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.
