Sokka's markings are based on his face paint in the first episode. And Zuko just felt a little plan, so I did something simple, but at least cute. (Sorry if the water isn't the best, still learning how to draw that)
Zuko is obviously inspired by a koi fish, and Sokka is a mix of a Pacific and Arctic white-sided dolphin. I also added some of his war paint from the first episode.
Chapters: 4/?
Fandom: Avatar: The Last Airbender (Cartoon 2005), Avatar: The Last Airbender: Chronicles of the Avatar Novels - Various
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Relationships: Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Characters: Zuko (Avatar), Sokka (Avatar), Aang (Avatar), The Gaang (Avatar), Katara (Avatar), Druk (Avatar), Toph Beifong, Yue (Avatar)
Additional Tags: Aang/Katara in the background, Fluff, Angst, Eventual Smut, Mostly bottom zuko, Small adventure gone wrong, Hurt/Comfort, After the movie - some spoiler, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Obviously all adults, Yearning, Not Beta Read, Mostly Canon Compliant, Nightmares, Burns, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Past Sokka/Yue (Avatar), Blood and Injury
Summary:
After the Tagah event, Sokka returned to the Southern Tribe but became distant and frustrated, so his father sent him to visit his sister in Republic City. Where Aang and Katara finally catch up to why he's so upset, with help from Toph. Zuko had an eye for Sokka for longer than he should admit, but respected their friendship, that is, until Sokka appeared to feel the same. As he tries to pinpoint if his suspicions are correct, they end up on an unplanned rescue mission. With an even more unplanned ending.
It's so amazing to get comments on how much people are enjoying your fanfic. At the same time they all point out how sweet and cute it is but I know what is coming next. 😅 (There will still be plenty of cuteness after events) Edit: snippet added! CW - burn injury/nightmare
This is very much a WIP, taking place after the new movie, but I wouldn't mind some feedback. Light spoilers. 3.4k words
Aang pov
"He's brooding again," Katara announced, storming into their room, slamming the door behind her, sending Aang jumping out of his skin. "Some- THING." She failed her arms. "Didn't work. Now it's everybody else's fault."
After the Taga event, Sokka returned to the Southern tribe, only to be sent back a few weeks later. Now he sat reluctantly in his own room, in the newly built air temple, brooding. Hakoda and Katara had been in constant communication about his moodiness. Random outburst of frustration followed by distant moodiness. They thought maybe he was just missing his friends, needed a break from tribe duties and so on. The first few weeks after he arrived in Republic City, he seemed happy, excitedly picking through all the new markets, trying all the foods, but ever so often, Aang found him watching the sky, forlorn and too silent. And soon after, Sokka wasn't quite Sokka anymore.
Katara dropped onto their bed with her arms crossed. "I just don't know what to do anymore."
Aang moved from his meditation spot just out of the balcony, through the large, airy door to her side.
"Maybe we should talk about it, tonight… Toph will be there…" Not that he enjoyed the idea, but she would know if Sokka was lying, which Aang was certain of, but wasn't so good at confronting these things like the earth-bender.
"You want to interrogate him?" She snapped.
"Or get him drunk." Aang placed his hands up in defence. " You know how she can get, and she's great at getting people to loosen up, something Sokka definitely needs."
She went quiet again, her eyes still narrowed, full of frustration. "He mumbled something about 'not feeling worthy'. But I don't think I was meant to hear it."
Not worthy. It wasn't the first time they dealt with this; he being the only non-bender caused issues before, but they thought- or at least it seemed like that was in the past. But then again, this only started since the spirit event, so maybe that could have rekindled that feeling? Aang tossed his arms back, lying down. If only Sokka would just tell them.
"Could it be chief- to-be pressure?" He asked.
Katara shrugged. "He was perfectly excited before-"
"Yeah," Aang sighed. "It's not long until sundown. Why don't we go on a walk, then meet up with Toph at the airship pier?
Just a touch of gold light lingered in the sky as they entered the restaurant. Aang had an arm around Katara's waist go to their reserved table. They bickered a few times before they got to the pier, leaving a tense, silent atmosphere between them as they walked. At least she wasn't being too distant to. And Toph, of course, sensed it following, arms crossed back, behind her head. Silent, but her demeanor rigid as ever.
They all plopped down in chairs. Their waiter smiled, filling their cups with water.
"We are waiting for one more," Katara announced before the lady had a chance to ask for their orders.
"Of course, can I get you anything else while you wait?"
Katara spoke sweetly, "No-"
"Suke!" Toph ordered.
Katara grumbled, but kept her complaint to herself.
