deep sky of late summer. Deeper than usual. Almost indigo. The kind of color only the clearest days of this season can carry.

They lay side by side, shoulder to shoulder, eyes turned upward.

“Do you think,” Henry said after a while, “we’ll ever see the sea?”

Hans smiled. “What makes you think of that now?”

“I don’t know,“ Henry shrugged. „I just thought… maybe that’s what it looks like.”

Hans was quiet for a moment, then placed his palm on Henry’s chest. “You know what, love? Maybe we will. Maybe one day we’ll even go as far as the Holy Land,” he said with a smile.

Henry rolled onto his side, leaned in so their faces were close.

“But I’ll be perfectly happy,” he said softly, “even if this hill above Hryzely is all I ever see… as long as you’re here with me.”

He bent down and kissed him, slowly, deeply—like the rest of the world had never mattered.

When they pulled apart, just for a breath, their foreheads remained pressed together. Their breaths mingled, slow and steady. Henry held his gaze, still so close, and kissed him again—deeper this time, more intent. His tongue traced Hans’s lips before slipping between them— each motion a quiet vow, affirming what words had dared to say.

Hans brought one hand to Henry’s cheek. The other slid down the curve of his back, over the shirt, to the hem— then slipped beneath it, palm meeting warm skin. Henry shivered softly… but didn’t stop kissing him.

They moved together in the grass with the ease of lovers who knew each other to the bone. Henry's kisses wandered down to Hans’s neck. He loosened the ties of Hans’s shirt and pulled it off over his head. For a moment, he paused — taking in the sight of him, golden in the sunlight. Then he bent and pressed a kiss between his collarbones.

His mouth drifted lower, soft against skin. One hand followed — slow, certain — sliding down until it met the waistband of Hans’s trousers. And the heat beneath.

Hans propped himself on his elbows, breath catching.

“What if someone sees us, Henry?” he whispered.

Henry met his eyes — that glint of mischief already dancing.

“Then you’d better keep watch,” he grinned. “And leave the rest to me.”

He moved lower, slowly. His lips glided across Hans’s chest, kissing the space between his ribs, brushing the skin with the tip of his nose as if he wanted to feel it with every sense he had.

Hans lay with his eyes closed, head tilted back. He felt the heat of Henry’s breath, the softness of his lips moving down his body. When Henry kissed the lower edge of his belly, a quiet breath escaped him.

Then Henry loosened the ties of his trousers and eased them down over his hips—unhurried, tender—freeing Hans, hard and ready. For a moment, he looked up at him with a soft smile, then wrapped his hand around him. Hans shifted slightly, a tremor running through him. His lips parted, his brow creased in a silent exhale.

And then Henry bent down and ran his mouth over him—lightly, slowly, as if touching something sacred. Hans let out a low, muffled moan and clenched his fingers in the grass at his sides.

His hips lifted—just a little, almost involuntarily—as if every part of him ached to be closer.

Henry moved with calm certainty, each stroke and press of his mouth carrying more of himself into Hans. And Hans felt it all. In his gut, in his chest, in his throat where every breath caught and broke on the edge of silence.

After a while, he reached out, threaded his fingers through Henry’s hair, and gently took hold of his shoulder—guiding him back up, back to his face.

Henry looked up. His eyes held want, trust—and love.

Hans kissed him, deep and sure. And while their lips stayed locked, his hands moved down to the edge of Henry’s trousers.

He eased them down, slowly, one hand resting at Henry’s side, the other on his chest. When the fabric slipped away, Henry let out a quiet laugh and shifted closer—turning onto his side, facing him. Their bodies touched again, from shoulder to knee.

They lay together, limbs loosely tangled, hands wandering across skin—mapping familiar ground that felt new again. Henry’s hand slid back to Hans’s arousal. A heartbeat later, Hans’s fingers found him in turn.

They stayed like that, so close their breath mingled. Eyes locked.

Then came another kiss—slow and deep. As it deepened, their hands moved again. Steady. Focused. Every stroke, a message. A memory. A vow. Not just pleasure— but proof: We’re here. We’re not going anywhere.

Hans had his forehead pressed to Henry’s. His breath was hot and uneven. A bead of sweat ran down his temple and vanished into his hair. Henry felt it—felt the scent of him, wild and warm and utterly real. He held him with a quiet tenderness, precise and steady. Hans trembled, like the breath had caught on the edge of his lips.

Their bodies were damp, slick with sweat. Hair mussed, cheeks flushed. And in the tension between them—in each movement, each touch, that unbearable closeness—there was everything.

Their breathing quickened. Moans tangled with the scent of earth and open summer sky. And then, almost together, they brought each other over—sharp, unstoppable, their mouths gasping against each other’s in a kiss that didn’t break, not even as they came apart.

They lay side by side, eyes closed, lips barely apart, panting, sweat cooling on their skin. In their fingers, the last echoes of release still lingered.

As their heartbeats slowed and breath settled, they stayed there. Close. Forehead to temple. A hand resting over a hip.

Then Henry let out a quiet laugh. “So?” he murmured. “Were you keeping watch?”

Hans didn’t even blink. “No.”

Henry laughed again and pressed his cheek against him.

After a while, they got up, cleaned themselves off, pulled their shirts and trousers back on. They stayed there a little longer, sitting side by side with their legs in the grass, gazing out across the valley. The wind rustled the dry stalks. The air smelled of sweat, earth, and sun.

Henry gave a whistle.

It took only half a minute before Mutt burst out of the underbrush—ecstatic, with a leaf stuck to his head and his tongue lolling halfway down his chest. He made a beeline for them, flopped down beside Henry, and stayed there, sprawled out with his nose buried in the grass.

“Looks like he had a good time,” Hans remarked.

“So did we all,” Henry grinned.

Then they rose, brushing grass and earth from their clothes, and made their way back to where they’d left the horses. The meadow rippled in the breeze behind them, and the sky above remained high and deep blue. They took the long way back to Foxburrow. As if neither of them wanted the day to end too soon. So they followed a barely-there trail through the forest—a forgotten thread winding between trees, half-lost to time.

Mutt ran ahead, then behind, then vanished into the underbrush—only to reappear with the expression of someone who clearly knew more than anyone else, but wasn’t about to explain a thing.

And then, as the forest began to slope gently downward and the branches opened to one side, Hans raised a hand and slowed his horse.

“Look over there.”

Beyond the thinning trees lay a quiet glade—not large, but well-sheltered. At its far end, the ground dipped suddenly, as if the earth had once given way. Just below the drop, a low rock ledge jutted out, moss-covered and half-hidden. Brambles below. A few broken branches above. The kind of place no one stumbled upon by accident.

“You know this place?” Henry asked quietly.

Hans nodded. “Ay. Got caught in a downpour here once,” he said with a small smile. “This spot saved me that day.”

They dismounted, leaving the horses a little higher up the slope among young pines.

Mutt instantly claimed the place as his own—rolled in the grass, sniffed every stone, then flopped into the warm dust like a dog who’d seen enough of the world and earned a well-deserved rest.

Hans glanced at him. “Mutt’s decided we’re staying for a bit,” he chuckled.

“Fine by me,” Henry nodded. “I’m starving.” The fire crackled softly.

They sat side by side by the low hearth, backs against a stone. The air had cooled, but warmth still radiated from their bodies—and from the glowing embers in front of them. They’d finished eating a little while ago. The last of the bread had gone to Mutt, who took great care of the crumbs and anything else that had dared fall out of reach.

Hans stared into the flames. “Sometimes it feels like I’ve known you forever, Henry,” he said thoughtfully. “Like you were always somewhere in my mind, and I just needed to finally meet you.”

Henry pulled him close, wrapped an arm around him, and pressed a kiss into his hair. “Maybe we both felt that. And just needed to find each other,” he said with a soft smile.

“Luckily,” Hans murmured, smiling back—then something flickered behind his eyes, and he let out a sudden laugh.

“What?” Henry asked.

“Do you remember,” Hans said between chuckles, “the first time we met?”

“You mean when I beat you up at the tavern in Rattay?” Henry grinned.

“Excuse me? Beat me up? Pretty sure it was the other way around!”

“All right, all right—maybe we both beat each other up,” Henry conceded. “If I recall correctly, by the time Hanush showed up, we were locked in a grapple and neither one of us could take the other down.”

Hans raised an eyebrow. “Please. I was barely trying. I just wanted to keep touching you.”

