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When you’re hunting, there are things that you know to look out for. Plenty to mark if the land is good for sporting about—but it all boils down to water and food. Game’s got to have game to hunt, after all. They eat, shit, and die just like any man. So when you’re hunting you find tracks, scat, and nests. You go where the land is ripe. That’s where the game is best; where the earth is plentiful.
That means since Henry isn’t looking for company on this outing, he goes as far from those signs as possible.
No hunter in their right mind will be out here on this end of it. Course, that means he has to pack their water and they’ve only got jerked meat to eat, but it’s private even if not fanciful. Quiet, save for the scarce bird population that feasts on carrion that gets lost out here. Mushrooms that thrive in dank, dark places and moss that can’t be choked out by weeds. Hardly romantic, but that’s not ever been what Henry gets. Even if Hans deserves more.
Hans doesn’t have much to be chipper about these days. He’s promised to a beautiful woman in order to claim what is by birth his, and war still looms threateningly over a future horizon. That might seem like a mixed bag to some, but Henry knows Hans. Knows him like the back of his own hand. Could trace the cracks and sinew of him blindly, now. But Henry can’t get lost in that. Not when the months have bled dry into days, and soon the days shall be hours before Hans should be wed.
Henry knows in his heart that he will stand beside Hans at the altar. He swore that he would get Hans there himself, didn’t he? It didn’t matter that the oath was taken…before. Nothing has changed for Henry in that regard. Hans’ health and security comes first, always. Dutifully, Henry will remain. Whether Hans spares him a second glance or not, Henry will be right there.
Though, if Henry knows Hans, the man will not go silently. He doesn’t know what they’ll become. A fond, fleeting memory or too great a grief, but whatever this is between them (and Henry knows what it is even if he refuses to call it by name in the sorrow of dusk), Hans will do right by Henry. Henry trusts in that; knows it to his core. Even if they haven’t discussed what right is yet. There just hasn't been the time—or the will, if Henry is being honest. Though that sort of honesty feels like it ought to be flogged from Henry instead of confessed so easily in the confines of his own mind. But what he doesn’t speak aloud cannot torment him any more than his thoughts already do.
There are better things to think of though, in this finite time that they have together as the wedding crawls near. Hans is cursing the soft soil that isn’t quite mud but isn’t nice, either. Henry knows they’ll have to move on to better lands before their hunt draws to a close and at least attempt to catch something for show. A few hares ought to do the trick, but a nice buck would make for an easier story for why the hunt took so long. But once more Henry is worrying about a future that has yet to be, instead of letting himself fondly watch Hans curse his way back to the fire after having relieved himself.
“You truly know how to pick the worst spots, you dog,” Hans complains, though he doesn’t seem to be genuinely stung. Just the usual miffed like he is when taken away from his silver spoons and hot baths.
Without order, Henry opens his arms for Hans to fall into. Hans of course does. Complains more than his weight as he goes, but settles into the crook of Henry’s arm so painfully easy. As if they have done this a hundred times over. As if they had done it from the first. (Henry tries not to think about that—not because he regrets anything about them, really, but because he mourns what never was just as much as he mourns what will never be.)
“Ugh,” Hans groans soundly. “And now that you’ve dragged me out here, you aren’t even paying attention to me.” He pouts, crossing his arms and nestling in further against the crude log that lays at their backs. “Am I that dull that the fungus seems more attractive than I?”
“Dunno ‘bout that,” Henry shrugs, “don’t think I could make do with a mushroom. Not as firm, is it? Poisonous, too, when it wants to be.”
Hans gasps dramatically, flinging himself forward and gaping unattractively toward Henry. “You wouldn’t.”
Henry scratches his chin. “Just said I wouldn’t, didn’t I?”
“Yes, but you said it like—” Hans flusters, his argument and his cheeks flush beneath the heat of the fire before them. “Oh, yes. A real jester, aren’t you? Well! Don’t quit whatever it is that you have for a job, mhm? I think you’ll find that your comedy won’t get you very far.”
Chuckling, Henry leans back and enjoys the closeness of Hans’ body. The ease of their intimacy. The comfort of their shared humors. It’s like breathing, it is. Or the pleasant ache after a few good hours of riding (—the horse, that is, even though Henry has learned a few other pleasant things to ride, too). The simple yet complex way that an arm moves through swinging a sword, familiar to Henry without the weight of the meat dimming the comfort of the motion.
It’s an easy silence, then. Hans falls back into Henry’s arms and they sit with one another. Sometimes they whittle away the time together like this. It isn’t dull; it’s a commodity. One that they won’t ever be able to have like lords and ladies do. Where Henry could easily sling his arm over Hans’ shoulder and not just rake him through the mud in affection disguised as sparring; kiss the side of Hans’ forehead in sweetness. To drink from the same cup. Sip the taste of the wine from each other’s mouths as they spoke of nothing at all.
Henry knows that he’ll miss it just as much as he’ll miss what comes after on some nights. When Hans knows precisely what he wants. When Henry wants nothing more than to give it to him. Or, for a special night or three, where Hans has wanted to serve. As if Henry were the lordling and he the commoner. And Henry can give himself over to Hans’ capable, confident hands. When Hans will whisper half-formed thoughts and half-written poetry into the meat of Henry’s back. Carve it into his bones so that he’ll always remember it, even when they’re out of each other’s arms in the morning.
“You didn’t even ask me what I brought back with me,” Hans draws Henry’s attention back, petulant as the boy that he first met but there’s an uncertainty to his eyes. The flicker that brings Henry back to a dungeon’s floors. An apology that felt unneeded and yet holy scattered between them, falling like broken pottery from Hans’ mouth. Henry shuffles, bringing his body to attention and eyes keeping with Hans’ gaze.
“I can think of somethin’ that I know,” Henry says, bringing the hand not secured to Hans’ shoulder down on the lord’s thigh. The meat there is powerful and refined—just like the rest of Hans, all of which Henry more than appreciates.
But Hans must have other ideas. Not that he’s unaffected, of course. He smiles a filthy thing and tilts his knee toward Henry’s body. Forces that hand to fall closer to its desired spot. But then he’s fiddling with something in his own hands, and it’s something floral—which is astonishing to Henry, as he was certain no blooms were growing for miles.
“Where’d ya get those?” Henry gestures with his chin. It’s clearly what Hans wants to talk about anyway, and Henry can admit to the sin of curiosity.
“You’re not the only one who can pack things, are you?” Hans huffs, brow furrowed. Then he points with an accusing, proud finger. “You know, you really should think better of me!”
Henry raises a brow, tilting his head forward. There isn’t much that Henry can say in response to that—unless he’s attempting to derail Hans. He could try, of course, but Hans is as stubborn as an ass, and that means his hide is as thick as it comes when he thinks he has a point.
Hans rolls his eyes, sitting himself upright once again. “You’re an arse, Henry.”
“Only the best for my lord,” Henry allows, shifting forward to lean over Hans’ shoulder. The flowers in his hands are small, precarious things. Henry ought to recognize the blooms, given that he has at least an apprentice’s level of alchemical knowledge. But he’s a bit distracted by the way that Hans’ thumb strikes tenderly at the petals. Its entrancing motions, and Henry has to pull himself away to ask, “you still ain’t said what they are, though.”
“A girl I knew in youth showed me how to make them, once,” Hans hems around the answer. “It’s a woman’s craft, really. Don’t even know what came over me to attempt it. Good thing I’ve a man’s hand where it counts then, aye?” He turns, jaw crooked but eyes fluttering anxiously.
If there’s one thing that Henry knows about Hans, it’s that the lord is foolhardy and overly-jubilant and—truly—lovelier than he intends to be given the occasion. And always so afraid to be so, as if gentleness might be mistaken for weakness. As if, in all of Henry’s coarse life, he does not long to be wrapped in the silk-soft shroud of Hans’ kindness. To be buried in the tomb of Hans’ loyalty and fierceness is the greatest honor that Henry could seek. Whatever the hereafter holds, it is now that counts for Henry. Now with Hans’ too-shivering smile and dew drop eyes.
“I like your hands,” Henry says, and he knows the brutal honesty strikes Hans like a blow from how the lord’s face shutters. But Henry, who could sharpen his canines on the bowman’s callouses of Hans’ hand, knows only oath and truth when it comes to Hans Capon. At least where it counts, anyway. “Show me what it is, aye?”
What Hans presents is less of a laurel and more of a slapdash of daisies, which Henry recognizes now that Hans’ hands have given them up for Henry’s eyes to bear. A poor boy's first attempt at links is what they really look like: the sort of chain that not even a peasant would qualify as passable for a harvest festival unless the trembling boy was presenting it to his mother. Henry wants to don it with pride as he would a cloak of colors. Wear it like he would an armor. Something more sacred than any knighting bequeathed onto Henry’s shoulders.
“Stupid, isn’t it?” Hans laughs, shaking his head. “Honestly, I must have been possessed—though I promise I am well exorcised of the thing now.”