"Soo… What's the problem now? Twinkle-toes boring you already?" Toph smirked. "And where's Sokka? I thought he was meant to be here… O? Let me guess, they are fighting- again."
Toph made a disgusted noise, leaning back in her chair, tossing her dusty feet on the table's edge. The shuddering that went through Katara could only mean one thing: she was going to lose it. Aang quickly sent a vault of air, pushing the feet from the table. "Sokka is… on his way." He took Katara's hand, placing a small kiss on her knuckles, a little distraction that usually worked.
She humffed, pulling her hand away with a soft blush. "He is still being difficult."
"So you brought good old Toph to beat it out of him?" She sounded too thrilled, smashing a fist to her palm. "Don't worry, I got this…speaking of the source of problems."
No more than a few seconds past Sokka entered the building. He walked as if he was being dragged, hands in his pockets, shoulders slouched, and his eyes glaring at the ground. Oddly, the only thing put together was the one thing that was usually a mess, his clothing. He wore a dark blue long tunic with a darker vest, loose-fitting pants tucked into tight, tall boots. Not a single wrinkle from leaving his clothing in its usual pile, Aang would hear Katara complain about, nor stains from the many endless experiments. What stood out even more was the lack of a belt full of his most recent gadgets; in its place was a simple stash.
Simple and clean.
"Hey," he mumbled, pulling out a seat.
"Jeez, he is fucked." Toph grumbled.
Sokka rolled his eyes. "Nice to see you too, unless you're working for them."
"I work for no one but myself, thank you very much. And I need a drinking buddy." Toph tossed her arms around him, forcing him into a hug.
As if on cue, the waiter returned with the sake. "Now, what can I take your orders?"
"Sea prune stew for me. And he'll have tofu curry- Sokka?" Katara ordered.
"Spicy noodles."
Toph added, "Roast duck and dumplings" She processed to fill Sokka's cup, then her own. "Let's have some fun!"
Sokka slammed the cups back just as quickly as the earth-bender. They- well, mostly Toph was singing before the food had a chance to arrive, and Sokka had his head down, moping. Katara, caring as always, ended up taking the bottle, hiding it under the table. Something Toph didn't take kindly to, raising her hand to get the waiter's attention for another.
"How you're students doing?" Aang asked her.
She shrugged, taking another drink. "We aren't here for me!" Toph elbowed Sokka.
"Traitor," Sokka whined. "Why is it that I have a small, insignificant, pointless, unfixable issue, we have to get MOSTLY everyone together?"
"Your food." The waiter placed the bowl of noodles just in front of him, along with everyone else's food. "Will that be all?"
"Yep." Toph dismissed her. "It is a pity the Fire-Lord couldn't honour us with his presence."
"Zuko has a whole nation to run." Katara took a small bite of food before continuing. "Besides, what is he going to do here anyway- more council meetings? Listen to Sokka's rambling about gadgets? Or the tantrums when they don't work out."
"I wouldn't…" Sokka trailed off, stabbing the bowl of noodles with his chopsticks.
At the same time, Toph narrowed her eyes, tilting her head slightly in Sokka's direction.
"Then again." Katara started again, "Maybe we should send you off to him. You both can brood together."
Sokka yanked his bowl closer, stuffing his mouth full of noodles.
"Along with Mai, we might as well call it the broody nation."
The non-bender glared at her, but didn't speak a word. That same distant, sad gleam in his eyes washed to rage. Silent anger on the world's most ecstatic chatter… "Maybe that's enough." Aang nudged her.
She huffed, her eyes snapped to Sokka, then to Aang. A little crease formed between her brows. "I was just teasing…"
"Yeah, whatever." He muttered something under his breath, then stood. "Enjoy your evening." Sokka turned down some coins to cover his portion of the bill, then turned on his heels and promptly left.
"Great!" Katara hissed. "It doesn't matter what we do- he doesn't even argue back anymore. It's just nothing."
Aang rubbed her back. "We'll figure it out."
"Send him to Zuko." Toph slurred, sipping her drink with a too-satisfied smirk. "I'm sure he'll help him out just fine."
They both stopped and glared at the earth-bender.
"Don't look at me like that. If you were using your feet, this wouldn't be such a damn mystery to you. Every time we mentioned the (nickname), his heart stopped beating like crazy." She giggled.
"So all of this is just Sokka missing Zuko? I didn't know they had gotten so close."
Toph's brows almost touched her hairline, her eyes went to the side, nearly rolling them. A face usually followed by a sassy remark, but her lips remained in a thin line. The earth-bender switched her attention to the food in front of her, leaving Aang and Katara to their thoughts.