“Oh, of course,” Henry snorted. “That was definitely the reason.”

Hans gave him a look. “Well then—shall we test that? See who’s stronger now?”

“Right now?”

“Afraid you’ll end up flat on your back, love?” Hans teased, smirking.

“Get up,” Henry replied.

They stepped a few paces away, deeper into the glade. The fire crackled behind them—soft now, as if even it knew a different kind of challenge was about to begin.

They squared off. Hans rolled up his sleeves and rolled his shoulders.

“No groping,” he warned, mock-serious.

Henry raised an eyebrow. “Oh, that’s what you’re worried about?”

Hans snorted—and then bumped into him with his shoulder, grinning.

They locked together—hands gripping arms, shoulders pressing close, feet braced wide in the grass. Their foreheads nearly touched. They shoved, strained—neither yielding an inch. Tension thrummed between them, laughter on their lips, stubbornness burning in their eyes. Shoulder to shoulder, muscles shifting beneath fabric, their breath coming faster.

Then Henry’s footing slipped.

His boot skidded on the damp grass, and he lurched—still clinging tight. Hans went down with him, and before either of them could catch themselves, they tumbled together down the slope at the edge of the glade.

They landed in a heap at the forest’s fringe. Flushed. Breathless. Laughing like fools.

Hans propped himself up on one elbow and gave Henry a smug grin. “Told you I’d win.”

Henry smirked but didn’t move. “Not sure you get to call it winning—when we’re both lying in—”

He trailed off.

Frowned. Lifted himself slightly on one elbow. Then looked down again.

“Hans… this is… soft.”

Hans shifted, warily. “And squishy,” he added.

Henry reached out and touched the ground beside him. Carefully.

He lifted his hand. Slowly. It stuck. It stretched. It reeked.

“I hope this is just mud,” he muttered, though the dread in his voice betrayed the truth he already suspected.

Hans sniffed his own sleeve. Then let his head fall back with a sigh of utter defeat.

“No, Henry. Mud—plus all the other things you'd find in a boar’s wallow.”

Silence.

And then— they both burst into helpless, wheezing laughter.

They spent a good while catching their breath between fits of laughter.

“Henry?” Hans said eventually.

“Ay?”

“You smell like a fucking boar.”

Henry took a beat.

“…And does that please you, my lord?”

They both broke down again, laughing even harder.

“Get up, love,” Hans managed after a moment, “we’ve got to get this shit off us.”

They made their way back into the glade and looked each other over—hips, hands, legs.

“This isn’t coming off on its own,” Henry observed grimly.

“It’s not,” Hans agreed.

He fell quiet for a moment, thinking. Then lifted his head.

“Wait… There used to be a pond out here. Just a small one. The water was clear. Might still be.”

“Isn’t it a bit cold for a swim?” Henry raised an eyebrow.

“Maybe a bit,” Hans admitted. “But we’re not far from Foxburrow. And this—” he nodded to his sleeve, “—isn’t coming off in a trough.”

Henry chuckled. “All right then. Lead the way, you stinky little piglet.”

“Oink oink,” Hans shot back over his shoulder and marched off into the trees. After a few minutes of pushing through undergrowth, the pond finally came into view—shaded, still, nearly hidden among grass and reeds. A small body of water, overgrown at the edges, but its surface was so calm it seemed to radiate peace.

“Here it is,” Hans nodded. “It’s shallow. Don’t worry.”

He stripped off his clothes, stepped barefoot into the water— and hissed through his teeth. “Fuuuck me, that’s cold!”

Henry sighed and began undressing. “Let’s get this over with.”

The water was, in fact, freezing. With every step, a sharp wave of cold shot through them—but once they finally dunked under and began scrubbing the grime away, the gasps gave way to sighs of relief.

“I… I think I’ve lost the family jewels,” Henry declared as he splashed icy water across his chest. “Permanently.”

Hans put on a look of mock horror. “No! Not those! They were the whole reason I chose you!”

They both burst out laughing. Henry flung a wave of cold water at him. Hans tilted his head back, laughing, and splashed him right back.

“Enough!” Henry hissed. “Or your smug little grin’s going to freeze right off your face.”

Hans kept laughing—but then gave a full-body shudder. “Come on. Fire. Now.”

The flames were still burning. Low, but enough.

Mutt lifted his head, gave them a quick look of disinterested approval, then set it back on his paws.

They stepped closer to the fire. Hands out. Breathing easier.

Hans turned his back to the flames.

“This isn’t doing much,” Henry said after a moment. “Let’s ride. We’ll be home in no time—and we’ll light the place up like a bloody forge. When they returned to Foxburrow, they didn’t bother with anything else.

The air inside still carried the faint warmth. Henry went straight to the hearth, lit the fire, and fed it until the flames caught—quick and grateful, hungry for every scrap of kindling. Heat began to pour gently into the room.

Mutt curled up in his bed and was asleep within seconds.

Hans, meanwhile, spread a few furs in front of the hearth. They settled onto them side by side, pressed close, still damp, still a little breathless—but warm now. The fire cast a soft orange glow over their bare skin, flickering gently in the quiet.

After a moment, Hans rose, walked to the shelf, and returned with a wineskin.

“This should warm us up from the inside,” he said with a smile, handing it to Henry before flopping back down beside him.

They lay facing each other, propped on their elbows, firelight on their backs, their heads resting in their palms. Two mirrored bodies, sharing one pool of warmth in the world.

The wineskin passed between them. A sip. A pause. A lazy hand trailing over a chest, a side, a thigh— no urgency. Just closeness. Familiar. Certain.

Hans looked at Henry, eyes half-lidded, lips curled into a soft smile.

“This,” he said quietly, “was exactly what I needed.”

Henry tilted his head, questioning.

“This day,” Hans added, brushing his hand along Henry’s cheek. “Just like it was. With you.”

Henry leaned in and kissed him gently. Then he looked into his eyes, close enough to see every shade in them.

“I know I’ve probably said this before, Hans,” he murmured with a soft smile, “but I really, really love you.”

“That,” Hans replied, “is something I’ll never get tired of hearing.”

He lay back, resting his head on his hand. Henry stayed facing him, close, their knees almost touching.

“No, wait,” Henry said quietly. “I mean it. I know I’m not always easy. I can be stubborn as hell. I mess around like a fool. I get quiet when I shouldn’t. I snore. I—” “You’re mine,” Hans said, not missing a beat.

Henry blinked. His breath caught just a little — then he gave a soft, helpless grin. “Ay,” he said. “I am.”

He tilted his head, still smiling. “And you must be properly in love with me to survive all that.”

Hans’s smile widened. “That I am.”

He leaned in and kissed him — slow and warm, with all the affection words couldn’t carry.

Henry moved closer, pressed his body to his. His hand drifted down along Hans’s side, paused at his waist, then slid back up. Hans threaded his fingers into Henry’s hair—and let them stay there.

They lay like that for a long while, body to body. Their touches softened, slowed, deepened. Everything between them quieted. Stilled. And in that stillness, they felt nothing but ease.

Henry’s hand moved along Hans’s side, thumb brushing the curve beneath his ribs. Hans’s eyes were half-closed. His breathing, deep and steady.

Their lips met again.

Not just once— but a second time, a third. Each kiss slower. Deeper. Lingering close.

Their bodies pressed together, legs tangled, breath drawing out—slower now, fuller, as if their lungs were trying to hold this moment in place.

Henry slid a hand down Hans’s back, all the way to his lower spine, gently pulling him closer. Hans let his palm drift across Henry’s chest, then lower, down his stomach…

He paused. Then stayed.

Hans grinned. “Henry… I believe I’ve just found your family jewels.”

Henry burst out laughing—loud, helpless. He dropped his forehead to Hans’s shoulder, unable to speak for a few seconds.

“You did, huh?” he managed at last, breathless. “And are they… in good condition?”

Hans kept a perfectly serious face, though his hand remained exactly where it was. “Aye. Pride of the realm,” he said.

And then he laughed too.

The laughter slowly faded, leaving only warmth—soft in their eyes, softer still in their touch. There was no need to speak. They both knew where they were going.

Henry answered every touch with his own. He guided Hans gently onto his back and let his hand wander—over his chest, his stomach, his hips. He didn’t rush. His palm and mouth moved with the ease of deep familiarity, with a tenderness that asked only for presence.

Hans pulled him back in. They wrapped around each other—body to body, hand at the nape, thighs intertwined.