“Is it for me?” There’s something desperate pulling Henry’s voice as taut as a bow. There isn’t much that Henry can call his own in this life. Even what he does have he owes to his betters. He knows this. Such is the way in this life for men like Henry. He is not particularly cursed by it, but something of this offering feels different. A gift, maybe. Or it is that it’s something twined by Hans’ own hands with the intent for Henry—
Please don’t take it from me, Henry begs quietly. It’s not even his yet; it may have never been intended for him—but irrationally, Henry wants so rawly that he aches with it. Like fresh meat cast before a hunting hound. Sweet apples placed before a horse. Nothing more than an animal salivating at the feet of his master.
Hans scoffs. “No, I had made it for the other man I’m rolling around with. He’s in another part of this very forest, you know. It’s where I was off to just moments ago, actually!” With a roll of his eyes, Hans sits up straighter, and in doing so hunches over the little laurels.
It’s foolish. Hans is teasing him of course, but it doesn’t feel very good. Not like their usual verbal sparring. Henry knows Hans’ language—that of his tongue and that of his body. Hans is unsure of himself and this gift, and that prickles his humors like a rose grows thorns. But that infernal beast inside Henry’s chest, the one shaped like a blacksmith’s mutt and a lord’s warhorse, raises its hackles. Pathetic and despairing thing that he is, Henry removes his arm from Hans’ shoulder and interlocks his own hands. Keeps them secured on his lap. And he can’t even bring himself to spare with Hans’ quip.
“Hey,” Hans chides softly, head tilting to meet Henry’s gaze. “Henry,” he summons, and Henry is nothing if not obedient. Looking into Hans’ eyes, he sees all of the sorrow and love that he feels reflected back. It feels like watching the sunrise through a church’s window. “It’s only you. Don’t be stupid.”
The softness in Hans’ voice soothes, filling Henry’s hollow feeling with sweetness. Henry knows that he isn’t the smartest—he isn’t even the bravest or the strongest. Henry is only a man, but he is Hans’ man for as long as the lord will have him. And Henry is alright with that. He smiles, “Do I get to wear it?”
“It would rather defeat the point if you didn’t, wouldn’t it?” Again Hans scoffs, but his hands tremble as he anoints Henry’s brow with his love. Henry, quiet as a monk, bows his head in supplication as he is bestowed this blessing. It is only when Hans offers a whispered, “There,” that Henry rises.
“And yours, aye?” Henry offers in an equal whisper. “You’ve one too?”
“Yes,” Hans answers, though his gaze never wavers far from the flowers entwined with Henry’s hair. “You’re supposed to make two. Woman’s superstition.”
Henry doesn’t think that’s true. He’s known plenty of braiders, and not a one of them has prayed over chains as if they were rosaries. Beads and bones are flowers not. But Hans has always had an awkward practice to justify his oddities, and Henry will forge any truth for him. Well. Nearly any.
“Hand it over,” Henry urges with his hands resting out and palms upward. He takes it like an offering. A tabard set over a man’s swearing arms. And when Hans sets the chain there as reverent as the finest cut of meat to burn, Henry swallows thickly. It’s different being crowned by Hans’ noble hand; the difference between receiving and bestowing a blessing. Henry’s hands are that of a blacksmith’s son. Covered in ash and soot. Worn by time and world and war. Never have they known the finery of nobility—until Hans.
Henry’s hands have threaded through Hans’ goldspun hair as a woman weaves her shroud. Reserved, Henry had made his hands as mild as the ivory that combed Hans’ hair before him. Hans would whisper a command into Henry’s ear, forswearing gentleness, and demanding all of Henry’s strength. All of his muscle forged. And Henry would grip Hans’ hair like they were reins to provide the lord his every desire.
But now, Henry returns to that initial delicate touch. The shyness of it. Henry doesn’t wish to crush Hans’ carefully plucked blooms. Nor does he seek to sully the tenderness with which Hans crowned his own head. And when Hans rises newly decorated, the dimming sunlight that filters through the treetops makes him look saint-like. Venerated in the wee hours with naught but a lone owl in the distance to witness it beyond Henry’s own dirty eyes.
“There.” Henry swallows through the thickness once again. In an attempt to bring about some levity, Henry teases, “You look pretty as any bride.”
Hans laughs wetly, something more of a spit than humor. He shakes his head and attempts to run his fingers through his locks but his hand pauses at the first touch of the chain. Bringing his own hand to his gaze, Hans’ mood fizzles, like barely there sparks bowing to a downpour. “Rather be your bride than her groom,” Hans clenches his hand into a fist and Henry watches the well-kept nails threaten to bleed the soft skin of his palm. As if Hans is on his knees seeking forgiveness for his confession, bleeding and paying his way into Heaven’s gates.
Sometimes when Hans gets as he is now, Henry thinks about them being off for somewhere far, far from here. What would happen if he were to take Hans and throw him on the back of Pebbles' saddle? What would happen if they would ride until they could not ride anymore? Henry could more than make a living—if not from the odd jobs as he did so often on the road, then from his skill as a blacksmith. Something that was always needed and that he was no shy hand at.
But Hans already hardly took to life on the road, unless there was a sight to see and a hot bath at the end of it. If there were fine wine and fresh fruit. All things that Henry would no longer be able to promise Hans if they abandoned Rattay. And that was without speaking to Hans’ very birthright. The one that he had fought for. Had more than earned and yet still it was not enough for him to be considered a man. He was more than man enough for his nobility—for his responsibility—Henry thought. And that was what Hans wanted. Sir Hans Capon of Pirkstien; the man that Henry loves and would have no other way. With his need for finery and for his blue blood running in his veins and his endless want to be better. That desire is what Henry loves the most.
And in knowing Hans, in knowing there could never be even the thought of them being elsewhere than here, Henry chooses tonight. To live in this moment. The battle of wits he must constantly fight with himself. But for now he succeeds and takes Hans’ hand. “You’d get more of a say in your own wedding if you were my bride.”
“How romantic,” Hans cackles, though there is a pinkish hue to his cheeks once again. He rolls his eyes as he turns his gaze away, his fair skin turning as red as his chaperon. There seems to be much that Hans wishes to say. Those soft lips create shapes without sound. It reminds Henry of their first night, when there was too much to say with too little time. But such has been their entire relationship as of late, and it does not surprise Henry that once more emotion has seized Hans’ heart and stolen his words. Henry feels that way, too. “Hal,” Hans sets his hand upon Henry’s ownand it feels so familiar. So terribly quiet it is when their gazes meet once again.
“If there was—” Hans begins and ends. “It isn’t a decision at all for me, given the choice between you and her. Not even a thought to be spared for it.”
Henry doesn’t know how to respond. He knows Hans cares for him—deeply, even. Deeper than fear runs. But to hear it over again in the small professions that Hans spares as if they are common knowledge makes Henry whole. It fills his spirit like wine and leaves him starved as if on campaign. There is never enough of Hans’ love to fill him, yet Henry could be satiated by Hans’ words to keep cherished and close to his heart. Henry will never know the pressures that rest upon Hans’ shoulders, but what he does understand is the meaning of these words gifted like laurels. What does Henry compare to a real, proper lady? One who can give Hans children. One who can be with him beyond the dusk and the dawn.
As the sun disappears beyond the horizon and only the stars and moon shine down on them, Henry deliriously thinks: if you married me first, you’d have no other choice. Which isn’t true and isn’t fair. Hans already has no choice, does he? Henry wants Hans to have that choice. He wants Hans to be given not just what he needs, but what he wants. For as much of a spoiled pomp as he is, Hans has never truly been given his heart’s desires any more than Henry has. And if it were in Henry’s power he’d give Hans all of it.
Which is what strikes him as the pale moon begins reaching her loving fingers through the locks and blooms of Hans’ crown. Here in this moment, he can give him something of want. Can fulfill his dreams. Can bow to his whispers and mold to his hand. Which is why, even if the plea cleaves through him like a sword, Henry says, “Marry me, then.” And it isn’t romantic, really. It doesn’t sound like a poet would describe a tender scene. It rips apart Henry’s skin until every piece of him effuses the sentiment, spurting like a dying breath. And he’s flayed on the hubris of his own blade, he knows, but blood is the truest gift that Henry knows to give.
“What?” Hans’ whisper is somewhere between a scoff and something else unnamable. Henry would prefer Hans to be a bit more explicit, but he understands that Hans has a language of his own. One carried by smirks and teases. Littered with Latin and other romantic tongues. Things that Henry could scarcely dream of, let alone read himself, and yet he strives to understand Hans and his unspoken things. This though he cannot sparse. So instead Henry reiterates:
“Marry me first. Right here; right now.” Another Hail Mary, full of Grace, across his chest. “We could do a little ceremony of our own in these woods, couldn't we? Nothin’ of your dreams, I imagine, but it’d be us—” Henry swallows the lump of coal that seems to have corked into his throat. “If that—it’d be ours.”
This time Hans' voice does sound of laughter, but it's tighter too. Like a noose around his throat. The image makes Henry shudder. Makes shame flush his body red when he thinks of all the almosts and nearlys that would have taken even the precious few moments that he has with Hans now. “You're daft.” Hans shakes his head, and his own daisy chain shifts with his blond hair in the motion. A motion so light as if the very words don’t make Henry’s heart drop like stone. “I mean—what sort of ceremony would this be, hmm? And who would officiate? You mad man! I’m sure Godwin would love to have a crack at this.”