When did they get close? Zuko had been making many efforts to assist the Southern tribe rebuild. So that was the most reasonable time period. But why not just say that, why cover it up and pretend otherwise? Missing a friend is perfectly normal, but this felt more like when Suki dumped him… Aang could feel his heart leap out of his chest.
Toph laughed.
"I guess I'll send a letter to Zuko? Or maybe we shouldn't get involved?" Aang asked.
"Involved with what?"
"Just send him packing, twinkle toes, speed this along to whatever conclusion."
"But they are both in important positions, if it goes poorly…" Aang dragged his hands down his face. They were both his friends, and Zuko was excellent at dealing with uncomfortable situations, but if it went poorly. Would the Fire Lord forgive them now that they know and would be intentionally sending Sokka there? "There's just so much that could go wrong."
"It explains why he got so upset when Zuko complimented Taga."
"Noo- you think? But Sokka doesn't- " Katara rambled, her face flushed. "I didn't know he- ugh, I'm such an idiot. Suki told me she thought Sokka liked someone else. But I never found the someone, and she was oddly calm about it."
"But Suki dumped him well before that last venture… and Zuko was a round more often back then." Aang felt a pinch of guilt for being so ignorant of his friends' suffering. "How were we all so blind to this?"
"You two were, not me. I expected something for a while, and that little trip together confirmed it."
"So why didn't you say something until now?" Katara snapped back, that motherly strike flaring up.
"Sokka is a big boy now, Katara. He had every opportunity to figure this out on his own- BUT it's getting annoying, so we might as well help him along."
Aang asked softly, "Do you think it could work out?"
"Not a chance. Zuko will probably throw a fireball in his face. As you pointed out, Zuko is an important figure- the Fire Lord. He needs to marry a proper noble family and have heirs."
"Excuse you! Sokka comes from a great family… heirs, on the other hand… well, that would be a problem."
"A problem I'm sure Sokka thought about," Aang said plainly. He was too smart not to come to that conclusion. Even if Zuko liked him, duty would force them apart. "I don't think we should get involved."
"It would be kinder to let him break Sokka's heart now than let your brother suffer over the what-ifs for who knows how long," Toph spoke only to Katara. "Zuko seemed to be more reasonable, calm-headed than ever, so Sokka will probably just get let down lightly singed."
Katara poured herself a drink, sipping the clear liquid with all the grace of a moon goddess. Her lethal blue eyes burned holes into Toph. That was the end of all talks; they ate in awkward silence. And Aang took his time, knowing the argument brewing to be released behind closed doors.
Once back to the air temple, the door to Sokka's room was firmly shut. Aang reached out to that earthen ability, opening his senses. Sokka sat at his desk doing what he could tell, but his knee was bouncing anxiously.
"You go up, I'm going to go check on him," she said too sweetly.
Aang embraced her. "Alright, just maybe don't say what we expect just yet. If he isn't ready to open up to us, then we shouldn't push him."
Katara caressed his cheek. "I know. Always the peacemaker."
3 days later
Aang sat meditating on the balcony. All Sokka-related talk had died down, but he had grown more distant. He went out of his way so far to avoid Toph that he actually asked Aang to cover for him if she came around. Luckily, the earth-bender seemed more amused, showing her superior bending in the main city's courtyard, right outside of the council buildings, to much of their dread.
Soft beats of feathered wings graced the air, touching down on the balcony's railing. A large bird with a scroll tied to its leg. A messenger hawk? They didn't usually land here directly; they landed at the mail centre in town.
Aang lifts off the ground with a push of wind onto the balls of his feet. He pet the bird gently on the head, then went to the scroll wrapped in a red ribbon. A pit grew in his stomach as the contents of this letter became less of a mystery.
With a sigh, Aang unrolled the parchment: Perhaps Sokka could do with a change of tasks. Instead of inventing, he merely repairs mechanisms he's already confident in. I have a few airships here that could use some of his expertise, and there's always plenty of room in the royal palace for my friends.
If he didn't know better, Aang would believe Zuko was involved in this little scheme cause no one could fix the ships besides Sokka- right?
"Don't read that," Katara shouted, snatching the scroll.
"I see you listened," he sighed again, not shocked at all. "So? What did you tell him?"
Zuko pov
The letter Zuko received two days prior came as a bit of a shock, as Katara looked to him for help with Sokka. Things must be bad. So, of course, he offered his assistant. He absolutely wasn't going to abandon a friend in need… and maybe he missed the hyperactive man, just a bit.
