I enjoy fics where the OC/reader comforts the character in the fic, sort of like hurt/comfort execpt they were already hurting in canon and we dont need to see them get hurt in the fic for example, comforting Hans about his loneliness and claustrophobia or Henry about the nightmares he is having
First of all, thank you for taking your time in writing me a prompt, I appreciate it 💞
I enjoyed writing it A LOT, as I’ve never really done a hurt/comfort piece, so it kind of felt like I was testing myself. It was so interesting trying to explore Henry’s situation a bit further, providing him some warmth (my man seriously needs it), and it made me a tiny bit emotional.
I truly hope it doesn’t disappoint, please feel free to give me any kind of feedback, as it helps me improving. I’m aware you said hurt didn’t need to be really present in the story as it exists in canon, but since I choose Henry I felt like I needed to add some scenes of it (more to help me guide myself than anything), hope it is okay.
Summary: As Radovan’s daughter, you’ve barely spoken to Henry —your father’s new apprentice at the forge— besides polite greetings, but the walls inbeetween your rooms are thin, and more than once you’ve heard his night terrors. When one nightmare leaves him begging alone in the darkness, you finally step in, unable of hearing his despair anymore.
Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, mentions of death, severe night terrors, PTSD, my poor boy Henry suffering.
Characters: Henry of Skalitz x Female Reader
Word count: 2.8k
That masterpiece of a gif belongs to @odetohenry
If you'd like to read more, here is my materlist and my Ao3
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Throughout the past two weeks, you had grown used to the way your dad’s new apprentice, Henry, came and went as though the very walls of your house in small Tachov were a passing inn. He would return mud-stained and tired after long days of riding or doing errands; sometimes not at all, vanishing into the nearby forests or staying in the villages of the vicinity. Whatever it was he did, Henry was the gossip of the entire Trotsky region. He was polite enough, courteous in that unassuming way of his, but you had never exchanged more than pleasantries with him. If anything, you had learned more about his character and deeds thanks to your neighbors and to your own dad, as he had spent some time with the bloke. In summary, your lives rarely touched beyond the clink of bowls at supper or the soft tread of his boots outside your house. Yet you noticed him. How could you not? There was something unspoken about Henry, you could see it in the set of his jaw, the way he carried himself as though weighed down by burdens unseen. He seemed troubled, but filled with determination nonetheless. He looked as if he was continuously forced to bear an invisible leverage on his back, which wouldn’t surprise you considering how everybody burdened the boy with their unresolved problems; like Innkeeper Prochek dragging him into his feud with Old Olbram, or your own dad passing every single chore onto poor Henry.
Your curiosity, or pity perhaps, truly sparked during the first days he stayed in your house. The walls of your rooms were thin, worn beams and plaster separating your sleep from his. However, he never seemed to rest. At least, that’s how it sounded. You would sometimes lay awake, listening to the muffled stirrings of a man not at peace. A shift of straw, a restless turn. Once or twice you thought you heard a gasp or muttered plea, but you buried it quickly beneath your pillow, telling yourself it was none of your concern. Everyone already pried enough on poor Henry, and you told yourself he didn’t need anyone else tormenting him, especially on his sleep.
Until one night, when it could no longer be ignored. It began as a low, broken murmur, as it always did. You pressed your face into the pillow, trying to pretend it was the wind through the shutters. But then it rose, raw and desperate, a man’s voice cracking with sheer terror. Henry's voice. Whatever it was that troubled the lad, it had begun again, perhaps a bit stronger than in other instances.
“No, please… Please, don’t leave. Don’t leave me,” His voice cracked with each word. “Pa, Ma!”
The anguish in it was like nothing you had ever heard. It was not merely a dream, it was a soul in torment, tearing itself apart in the dark. Your heart thudded in your chest. What were you supposed to do? You laid there, once again, staring at the ceiling above, hands clutching the blanket, waiting for it to stop. Surely he would wake himself, right?. His troubles were not for you to intrude, he had a right to grieve in privacy. Nevertheless, his nightmares sounded worse tonight, more haunting, as he had never screamed that loud.
While thoughts invaded your mind, the cries grew stronger, hoarse and broken, as though he was being torn apart in that room beyond the wall. The anguish you felt became unbearable, as if his despair was contagious. Before you knew it, you were on your feet, bare soles against the cold wooden planks of the floor. You slipped through the narrow hall, left the house and went to the right, stopping in front of his door. The dirt felt uncomfortable under your naked feet. Your hand hovered above the knob, trembling. What right had you to enter? He was your father’s apprentice, a stranger to you. His nightmares were his own, you had no business intruding his sleep. No one left Henry alone, not in Tachov, not in Zhelejov, nowhere. He deserved tranquility, right? And yet, as you heard him begging, sobbing in his sleep, words ragged with terror, with pleas, you found yourself pushing the door open.
