#favouredfortune

[blacknighted]

@favouredfortune asked: "all this talk of blood & slaying has put me off my tea." / 𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐀𝐁𝐁𝐈𝐓 𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐄: still accepting.

Henry had ought to feel himself redden at that. After all, for far too long now, he has served as a harbinger for an ambit of men. And among Sir Radzig's mighty retinue — or his father's retinue, to be exact, as peculiarly as that word might crawl out his gullet — none have struggled for their banner like their bullheaded Henry. His Henry. And Martin's Henry, too, made of spirit and nerve. Back home, the lad now loiters in the feast hall with autumn's fast-chilling windfall slithering past the walls. He's safe. His sword has returned and Suchdol's delivered...! And shimmering, the laughter and the party fills out the halls.

"Right. Sorry. Doesn't matter in the end, anyway," Henry excuses, his chin lowered, his cheeks flush, and the candle in the alcove licking him bright. It isn't pleasant talk, not at all, wrangling with the knowledge that he's twice been tortured before the merriment and warmth of Christmas' tidings, but alas! It's over now, Henry! Let yourself be merry. Shrugging, Henry, looking up as Hanush roars out his laughter, whirls his cup of pricey wine. "Devilry or not, turns out Istvan still drew the short of the stick. ...I think he saw it coming. I wasn't going to let him go, not after everything he's done," he says, "and I'm starting to think he counted on that." He's older in his soul now. Smile soft, he feels his scars. "If I look rough now, you should see the other guy."

[drahnovice]

ㅤRE: YOU THINK I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU DID? ㅤCC: @favouredfortune.

ALTHOUGH WITH THE HALF WIDE EYES OF A CAGED ANIMAL, hands bound with rope, shoved to a cart — Rattay horses, Rattay soldiers, Rattay banners — by Sir Radzig, Erik scoffs. "And what did I do to you, my Lord?" The title's spit with rancor and with venom, Erik's voice vitriolic and vulnerable as if Radzig's face, Radzig's fucking face, had set within Erik's aching chest a fire angry and furious and raging. Erik hates Radzig. Erik hates Radzig's very existence, that Radzig had known Ištván and had known Ištván intimately, that Radzig had fathered the bastard that murdered Ištván, that Radzig had fathered the bastard that murdered Ištván by defenestration, a forty metre fall. It was cruel. Radzig's bastard is cruel, horrifically cruel, and surely the apple must not fall far. ( Had Ištván survived the fall at first? ) Erik's hands flex against the rope, chafing rough and rubbing wrists raw. "I know what you did. What your bastard did." Again is the "title" spit with rancor and with venom, though Erik cares not for the situation of Henry's birth: Henry is a bastard because Henry is a fucking bastard but a fortunate bastard for it isn't Radzig who Erik's revenge will be exacted against but little Lord Capon. ( Selfishly, Erik would like to kill Radzig, too, for having ever known Ištván. ) "If he never knew you—" Erik's hands flex, breathing hard and bullish through flared nostrils. "—he'd still be alive."

[skalitzhare]

" if  you  need  to  cry,  i'll  look  the  other  way. "

- for Henry, from @favouredfortune

where it hurts starters. // @favouredfortune

"No," Henry attempted to blink away the blurriness in his vision and only succeeded in pushing the tears down his cheeks. Despite this, his voice didn't waver, "They were your family too."

The leaves of the linden tree rustled in a gentle breeze, dappled sunlight through the branches warming his face. Apart from the wind, Skalitz was silent, the bustle of life long gone from its familiar streets. It was the first time he'd been able to visit his parents in a while, given how busy life had become. He was sure Radzig had come back here before, but they had never visited *together* - in fact, Henry had only ever come here alone. There was something different about coming to see their graves with company. Shared grief softened the blow, but it couldn't stop the tears.

Henry sniffled and wiped his eyes on his sleeve, feeling smaller than he had in months.

"We didn't bring any flowers," he pointed out, all of a sudden far too aware how bare the mound of dirt before them lay.

[the-pure-equation]

Winding Down

Hermann twirled the pencil idly in his hand, huffing out a sigh for the sixth time in the last five minutes. Really, what was he doing? The war was over. There ceased to be any urgency on his research and he found his zest for discovery to be waning. He glanced over to Newton, observing him for a moment before deciding to abandon his calculations. Standing quietly he made his way over, stopping just behind him. "What are you doing?"