That nearly breaks the both of them, Henry thinks. Humor twisting their lips like the blooming links donned on the head of hopeful lovers—their links, too. But it's tainted also by the realism of the soil still on the petals. The dirt that crowns their hair and anoints them with the earth's filth.
“Who needs a parish man, eh?” Henry says, even though if there were ever a man to do it that would have been Godwin, he thinks. But Henry means this truth too. Truly. All he needs right now are the soft wrists and calloused fingers of Hans Capon in his own grip. It’s fantastical—this sudden need in Henry’s heart built up like a bonfire, but if he can give this to Hans (and, if Henry can have something for once. Something to keep like this night—) “Scriptures say where two or more gather in His name, He's there, yeah?”
“Do you really think God would ever bless this?” The whisper is back in Hans' voice. They are alone in these woods save for the twittering of the birds and the whistling of the wind. But they hide from man's eye, not God's. Henry doesn't think God spares peasants a glance on most days but what He wants to see surely He does, doesn't He? And never. Never has the thought of those holy eyes faltered Henry in this. Not this love. This love that was made by flesh and blood and all human things. It may not be holy but it is reverent. Take your wine and your bread and all of your sacred riches of frankincense and myrrh, because Henry has known it without its prose. He has known it as it has made itself known. And he will swallow the ash around him and he will smear his body with oil and he will cast himself onto any altar. For what can be unholy that was made by God? Yes, Henry thinks: if God wants it not, then why would He have made me for you?
“You really have gone mad,” Hans says in the wake of Henry’s silent answer. There’s a tremble to his voice that reminds Henry of the first time that he had taken steel into the fire of Pa’s forge. Anxious he was about burning himself, and then he had gone and done it anyway. Everyone did on their first, Pa had said. That’s how Hans looks at him now. The fire that is to be his first burn. Henry knows fire is life—but it is also death, too, and he never wants to be that for Hans. Not when Henry knows that fire can take as easily as it gives.
Turning his gaze, Henry shakes his head. “Well, just don’t give it another thought,” he waves away the tremor in his own voice as if it were smoke. It doesn’t dissipate by his hand, though, and reappears with his next words. Damns him with its guilt as he’s stricken by the sorrow he’s placed on Hans’ face. “I’d make a piss-poor groom anyhow,” Henry attempts the jest anyway; one more attempt to be absolved from the crime of placing this grief upon Hans’ shoulders.
“Don’t you dare,” Hans’ voice whips Henry like the breaking of a horse. Henry looks at him so suddenly that his neck is pulled taut at the motion. Hans’ eyes do not behold fire, then. Or if it is fire, it is the fire that seals a wound. That feeds the men. That warms the baths. That keeps the ever thin line from thing and human thick enough to find themselves on the proper side of it. “You said you’d marry me. Did you mean it?”
“Course I meant it,” Henry furrows his brow, voice thick as a coat. His hands feel locked where they are resting atop his own lap. But he doesn’t know if he ought to reach for Hans now or leave him his space as he says this. “Dunno if it’s somethin’ I’d take the piss about.”
“No,” Hans’ voice returns soft. “No. I don’t suppose that it is.” For a moment they sit next to one another. Henry furrowed tightly against the log and Hans’ body opened. Henry just doesn’t know what Hans wants, is the thing, and that makes it right-hard to give anything to him. He could try guessing, of course. Educated by experience he is on Hans. But that doesn’t mean he knows every piece of the lord yet. There is still so much to learn. And yet, Henry isn’t all that surprised when Hans reaches forward and grasps his hands in his own. “Not the sort of wedding fanfare I would have planned, I’ll admit—but I don’t fear this end of the aisle nearly so much.”
It’s tender, yes. Gentle, the way Hans’ hands cradle Henry’s own. But something in Henry snarls at himself. Like a wolf angry. This isn’t meant to be about him. Even if Hans’ every word feeds the unending hunger that takes up Henry’s belly. Henry wants to give this to Hans, not be placated by the lord’s pliable hands. Which means Henry turns his hands up, flipping them the other way around until Hans’ knuckles face that watchful moon. He brings them up to his lips, pressing gently on the broken skin of the third knuckle. Henry can’t even remember how Hans tore the skin this morning before they set off—he only remembers the fresh gash, skin deep and glistening only barely. Hardly enough to be wrapped but enough for Henry to know.
“Enough people are getting you to do what they want,” Henry rasps against Hans' skin. “Don’t let me add to their number.”
Hans’ fingers clench beneath Henry’s gentle hold. Then, Hans leans forward. Kisses the top of Henry’s crown and keeps his lip there for a moment. Henry can feel more than hear the deep inhale Hans takes against his scalp. They had cleaned before they set off and for that Henry is grateful. He doesn’t think that Hans would appreciate a sweaty head beneath his sensitive nose. Laughter rolls up and out of Hans’ mouth, setting into Henry’s hair like soap.
“You’re the love of my life, Henry,” the words are spoken softly, but to Henry’s ears they are the only words in existence. The first and the last ever to be uttered. All that there is to be in the earth and Hans has graced it upon Henry’s crown. And that, the only title that Henry would ever need to carry into any castle or battle or thereafter, is all that he needs from this life. Hans continues, “So you’d better marry me right now or I’ll have a right fucking fit about it.”
As Hans removes himself from Henry’s crown, Henry rights himself. Looks at Hans and feels that adoration in full. Undiluted by their teasing or by their rank. It is simply Hans and Henry for this moment and that, Henry knows, is another one of the many reasons that he loves Hans Capon. Because for all his bluster and theatrics, Hans is brilliant at this. At making Henry feel as if he’s the only thing worth attention. As if there will never be another. And Henry believes it, fully, and feels amazed by it.
“Alright,” Henry nods. Then he smiles, admittedly a bit anxious. He’s not been to a proper wedding since Semine’s, and that had been wrought with frantic worry and duty—neither of which lingers here between them nor rests heavy on their shoulders. But that means he’s only a faint recall for what a wedding should look like. Henry licks his lips, faltering for a moment. His cheeks feel warmer the longer that words do not come. “I don't know the words to start.”
“Typical,” Hans scoffs and shakes his head. His lips pull, forming a grin that abolishes any malice of his words, though. And Hans leans closer, nose nearly aligned with Henry’s as their hands hold firm to one another still. “Isn't it just like you to go off with half-formed plans? Must I be the mind and body of this team?”
Henry knows he isn't a learned man. He's clever because cleverness leads to survival. But he also knows his own strengths too. Every tool has its purpose and Henry is no exception. He knows what he's good for and what he's good at, and that's why he leans forward to brush past Hans’ cheek and whispers against his ear in a way that would make any bride-to-be blush something fierce. The heat of someone who has known you intimately, like the hand of an expert in their craft. Only this is not the labor of sword or hide or wood. This is Henry, learned in the ways of bringing Hans to pleasure.
“I've got plenty of body for you, m'lord.” Henry promises. It isn't a vow, not really. Even if it is a mimicry of the oath he's already taken. These words are to tease Hans and draw that flush further down his pale neck. Henry wants to trace the warmth with his tongue but that would be a bit untoward before the wedding vows, wouldn’t it?
“Mother Mary's eyelashes, Henry,” it is a reprimand and a returned breath. “You haven't even wed me yet.”
Knowing that he’s grinning like a fool, Henry draws back. Because it truly is one of the most ridiculous ideas that he’s ever had—usually the kind Henry saves for someone else to birth from their mind. But there is something growing in his chest at this idea, and Hans seems lighter for it too. The brittle thought of sorrowful tomorrow is the furthest from Henry’s mind as he holds Hans beneath the moonlight.
“Go on, then,” Henry encourages. “If we’re to do it, give me the words.”
Hans huffs, stuffing his nose in the air haughtily. “Oh, we’ll have words, alright—” he threatens, though it’s not got anything of stuffing to it, especially when he’s just pulling Henry’s hands closer to his own body. They’ve shuffled, facing one another completely now, and Hans has their hands. He’s looking at them as if he might puzzle how to bind them. That’d be a proper ceremony, but they haven’t the supplies for that sort of thing. It doesn’t matter anyway to Henry, as long as he’s got Hans where it matters.
“I’ll skip all the sanctimonious nonsense, if it’s all the same to you,” Hans licks his lips, and he’s got a keen look in his eye that reminds Henry of an old boar hunt. Eagerness. To prove himself. To claim. Hunger. In his belly, knotting all the way up into his throat. And something that hadn’t been there on that hunt, either, or were it there, Henry had yet to recognize it. For the tenderness in Hans’ eyes is unmistakable to Henry now.
“All the same,” Henry answers, voice burnt as overworked iron.
Nodding, Hans licks his lips again. “Good,” he says with a glistening mouth. “Uhm. Well, after addressing the witnesses—of which there is only that ceaseless owl, we would turn our attention to the bride and groom. They’ve vows to say, which I reckon might be the most important part of the ceremony.”