It didn't take much to have a room prepared for him- even some clothing. The weather here was warmer than in Republic City, and they were in their hotter months. With some luck, Sokka would be here by the end of the week, maybe sooner if Katara drags him here on Appa. For now, he was expected in the throne room.
Meetings and grievances.
Zuko groaned, rolling over in his bed, willing himself up. What he gives to have a moment of true personal time. Maybe that was another reason he was so eager to extend his help, to have a friend around again. And Sokka never cared for his title, simply treated him like a person to the point it would be considered disrespectful.
Heat rushed to his cheeks along with his hands. Did he really want to be-no- that couldn't be it. He just missed the simpler life and the relaxed nature of his good friend. Relaxed is being used loosely.
A soft knock came from his door as it always did at the same time, every day.
"Come in."
The same servant came every day with a tray of food and was ready to take care of any of his needs. She was a kind, gentle-voiced lady named Yaru. That always had her long, dark brown hair up in a tight bun. He had no complaints outside the fact that having a slew of servants waiting around any and every corner for him was still unnerving.
She bowed as she spoke, "May I draw you a bath, or help you with your hair?"
"No, thank you."
Zuko waited for her to place the tray down on the vanity, bow and leave before he stood from his bed. It was a bit odd for the servants at first, who were in the habit of preparing and assisting the previous fire Lord in everything. Now they always offered respectfully, but happily left. He preferred it this way, getting to spend his mornings and evenings in solitude. Well, perhaps his evenings now can be occupied by a certain tinkering enthusiast.
The smallest of urges tugged at the edges of his lips. Zuko took the two steps down from where his bed was, sitting in front of his vanity. It was beautifully carved out of dark reddened wood, golden flames licked up the stand's legs, and encased the mirror. The entirety of his room fit the standard red and golden theme, all but the bone comb with blue stone carved with the Southern Tribe's insignia embedded into the handle. A gift from the Tribe's head matron- Sokka's gran gran.
After their rocky history and complete distrust when the Fire Nation appeared in their waters again, this time offering help. They slowly came around to getting along. And it didn't hurt that Sokka was there every step of the way, being the bridge between him and his remaining family. The memento quickly became one of his most treasured items.
Zuko picked the comb, caressing its smooth surface before starting on the ritual that was his hair. Another knock came at his door; the monotone voice of the Chamberlain came from the other side, announcing himself before entering.
"Forgive me, I know you don't like being disturbed in the morning, but another letter came from the Water Tribe girl."
"Katara," he corrected.
"Right, my apologies."
The Chamberlain placed the letter down, bowed and dismissed himself. After what happened with Aang's last letter, there was no chance he'd have any of his council members or servants read the contents of his letters from the 'group'.
Zuko unrolled the scroll: Thank you, Zuko. I'll have him on the first airship there.
How was he to resist the quickening beat of his heart at the mere thought of his friend?
Sokka pov
Sokka sat at his too-small desk in the corner of his too-small room, fiddling with gears for this thing that couldn't be bothered to name. Hell, he didn't even remember what it was meant to do anymore. Only that the gears didn't line up. He snapped a larger gear into place, turning it with the edge of his thumb. The interlocking edge jammed into the smaller side gear, locking everything into place and exactly what he didn't want from something that should be running smoothly.
He popped the gear out, tossing it into the room's corner. It bounced off the wall, colliding with the growing pile on the floor. This was all so pointless! It didn't matter what he did, made or became, it would never be enough. He would never bother with someone like him.
"Sokka!" Katara called, throwing the door open.
She had finally left him alone for the most part, the last few days. There was the occasional odd glance here or there, whispering when he was just out of earshot. But he couldn't be bothered to find out why. He just needs to work until he stops feeling what he felt, push all those memories away. And he thought he did, then unexpectedly, he had to say that one line. Now Sokka couldn't stop wondering if he had been wrong and maybe they could… could what?
"Sokka?" Katara waved her hand in front of his face this time. "Fire-Lord Zuko is requesting your help with some... um… ship trouble. He didn't give the specifics."
"What…?" His eyes went wide. Did some spirit out there want to save himself from his lonely fate, or was this a too-good-to-be-true situation? It had to be; luck wasn't something he had when it came to relationships. But he couldn't pass up this opportunity to find out. "Uh… I'll leave right away."
The chair screeched against the floor as he slid it back. He walked across the room to his bed against the wall, and on a hook was a large empty bag.
"Well…" Her tone sounded too satisfied for Sokka not to turn around. Katara wore a large smirk, then giggled, "I see you're burning with the desire to help."