Every motion came from the one before it. As if they’d memorized each other’s bodies.

Henry stayed above him, but not a weight—more like a promise. He leaned on one forearm, tracing Hans’s side, then his ribs and stomach, hand gliding with quiet precision.

When their hips brushed again, Henry shifted slightly. Not much. Just enough to say—this wasn’t chance.

Their eyes met. And held.

Hans’s expression didn’t shift—but his eyes widened, just a little. His fingers traced down the length of Henry’s spine, slow and deliberate, until they reached the base.

Henry lifted himself slightly—then pressed in again, differently this time. A subtle shift. Forward, and lower. His hand rested on Hans’s hip. His breathing stayed steady. Their foreheads hovered close, almost touching.

Their eyes never left each other. Not even for a heartbeat.

Hans lifted a hand and brushed his thumb across Henry’s cheek. He nodded. Barely. Just enough to be felt more than seen—like breath.

Then he rose and kissed him. Slowly. Lingering. A kiss that didn’t want to end.

His hand slid down Henry’s side, gently guiding him onto his hip.

He never stopped touching him—never broke contact. He moved behind him, close, his front to Henry’s back. One arm wrapped around his chest. The other settled softly on his side. His breath was deep. Grounded.

And then— he entered him. Slowly. Fully.

Henry tensed—just for a second. Then he exhaled, laid his head back against Hans’s shoulder, and tilted it slightly to kiss him again. Hans leaned in, their lips meeting once more—trembling, open, quiet.

Every movement was slow. Deep. Gentle.

Hans kept one hand steady on his hip, his breath warm against Henry’s neck, his mouth tracing along the curve of his throat. His free hand slid down Henry’s stomach and took him in his palm.

Henry moved with him—answered every shift, every press of skin against skin. The way he placed his hand over Hans’s, the way his body arched back to meet him—it all said the same thing. No rush. No need for more than this. Every touch had its place. Every breath, every stroke, every heartbeat.

It was focused. Quiet. Slick with sweat. And beautiful.

Henry bit his lip, eyes shut tight, but never turned away. He felt his heart pounding under Hans’s arm. Felt the grip on him grow firmer. Faster. And when release came—deep, wrenching, consuming—Hans didn’t pull away. He stayed with him. And when he followed, their mouths met again—fierce and full and quiet.

They stayed like that— body on body, breath on skin, fingers still laced together.

Hans held him gently, his thumb tracing slow circles along Henry’s forearm. The room was quiet—only the faint crackle of the fire, burning low, as if even it didn’t dare disturb the peace.

After a while, Henry’s breath began to slow beneath his arm. His head rested on Hans’s shoulder. His body softened. His eyelids grew heavy.

Hans smiled to himself. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to his neck.

“Henry…” he whispered. “Come to bed. It’ll be better there.”

Henry mumbled something, eyes still shut. “Can’t you just carry me, love?” he murmured groggily.

Hans chuckled under his breath. “You really are impossibly spoiled.”

“That’s just good upbringing,” Henry muttered, nestling in even closer.

Hans shook his head—but there was so much tenderness in it, he might have actually carried him, if he’d needed to.

“…Fine,” Henry muttered. “But remember this position, ay? I want to keep it exactly like this in bed.”

Hans laughed softly. “Left leg over mine, your hand right here…” he brushed a hand across Henry’s stomach, “and your head tucked right there.” He kissed his forehead. “Got it carved into memory.”

Henry slowly sat up, stretching like a drowsy cat, and let Hans take his hand. Hans led him to their bedroom. They slipped under the blankets, not bothering to shift or adjust—just fell back into place. Exactly as before.

Hans kissed the back of his neck and whispered, almost too soft to hear. “Sleep well. And don’t let the fairies steal you away.”

Henry gave a soft, sleepy huff of a laugh. “Don’t worry. I’m in good Hans.”

[jandrichov]

“Every time I get to know you a little more… I find myself loving you more than I did before.” Weight of a Name – Part VII Fairy Tale Soon.

[jandrichov]

“I thought you knew me, Hans!”

Hans stopped. Just looked at him, breathing fast. But when he spoke again, his voice was low. Hard. “So did I.”

“And I thought what we have meant the most to you. Like it does to me,” he added after a moment.

Henry shook his head, still ablaze. “It does mean the most, Hans. Of course it does! But it’s not the only fucking thing in the world!” Was that the moment the thread snapped? (excerpt from Weight of a Name – Part VI: Of Loving and Hurting)

[jandrichov]

There’s a quiet kind of mastery in how @playpausephoto frames light, space, and silence — thank you for letting me share your work here.

Weight of a Name Part VI

Of Loving and Hurting

When Henry returned from his meeting with Samuel, he said just one thing to Hans before they went inside: “It’s about the King.” Now, Hans is waiting to hear the rest.

—

They stepped inside, and Henry closed the door softly behind them.

Hans remained by the hearth, arms folded, gaze fixed ahead. He didn’t sit. He didn’t stir.

“Well?” was all he said.

Henry crossed to the table. He picked up a cloth and folded it once, then again—slowly, with care. Not for show, but as if each motion granted him a few more heartbeats before the silence had to break.

“It’s Liechtenstein’s plan,” he said at last. “There’s a group behind it. Samuel brought me the message on his behalf.”

Hans gave no reply. Only a slight nod, his stare unwavering.

Henry turned toward him fully. Calm. Steady. “They mean to get King Wenceslas out of Vienna. Sigismund’s holding him there. And… they want me to be part of it.”

Silence stretched, taut as a drawn bowstring.

Hans didn’t shift. But something passed over his face—barely a flicker.

“To Vienna,” he murmured. “To free the King of Bohemia and the Holy Roman Empire.”

Henry nodded once. “Ay.”

Hans shook his head. Not in protest—more like someone trying to banish a picture that had taken root behind his eyes.

“And why you?” he asked. His voice was lower than usual, rougher. “They run out of madmen to choose from?”

Henry gave the ghost of a smile. It held no mirth. He reached for a cup on the bench, as though to pour something, then simply turned it over in his hands.

“One of the men behind it all… is my father,” he said quietly. “But he’s too visible. Too well-known. Everyone knows he’s Wenceslas’s man.”

He let the cup rest in his palms a moment longer before looking up at Hans.

“And Liechtenstein thinks Radzig’s bastard—one he knows and trusts—might be just the man they need.”

Hans tilted his head back, just a little, as if something had struck him clean between the eyes. He took a few paces toward the wall—not to put distance between them, but simply to turn his gaze somewhere else.

“Christ, Henry,” he said, voice low. “This isn’t a raid. It’s not even a battle. This is…”

His voice wavered—just for a moment. When he turned back, his face was drawn tight, his eyes dark and unyielding.

“Do you have any idea what kind of madness this is? Freeing a king. From Vienna. That’s not a plan. That’s a gravestone already half-written.”

He came to a stop at the table. He didn’t slam his hand down—but he set both palms on the wood like a man who needed something steady beneath him, or else he might fall.

“And you’re walking straight into it. Of your own free will.”

He straightened. Raised his head. Met Henry’s gaze. “That’s it, isn’t it?” he asked, quietly now. “No one’s making you go. You could say no.”

Henry didn’t look away. His eyes held steady—not defiant, not pleading. Simply sure. “I could,” he said. “But I gave my word.”

Something shifted in Hans’s expression. Then came a smile—crooked, bitter, and bone-tired. “Of course you did,” he said. “What else.”

Henry stepped closer and wrapped his arms around him. Hans held him in return, without a word. He rested his forehead against Henry’s shoulder and stood there, still—as if it was the only steady place left.

Henry placed a hand on his back and slid the other into his hair. “It’ll be all right,” he whispered. “I won’t rush into anything.”

Hans didn’t answer. He just held on. “I know you’re not reckless, Henry,” he said quietly at last. “I know you can be careful. Smarter than most men who’ve ever held a sword.”

His voice was softer now, lower, dulled with exhaustion. One hand moved across Henry’s back—briefly, gently—as if he needed to make sure he was still there.

“But things like this… they don’t care how careful you are. Not when it’s something this big. This fragile.”

He paused. Then lifted his other hand and touched Henry’s face, thumb brushing lightly over his cheekbone. His eyes stayed turned to the side, as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to look him in the eye.

“You could do everything right,” he said. “And someone else still screws it up. And it takes you down with them.”