The room smelled of straw, iron and sweat, the faint scent of the worn apron’s leather lingered in the air, a testimony to his hard work in the forge. Moonlight spilled through the narrow windows, illuminating the contorted expression of Henry. His face was damp with sweat, fists knotted in the cover as he thrashed, choking out pleas that made your stomach twist. He looked nothing like the determined, quiet man who rode out every day doing God knows what.
“Henry,” you whispered, voice unsure.
You knelt by the bed and laid your hand gently on his shoulder, your pulse hammering against your skin. He jolted violently, sucking in air as though he had been drowning. His eyes flew open, wild, unfocused, and in them you saw terror so raw it struck you speechless. For a heartbeat he looked at you as though you were some phantom coming to haunt him.
“It’s all right,” you murmured quickly, your voice soft but firm, trying to mask your own agitation. “It’s only me. You’re safe here, I came to check on you, to make sure you are okay.”
His chest heaved, sweat shining on his forehead. Slowly, recognition returned to his gaze. He swallowed hard, but his hand still clutched at the blanket as though for dear life. He seemed too shaken to speak just yet, hand flying to his hair to bring him back to reality. You shifted closer, instinct overruling hesitation. “Shh,” you whispered, smoothing damp strands of hair back from his temple. “It’s all good now. No one’s going to hurt you here, I promise.”
To your surprise, he leaned —almost collapsed— against you, overwhelmed by tiredness, either from the lack of rest or from whatever battle he was fighting inside, forehead resting against your arm. You felt the exhaustion in him, the way his breath stuttered, hot through the fabric of your nightgown's sleeve, his sweat smearing on the textile. His weight was hesitant, almost shameful, as if he could not allow himself this weakness and yet he could not stop it either. Your throat tightened as an immense wave of empathy washed over you. What could possibly happen to someone that could leave them in such a state? What horrors could haunt such a young lad? You lifted your other hand, stroking lightly through his hair, soothing him as if he was some wounded creature in need of calm.
You were young yourself, and it was hard for you to picture what madness had occurred to him. You’ve never really left Tachov, the furthest you had gone was Semine, when you had accompanied your father to deliver some horseshoes. Could it have been bandits? Ma had told you about their horrible deeds across the region. Sometimes men, and rarely women, came by, all wounded and scared, begging for help after being assaulted along the way. Henry, however, was troubled by something far worse than that.
“Whatever it was, it’s over, Henry,” you assured him, words carrying more certainty than you felt, a bit affected by the sight before you. “You’re here with me, in Tachov, in my father’s forge,” you kept caressing his hair. “You’re safe. Nothing can get to you now.”
Slowly, gradually, the tension in his body eased beneath your hand, allowing his built up fatigue to consume him. His breathing steadied, though it still caught now and again, like a child’s after sobbing. You sat there in the darkness, holding his head lightly against your arm, murmuring what little comforts you could think of, until at last his weight grew heavier, his breath finally evening into sleep once more, a deep one this time. You did not move for a long while, scared of disturbing the moment of peace he was experiencing. You simply sat there, your arm cradling the burden he had not meant to share, until you were sure he was profound in rest again and nothing was going to wake him anytime soon. Only then did you ease him back onto the bed, and quietly exited the room. It took you a very long time to finally fall asleep yourself, rays of sun beaming already through the windows of your dormitory.
The next morning, you almost convinced yourself it had all been a dream. It surely felt like one. Your mother woke you up, for you to start your day and your designated chores. The only testament to what had happened yesterday was the weariness of your bones, your body aching for a couple more hours of rest. In your parent’s room, which also served as a kitchen, you sat at the table with a crust of bread and a cup of milk, sunlight spilling warm through the shutters. Your father was already out by the forge, early as always, waves of clinking steel waving through the village, leaving you alone in the empty room. Your mom had surely gone to Troskovice to get some groceries. As you ate in silence, you started recalling last night’s events. Perhaps you imagined it all. Perhaps Henry had not leaned against you like a drowning man clutching for shore. Before you could drift any further with your thoughts, Henry entered the room.
He looked weary, eyes shadowed, even though he had washed and combed his hair into some order, still trying to keep some appearances in case anyone bothered to look at him. He moved silently to gather bread and a slice of cheese from the wooden shelves. He then took a seat in front of you. For a long moment, he did not look at you at all, his gaze fixed on his food. The air between you was thick with the memory of the night before, though no words had been spoken. You lowered your eyes to your now empty plate, not exactly certain about what you were supposed to do. Did he expect you to say something? Or did he want you to act as if nothing had happened? You were fine with both possibilities, since it was his well-being you were concerned about.
Henry’s movements were stiff, unsure of how to deal with the weird situation. As seconds passed, you decided it was best to leave him alone, he surely didn’t have a good night and probably needed some relaxation in these early hours, considering the amount of errands you were meant to do that day.