Sokka's face dropped. "Ha-ha how amusing." His voice dripped with sarcasm. But his hands quickly returned to the task of stuffing his clothing into that bag, along with any other essentials. He wouldn't need much; he yanked the drawstrings shut and hurried to the door.
Katara waited by the door, then followed him. "I'll fly with you to the pier."
This chapter isn't done, but hopefully it's at least promising. Let me know what you think.
(Also, if you follow me for kcd content, I'll still be posting that, I just couldn't help myself. Have you seen the new Zuko??)
It's not posted on anything yet, it's still very much a WIP, but I'm dying for a fantasy AU with an arranged marriage between these two (just these two for now, we'll see)
Small context- This is after Skalitz, but Henry had it into the keep instead of fleeing to Talmberg. Also, during that night, Henry shapershifted for the first time - he's a bit messed up rn.
{Sir Radzig brought his horse to a stop until Henry caught up, then nudged his horse forward. Now riding side-by-side with Henry. “Sit tall, and let me do the talking. Hanush and I are old friends, but his ward is another matter.”
He wanted to sink into that hard leather under his arse, not sit pretty for some leech Lord. But this was his life now, as a Lord’s son. An heir; something most would dream of being, but the reality was far more bitter.
Visions of the pit turned his stomach, the horrid feeling of something crawling out of his flesh. Blood rushed out of his face; Henry leaned to one side, dry heaving until his lungs ached. Nothing came up. It wasn’t a shock; he hadn’t eaten in two days.
“Easy, lad.” Radzig grabbed his shoulder, keeping him in his seat.
Slowly, Henry shifted back into the saddle. His guts were groaning, and sharp pain cut through his sides.
The Lord watched him with a grim smile. “It’ll get easier.” He sounded as certain as the rain falling on them.
The bouncy trot of the horse wasn’t helping the hurting in his bones; settling was what his father called it. The bones were healing and adjusting, so the next shift would be easier. ‘It would pass’, Radzig explained before they left, as if that made it any easier to deal with. Three days had passed since his first change, three days, and he still felt horrible.
“Do we really have to do this now… father?” The word felt foreign in his mouth.
His real father, the one who raised him, was slaughtered, but his blood father rode beside him. A custom is why Martin raised him with Ma. Strong wolven bloodlines don’t claim their children until their first shift as some safety measure. Apparently, competitors would hunt their young down, so they started hiding them in human villages, where the young were nearly indistinguishable from the human children.
Radzig looked back at the trail of survivors, they were leading to Rattay. “Yes. It’s necessary. The Lords of Lepia have the means to rebuild Skalitz, and they will only do it for the silver in the mines. If we just give them the mines, they may throw us off the land in a few years. The only way we can guarantee the safety of our people is through this proposal.”
“But you said you were friends with Hansuh.”
“Lord- Hanush,” Radzig corrected. “And I am, his ward- the heir is the variable we must secure. Plainly, I’m not familiar with him enough to know what he’ll do. He’s known for having a short temper and for being a frequent user of the bathhouse’s special services.”
“So a skirt-chasing arsehole,” Henry announced.
“Let’s… not say that too loudly.” Radzig cautioned.
Wet mud turned into thick wood thudding under their horse's hooves. They came to a large drawn bridge leading into the outer bailey. A subtle stench of silver reverberated off the dark stone walls.
Radzig leaned into view. “You can smell it too, right? Silver is finely ground down into a powder and mixed into the limewash. It keeps things like us from just climbing the walls. Does very little to those who fly.” He amused, looking to the clouds above.
As if that’s what they needed, flying enemies.
“It was the silverwash on our castle walls that prevented the enemy from slaughtering us all the night.” Radzig continued.
“I wouldn’t know, would I?” Henry grumbled.
His Lord father sighed, a long, exhausted sound, but said nothing more. That alone, with something he came to appreciate about him; he didn’t push, didn’t lash out when Henry knew his actions would be punishable by any other noble.
“Lord Radzig.” A guard stood just in front of the portcallis; the moonlight reflected a red glow in his eyes, just barely visible through the visor of his helmet. “Lord Hanush would like the survivors to go through the lower gate. There are temporary shelters set up for them, near the lower castle.”
“You heard the man,” Radzig turned his horse to face his people- what was left of them. “I’m sure these fine guards will escort you, and I’ll be there to check the arrangements shortly.”
Cold, covered in mud and blood. Their eyes were dull and empty, but they went on back off the bridge and down to the other side. Henry wanted to go with them, to keep them safe from the leeches leading them like cattle. And the castle walls were starting to look like a pen.