Henry lowered his gaze for a moment. Not because he lacked words— but because he wanted to find the kind that didn’t need to defend themselves.

Then he lifted a hand and set it gently against Hans’s chest. Not with urgency—just enough to let him feel the nearness. “I know,” he said. “That everything can be done right. And still fall apart.”

He looked up. There was calm in his eyes—not the easy kind, but the kind that comes when there’s nothing left to weigh. “But I couldn’t live with that. Knowing I was meant to go—and didn’t.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

“You know me, Hans.”

Hans leaned back slightly, just far enough to see his face. The tension hadn’t gone from his eyes, but his voice was changed. Not softer—only quieter, as if he was choosing every word with care.

“When?” he asked.

Henry let out a slow breath. “Within a few weeks. A month or two at most. They want it done before winter.”

Silence again.

“When the time comes,” he said, “they’ll send word.”

Hans didn’t answer. He simply stepped away—slowly—crossed a few paces to the side, and let his eyes roam across the room, as if searching for something. Or losing it.

“A few weeks… maybe a couple of months,” he echoed under his breath. “So maybe a few weeks from now I’ll wave you off—and never see you again.”

He didn’t turn around. Just stood by the window, his back to Henry. Arms hanging loose at his sides. His shoulders hollow with absence.

For a while, he stayed still, eyes fixed somewhere outside—though he wasn’t really seeing anything.

“One morning you’ll just get up, take your horse, and ride out,” he said quietly. “And I’ll still be here. Praying you don’t die… but maybe that won’t mean a damn thing.”

His voice caught at the end—but he swallowed it down before it could break.

Henry stepped closer, stopping beside him, just off to the side.

“Hans… don’t start digging graves. Nothing’s happened yet.”

Hans turned around slowly. “Oh,” he said quietly. “So it’s funny to you.”

Henry drew a breath. “Hans, I didn’t mean—”

“I can barely breathe with the thought of it — and you tell me not to start digging graves?!”

He stepped further into the room, then turned back, sudden and sharp. “This isn’t some shadow lurking in the corner! This is your death, Henry! Your fucking death! And I’m supposed to stand back and pretend that’s all right?!”

He let out a short, hollow laugh. “You know what’s funny? That you still think that if it comes to that I’ll somehow learn to live with it!”

Henry went still.

“I’m not making light of this,” he said. “For fuck’s sake, Hans, I…”

He broke off. His hands had clenched into fists. “You know what you mean to me. You fucking know.”

Henry’s voice cracked slightly. He looked away, jaw tense, one hand closing over the back of a chair like he needed something solid.

“And that’s exactly why I’m doing this. Because if I stayed, and it failed…” He let out a breath, low and harsh. His fingers drummed once against the wood, then stilled.

“If the plan went to hell just because I backed out— I’d have to look at you, knowing I chose you over what was right. And I couldn’t live with that. You know I couldn’t.”

“You couldn’t live with it?!” Hans burst out. “And if you end up bleeding out in some ditch—that you’ll be able to live with?!”

He took a step forward, fists clenched, eyes burning with anger and hurt. “You think you haven’t proved enough yet? You feel like you still owe something? And to who, for fuck’s sake?! Not to me, Henry! Not to me!”

“And when you went off to rescue Katherine and I spent two fucking days not knowing if you were still alive—what was that?!” Henry shot back at him.

“Fuck, I went to Hlizov for Katherine, not to Vienna for a king! Don’t you see the fucking difference?!”

“In the end?” Henry growled, voice raw. “No. I don’t.”

He took a sharp breath, the words tumbling fast now. “You went because it was right! Because you couldn’t not go! And I get that — I do!”

His hands clenched at his sides. “So what did you think I’d do?! Sit on my arse and wait while some miserable fuckers decide everything for us again?!” His breath was short, voice raw with fury.

“I thought you knew me, Hans!”

Hans stopped. Just looked at him, breathing fast. But when he spoke again, his voice was low. Hard. “So did I.”

“And I thought what we have meant the most to you. Like it does to me,” he added after a moment.

Henry shook his head, still ablaze. “It does mean the most, Hans. Of course it does! But it’s not the only fucking thing in the world!”

His voice didn’t falter for a second. “It’s not either-or. I don’t have to stay home to prove I love you!”

Hans drew a sharp breath and looked up at him again. “You think I don’t have anything else in my life? That I don’t have other duties, other ties, other fucking responsibilities?!”

He let out a laugh—but it was the kind that catches in your throat and hurts more than it releases. “You know what the difference is? I’ve made my choice. I’ve weighed it all—and everything else, everything, comes after you!”

His voice roughened. “And it’s not some fucking sentiment, Henry! I’m risking everything for you—and you stand there telling me there are other things?!”

Henry fell silent. His hands were at his sides, fists clenched. When he spoke, his voice wasn’t raised anymore—but it was hard. Unyielding.

“If there’s something you regret… then say it.”

He looked him straight in the eye.

“Go on.”

Hans’s breath caught. His voice broke—half with anger, half with pain. “Regret something?! Henry, for fuck’s sake, the only thing I ever regret is the time we aren’t together!”

He was breathless, unraveling, his eyes full of everything he could no longer hold in. “And now you stand here telling me you’re walking into something you’ll likely never come back from!”

His voice hitched again.

“What the fuck do you expect me to say to that?”

Henry didn’t speak right away. He didn’t look away. When he did answer, there was no anger in his voice—no defence. Just the quiet weight of truth.

“I’d expect you to stand by me.”

A pause.

“In something you know I believe in. That I know is right.”

Hans only shook his head. Slowly. Nothing like before. There was no fury left in him—just a silence that couldn’t be patched over.

“That’s not going to happen,” he said quietly.

Henry stood still. He hadn’t expected that. Just moments ago, he’d thought they might meet in the silence. That Hans, hurt as he was, would understand. That he’d stand by him—with a single word. A single look.

But he didn’t.

Henry drew himself up, eyes fixed on nothing. “I’m truly sorry to hear that,” he said at last.

Hans turned and walked out without a word. The door closed behind him—quietly. The air outside was cold. Dew clung to the grass, catching the faint light. Hans stood in the courtyard, arms hanging limp at his sides, head tilted back toward the sky. The stars above him were sharp as broken glass. But he didn’t see them.

His mind held nothing but silence. And a kind of fog that burned in him like ash in lungs.

He stood there for a long time. Unaware of how the damp was soaking into his shoulders, how the cold had begun to seep through his skin. The night was still—nearly motionless.

Hans didn’t know how much time had passed. He didn’t care. He didn’t count it. Didn’t live it.

His breath hitched more than once, like he meant to speak—just into the dark. But no words came. Only the weight in his chest, and a bitter taste in his mouth that wouldn’t go away.

He wished he could feel anger. Or grief. Anything. Instead, there was only something vast and formless—something with no bottom, no name.

Eventually, he moved. Slowly. His steps were heavy, his shoulders stiff with cold. When he opened the door, there was a faint click— not his, but another. The door to the guest room.

He stopped in the doorway.

He stared in that direction for a long while. Not because he was unsure. Only because he wasn’t ready to see it.

Then, without a word, he turned toward their bedroom. Opened the door. Stepped inside. And saw exactly what he’d expected.

Emptiness.

He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. He didn’t light a candle. Didn’t undress.

He simply walked to the bed and sat down on its edge. Fully clothed. Wordless.

He didn’t move. His eyes were fixed on the dark. Somewhere in that direction—beyond the wall and a few steps through the house—sat the other man. Henry. A little farther off, on the edge of a bed in a room not his own, hunched forward, hands clasped between his knees.

He only breathed.

And in his head, there was a silence that hurt just as much as the words had.

Henry sat still. His thumbs pressed together so hard his knuckles had gone white.

He couldn’t make it stop. Not the thoughts—those had gone quiet long ago. But the thing left behind in his chest. That dull, heavy presence that wouldn’t fit into words, just kept shifting inside him like a stone in an empty bowl.

He closed his eyes and rubbed at his forehead, as if it might push something out—pain, guilt, a voice.

He hadn’t wanted to shout. Hadn’t wanted to hurt. And still, he had.

He wondered what he should’ve said instead. If he should’ve stayed silent.

Nodded. Lied.

But he knew he couldn’t have. And that’s what made it worse.

At last he let himself fall onto the bed. Lay on his back, hands folded over his chest, eyes open to the darkness above.

But he didn’t register it. Only the silence.

