#Forget-Me-Nots | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

jandrichov · 2 days ago

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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.”

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