“And the vows?” Henry’s own eagerness snaps at his heels.
Hans smiles a sloppy thing. The lazy slosh of wine over the rim of a cup. “They differ by the vicar, my uncle used to say. But I’ve—” and he stops himself, as if there may be one confessional too far for them this evening. Henry squeezes their hands, returning that drunken smile, and encouraging Hans to continue. “I’ve something else in mind, if you’d like.”
“I’ll follow your lead, sir,” Henry says. Too earnest to be teasing completely but with just enough tick to his lip that Hans chuckles softly.
“Vows are like oaths, aren’t they?” Hans attempts, and he awkwardly rolls his shoulders. “Sworn oaths—only most of the vows I’ve heard are about duty to family and fealty to the church and—” looking up through blond lashes, Hans whispers. “I don’t know if He’s listening or not, but these words are for you. He’s just our witness. And maybe that alone will damn both of our souls if they aren’t already.”
Henry’s flesh burns. Not Hell’s fire come licking at his feet, or anything. But the fire that has been Henry’s companion all his life—beyond the blazing of Skalitz. The one that has existed well before that and will prevail well after. It is a torch in the evening. It is a forge in the morning. It is a campfire, now, that kisses Hans’ skin and forms a halo atop his crown.
Knuckles broken and shoulders bruised from the weight of his promises, Henry knows all about oaths. The ones sworn to kingdom. To country. To God. And to men. Once, he had thought little use of them—they were a blue-blooded trade, and peasants were merely made to carry out duty or suffer trespasses that were never theirs. But these are Henry’s oaths. The colors he carries even if he never wears them. And he will take Hans again and again and again. Henry has never had an oath sworn to him before, though, and that alone feels like too much. An honor that he’s never earned and will never deserve. He means to tell Hans as much, but it’s as if Hans knows what he means to say, and the furrow of his brow cuts through Henry’s words.
“They’re for you,” Hans reaffirms bluntly. The fell of a practice sword. Wood striking skull. He clears his throat. “I, Hans Capon—that is, not the Lord of Pirkstien. Not Sir Hans; just me. Just as I am in front of you now—your Hans, take thee Henry to be my wedded husband. I’ve nothing to wed thee with but my own hand…”
“That’s all I want,” Henry knows he begs the interruption. But he’s been a pauper all his life, hasn’t he? A beggar’s life is what he knows. And he doesn’t need silver or gold to bind him to Hans.
Henry expects a smile from Hans, but he is…solemn sounds too somber for the expression upon Hans’ face, but it is the kin emotion to his current humors. Focused, perhaps, with a slight plump to his lips as if narrowing his entire view into the pull of a bow. “With my body I thee worship,” Hans recites, and then—there is the Hans that Henry loves—he grins easily. “Though, you already knew that, didn’t you?”
Chuckling, Henry ducks his head in an attempt to hide the flushing of his cheeks, but it is to no avail when Hans tilts his chin to meet Henry’s gaze. “Very romantic, you are.” He teases.
“I believe that’s what they call blow for blow, old Hal.” Hans hums. Then he lets out a breath that sounds more like a song. “And, well, I can’t exactly endow my worldly possessions to you, aye?” Hans’ eyes twinkle, but it isn’t from the tune of his laugh. They are wet from unshed tears. Henry feels his own burn at his eyes too. “But I will take you, to have and to hold, from this day forward, Henry. For better, or for worse. For richer,” Hans pauses, his eyes calculating before his eyes grow soft. “For poorer.”
“Between the two of us, suppose we’ve got that covered near top to bottom, aye?” The quip doesn’t take that thought out of Hans’ pretty head, but it does bring him back to current awareness. Enough that Hans finally shakes the thought clear of his own mind—always torn between being a stubborn arse who must do it himself or a noble who needs the job done for him.
Hans says, “You know I’ve a poor hand for it, but I’ll take you in sickness and in health. Already taken you at much worse than that, haven’t I? What’s a bit of hay fever when I’ve carried you through the woods while you were well out of your mind.”
Henry knows it isn’t proper like, but he takes his hand out of Hans. Breaks their little play at binding and cradles Hans’ cheek. Holds the sorrow and strength that lies within Hans and that Hans will one day get to show the world at large. Weak at his heart, Henry gives in to the need to stroke beneath Hans’ eye along the bone. Hans’ eyes flutter shut for a moment, and then reopen with vigor.
“Don’t you interrupt me—I’m not done yet.” Hans’ voice is too soft to be mistaken for a reprimand.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Henry sticks his tongue out between his teeth, but then he lets that gentle fold of the falling night take him. He bows, touching his forehead to Hans’ own. He isn’t looking at Hans anymore, but he feels him. Feels him where it counts. In the closeness. In the way that Hans’ breath flutters across his cheek like a bird’s wing.
Hans sighs again, louder this time and clearly for Henry’s attention. “This is the important part: look at me.”
Although Henry doesn’t typically dally in a command, he does linger on Hans' skin for a moment longer. Just to inhale the evening that sticks to Hans’ forehead. But rest he does on his rump properly just to look Hans in the eye. And Henry has to swallow heavy again the emotion that weighs on the back of his tongue when Hans looks at him like that.
“I take you, Henry of Skalitz, to love, to cherish, and—fuck, Henry, I mean this! Do not laugh at me—to obey.” Hans swings the one hand that Henry still holds and, with his free hand given that Henry still cradles his cheek, Hans caresses Henry’s cheek in turn. “I really do mean it. All of it. As a noble, it is my duty to listen to my people. As my heart, it is my honor to meet your needs. I will love you, Henry, just as I have loved you.”
Henry doesn’t have words for it, the way that makes him feel. He can describe Hans’ voice. Heavy with devotion. His eyes; watered as if pouring holy from the corners. Because Hans means it and Henry believes it. More than any text that he’s ever read. More than any mother’s tender whisper he’s ever heard. Hans says I will love you as I have loved you and Henry, to his own surprise, realizes he never even questioned that—for whatever will happen to them, he knows Hans loves him and will love him. That all of this means something. And that’s why he’s marrying him, right here; right now.
“And Henry?” Hans’ whispers, hand cupping Henry’s face like it is a precious gem. A valued treasure. “Not even death will do us part. I can promise you that. You've my word as a nobleman.”
Henry kisses him. Of course he does. Presses his lips—hopes to create something between the pressure and the heat as if they were hammer and anvil. But he knows inherently that they already do. Every time that Hans allows him touch and every time that Henry is in his presence, something stronger than any potion brews between them. And Henry would pry any pleasure from Hans mouth if it brought the slightest joy to the lord. Hans pulls away first. And his cheeks are flushed and his lips are not yet swollen, but still shiny from Henry’s own mouth. His brow is furrowed.
“And what about my vows, hmm?” Hans charges. “What about my pretty words, O’ Faithful Knight! I know you to be capable of them.” He raises a brow and it distorts his face into a smirk.
Words are easy. Easier when they don’t matter, sure, but by Henry’s measure there aren’t many words that don’t have their weight. And although it sounds like Hans has repurposed the vows from the good book, it’s up to Henry to make his own words. Ones that are deserving of Hans’ affection. Ones to repay these vows in kind and be their equal in the eyes of God and Hans.
“Erm,” Henry begins. “I, Henry, take you, er, Hans—”
Hans rolls his eyes and, perhaps anxiously, adjusts himself where he sits. “Yes, yes. You take me, Hans, as your wife. Get on with it.”
Surprised, Henry blinks for a moment. “...my wife, Hans?”
Seemingly equally as surprised, Hans’ cheeks burst as if Henry took the bellows to their flame. He flusters about with his words. “Well! I’m your bride aren’t I? And weddings are for husbands and wives, so! I think that makes me the wife. Unless, of course, you’re offering…?”
Hans doesn’t seem like he actually wants Henry to take him up on it, but he can’t quite pass on the jest, either. And Henry, eager to test the word on his tongue, rolls out, “I, Henry, take you, Hans, as my wedded wife.”
Hans’ back seems straighter and his hands flex in their hold on Henry. Even the tips of his ears turn pink. Henry notes it. Like an alchemist writing in the margins. Then he continues.
“I’ve not got anything to my name to give,” Henry clears his throat. “Fact is, I’ve not even got a name to give you.” Then, Hans’ words, just Hans. Your Hans. And Henry is just his, too, isn’t he? “But I’ve got blood. And bone. It’s not pretty like any gold or silver, but it’s what worldly things I have to wed thee with.”
The meat of Hans’ thumb presses into Henry’s cheek. Then Hans rolls his thumb to bite his nail into Henry’s skin. It isn’t anywhere deep enough to make him bleed, but Henry can feel his body pulse beneath it. Like Hans is summoning those worldly goods that Henry has to offer. In some ways, it reminds Henry of Radzig and the day that he had come for the sword. The high brow and tilted chin. Where nobility look for more than good work—the best work Pa ever did. But Hans, unlike Radzig, does not sniff an upturned nose. Hans sits across from Henry and seems to be making good on that promise of worship. Henry can’t help but fidget from all that undivided attention broken not even by the night owl’s song.