And then—after a while—he realised it wasn’t whole. Somewhere else in the house, beyond walls and stretches of empty air, there were footsteps. Soft. Repeating. Back and forth. Again. And again. Hans paced the darkened room. Not chaotically—his steps had no rhythm, but they had intention. As if stillness itself might break him. The floor creaked underfoot now and then, soft and uneven, but otherwise the house was silent.

Once, he stopped by the bench and leaned into it, both palms pressed to the wood. He stayed like that, hunched, head bowed, as if trying to force some kind of order into his thoughts. After a while, he straightened and crossed to the window. He looked out, though there was nothing there he needed to see.

He turned again. Kept moving. This time toward the chest. He didn’t open it—just set his hand on the lid. Lifted it. Let it fall. Nothing.

He drifted to the bed and paused. His gaze dropped to the undisturbed blanket.

He reached out without thinking. His hand moved over the mattress, tracing the place where Henry would’ve been by now. Where there was always some lingering warmth. Now there was only cold. The fabric stretched smooth and undisturbed.

He stared at the space, as if he meant to speak to it. But no words came. He crouched instead, slowly, elbows to knees, pressing both hands to his face. Stayed there for a long moment, fingers buried in his hair, his breath rising shallow and uneven.

And then—he rose again.

One more step. There. And back.

Hans slowed.

His steps grew faint, the motion unraveling into the weight of silence. He stopped by the window, braced a hand against the frame, and stared out into the dark. He saw nothing. Only blackness. But inside, something was choking him. His thoughts spun, untethered, his whole body tight with too many feelings and no shape to hold them.

He needed air. Just a moment. To let it out.

He turned toward the door, reached for the handle—and just as he eased it open with a quiet motion, he froze.

In the dimness of the main room, on the edge of shadow and what little light there was, someone sat at the table. Head bowed, shoulders locked still, hands either laced in his lap or resting on the wood—it was hard to tell.

Henry.

Hans didn’t move. The door remained half-open, his hand still on the latch.

Only moments ago, it had seemed there was nothing left in the house that could bridge the space between them. That each of them had retreated into their own silence—one in darkness, the other in cold, near enough to touch and yet impossibly far.

But no. He was there. Sitting at the table. And still so far away. Small. Broken.

Hans stepped inside.

The door closed behind him so quietly it wasn’t even a sound—just a shift in the air, as if the space had changed shape. Henry lifted his head. Slowly. In the dim light, his expression was unreadable. Only the outline of his face, the tension in his shoulders, gave him away.

Hans paused for a moment. As if something unspoken had taken form in front of him.

Then, without a word, he crossed the room and sat down on the bench beside him. Not touching. Just close enough to hear the quiet rhythm of Henry’s breath.

He didn’t move. Only caught, from the corner of his eye, the faintest shift—a slight tilt of Henry’s head, as if he meant to look at him. But he didn’t. He kept his eyes forward, fixed on the darkness beyond the window.

For a while, there was silence.

“I didn’t mean to yell at you,” Henry said quietly.

Hans drew a deep breath.

“I’d be hard-pressed to hold that against you,” he said after a moment. “I don’t think either of us can really claim the moral high ground.”

They fell silent again.

Then Henry, slowly, without looking, slid his hand along the bench. Just a few inches. Just enough for his fingertips to barely brush against Hans’s.

Hans turned his head toward him. And Henry, too. In the dim light, they looked at each other—and even though their eyes met, there was more uncertainty between them than peace.

After a moment, both looked away again, back into the dark.

The quiet stretched, until Hans spoke—softly. “You know… if I were like other noblemen, I’d have just forbidden you.”

Henry turned to him slowly. Not sharply—just like someone needing to be sure he’d heard right.

Hans went on quietly, his eyes still fixed ahead. “It would’ve been easy. I’m a lord. I could’ve said the word. And you would’ve stayed.”

He paused for a moment. And even though he still wasn’t looking Henry in the eye, he could feel just how close that gaze had drawn.

“But I’m not like them. And more than that—you’re not like anyone else. I don’t want to command you. And I never will.”

He lifted a hand to his face, rubbed at his eyes, then let it fall back into his lap and finally turned toward Henry.

“It’s not just that I love you, Henry… I respect you. Fully. As a man. As a warrior. As someone who knows what he’s doing.”

He drew a long breath. “And that’s exactly why… I couldn’t do anything. That’s where the shouting came from. The fury. The helplessness.”

“Hans,” Henry said softly, placing his hand gently over his. “I don’t even know how to say how much that means to me—or how deeply I respect you, too.”

Hans lifted his eyes to meet his.

Henry held the gaze for a moment. “Sometimes I forget what you’ve given up just to stay by me. What you’ve risked. And I’m sorry if I ever made it seem like I expected it—like it was just something I could count on. It isn’t. I know it isn’t.”

“And what cuts the deepest…” Henry went on, voice low, “is knowing I did make it feel that way. Like it didn’t matter. When it means everything.”

Henry’s hand remained resting on top of Hans’s. After a moment, Hans turned his wrist—slowly—and let their fingers lace together.

He didn’t speak at first. Just breathed quietly, gaze unfocused, fixed on some point beyond the room.

“And still I know you’ll go,” he said at last, low but certain. There was no bitterness in it. No resistance. Only the quiet weight of something long understood.

“Because that’s who you are. Brave. Just. Steady. Loyal.”

His voice caught for a moment, but he went on. A faint smile tugged at his lips—not bright, not easy. A threadbare thing. Half weary, half tender.

“And that’s exactly why I love you. For those things. For the man you are… even if it means you’ll always walk into the fire.”

He turned his head and looked at Henry. His eyes were tired, but calm. The anger was gone. What remained was a look that belonged to Henry—and had, for good.

“So I suppose I can’t ask you to stop being that man,” he added softly. “Not when it’s that very man… I love more than anything in this world.”

Henry looked at him for a long moment. His brow furrowed faintly—as if something else had just landed inside him, unannounced.

He drew a slow breath.

“You know that when I decide something matters… I hold on like hell,” he said quietly. “I don’t know how to do it differently. And I keep thinking—if you were the one leaving, and I had to just let you go… I don’t know if I’d be strong enough.”

He glanced at Hans again—softer now, almost in awe.

“But you are. You are.”

Then he gave his hand a firm squeeze. Not abrupt—just steady. Certain. He shifted closer, until their shoulders touched.

“I love you, Hans,” he said, eyes steady. “And I don't know what I did to deserve you. But I’ll spend the rest of my life not taking it for granted.”

He lowered his head and rested his forehead gently against Hans’s temple. Stayed there—his hand still woven with Hans’s.

“And I swear I’ll come back. No matter what it takes. Because… none of the men who’ll be out there—ours or Sigismund’s—none of them have as good a reason to make it back as I do.”

Hans looked at him. His brow furrowed a little—or tried to—but in the low light, it was clear there was no anger left. Only the last shred of defiance, clinging to his face like a mask that no longer fit.

“You’d fucking better come back to me,” he said. “Because if you don’t… I’ll come find you. And then you’ll really find out what an angry Hans Capon looks like.”

Henry let out a quiet laugh. Hans did too—brief, but genuine. And then, as if time paused for the briefest heartbeat, their eyes found each other again.

And in that moment, there was nothing else. Just the stillness, the dark, and the two of them. They leaned in. Kissed—long and slow. A kiss that held tenderness, and return.

They stayed there, held in that embrace. In that kiss.

Then, for a while, they simply looked at each other in the dim light. Eye to eye, with a faint smile lingering on their lips.

“Do you think it’s possible,” Henry asked after a moment, “to love you a little more every single day?”

Hans smiled—softly, a little tired, a little moved. “I can’t speak for you,” he said quietly. “But if that’s how it works… then we’re in the same boat.”

He looked at him a moment longer. Then smiled again—just a touch.

“Should we go to bed?” he asked gently. “Both of us. The same one. Ours.”

Henry let out a low laugh. Shook his head—not to refuse, but like someone saying I know. There was a flicker of guilt in his eyes. But more than that, there was tenderness.

He nodded. They rose together. No words, no haste. In the bedroom, they undressed slowly—without habit, without thoughtless rhythm. There was only the quiet trust that this night was meant to be different. They lay close, perhaps closer than ever. Bodies pressed together, legs tangled, their breaths falling into perfect sync.