“There will be fine, Henry. Come on.” He tapped the top of Henry’s knee, getting his eyes to look forward again. “Remember, sit tall-”
“Don’t talk. I know.”
They rode into a courtyard of stone with an arena. Even in the low light of sunset, Henry could see the brilliant yellow fabric draped over the wooden fencing. And also along the railings of the stairs leading into the keep. Wind whipped the banners hanging from the towers. Twelve pairs of eyes watched them from the battlements. Their muted, sweetened scent gave their true nature away.
Hinges of a door squeaked open, heavy-set feet thumped at the top steps, making their way down, followed by the groan of the wood. A broad man approached Radzig with his arms held out wide, with an even wider grin.
“Radzig!” His voice bellowed.
His Lord father dismounted, returning the grin, and embraced the man. “Lord Hanush, we are a bit ahead of schedule under worse conditions.”
“Mah-” Hanush waved those concerns away. “You’re here, and you brought your pup. Let’s see him.”
“Henry.” Radzig waved him over. “He’s still going through the settling,” he informed.
Henry slid off his horse, still holding the saddle’s horn as the world shifted and spun. The muscles in his legs felt disconnected from the bones. They wanted to give, but his pride wouldn’t allow it, not in front of these monsters. A familiar hand landed on his shoulder. Henry barely looked up to meet his father’s eyes as a disgusted sneer came from the stairs.
“This-” A voice cracked, overflowing with vitriol. “- is what I'm to be chained to? IT- can’t even stand!”
A golden-haired man with sharp blue eyes peered at them from the top step. He stayed in the shadows as if he intended to hide. And maybe it would have worked on a human. But even in this light, Henry could make out the gilded details embroidered into his cotehardie. A perfectly fitted garment of a black silken fabric with a high collar and tight sleeves. Its cording emphasises the Lord's broad chest and wide, strong shoulders, narrowing down to a lean waist.
Unlike the heavy-set Lord in front of him, this man’s step went unheard. Descending the stairs with ethereal grace, but a face cold as stone. The closest thing to warmth was the red glow that sat in the Lord's pupils, flickering in brightness.
“Shut your mouth! No one asked you.” Hanush snapped back as Hans grew closer. The older Lord turned his attention back to Henry. “We’ll get him sorted. I expect you’ll be at least half as vicious as your father.”
“Twice as vicious, and twice the size,” Radzig interjected. “Henry will be quite the force with proper training.”}
Thank you if you read this far. Please let me know your thoughts or questions!
Articles about KCD NPC Black Bartosch (Bartoschek of Drahonitz)
There are two articles in Russian about Bartošek z Drahonic. Here I will post their translation, done by a neural network, so that English-speaking readers can also familiarize themselves with this information.
This article is more in a popular science style.
More than 600 years ago, there lived a man whose words are indispensable to every book about the Hussite Wars in Bohemia. He was neither a king nor a wealthy nobleman, but a simple chronicler. This is the story of him and of how my brain got oversaturated with sources. Welcome to the room upholstered with printouts from digital libraries. At the exit, something coherent will emerge.
I had one dictionary entry, nearly a hundred references to scholarly literature, a handful of encyclopedia articles, and countless mentions in footnotes. Not that any of this was necessary to live a happy life without knowing who Bartošek z Drahonic was, but once a sportive interest takes hold of you, it’s hard to stop. The only thing that worried me was his chronicle. There is nothing more agonizing for a native speaker of Russian profanity than translating clumsy Bohemian Latin. But I knew that sooner or later I would translate that crap.
In the beginning was the Word! Specifically – the encyclopedia article. First, second, third. And all identical. Typing "Bartošek z Drahonic" into a search engine yields the scantiest, most uniform material and a handful of sources. The sources themselves are not distinguished by a wide range of information, and in the end, they all lead to the work of the chronicler himself – his, surprisingly enough, chronicle. The most valuable turned out to be the dictionary entry, from which I obtained the following:
he was born,
he lived,
he died.
This is what a typical cross-section of information looks like about a person who lived 600 years ago and managed to stand out in some way. As a rule, records of the following type survived:
date of birth – if you’re lucky and he is sufficiently noble to be granted such an honor. Child mortality is too high, so why remember when a child was born if he most likely won’t survive to adulthood?
parents' names, especially the father's. Important information for inheritance of property and debts!
date of marriage, name of spouse. Important information for determining where the property will go!
date of death. So that the property can be inherited in time.
information about land transactions and inheritance… Well, you get the idea. The ancestors cared greatly about real estate.
mentions in official letters and orders. Prison cell, begging bowl, army, all that.