Before you carried on with your decision of leaving him be, he cleared his throat. His voice was hoarse, but steady. “I… Thank you. For last night.”
You glanced up, not moving an inch from your seat, meeting his eyes just briefly. The look there was raw, uncertain, like a man expecting some sort of rejection. You would lie if you said that such vulnerability didn’t break your heart.
“You don’t need to thank me, Henry,” you said gently, shaking your head. “Anyone would have done the same considering how troubled you sounded, it was the least I could do,” his mouth twisted faintly, as though he doubted that. “I’m sorry if you felt like I intruded your space.”
He hesitated, then set down his bread.
“I don’t feel like you intruded,” he immediately cut you off. “When you… Calmed me down, I haven’t slept that good in a long time, so thank you,” you could sense his awkwardness when remembering you easing him back to rest. “You heard, then,” he said lowly, his posture changing with the topic. “The things I said when I dreamt.”
You remembered his pleas, the way he called for his parents, the distress in which he begged for them to stay. You nodded slowly, scared of triggering something painful in him. For a long pause, you thought he would leave it at that. But then he drew a sharp breath, and the words began to spill, halting at first, gathering his thoughts, then pouring with a force he seemed unable to contain.
“I’m not from here, as you might have noticed or heard. I was born in Skalitz, on the other side of the country,” he began. You recognised the information, as your father had told you about his first encounter with him and how he was looking for a job. “My father was a blacksmith, that’s why Radovan —your father I mean— accepted me in the first place. He was a good man, honest, hardworking… And my mother…,” his voice caught in his chest, as if an invisible force had just pierced his chest. “My mother was a wonderful woman, caring and always there for my fuck ups, always,” he was finally capable of spilling out. “Life was hard sometimes, but we had more than enough. I was happy with my life, even though I liked to complain, you know?”, he kept on. “And there was Bianca.” His voice cracked once again at the mention of her name, but he pressed on. “She was the innkeeper’s daughter. She—” He stopped, closed his eyes for a moment. “I was supposed to marry her and settle down, that’s what my father always insisted on. But then Sigismund came.”
The words that followed painted a horror more vivid than any nightmare, adding clarification to the despair you had witnessed in his sleep. He spoke of fire, blood and steel, of soldiers cutting down villagers like cattle, of Bianca’s body laying as a forgotten basket. He needed a couple minutes before speaking about what had happened to his parents, how his father tried to defend his mother but got struck down. How Henry’s mom tried to protect her dying husband, meeting a brutality no one should ever suffer in exchange, especially a defenceless woman. His voice trembled, rough with guilt, rage and grief.
“I ran,” he said bitterly, his hands clenched on the table with anger. “I ran, while they… While everything I ever loved was slaughtered. And I live, and they don’t. I should have stayed, I should have fought. I should have—”
“No,” you cut him firmly before he could go any further with that unhealthy train of thought. His eyes snapped up to yours, startled. You held his gaze, and extended your hand to grab his, trying to transmit to him your seriousness. “You survived, Henry. You should never think of it with guilt nor shame,” your hands grip tightened, feeling tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. You could never have possibly imagined anyone to carry such a weight upon their shoulders, a suffering so immense it pained you just thinking about it. “That’s what your Ma and Pa wanted, what Bianca would’ve wished, for you to live.”
His jaw tightened, but his eyes glistened. He looked away, swallowing hard. His fingers twitched beneath yours, but he never pulled away. He sat motionless, but you didn’t mind, allowing him whatever time he needed. At last, he let out a long, contained breath.
“Thank you,” he said again, so softly you barely heard it.
“Thank you, Henry. For confiding in me,” you replied. “I’m here for you, if you ever need to talk or just to share a meal with.”
From that morning on, things shifted, almost imperceptibly. Henry still came and went as before, vanishing on errands and duties your father and others set him. But now, more often than not, when dusk fell, you heard the tread of his boots returning to the house, choosing to sleep by the forge instead of some random camp by the road. You heard him settle into the room beside yours, the creak of straw, the sigh of blankets. And though sometimes, you still heard him stir in the night, the cries came less often. And when they did, you no longer laid frozen in your bed confused as to what to do. You rose, quietly, and sat with him until sleep came again to take him, like an unspoken pact. The idea of his pain being muffled just for some time to your words brought some comfort to you, a sense of usefulness fulfilling your heart. Henry deserved better than what life had thrown onto him, and you didn’t mind taking it away from him, even if it was just for a couple of hours, the burden upon his shoulders.
Nonetheless, in the small hours of the night, in the hush of shadows and moonlight, you found an intimate closeness to Henry and his past, something tender and wary, like a fragile thread sewing a wounded soul together against the dark. And Henry, for all his invisible scars, seemed at last to allow himself, even if it was just a tiny bit, to grieve his emotions in peace. And for now, that would have to do.