Hans’s fingers found Henry’s face, brushing lightly across his cheek—as if to remind himself he was real. He kissed his temple. Then his cheekbone. As if to shield what he couldn’t protect.

Henry pressed close—head resting just beneath Hans’s chin, nose tucked into the warm hollow where neck met collarbone. He let his hand settle at Hans’s side, like a promise.

“Tomorrow…” Hans whispered, “What if we made it a day just for us. No plans. No worries. Just you and me. Just… a beautiful day.”

Henry didn’t open his eyes. He only smiled, faintly. “It’ll be beautiful,” he murmured, “because you’ll be in it.”

[jandrichov]

Did I plan to release two chapters back to back?

No.

But this one was already burning holes in the folder.

Part VI drops today.

[jandrichov]

It’s a rare gift when someone’s work becomes (p)art of your story. @playpausephoto, thank you for being part of mine.

Weight of a Name Part V

Forget-me-nots

After a long day of tension and quiet reconciliation, Henry and Hans finally sit down to dinner — just as an unexpected guest knocks on their door.

—

“Godwin?”

Henry's puzzled look broke into a smile. He stepped forward and pulled him into an embrace. Brief, firm. “Come in.”

Godwin nodded, smiling, and stepped inside.

Hans stood a few paces off, hands folded, gaze steady.

Henry looked at Godwin. “How did you find us?”

Godwin glanced at Hans.

“I told him,” Hans said. “Before we left. Someone had to know where we’d be.”

A pause. Henry nodded. “All right. Good thinking. Especially telling him.”

Godwin came to a stop a few steps from the table.

“What brings you here?” Henry asked. He stood across from him, arms at his sides, gaze level.

Godwin drew breath— but Hans cut in. Calmly, with a slight lift of his hand.

“Wait. Let him breathe first.”

Then he turned to Godwin. “We were just about to eat. Bread, smoked meat, horseradish with apple. I hope you won’t turn it down.”

Godwin nodded. “Thank you. I could eat half a pig,” he grinned.

Hans shifted the bench for him.

For a while, they ate in silence — the kind that fills the room not with peace, but with all that still hangs in the air, waiting to be spoken.

Then Godwin set down his knife and looked across at Henry. “Henry… it’s a message. And not just any message. It’s meant for you.”

Henry lifted his gaze. “What sort of message?”

Godwin gave a slow shake of the head. “I don’t carry it. I don’t even know what it says. Samuel does — and from the way he spoke, it wasn’t meant for me to hear.”

“Samuel?” Hans drew breath, sharp and sudden.

Godwin nodded. “He’s waiting for you. At an inn in Betschwar.”

A slight furrow crept across Henry’s brow. “Why didn’t he come with you?”

“I thought it best not to bring more company here without asking. And Samuel… he wanted to be certain the place was safe.”

Hans shook his head. “Something about this doesn’t sit right with me.”

Henry looked over at him. “I still have to go. I need to know what’s happened. He’s my brother.”

“Strictly speaking, he’s not,” Hans said quietly.

Henry let out a breath. “You know how it is with us.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes drifting toward the hearth. “All right. I’ll leave in the morning.”

Hans said nothing to that. He gave a small nod — a little stiff, but without protest. Something was turning over inside him, that much was clear — but just as clear was the fact that he would respect it.

After a moment, Hans looked to Godwin. “Will you stay the night? The guest room’s no marvel, but it’s warm, quiet, and decent enough.”

Godwin shifted a little in place. “I don’t want to be a burden. I only came to deliver the message. I hadn’t planned…”

“Stay,” Hans cut in. Calmly, but firm. “I’ll be on my own here tomorrow. It’d be good to have some company.”

Godwin held his gaze a moment. Then gave a nod. “All right. Thank you.”

Hans rose and fetched the wine skin, offering it with a faint grin. “Shall we?” he said, glancing between Henry and Godwin.

They settled closer to the fire. The flames cast their restless shadows across the walls, and the wine — sharp, but warming — moved slow in the cup.

“So,” Godwin said, “how are you two? Not just ‘fine, thanks’ — really.”

Henry gave a small smile, throwing a glance toward Hans. “Better than I ever hoped. We’re… really well,” he added, a touch shyly.

Hans returned the smile, nodded once, then turned to Godwin. “And you? Still breathing down in Devil’s Den?”

Godwin nodded. “Things have quieted a little. Zizka’s trying to rebuild the lines to our allies, but it’s no easy task.”

He gave a light shrug. “Otherwise, same as ever. Kubyenka’s drinking, Dry Devil’s swearing — and drinking.” A short, dry chuckle escaped him.

“We’re just… not there anymore,” Hans said quietly.

“No,” Godwin agreed, looking at him. “But truth be told, you haven’t really been there much lately. And when you were… you were mostly there for each other.”

He paused — just a fraction of a beat. “That’s not a reproach,” he added, catching the flicker in Henry’s eyes.

Henry lowered his gaze, tracing the rim of his cup with his thumb.

“Sometimes I wonder if we left you all in the lurch.”

The words came softly, more to the grain of the table than to anyone in particular. Hans gave him a brief glance.

Godwin leaned his elbow on the table, wine in hand. “You’d have had to go to Rattay with Hans either way. And that you wanted a little time just for yourselves…” He shrugged. “I can hardly blame you for that.”

Henry looked up. Godwin gave a small, resigned lift of his shoulders.

“You’ve got enough on your plate as it is.”

Henry held his gaze for a moment — a little caught off guard, a little relieved. Then he gave a quiet nod. “I’m glad you came.”

Godwin leaned back, cup still in hand. “I’m glad to see you too. Mostly… I’m glad you’re both all right.”

Hans looked at him. “I think I’ve never been more all right.”

Godwin met his eyes and held the smile a moment longer. He looked around the room, stretched his back, and rose from the bench. “I’ll turn in. Long road behind me, and old bones like to make themselves known. Thank you for letting me stay.”

He walked toward the door and glanced back with a wry smile. “Good thing there’s a guest room here. Means I won’t be disturbing anyone — even if I toss and turn all night.”

Hans let out a laugh. “Someone was wise enough to build the bedrooms on opposite ends of the house.” Silence settled over the house. Godwin had long since closed the door to the guest room. In the main hall, only the faint glow of the dying fire remained.

Hans was the first to rise. He opened the door to the bedroom and paused for a moment. Henry gave a nod and followed.

Hans sat on the edge of the bed. Elbows on his knees, hands clasped, head bowed. Henry stood nearby for a moment, then sat down beside him.

Hans reached out and laid a hand on his back. Slowly, with quiet certainty. His fingers traced the line of his spine. Then again.

Henry leaned in a little. Rested his head on Hans’s shoulder and kissed him. A light touch. Wordless.

They sat like that for a while. The silence was calm — but it held a kind of tension. Like water just before the boil.

“Funny,” Henry murmured. “Didn’t expect to see Godwin of all people today.”

Hans gave a soft chuckle. “I’ve missed him, in a way. Still… I keep wondering about Samuel. What he could want.”

“I’ll find out tomorrow,” Henry said quietly.

Hans sat quiet for a while. “When you and Samuel got close… It got to me.”

Henry looked up at him — but without a trace of blame.

Hans gave a faint smile. Tired. Almost to himself.

“It wasn’t jealousy — not the kind you’d think. But… back then I was still an idiot, pretending you were just a mate. Drinks, trouble, girls.”

He shrugged, one shoulder rising and falling like it barely mattered.

“And there I was, watching someone else call you brother. And hearing you say it back.”

He paused.

“It felt like I was losing you. Before I’d ever had the right to hold you.”

Henry smiled and wrapped his fingers around his. “You’re such a silly thing. But you’re mine.”

He kissed him — light as breath. “You never needed to be jealous of Samuel. He is my brother, blood or no. But you… you’re the one I belong to. The one I love.”

Hans looked at him, and the smile in his eyes was quiet and warm, like embers at rest.

“Truth is,” Henry went on, voice low, “I must’ve loved you even then.”

Hans gave a soft laugh. “Oh, I definitely did. Which is probably why it got under my skin so much.”

Silence settled between them, full of nearness. Their hands, their breath, the quiet weight of being.

Henry leaned in a little more, head coming to rest on Hans’s shoulder. Hans shifted, drew him in, and wrapped both arms around him — holding steady, without rush or need for words.

The hush between them felt like the world exhaling. It carried the weight of the day, now lifting — like a meadow rising gently back after rain. Most things had found their place. And the rest… the rest could wait until morning.