In a word: habeo ergo sum. I have, therefore I exist. It is by this principle that much of our knowledge about those times has been preserved.
This realization gave impetus to discoveries. New traces were found in land transactions!
1412 – a piece of land here (in Drahněvice), bought with hard-earned money.
1436 – a piece of land there, granted even by the emperor himself!
1437 – part of the land pawned to someone, well, okay.
1445 – the division of the chronicler's remaining property among his relatives.
Already something! And, good heavens – here are Drahněvice, but he is Bartošek z Drahonic! Surely this is the place after which he was named. Let me find his homeland, maybe I’ll learn more about the man himself.
…that's how I became acquainted with the great Czech affliction. No, not that vowels come at a separate rate. But with dysgraphia.
There are two Drahonice in the Czech Republic today, and back then there could have been even more. Neither fit geographically. Suspecting something was wrong, I checked how the chronicler's name is written in different variants. Ready?
Bartosch
Bartosek
Bartossius
Bartholomaeus
of/von/de/z (depending on the language)
Drahonice
Drahonitz
Drahonicz
Drahynic
And to make life merrier, Czech has cases. The name declines, so simply searching for an exact match won't work. And, as you can imagine, there were a great many Bartošes living in the world, so you need to search in combination with the toponym. At this point, you can hear off-screen hysterics — let's fast-forward.
A pool of information accumulated, from which I deduced that the boss of dysgraphia lived in the area of Karlštejn Castle. I opened a map and began examining the surroundings. And what do we have there? Drahenice! Bartošek is from Drahenice! In the information about the village, it's written in black and white that his family lived there.
With renewed strength, I came across an article in Prameny dějin českých, where the author analyzed the primary source — namely, the chronicle — and based on it, reconstructed Bartošek's life path. What drew me first and foremost was the author's assertion that nothing else of the chronicler remained.
With trepidation and awe, I crept toward the primary source, which I cherish like the Holy Grail. It is a fairly large manuscript. According to knowledgeable people, it is written in such crooked Latin that even the devil — whom every ignoramus has summoned at one time or another — would get bleeding eyes from it. And I am not a doctor. Nor am I a historian. All I have in my head is "memento mori". How was I supposed to know? "It can't all be that bad, right?" I thought and pressed the "translate" button in my browser. Then my eyes left the chat.
Briefly: neural networks handled the translation best. The browser only added psychological trauma. Google Translate and other basic translators: the Latin, which is broken in every direction and full of Bohemisms (Czech words reshaped into Latin forms), enters the fray, barely and clumsily — and you should look at the result with only one eye. I swear, neural networks are a lifesaver.
Excellent, I've got a coherent text in Russian! What now?
Then I fell asleep trying to read it. Bartošek turned out to be a military chronicler, and that, you know, is a special kind of reading material. Who hit whom, where, under what circumstances… For example, the description of the Battle of Lipany — a wall of text listing names. And then another wall of text describing the battle. So dry that it seemed the author suffered from a chronic hangover and poured all that dryness into the letters. And so it goes for 42 pages.
The fun was compounded by the fact that the chronicle can be divided into two parts. One is sorted in chronological order, kept from 1419 to 1444. The other consists of fragments from various years, partly in Czech, from 1310 to 1464. As the perceptive reader will easily note, someone other than the original author clearly got involved in the action! Or else the Czech turned out to be a venerable long-liver. Spoiler — no.
Breath in, breathe out, I displayed miracles of self-control: I arranged the fragments in chronological order and read through them from beginning to end. And then at last the full picture unfolded before me. Pieces of life, attitudes toward the civil war tearing Bohemia apart, hopes and aspirations, even descriptions of the weather — all of it is there, in those sparse lines in Latin.
And now I can finally tell who this man was.
Little remains of his youth. He came from the lower gentry, petty nobles. The chronicle's pages mention his father, mother, and sister. But all we know about them is limited to the places and times of their burials. There is no information about marriage. In 1408, he set off do Vlach — that is, to Italy. Why? For how long? Questions without answers.
Did he take part in the Domestic Wars that rolled over Bohemia like a steamroller at the turn of the century, laying the foundation for the economic, social, and religious crisis of the Hussite Wars? Was he a squire, a knight, or an ordinary mercenary? Did he fight in someone's garrison, convoy Jan Hus to Konstanz, or perhaps live at his leisure in Drahenice (damn them)? Unknown.
But the chronicle records that the future chronicler actively joined the Hussite Wars that broke out in 1419 — on the side of the imperial forces.