“I’ve tasted your blood and felt your bone, and found them wanting not,” Hans’ reverent whisper comes.
Henry nods, closing his eyes for a moment to recount himself. To bring himself back to this mortal body and oath. Then, on a shaky inhale, he opens his eyes again. “With my body, I thee worship,” he summons from deep within his belly, and he knows the sound of his own voice. The way it’s pitched itself of its own accord, tight with emotion as his throat is.
“Henry,” Hans lets out in a breath, and his lord’s arms wrap up around his shoulders. His eyes hood themselves, and Henry moves to steal that breath of his name as Hans once again says, “Henry.”
With his hands, Henry guides Hans on his back over the bedding. Hans’ hair falls; it isn't long enough to splay on the ground by any means with that handsome cut of his, but the pieces that do fall demand Henry’s hand. He brushes them cleanly, taking care not to jostle the wedding laurel on Hans’ crown. “To love,” Henry whispers. “To cherish.” He kisses Hans’ brow. “To obey.” The junction of his neck and jaw, with just enough bite that Hans knows the tone that Henry’s thin voice can no longer convey. Then he pulls back to look Hans in the eye. “Not even Death can take me from you. And you’ve my word as a blacksmith.”
And it’s the last part that seems to do it, more than anything else. That Henry remembers their words outside the gates of Castle Trosky, too, and that he repays Hans’ heart with his own. That he is still Henry, and will always be Henry, and that he is Hans’. Completely. Hans’ eyes shift in that way, swallowed of their color by his irises as something hot pours forth from his body.
“Take me as your wife.” There’s a phrase that is supposed to be here, Henry thinks, about man and wife, but this is worth more than any of the book’s words on it. And Hans’ body has the sort of heat that Henry recognizes again: the fire of a forge. And Henry will scorch himself upon the kicking of it. Temper himself in the cool sweat upon Hans’ brow. “Please.”
Henry lowers his body into Hans’ own, burying them both in the bedding beneath them. “Yes,” he promises, capturing Hans’ waiting lips into a kiss. Henry uses his tongue to take Hans’ mouth first. Searches deep for the space where they can become one flesh by this union alone. Hans is eager to be taken tonight, it seems—but how can Henry blame him? They’ve just been wedded.
That spurs Henry to pull away. To pant heavily against Hans’ forehead as he attempts to clear his head. The satchel. The oil. He thinks he says as much, for Hans responds, “Hurry, won’t you?”
There isn’t many a command that Hans could give that Henry wouldn’t obey. And if he were not knight-sworn, he is duty-bound as Hans’ husband now, isn’t he? Henry peels himself away with all his strength and rolls away from Hans. On his knees he breathes deeply, settling himself back into his own flesh after having separated from Hans’ luring body. They have conjoined many times before this, but tonight is different. Tonight is new. It is not as if it is the last dawn before Hans is wedded to Lady Jitka, but instead the first evening that Henry does not think about that final evening. Not when this feels like such a first.
Henry lifts himself and walks the short distance to his satchel. He bends to his knee and opens the pouch to reveal the oil. Procuring it, Henry swivels to spy where Hans has turned to lay on his belly. The firelight catches his eyes and hair, and he glows like some fae creature. There is a challenge in his brow and a tease catching his lip into a spry grin. Hans raises his hand and crooks his finger. “Crawl back to me.”
Scoffing, Henry shakes his head. “Is that an order, m’lord?”
“Your wife asks you,” Hans says, voice wavering from the force of its tenderness and want. If Henry were not already on his knees, he would have fallen to them.
With a shaking inhale, Henry steadies himself. He lets the breath go in a measurement and opens his mouth. Carefully, Henry places the neck of the oil flask into his mouth and gently bites into it. It’s more of a cradle of his teeth, but the bones feel a crueler fate than a lover’s hand to call a caress. Then, eyes never breaking from Hans’ own, Henry lowers himself onto his hands. The muck of the mire bleeds beneath his nails, tainting his touch, but Henry’s hands are made of calluses and blood. What curse could Earth bestow that would twist him into a beast worse than the man that he was born?
Hans’ breath sounds short as he rises to his knees to meet him, and it draws Henry in like a fabled siren song. When Henry is within reach, Hans takes the flask from his mouth using one hand and with the other he grasps the nape of Henry’s neck. The kiss that Hans pulls Henry into is unexpected. Where Henry braces for tongues and teeth, Hans’ kiss is nearly chaste. Lips to lips, plush and new. Withdrawing, Hans’ lidded eyes beseech Henry as quietly as his whispered words do. “Henry,” he urges.
Henry does not know who of them guides whom. Hans’ hand is in his hair, an anchor and a leash; Henry is a weight and shadow over the lord’s body. With slow motions—not hesitation, but reverence, perhaps—they roll until Hans lays gently on his back with Henry against him. To be taken as a wife ought to be taken on her first night. And Henry minds Hans’ hand that sets aside the oil as they reposition themselves once again.
They are eager but soft in their ministrations against one another. Practiced motions remove the gambesons and the hose and every such else. All things which Henry would be familiar with on his own body; his attention is tenfold with Hans’ garments. The sequence means nothing much to Henry, though, which is why he takes little note of it. What he does note is the first touch of his hand to Hans’ skin. The softness of his belly littered with blond short hairs that lead to the precious space of sweat and passion. Hans’ head rolls back and his mouth lays agape when Henry takes his tongue to it. Lathes it like a bathmaid would. There is not an inch of skin upon Hans Capon’s bones that Henry does not want to know the taste of. Encouragingly, Hans laces his fingers in Henry’s hair.
Equally as indulgent, Henry inhales the musk at the crease of Hans’ thigh and groin. It hasn’t been particularly hot out today, but that doesn’t mean even a trek made with horses can’t draw the sun’s heat into a man’s body. And greater still, had to be led through the thicketed woods. That meant Henry and Hans had walked boot by boot to this spot, and such exertions certainly brought up the salt from Hans’ skin. Henry licks that clean, too.
“Henry,” Hans swears. Then the crescent-shape of his nails bites into Henry’s scalp. He isn’t usually so sensitive—at least not in some time since they’ve grown intimate like this, but tonight Hans demands less teasing. “You’ll leave me wanting at this rate.”
“Never,” the answer is nearly a growl. It rumbles from somewhere deep in Henry’s chest, reverberating where his sternum rests against Hans’ body. Then Henry hoists himself upward and holds himself up on the palms of his hands as he hovers over every inch of Hans’ exposed, glistening skin. When he knows he’s caught Hans’ eye, Henry says, “Not my wife.”
Hans shivers, closing his eyes and shifting his hands around Henry’s neck. The lord’s forearms secure themselves against Henry’s nape and pull him closer. A kiss much less chaste than the last, but no less sweet. Hans’ teeth worry at Henry’s lip until the skin splits and Hans can partake in the covenant of Henry’s own blood. It isn’t pure; it’s holy, and that makes it more right to Henry who would spill blood over any stone for this man. And when Hans has taken his fill, he steals Henry’s breath away as he pulls back.
Henry’s blood paints Hans’ lip red. Henry had seen something similar to it before on some lady or another, in passing. And that would be his wife, wouldn’t it? His Hans would be up on the latest of fashions. Wear the finest of powders. Have the finest of silks. Eat from the softest gold. And Henry would give it all for him. Carry any title, claim any land, and—a knight’s wife would never be left wanting. If it’s in Henry’s power, all that Hans desires will be laid at his feet, and Henry utters his prayers at Capon’s altar as he pours oil onto his hands to warm it.
“God,” Hans moans before he’s even been touched, “Do you know how often I spy upon your hands?”
“Tell me,” Henry begs, hands coated like a sword. With one hand, he circles Hans’ entrance with his thumb. There’s a hiccuping gasp from Hans. Henry wants this to be nothing but pleasurable for his lord and wife so with his opposite hand he gently grasps Hans’ shaft. The hiccup contorts into a moan that Hans breathes through, growing once more accustomed to Henry’s hands upon him and Henry’s finger teasing his breach.
After gulping a mouthful of woodsy, sweaty air, Hans speaks. “You’re a menace.” He swears at Henry again.
Henry doesn’t take it to heart though. Not when he can hear the pleasure beginning to pull that pompous voice taut. “I’m your husband,” he corrects, or perhaps it is in answer to the unspoken question. Hans’ body seems to grow even more eager at that, and who is Henry to deny him? He breaches with his first finger—to feel Hans clench around his digit and to meet Hans’ eagerness. But he doesn’t dare forget Hans’ growing hardness, either, and he takes care of that as-yet-to-weep pride with steady fells of his hand.
“You make—” Hans gasps, shutters, and moans. He truly is more sensitive this night, or perhaps it is the first evening in such time since Henry has taken him so fully. Since they have had their evening in solitude without fear of being overheard. Every noise is a treasure envied by marauders who don’t even know what they ought to be stealing. Not that Henry would let them. He would cut down any intruder. Spill the blood and suck dry the marrow of any who dared try and steal away with Hans. It tightens his grip around Hans’ flushed shaft; although it has yet to bead, the noise Hans makes is weeping enough.