They undressed without ceremony — between quiet words and wandering hands, as if it were part of any ordinary evening. And when they slipped beneath the covers, everything had already fallen into place — warmth, stillness, closeness.

Henry pressed against him, forehead resting in the curve of his neck. Their legs tangled, breath slow and steady. They lay like that for a while, in a silence that asked for nothing more.

Hans brushed a hand gently down his back. “Good night, love.”

“’Night,” Henry whispered. “I’m here.”

Hans didn’t answer. He only pulled him closer. Morning broke quiet and cold.

Henry woke early, as he often did. Hans lay curled on his side, still and warm, his face nestled deep into the blanket. Henry leaned close and pressed a kiss into his hair — gentle, unthinking.

He rose without a sound, pulled on his trousers, and stepped out into the house.

The hearth in the main room was already lit. Flames licking soft shadows across the walls. Henry smiled to himself.

Not long after, a faint stir came from outside. He opened the door and stepped onto the porch.

Godwin stood a little way off, his back to him, arms folded across his chest, head tilted as he gazed out over the treetops — where the sky, still veiled in mist, was just beginning to wake.

“Good morning,” Henry said quietly.

Godwin turned. “Morning.” There was a gentle smile on his face. “It really is beautiful here. I can see why you stayed.”

Henry came to stand beside him. For a while, they said nothing — just watched the low steam rise from the grass as the earth gave up the night’s breath.

“I’ll set out for Samuel soon,” Henry said at last.

Godwin nodded. “I figured you would.”

Henry paused. “You truly don’t know what this is about?” There was something in his voice — as if he were leaving space for a truth Godwin might have hesitated to speak aloud, at least with Hans in the room.

“I don’t,” Godwin said, shaking his head. “But I know Samuel. He wouldn’t have made this journey — not like this — unless it meant something.” He glanced toward the trees. “That’s why I agreed to bring him.”

Henry didn’t reply. He simply looked toward the woods, where a lone bird called out, thin and distant, into the morning hush.

He stood outside a moment longer, then gave a quiet nod and stepped back into the house. The fire crackled softly, its light weaving golden shapes across the floor. Henry walked to the hearth and held his hands out toward the warmth.

Behind him, a sound — the muted creak of a door, a soft step on wooden boards. Hans stood in the doorway of the bedroom, wrapped only in a shirt, eyes still half-lidded with sleep.

“You’re up,” Henry said gently, offering him a small smile.

“I always know when you leave the bed,” Hans replied. His voice was low, rough-edged — still caught somewhere between dreaming and waking.

Henry crossed the room and touched his arm. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

Hans smiled. “I like it when you don’t let me sleep.”

They stood there a moment, eyes meeting — and then kissed. Quiet, unhurried.

“I’ll go as soon as I’m ready,” Henry said softly.

Hans nodded. Slowly, like the motion itself weighed something. “Then make sure you come back to me. In one piece.”

Henry gave a small nod, pulled him close, and held him. Just for a moment — but firmly, like anchoring something that mattered. Then he kissed Hans’s cheek — the kind of kiss one gives when the parting is brief, but the feeling behind it leaves no room for doubt. They ate a little — in silence, save for the quiet press of hands, the glances shared between words. Then Henry dressed and gathered what he needed for the road.

Pebbles was already saddled. Godwin stood nearby, arms folded, face calm. As Henry approached the horse, he gave a nod. “Ride safe. And come back whole.”

Henry offered a small smile. “Thank you.”

He mounted up. Pebbles snorted and shifted her weight.

Hans stepped closer, stopping just beside the left stirrup. “Give Samuel my regards,” he said softly.

He took Henry’s hand. For a moment, their eyes locked — a stillness passed between them. Henry gave his hand a single, steady squeeze.

Then he looked around one last time, gave a quiet nod to both men, and nudged Pebbles forward.

He rode off with no haste — but with purpose. Sure and steady.

They stood watching for a while. Eyes fixed on the road, and the place where he’d disappeared from view.

Then Godwin spoke. “How about a ride? Just through the countryside. The day’s shaping up fair, and the horses could use a stretch.”

Hans looked over at him. “Well, why not. Did you have somewhere in mind?”

“Maybe Squirnow?” Godwin gave a small shrug. “It’s not far — toward Uzhitz. Quiet village, lovely road… and the church there’s worth the ride.”

Hans considered it. “Truth be told… I don’t think I’ve ever been.”

“I used to,” Godwin began — then faltered. His gaze drifted, softening around the edges. “I used to go there often. Long ago,” he added, his voice touched by something faint and sorrowed.

Hans nodded. “Squirnow it is.” The road was soft beneath the hooves, damp with morning dew. Sunlight played just above the treetops, shy and slanting, and the air was cool, clear, edged with the scent of waking leaves.

They rode slowly, unhurried. Godwin led the way, Hans following. Mutt darted between them — sometimes crashing into the underbrush, only to emerge proudly again with a stick clenched in his jaws.

“He never tires,” Godwin said as the dog bounded past for the third time, tail high.

“Some things stay loyal,” Hans murmured, “even when we’ve done nothing to deserve them.”

It was spoken softly — more to himself than to be heard. Godwin didn’t turn, but gave a slight nod in answer.

They rode on in silence a while longer. The trees thinned. The path began to rise. Through the gaps in the branches, a stretch of field opened up — and beyond it, the first soft shapes of rooftops, dull and weathered, nestled into the earth like they’d grown there.

“There’s Squirnow,” said Godwin.

They entered the village at a quiet pace. The houses stood low and spread apart, as if keeping their own counsel. No doors opened, no voices stirred — only the morning mist clung to the rooftops and crept along the ground, reluctant to lift its veil.

The church rose at the village’s heart, squarely in their path. Its stone tower loomed above the weathered roofs like a watchman — silent, enduring, eyes turned to the horizon.

Hans dismounted. Mutt had already trotted ahead, nose to the earth, sniffing along the low wall that circled the graveyard. Godwin lingered beside his horse, gaze fixed on the church — steady, unreadable.

“Just the same,” he said, almost to himself.

Hans drew closer. “And when you said you used to come here… what brought you back, all those times?”

Godwin didn’t reply. His eyes moved across the grounds slowly, like someone following a thread no one else could see.

Hans stepped beneath the archway into the base of the tower. Inside, the air shifted — cooler, stiller, touched by shadow. Stone beneath his boots, worn smooth by time. Faded walls. A single bench, crooked against the plaster. The scent was hard to name — wood, dust, and something older still. The breath of a place that remembered more than just its purpose.

Godwin entered behind him. He removed his cap in silence, held it a moment in both hands — not out of habit, but reverence.

Hans crossed to the far wall, where a shallow alcove hinted at what might once have been an altar. He stood before it. Bowed his head. Folded his hands, then stilled them — though now and then his fingers tensed, just slightly.

Godwin stood off to one side, his eyes resting on the plain wooden cross fastened to the wall. His gaze was half-lowered, heavy-lidded.

They prayed — not in unison, but side by side. Each in his own way.

And between them — in the stone, in the hush, in the weight of memory — there was something ancient. Something that had stood long before either of them arrived. And would, perhaps, remain long after they were gone.

They stepped out of the church, and Godwin turned toward the small graveyard beside it. His pace was slow — not with hesitation, but with something quieter. Something known.

He moved between the graves as if walking a road he’d taken many times before. At last, he stopped before a weathered cross. He knelt.

With careful fingers, he brushed away the leaves that had settled there. Not rushed. Not ceremonial. Simply — gently — as if touching something that still mattered.

He stayed there for a time. Head bowed. Hands resting in his lap. As if in prayer. Or maybe only speaking, quietly, into memory — to someone who now heard him by other means.

Hans leaned against the low stone wall and waited. He didn’t interrupt.

Eventually, Godwin stood. He wiped at his eyes with the sleeve. Said nothing. Returned the way he came.

At the horses, Hans reached into his saddlebag and drew out a small skin of wine. He handed it over, and the two of them sat beside each other on a bench along the church wall. Mutt curled up in the dust beneath them, settling into the shade.

A breeze rose and swept across the roof, stirring a handful of leaves that spun and dropped across the grass. The sun cast long shadows, stretching slow across the yard.

They said nothing.

For a time, they simply sat. The wind moved through the dry stalks like fingers through brittle hair. And beneath them, Mutt gave a soft snort in his sleep.

