Henry is possessive. He doesn't exactly mean to show it, but it's everywhere about him: his closeness, his anchoring gaze, and that weight in his shadow of a bulldog's strength. A consummate knight -- or at least a page, at any rate -- Henry, with his sword in hand, bears the image of a guard in his night-pitch-armor. As though from nowhere, he has become a dutiful protector from out the lifelong obscurity as a blacksmith's son, but paired oh so darkly with the weight of losses? Altogether, his parts become a dizzying cocktail that says his good charge is 'mine.'
Of course, it's obvious in a skirmish. When threatened, whoever Henry's sworn to defend will know his loyalty keenly. And he attacks always so ruthlessly, something demonically possessed when he's tested in battle, but when he's butchering for them when their safety's his priority? He's impossible. Jaw clenched, he'd blaze like the Black Rider on his ashen steed. Yet, it would go even well beyond battle, admittedly, his boots quavering just a sliver when he spies his charge taken for some spirited dance. In a way, he feels like it's him who's ought to have, ought to be there by their side something god knows whatever. Sure, he knows it's him who is collared, obviously, and really, is very much aware that they're still their own person, but after losing and mourning and bogged with his yearning? He can't help himself. Like a dog, he feels a bit like that spot by their side is shaped like him.
Fact is, platonic or not, Henry feels he is the best for the job, the best for some company, and the best sword about. Who else but him would labor as wickedly as him, isn't that right? He's eager, passionate, too, and he needs to be of use.