spitting out this hansry wip into the world. it’s a no-war / summer / coming-of-age au that’s (barely) inspired by CMBYN + aristophanes’ speech on lovers as two halves of a whole from plato’s symposium. concept is that henry spends the summer selling his father’s wares at the rattay markets and hans becomes obsessed with the boy who’s everything he wants to be,everything he’s not allowed to be
will the full thing ever see the light of day? who knows i am terrible at finishing anything but i really like this snippet and wanted to share it
(warning for hans being kind of gross eating a peach with his mouth open)
Hans sinks his teeth into a peach, ripe and plump, its juice slicking his throat. Sweet. Sticky. He wipes away a stray rivulet spilling down his chin, then licks his fingers clean, leaving no drop unswallowed.
Rattay is reliably dull, but come summer markets and it transmogrifies into a bustling hub of merchants and travelers. It’s not terribly exciting - most visitors are of lower status and intellect - but any change to Hans’ monotonous life is a welcome one.
Not to mention the influx of new wenches for him to play with.
There’s a dance tonight. It’s tradition to kick off the seaon with a night of booze and song, classic peasant revelry. And Hans plans on ending it buried deep between a pair of thighs.
But it’s only midday, and there’s still too many hours left. To pass the time, Hans strolls lazily through the vendor stalls. Their usual clientele carry lighter purses, so most wares are nothing to write home about. Admittedly, the peach is rather good. Freshly picked from a monk’s orchard in Sasau, the vendor had told him.
“Apples, apples! Save yourself a trip to the apothecary with an apple a day!”
“Hot buns, fresh from the oven! Get them while they’re still hot!”
“You’ve never had meat like this! Thick and juicy, you’ll want to stuff your mouth with it!”
“Maces, axes, and swords! Finest blades in the entire fiefdom, right here!”
This last one grabs Hans’ attention.
He halts mid-step, pivots towards the voice. Every vendor exagerrates, but to spout such an obvious lie? The gall. What sort yokel has the nerve?
A young lad, it turns out. He must be close to Hans’ age, with a choppy haircut and a an even choppier grin. The stall is modest in size, with a red, yellow and white canvas wrapped around it. Blades are stacked orderly, reflecting sunlight brilliantly.
Hans speaks up around another mouthfull of peach. “Best swords in the province, eh?”
The boy eyes him, notices Hans’ fine clothes, and perks up, straightening his back. “That’s right, m’lord.”
Hans chews, swallows. “Quite an extraordinary claim. What makes you say so?”
“My father’s the best weaponsmith in the region.”
Hans cackles. The hubris! “Is that so? And pray tell, where does this master of the forge hail from?”
The blacksmith’s son tightens his jaw. “Skalitz.”
“Skalitz,” Hans repeats, pursing his lips. “Never been. Heard there’s nothing worth visiting. And you mean to suggest that’s where the fiefdom’s finest weapns are made?”
The boy nods once, defiantly. “Yes.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“… Yes, Sir.”
Hans let’s the silence stretch, indulging both in the weight of his own authority and another bite of delicious peach. “Do you know where you are?”
“I’m sorry?”
“The town you’re standing in, where you’ve set up your little stall?”
A crease cuts between the boy’s eyebrows. “We’re in Rattay. What-“
“That’s right,” Hans interrupts. Juice sprays from his mouth and lands on the boy’s cheek. “And you must know that Rattay is home to the the Lords of Leipa, the ruling lords of the region. And, as you can imagine, these lords have their very own blacksmith, who was meticulously selected and tasked with crafting their weapons. You think your father’s skill outmatches even his?”
Hans waits eagerly for the boy to take the bait; argue back, make a scene, throw a punch. Something exhilarating. Instead, he just rubs the juice off his cheek and returns with another question: “Why not judge for yourself?”
How terribly arrogant. Does the boy know who he’s addressing? Surely not, because even the dimmest of yokels would know better. The locals would never dare challenge their lord. But, lucky for the blacksmith’s son, Hans is bored, so he plays along.
Hans takes his time inspecting the wares with exagerrated interest, eventually picking up a shortsword for closer scrutiny. Unfortunately, it is, indeed, an exceptional work of craftmanship. Sharp, shiny, well-balanced in his hand.
But, sure enough, the materials are basic.
Hans sets it down and says, triumphant, “fine enough. For a peasant’s toy.”
All pretense dissolves and the boy barks back, “excuse me?”
There it is. A spark of thrill shoots through Hans’ veins, and he smirks. “Your father’s got talent, I’ll grant him that. But our weapons are forged with Toledo steel, the finest there is. I’m sure yours would serve the average bandit well enough, though.”
Now, the boy’s properly fuming. Finally. Round cheeks have flushed crimson, soft blue eyes have hardened into a glare. “How dare you-“
“Ah ah, watch your tone, blacksmith’s boy,” Hans cuts in, smug. “You don’t even know who you’re speaking to. And you wouldn’t want to cause a scene, would you? Not here, at your modest stall, on this, the very first day of the summer markets?”
Hans relishes in witnessing the boy’s internal struggle. His nostrils are flared, he’s breathing heavily, and his fists are balled up at his sides. He’s aching to throw a punch, Hans is sure of it. And oh, Hans wishes he would. Just for an excuse to punch back. Just to have a moment worth remembering when he lies in bed tonight. Just to wake up with a bruise and a story to go with it.
But the blacksmith’s son has restraint. He inhales deeply, once, and drawls, “no, Sir.”
Dissappointing. So he does know better.
“I’m glad you’ve got some sense, at least,” Hans lies, lips smacking on the syllables. “Hopefully you’ve learned an important lesson today. Here, give me your hand.”
Spiteful eyes bore into him, and Hans commits the sight to memory - better than nothing. The boy slowly, reluctantly, obeys and raises his hand.
Hans drops the peach pit into it.
“God be with you, blacksmith’s boy,” Hans concludes with a toothy grin, turning away just as smoke comes out of the boy’s ears.