Then Godwin spoke. His voice was quiet — the kind meant more for the wind than for the man beside him.

“Her name was Milena.”

Hans turned toward him, slowly. He didn’t speak. But he was listening. Fully.

“She was the niece of a local lord. Striking. Her hair was dark — almost black — and her eyes…” He paused. The words didn’t come easily. “Blue, like forget-me-nots. But not the kind that chill you. No ice in them. They were warm. She smiled with her eyes.”

Hans lowered his gaze. Still silent. But wholly present.

“I loved her. Deeply. And I think… I think she loved me.”

Godwin’s hands were clasped loosely between his knees, thumbs brushing over each other in slow, absent circles.

“But I was already promised to the Church. There was no path for us. We never spoke of it. Not to others. Not even to God.”

His gaze wandered out across the village rooftops, and further still — to where memory goes when it wants to be alone.

“She never married. She stayed here. And then… thirteen years ago, the Black Death came. Took her quickly. Without warning. Without farewell.”

Hans leaned forward, resting one elbow on his knee. He watched him for a moment in silence. Then he reached for the wine skin, uncorked it, and passed it back.

Godwin took it without a word. Held it in both hands, as if drawing comfort from the shape, not the contents.

Then he smiled — not with joy, but with that soft, unguarded sadness that only comes when a truth has been carried long enough to feel light.

His hands were wrapped tightly around the wine skin — though he hadn’t tasted a single drop.

Hans watched him in silence for a moment. “I had no idea… you carried something like that. After all this time.”

Godwin didn’t answer right away. He drew in a long breath, steadying something deep inside.

“I do. Because back then, I didn’t have the courage. Or the strength.”

He lifted his gaze toward the church. “If I’d been willing to fight for it — to say what I felt, to stand against the world… maybe it all could’ve been different.”

He gave a faint shake of the head. “But I was afraid. And when fear passes, it leaves you with what you didn’t do. It stayed inside me. Like a stone you never drop — because you’ve held it so long, it’s become part of you.”

Hans didn’t reply. He turned slightly, his eyes drifting out beyond the graveyard wall. As if he’d heard a story that wasn’t his — and yet still spoke to something in him.

Godwin noticed. But said nothing. He finally took a sip from the wine skin. Then passed it back, without a word.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “When I look at the two of you now… what you’re willing to endure for it…”

His voice trailed off for a breath. “How you hold on. Even knowing what it might bring. What it might take from you.”

His eyes drifted toward the line of trees beyond the graveyard wall, where the light filtered soft through green. “I see it now — the mistake I made. That I never fought for it. That I was too afraid to say — this love is worth the price. Even if the price is everything.”

Hans didn’t speak.

But his fingers curled more tightly around the edge of the bench, and across his face passed a flicker of something unguarded — a shadow that hadn’t been there before.

Godwin rested his hands again on his knees. He fell quiet, but the quiet wasn’t ease — it was weight held just beneath the surface.

And after a pause, he spoke again.

“Some things don’t stop hurting. Even when you think you’ve made peace.”

He glanced toward Hans.

“And now this… Knowing you’ll have to marry. Knowing that what lives between you two — will have to step aside for something written by someone else’s hand.”

Hans didn’t move. His gaze stayed fixed on the distance, unblinking.

Then he gave a slow nod. “Ay. I know what’s expected of me. I know the weight of my name, what it carries, what it owes.”

His voice quieted.

“But I’ll never give up Henry.”

He turned his head toward Godwin. His eyes were steady — calm, but lit with something unmovable.

“Not ever. Even if I stand cloaked for a wedding, with a bride at my side. Because if I let go of him… I’d be letting go of myself.”

Godwin looked at him for a long moment. Then he smiled — not broadly, but with the soft, worn grace of someone who’d known love and known its silence. There was a shimmer in his eyes, but they didn’t waver.

“Henry’s lucky,” he said, almost beneath his breath.

Hans let out the barest laugh, shaking his head gently. “No. I’m the one who’s lucky. Because I have him.”

Godwin’s smile held. Slower now, more grounded. He gave a quiet nod. “Then keep it,” he said. “Whatever the cost.”

It wasn’t advice. And it wasn’t a plea.

It was a benediction — spoken by someone who had once stood at the same crossroads, and had walked away with empty hands.

Godwin drew a long breath, as if tucking the moment away somewhere deep. Then he smiled — lighter now, the weight eased from his shoulders.

“If memory hasn’t failed me,” he said, “this village still has a decent tavern. How about a bite to eat before we ride back?”

Hans nodded. “Gladly. And if you don’t take offense… today’s on me.”

Godwin’s grin was swift and warm. “In that case, I agree twice over.” The tavern offered simple food, the kind that asked nothing more than to be eaten. They spoke little. They didn’t need to.

Then they mounted up and turned their horses toward home.

By the time they reached Foxburrow, the sun was tilting low over the forest, gilding the treetops in amber. Pebbles stood quietly in the stable, half-turned, already nosing fresh hay in the trough.

Hans swung down from the saddle, his gaze sweeping the courtyard. Godwin was just reaching for his saddlebag when the door of the house opened.

Henry stepped outside.

For a moment, he stilled — seeing them there — and then Hans was already moving.

Not with urgency, but with quiet purpose. A few quick steps, and he reached him.

No words. Just arms around him, sure and steady — an embrace that spoke, in its own language, of everything whole and unshaken.

“I was starting to wonder where you two had gone,” Henry murmured with a half-smile, once their arms fell away.

“We went for a ride,” Hans said. “To a village not far from here. Squirnow.”

Godwin nodded, slow and thoughtful. “Lovely path. And an old church… with old memories.”

Henry smiled gently. “And the dog?”

“Thrilled the whole way,” Godwin grunted, tilting his head toward Mutt, who had just collapsed into the shade like a sack of grain. “Now he’s barely moving.”

Then Godwin turned to Henry, his gaze a touch more searching. “So… you met with him?”

Henry gave a quiet nod. “Ay.”

Hans angled toward him. “And what did he want?”

For a moment, Henry didn’t answer. His eyes drifted between them, then dropped — not evasive, but careful, as if feeling for the right place to begin.

“What Samuel told me… he said it was meant for me alone.”

The words hung there a moment. Then Henry looked up, meeting Hans’s eyes with quiet certainty.

“But I told him I wouldn’t keep anything from you.”

He turned then to Godwin. His voice was soft, but firm — shaped by trust, not offense.

“Please don’t take it wrongly. It isn’t personal. But I need to speak with Hans alone.”

Godwin nodded, steady as ever.

“I don’t take it amiss. It’s the right call.”

For a moment, he let his gaze drift across the courtyard, as if weighing something quietly in his mind. Then he spoke again.

“When I got as far as Squirnow today… it struck me I might ride on to Uzhitz. Still light enough.”

Hans turned to him. “That’s a good stretch.”

Godwin gave a half-shrug. “I’ll be there before sundown.”

“You sure?” Hans asked.

“Ay.” He gave a dry smile. “Besides — you two clearly have things to talk through.”

Henry’s mouth twitched, the beginning of a smile. “Stop by again, when you’re passing.”

“I will.” Godwin hesitated for just a beat. “And thank you. For letting me share the quiet you’ve made here. That kind of peace… doesn’t grow just anywhere.”

Henry looked him in the eye. “You’re welcome here. Always.”

Godwin returned the look with a small smile. Then he laid a hand briefly on Hans’s shoulder, then on Henry’s arm — light as a benediction — and turned without another word. Soon, the soft sound of hooves was all that lingered, fading into the woods.

Hans stayed where he was. Silent. Standing just off to the side, watching the path long after Godwin was gone.

Then he turned.

“Well?” he said. “What did he tell you?”

Henry didn’t answer right away. He stood with his hands lightly clasped, eyes on the earth, as if sifting through unspoken thoughts. Then he looked up, steady and clear.

“It’s about the King.”

Hans frowned, sharp and startled. “The King? What the hell do you have to do with the King?” He took a half-step forward. “Henry, are you in trouble? Did someone—” He broke off, jaw tight. “What is this?”

Henry glanced around, uneasy. “Come inside,” he said quietly. “I’ll tell you everything.”

[jandrichov]

Hans gave a slow nod. “Ay. I know what’s expected of me. I know the weight of my name, what it carries, what it owes.”

His voice quieted.

“But I’ll never give up Henry.”

One more heartbeat. Then we continue.