Easing his grip, Henry whispers apology. Kisses Hans’ brow in hopes to buy his absolution. He knows every callus of his hand catches on Hans’ too-pretty cock. For that he asks for salvation with further prodding of his finger, slow to insert the second to meet her partner.
“Sorry,” prays the not-quite-knight for absolution, “I should be gentler as you rightly deserve.”
As if to prove a point, Hans grinds down further on Henry’s fingers. Grits his teeth as he braces for the sudden intrusion, but it causes his skin to prickle too. Henry stills carefully—not just to let Hans use his fingers, though that is part of it. It mostly comes from the suddenness of the motion that surprises Henry.
Hans puts either of his hands on Henry’s shoulders as he shudders around Henry’s deepness within him. He slows, every breath measured carefully. They are so valued by Henry and he cannot blame Hans for being so shrewd with them. Then again, Hans has rightfully winded himself, and the sweat has begun to pour from him. Henry kisses his forehead again to wipe it clean and soothes his hand along Hans’ flushed cock.
“Fuck you,” Hans spits, taking Henry’s hair in his hand once again. “Fuck you ever so much if you think that I wouldn’t have all of you. Why else would I have married you?”
In spite of the pride he holds in his sternum, Henry preens at that. It isn’t that Henry hasn’t ever felt loved—he’s been rightfully blessed by love in his life, even if he has lost it over and over again. But to have it here, once and for all. To have it sworn. To be soul-tied in here and the thereafter. That makes Henry kiss Hans sweetly and hungrily. And with his hand Henry teases at the head of that cock that he wants to make pearl, just to show Hans how much he appreciates it. How much he adores him.
With a sharpness that rivals the piercing of an arrow, Hans pulls at Henry’s hair. Separates them by force. And Henry is met with a glare in Hans’ eyes and a furrow of his brow. “And never say that my husband isn’t gentle. He’s the kindest soul that I know, and no one has ever treated me so tenderly.” His words are steel, even if softened by their sentiment. Nothing like forgework. Henry imagines it more like a needle. Precise, prickly, and graceful.
Throat dry, Henry rasps. “Of course, m’lord.”
“Good,” nods Hans. Then he licks his lip clean and swallows. “Now. I believe that I was promised something?” He rolls his hips for good measure, as if Henry needs reminder of exactly where he is going. He gasps at the shifting of heat clench warmth around his fingers as Hans hisses from the pressure against his taut muscle. “Get going already, Henry!”
“Alright, alright,” Henry replies, a bit of a laugh in his voice. It’s the elation of being loved. It’s the familiarity they fall so easily back into. Then he crooks his fingers, thinking of how Hans had beckoned him back to their bed, and nibbles along Hans’ jaw as the lord gasps and curls in delight beneath him.
When Hans arches, he swears. Then he says Henry’s name like it’s the swear. Or a holy name taken in vain. And those soft hands cradle Henry’s neck and bring him up for another kiss before turning Henry’s head to have more access to the column of his neck. Hans is a biter, but he knows better than to mark where Henry’s armor doesn’t hide—or, perhaps it’s that he’s too selfish. Lest a passerby assume that someone else has taken Henry. That it is not Hans’ mouth that has molded Henry’s flesh beneath it. Instead, Hans kisses his way down to Henry’s collarbone and bites this side of where his tunic typically falls.
Henry doesn’t fall on his duty, either. He spreads his fingers, prodding Hans into the shape best made for pleasure. Pressing upon the space within Hans that best makes him gasp beneath Henry’s ministrations. And there isn’t that smothering hurry that suffocates their usual joinings—when there are ears too close and titles too heavy. There is only these woods and the light smoke of their campfire. Even the owl has gone with the rise in Hans’ voice, as if their audience adjourned after the ceremony to leave the newlyweds to it.
That does make Henry as eager as a boy, really, shamed as he is to admit it. Though he can’t name where it is that the shame sources, as Hans was his partner in this scheme of theirs, and he seemed to particularly take to being called Henry’s wife. Perhaps therein lies this shame of Henry’s, though. That he so quickly takes to possessing Hans. But he is a sinner and has never pretended to be otherwise, so he buries the indignation and lowers his head to pleasure his wife with his mouth.
“Henry!” Hans shouts, surprised. It is a bit of an admonishment, but one that only causes Henry’s cheeks to flush as he hollows them. With his hand not preparing Hans, Henry holds fast against Hans’ shaft, swirling the exposed tip of the lord’s cock with his tongue before taking him again. Henry’s not as good at it as Hans is, admittedly. Even with practice, Henry still can’t bury his nose into the base of Hans’ cock and inhale the musk of him there. It’s Henry’s own hand that he smells, tip of his nose against the side of his fingers. But Hans sounds as if he enjoys it anyway, and that is Henry’s purpose.
“God’s wounds, Henry,” Hans says when Henry is two fingers deep and full heartedly trying to swallow him whole. “If you don’t fuck me now, I don’t know that I’ll make it.”
Henry wouldn’t mind Hans coming like this. He likes the feeling of Hans between his lips. Of being able to fill up Hans in every spot at once, if he could only spare a hand for Hans’ mouth. Instead, Henry’s name fills that mouth of his so full that it must pour out in sweet, rapturous sighs that are a hymnal to Henry’s ears. They’ve done it like this before, and it’s never failed to leave Hans satisfied, Henry is certain.
But Hans, for all that he demands, hardly asks Henry for anything. And he’s asked Henry to take him as his wife on their wedding night.
With what is perhaps the lewdest sound yet, Henry pops off Hans’ cock. Hans pants heavily, chest heaving and red as a rose. He’s flung an arm over his eyes—his bow arm, Henry knows just by the flex of its muscle—and he swears between breaths. Henry gives him the moment, kissing low on his sternum. A gentle thing that simmers more than anything. Like tending a brew. Just enough to keep the heat in, but not to overboil it. Potions and metals are alike in that regard—why should man be any different?
“I take it back: you’re more than a menace, you devil,” Hans finally quips, removing his arm and using that bowman’s hand to grip tightly onto the shorthairs at Henry’s nape. Henry can’t help but answer with a low moan of his own, ripped out of him like a knife gutting a hare. “And one day your actions will meet up with you.”
“Promise, m’lord?” Henry huffs, unable to keep the grin from sprouting across his face.
Hans rolls his eyes but he doesn’t look nearly as put together now. His blond hair clings to his forehead, and even his wedding laurel sits askew. Some of the flowers crumbled from the rotating of his head onto its side as he arched. Henry feels some remorse. That he is such a horse of a man that he would ruin his wife’s flowers before he’s taken him. It feels like something only a brute would do. The sort of soldier that’s more mercenary than knight.
But Hans says he wants all of Henry. He wants the blacksmith and the soldier. The sinner and the devout. And Henry will kneel down to lay it all at Hans’ mercy.
Henry does so, removing his fingers and hushing the whimpering moan Hans lets out. Muttering something that even he can’t recall against Hans’ thighs, Henry reaches for their flask of oil again—its cork never replaced in their haste—and he is grateful that they hadn’t spilled it like virginal youths. Just as he’s about to pour a gracious amount into his palm, Hans’ hand rests over his own.
When Henry looks up, Hans is wanton and beseeching. Eyes wide but dark with lust. Plush, bruising lips slick with Henry’s spit. “Let me?” And this time, there is something more overt to the question in Hans’ voice. Henry doesn’t just hear it, but he sees it. Sees the moment that Hans says, let me do something for you, too, tonight. Not that Hans need give anything more than he already has, but Henry can’t fault him. If he were in Hans’ boots.
Wordlessly, Henry hands over the bottle. Hans gingerly takes it from his grasp and smiles. Another one of his quiet thank yous that he can never seem to get out. Henry doesn’t mind it. Instead, he lets himself be entranced by Hans’ motions. Hans, who takes a generous amount into his own palm and sets the bottle aside, warms the oil between his hands. Then he leans forward, kissing Henry as slowly as one might peel an onion. Taking care not to lose a feastable layer. And as Henry loses himself to the soothing, lazy swipes of Hans’ tongue, Hans places his hands upon Henry’s pride.
Gasping into Hans’ mouth just seems to encourage the movement. Hans kisses him deeper, swallowing that hiccup of breath. He moves with more confidence too, stroking the length of Henry and lathering his cock with oil. It’s warm, to be certain, but the heat of Hans’ hand is far greater upon Henry’s flesh. This they have done too. Spilled over each other’s hurried hands. And in that, Hans is much practiced. But Hans has a further purpose yet that means he teases the weeping head with a barely-there touch—just enough to make Henry grunt and fight against the instinctual need to pump.
“I can give as good as I can take,” Hans threatens against Henry’s lips. “But I think we’re both ready now, aren’t we?”
“Please,” Henry begs the allowance, head falling upon Hans’ forehead. Up this close, he can see the glistening in Hans’ eyes. From the exertion. From having himself touched everywhere. All good things, but still tears enough that Henry kisses them away.
Hans laughs as if tickled. “Please, as if you aren’t the one who’s been dragging me out like this. I think you enjoy it.”