We find his first traces in the vicinity of Prague Castle, besieged by the Praguers. Bartošek mentions his combat forays in the surroundings — near the ford in Malá Strana (a district of Prague), the siege of a church in the village of Stodůlky (now also a district of Prague). The name of the village and the number of prisoners taken — so little remains of those local, obscure battles.
In April 1421, the chronicler unexpectedly mentions that together with a quite remarkable person, Hanuš of Kolovrat (a rich and powerful nobleman of the third generation), he storms Příbram. At this point, questions arose for me, because Prague Castle was surrendered in June 1421, yet Bartošek managed to teleport to Příbram a couple of months earlier. Did he leave the Castle, or was he not there from the very beginning? No one is in a hurry to answer — all the witnesses are dead, only names remain, along with a few letters and testaments, from which little can be reconstructed. And I will not speculate.
One thing is clear for certain — from this moment on, the fate and descriptions of the chronicler are inseparably intertwined with the history of Karlštejn, as well as with the aforementioned lord. Other places also intervene in his chronicle, but so fragmentarily that we understand — they were written from hearsay. Refugees surely flocked to the impregnable royal castle, besieged for several months in 1422 but never taken. People from all sides of the conflict (how tempting it would be to think there were only two of them!) came for negotiations. The chronicler spoke with them, weaving their stories into his own, preserving them for our memory for many years.
Bartošek's life breaks in 1426. For about a month, he is sick in his left eye. And then, two weeks later, for another half month — his right eye. He blames raw meat, bathing in a bathhouse, and grief (for whom or what? Another unanswered question). And after this, his entries become especially detailed. Likely, the illness caused irreparable damage to his vision. Bartošek was forced to leave his usual career as a warrior, switching to the path for which we know him — that of a chronicler.
His chronicles are written in rough Latin. Perhaps, although he was a nobleman, he did not know it well enough? Or perhaps they were dictated to a son or a squire? Again, we do not know. We can only stumble over Bohemisms and weep over how the browser translator mangles the text.
Toward the end of his life, the records contain fewer wars and more high-society intrigues. Not because the Hussite Wars ended — their echoes rolled on long after the "final" Battle of Lipany. Most likely, because Bartošek grew old and found refuge with a wealthy lord who needed the services of a scribe. Quite possibly, with that same Hanuš of Kolovrat.
A common way to recognize a fighter's merits was to grant land — such recognition comes in the form of land in a village near Prague, Hoře měřice, bestowed by Emperor Sigismund. However, the chronicle contains repeated complaints about the weather near Karlštejn — which means Bartošek did not move far from his homeland.
What was his death like? If only we knew when it happened! In 1443, the chronicle leaves one of its entries logically incomplete. And the chronicler would surely have rewritten it if he had witnessed the event in his lifetime, as he did elsewhere — for example, describing a months-long siege from beginning to end in a single sentence. Was it a swift demise, cutting off the chronicle mid-line, or a protracted illness that stretched the chronicler's existence all the way to the will mentioned in 1445? There is no answer.
Finally, I would like to reflect on his moral qualities.
How dry and impartial his work appears! Compare it at least to the Hussite Chronicle of Lawrence of Březová from the same period. Lawrence is always ready to praise an ally, vilify an enemy, and venomously run down everyone he dislikes. Bartošek? Sparse, clear descriptions with names and numbers. Even about his illness, he mentions it calmly and dispassionately — although, certainly, a long illness and a sudden change of profession would knock anyone off balance.
All the more valuable are those rare moments when the chronicler finally raises his voice.
In one episode of the Hussite Wars, his lord, Hanuš of Kolovrat, was forced to switch to the enemy's side. Together with them, he plundered peasants and drove away their cattle. And from the pages of the chronicle comes a bitter sound: "May Almighty God have mercy on this vile injustice!" Clearly, the chronicler sympathized with the common people caught in the millstones of war.
He always accompanies records of someone's death with a ceremonial religious signature. "May the Lord rest his soul," "May the Lord have mercy on his soul now and forever," and so on. Even regarding the death of Bejdřich of Kolovrat, Hanuš's younger brother, who caused Karlštejn some trouble during the war, the chronicler says "let those who wish pray for his soul!" I believe we can speak of his inexhaustible politeness or, who knows, compassion.
A record marked by particular tenderness and sorrow is that of his sister's death in 1433: "Pray to God for her, and may Almighty Lord have mercy on her soul forever!" One thing is certain — he loved her.
So incredibly little, and yet so astonishingly much, we know about the chronicler who lived more than half a millennium ago. Having exhausted every source to the dregs, studied every interpretation, I will end here the story of searching for who Bartošek z Drahonic was and how he lived.
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