“Course I do,” Henry swears, hands roaming Hans’ sides now. The texture of the lord beneath him—where silky skin meets war-worn scars and then returns to a lord’s tapestry once more—is intoxicating. “And why shouldn’t I enjoy seeing you like that? Knowin’ that I did it.”
That strikes something within Hans. Henry can see it. Another note he’s stashed into his pocket and will peer upon later, ruminating on the words by candlelight next to his sordid poems. But for now, Hans lifts his legs and hooks his ankles around Henry’s back. “You know what I would enjoy seeing you do?” Hans’ tongue tilts, heavy as he slowly rolls over the sounds.
Henry doesn’t need the guess. Hans has asked enough. So Henry obliges. When a soldier takes a wench, he’s grabbing his prick and sticking with it, isn’t he? Something crass by noble standards but it’s to get the job done. Like taking a spear to a boar. Only Hans Capon is no boar; he is Henry’s everything, and Henry takes him as such. Inch by reverent inch as he sinks deep into his lord, relishing the casted curse of his name again. Hans never does anything in halves, really. Not when he wants it. And that meant the first time that Henry had taken him like this where he hadn’t been fully seated within Hans had frustrated the lord. Hans takes it now, though, even with only their spare months doing this. Not that Henry doesn’t think the lord has had his practice aplenty with his own noble fingers in Henry’s absence. Hans had all but confessed to it after Henry had returned from that particular crusade, when Hans was wracked with pleasure and praying into his shoulder as Henry had desperately taken both of their cocks in his hurried hands.
This time Henry sinks deep into Hans. All the way to the hilt. Where his own fur lays bare against Hans’ unblemished hide. Henry pants, breathing through that primal urge to simply take take take and barrel himself into Hans. As if he could skewer the lord on his cock and feast on his flesh for all of his days. It’s their wedding night, Henry repeats to himself, and he aims to take Hans gently.
Kissing Hans’ brow, Henry whispers sweet songs unto his skin—ones he’s heard sung drunkenly in taverns. Carries them into Hans’ hairline. Worships what remains strong of the daisy chain blissfully crowning Hans before returning one last saccharine kiss to his temple.
“Kurva, Henry,” Hans swears, hands digging into the meat of Henry’s shoulder blades. “You really love reminding me of how big you are.”
Henry can admit: he’s just a man. And there’s something awfully nice about hearing Sir Hans Capon winded at your own girth. Henry isn’t even moving properly yet, and the way Hans’ body flushes makes Henry all the more eager to get to it. Gently, he reminds himself. Henry readjusts; Hans’s hisses but it draws into a moan as Henry settles again, one hand on Hans’ waist and the other resting over his gut where—
“Shit,” Henry breathes through his teeth. Now that he’s sunk all that he can into Hans, he can feel where Hans’ body contorts to take him. Where the heat-deep space swallows Henry’s prick eagerly. Like a throat bobbed from guzzling wine. He doesn’t dare press harder than his hand rests, but his eyes swim to meet Hans’ gaze.
Hans fucking coos—like a bird. Curls and pulls Henry’s face down into his own for another kiss. And they stay there for some time, Hans fully seated on Henry’s cock and exchanging languid, open-mouthed kisses that are more an excuse to breathe each other’s breath. It’s warm, it is. And the deeper that Hans kisses him, the more that warmth turns hot in Henry’s groin. It’s overwhelming.
“Hans,” Henry begs permission.
“Of course, Henry,” Hans whispers against his cheek, gentle as a bride. Then he snags Henry’s lip with his teeth again. Sucks more of that holy communion out. His voice is that of a lord as he commands: “Fuck me, Henry.”
If there is one thing that has been bred into Henry from the very beginning, he’d like to think it was his endurance. Endurance had allowed Henry to better himself. To swing a sword. To pull a bow. Until his fingers had bled and his knuckles had broken. All for strength. All for precision. But endurance teaches one to hone their stamina, too, and that Henry had to learn. He had to breathe it in deeply, let it fill his ribcage so that he could withstand any orders given to him. This is what Henry uses to fulfill Hans’ command. This is Henry’s prowess and skills summoned. Everything that he was and is and has been made to. Every duty he will answer and every delight he will indulge. And all of it channels into Hans at Henry’s steady pace.
There is a spot that Henry knows, or rather that is growing familiar with in their intimacy. It is the target of his singular focus in the pursuit of Hans’ pleasure. And although Henry does not claim to be the best marksman, he doesn’t think himself too shy of it the way that Hans shouts his name. The way that his lord’s nails carve their claim into Henry’s back. Like a bejeweled knife to the bark of an old tree. One that engraves the blissful adoration of young lovers into something that will far outlive them. But the tree will remember them as it grows. As it takes the mark into its rings. The tree will recall that moment. And, much like that tree, Henry takes on the marks that Hans leaves. Will remember them far longer than his body will show them.
“Jesus Christ be praised, don’t stop,” Hans pleads, desperate as a beggar. Louder than a bath wench would ever dare to be. But he is Henry’s wife, and he needn’t be either of those things. Not when Henry will fill his cup. Not when Henry will clothe his back. Not when Henry will ensure that he is never wanting.
Henry usually tries to aim for eloquence—especially for Hans—but what he can’t say, he presses into Hans’ body. He caresses the lobe of Hans’ flushed ear with his teeth. Suckles on it as one would an apple’s sweet meat. But Henry doesn’t dare break the skin for a taste. Lets it be as he moves his mouth to the junction of Hans’ jaw. All the while, Henry does not relent in his pace. He cannot falter; not when Hans’ heels bring him ever closer and his wife and lord demands that he allow no quarter.
With a gulping breath, Hans slides his hand from Henry’s shoulder. Lowers it until his palm holds firm against Henry’s bicep. It’s just enough that Henry holds himself close inside Hans, keeps him full as he readjusts, but that is the opportunity that Hans had been looking for. He locks Henry’s hand with his own, holds it there like they’ve finally secured a ribbon around their wrists to match their vows and daisies. Hans places his own knuckles to the ground and lets Henry flex his fingers in this new hold of theirs. It’s wordless, but Henry knows what Hans asks for with it. He presses his chest to Hans’ own, kisses his mouth openly, and finds his pace again.
Hans’ hand grapples in Henry's hair. It isn’t tight or pulling, but firm. Secure. The stones that line a hearth. Reaffirming as Henry continues on. Where they needn’t any words, free to chase each other’s delights and encourage noises of pleasure. Not that Hans is making much else with his tongue down Henry’s throat, but the fresh air of evening doesn’t feel nearly as fulfilling.
“Henry,” Hans breathes openly into Henry’s mouth, “Tell me how you love me.”
How does Henry love Hans? How does the earth turn about the sun? How does the sky shine blue in the morning? How does a bird know to sing if not by birth? And greater still, how does a wolf know to hunt? Or a scholar know to write? It is something inherent to Henry; it is also something learned. Where Henry knew love, he had learned to love anew, too. Where Henry knew kindness, he had learned to show gentleness. His hands had been taught tenderness. His heart knew softness from creation. Something born to and a choice sought after every moment since. That is the space in which Henry loves Hans. In the known. In the unknown. In whatever lies between those two.
But how can you say that without sounding mad? It’s one thing to say that you know to speak the common tongue before you can read it. That’s how the world goes, isn’t it? It’s all about the opportunities. To be born into something whether it’s love or treasure or brutality—and in turn, whether you were taught your numbers or Latin or how to hunt a boar. But how do you say that you were born with knowledge that you had to learn that you knew? That is what it feels like, loving Hans Capon. And that is something that Henry would never know the words for, whether he had been raised by his Pa or born in his father’s house.
So instead, Henry speaks into Hans’ mouth what words that he can. What words he knows. And, with any hope, the words that will mean something to Hans. A knowing that he’ll be able to pluck from Henry’s tongue and hold in his own mouth. Swallow and feed his belly. Sustain himself on Henry’s love.
“How do I love anything?” Henry breathes, squeezing Hans’ hand to punctuate his thrust. “Fiercely, my wife.” Except he says my wife the same way he would say my lord, he knows. He hopes that is something that Hans understands. That Hans will know, and if the lord can’t, then Henry makes up for it with every thrust. Puts into action what words he may never be able to utter. And Henry prays that his mortal failing does not dishearten Hans.
The hand that Hans has kept in Henry’s hair drops to the nape of Henry’s neck again. They are already close—so close that Henry can feel Hans’ pride as it swells between them, softly weeping and crying Henry’s name. Yet somehow the force of Hans’ palm to his skin urges Henry forward still. As if there is further joining to be had. As if, in this moment, there is space still where they might become one flesh. And Henry follows it, easily. Eagerly. The way that people long for rain. And he finds that farmer’s salvation every time his thrusts carry him completely within Hans.
“Nevermind,” Hans pants, fine lashes fluttering his eyes closed. “If you say anything else like that, I’ll be finished right now.” He inhales, and Henry feels the push of Hans’ breast against his own. As if the expanding of his ribcage pushes into Henry’s own and Hans’ exhale is Henry’s inhale. And then Henry returns the favor with another thrust. Another exhale. Everything short of expending himself into Hans, because they aren’t there yet. Almost though, Henry thinks deliriously. Because he isn’t long for it either, now. Not when they’ve built up to this culminating moment: consummating their marriage.
And, of course, that means Henry has to ask what’s been on his mind this entire evening. Between guessing and gleaning Hans’ meaning. As if he can decipher a pinched brow and read between the lines of Hans’ teeth. But Henry is only human, and that means, in his mortality, he finally asks, “What do you want, my love?” And this, too, Henry says like wife. Like lord. Because it is all encompassing of all that Hans is to Henry.
Hans gasps, taking all of Henry into him. His eyes are wide but their color is consumed by that flashing desire. Flushed cheeks bleed into a plump, agape mouth as blunt fingernails bite into Henry’s scalp. Commandingly, Hans pulls Henry into another kiss. Takes Henry’s tongue into his mouth as if he can’t stand to be empty any longer, and then his own hips have begun to move against Henry. Esurient, demanding motions. Not that of a petulant boy, but that of a man who knows what is his. And it is Henry who feeds him. Who finishes him. And Henry squeezes brutishly into Hans’ hand, he knows, and he wishes it were different. That he were daintier. That he were painter and not soldier. His hands a brush and not a weapon.
But it is Henry who elicits Hans’ singing as it bursts in the back of the lord’s throat. Thrashes against Henry’s tongue and rattles in his skull where Hans spills it into their conjoined mouths. Henry who abandons his post in the soil and brings his dirtied hand to cradle Hans’ head. Greedily grasps those golden threads and urges Hans’ desperate grind. And it is a good thing, then, that Hans too was built to bear Henry and his might and his bulk just as well as his horrors, for Henry holds himself not when he can hold Hans instead.
“You,” Hans cries between them when he can bring himself to part. His movements have grown frantic, but he’s always been excitable. Acting before reasoning. And he does not move to do anything other than feel Henry and beg for his release at Henry’s hands. As if it is a gift that only Henry can bestow—just like his vows. Henry’s foggy head clings onto the semblance of clarity that Hans’ words bring. “I want you, please. Henry.”
Henry’s mouth is open and his teeth are bared. He shifts, if only to hoist himself on the forearm that cradles Hans. And it is Henry who withdraws his binded hand from Hans’ grip. It would feel sacreligious—a breaking of their matrimony—were it not Henry’s intention to hold Hans’ pride in his hands. To wipe the holy mother’s tears from the tip of his cock. It’s raw, the way that Henry all but ruts into Hans. It is primal where Hans is divine. The place where the sacred olive tree digs its roots into the bloodied earth. Henry is naught but soil; dirt. And he gives and gives and gives just to see Hans bloom.
Hans’ blossoms are warm as he spends between them. He cries Henry’s name again, summoning his mouth, and Henry hungers no more as he swallows Hans’ pleasure whole. As the lord’s tension all but soaks into the bedding, into the earth, into Henry’s own body. The way that the Earth, even tainted as it is by man, remains nourished. Remains plentiful. And it’s through Hans’ pour that Henry finds his own. Where he fills Hans’ cup that it may runneth over.
“Henry,” Hans draws Henry in, lures him as the hunt. Twines his fingers in Henry’s hair and Henry is certain that he’s long since lost his wedded laurel. It doesn’t matter. He is Hans’, and Hans is his. And he shivers through his release, but Hans keeps him grounded. Keeps Henry’s breath firmly placed in his own mouth. When Henry’s lungs burn their plea for breath into his chest, he withdraws. Places his forehead against Hans’ wobbling chin and feels his arms ready to give way.
It’s as if Hans knows that, too. For then he says, “Let go, Henry,” and releases Henry of his duty. Lets Henry fall into his arms and smear his spill between them as Henry inhales the sweat that has accumulated in his collarbone. It’s easy then, to be as they are. One soul twained into two bodies, only to finally reunite in this evening. Where Henry and Hans never end in each other. Henry could lie there forever, given the chance. Let the rot feast on his bones and still be blissful while conjoined with Hans. But Hans has his preferences on some nights, and Henry can feel the uneasy twitching about him from the mess they’ve made—or perhaps merely the cool air—and Henry would prefer Hans a peaceful rest, either way.
Henry moves, blindly searching for something that might be repurposed into a cleaning cloth. Hans clicks his tongue. “Grabbed the oil but not the rag again, eh?”
“And whose fault was that, distractin’ me as you did?” Henry says, or else he means to say. Perhaps his words slur slightly in that haze that comes after the pleasure. He knows his smile to be lazy, though. Painted with all the care of a drunken artist.
Cheekily, Hans bares his teeth into an equally wide grin. “And I hadn’t heard a word of complaint from you until now.”
Waving him off, Henry nearly makes the decision to sacrifice his own hose before Hans begs him off. He removes himself from Hans and the mess is made quite larger, but Hans stretches about like a fat cat sunbathing rather than discomforted by it. The sight makes Henry tarry just a bit longer before he can bring himself to move. Although Hans does not call him again with the heat that he once did, the lord’s arms await Henry eagerly when he returns with the cloth. Wipes Hans’ sacred skin as if drying him from a baptism. In some ways, Henry supposes, it is.
Henry throws the rag aside. Tomorrow’s Henry can worry about its care. Whether it will be salvageable or not given a proper wash that he is certain he will not be arsed to do. But for now, there are his wife’s arms to enjoy as he beckons him welcome into his warmth once again. Grants him rest on his bosom and so effortlessly holds him once again. As if they are once more one flesh even without Henry sheathing himself into Hans. As if they have been made to fit one another in almost any instance they might find themselves in, and Henry may always lay himself upon Hans’ shape.
A satisfied hum makes itself known. A half-attempt at some tune that Henry has heard before, but he is equally happy to fall asleep to the tune of Hans’ heartbeat as it keeps sturdy in his chest against Henry’s ear. Then Hans roams his fingers about Henry’s hair from scalp to nape. They trespass not, for Henry’s skin is their home. Though their presence reminds Henry of a temple’s pew where one's knees might rest. Solid, but gentled by belief. Whispered like a prayer but sung loud as a hymnal in their contradictory movement. And Henry finds himself near to dozing off beneath Hans’ ministrations and rested above his steady breath.
“Amantes fortuna iuvat,” Hans speaks softly, whilst Henry is in that place of near rest.
“That’s not how it goes,” Henry furrows his brow, even as his eyes remain closed. He might not speak Latin, but the precious words that he does know he could recite with a deaf tongue. The way that priests hoard their prayers, Henry clutches the three words as tight as a rosary, and Hans has said one of their words wrong.
Hans huffs, but his fingers do not cease their motions. “There are other words, Henry. In fact, one word can change the entire meaning of a sentence—though I would hope you know that.”
Henry’s brow furrows deeper against Hans’ smooth chest. It’s almost a starker contrast than Henry’s hands upon Hans’ waist, but he doesn’t spare much thought for it. He doesn’t know the language enough to puzzle out the strange new word. “A…”
“Amantes,” Hans repeats with that same starbright tone as he had taught the original phrase. “So, our motto means fortune favors the bold, eh? But amantes…” Hans’ hands still into a cradle, and Henry obediently lifts his head to meet Hans’ gaze. “It means fortune favors the lovers.”
Once upon a time, Henry had been afraid of what Hans would call them. Their fragile, seemingly temporary joining as Henry faced death. Then the wedding had loomed over them, and Hans could not fake frailty for long before Sir Hanush sent for Hans’ return—with plenty of strict words for Henry to fulfill his promise and return the young lord to his duties. There hadn’t been the time then to call themselves anything as they fumbled through exploring each other’s bodies. Pushing past into realms where no words lay for what they felt for one another. Only a half-spoken poem translated from a French minstrel.
Then, back in Rattay, well on the road still and the castle yet to be seen, Hans had taken Henry. The stars had shone like the night’s candles, only they didn’t wane when they had finished. And Hans had found the words, then, that neither had dared to whisper. Henry feared it. Feared thinking it, let alone saying, and yet Hans had reached across. Pulled his injured body out of the woods and fended them from the invading terror yet again. Henry would always owe his life to Sir Hans, but Henry’s heart—his love—he had returned tenfold on that evening.
Henry is certain that he did, anyhow. With the way that Hans calls them lovers as he does now. As if they are the subject of songs. Of poems. Something to be whispered and coveted. Henry kisses him again, just to prove him right. They are that which is fabled. Perhaps not fated for they have carved themselves with their own hands, but they are favored just to have this moment. Where they are with one another and of each other. Where Henry could die happiest, if he didn’t want Hans’ every living moment. Torn between wanting to pave Hans’ way into Heaven or ensuring that Hans’ last breath is spent in peace on this mortal plane. Henry wouldn’t be long for it anyway without Hans. There isn’t much of Henry left anymore that hasn’t been touched by Hans, and is therefore not in some way Hans Capon.
Laying his head back atop Hans’ chest, they fall into another silence, one just as soft as the last. Where they are of one flesh and one heart as married folk are. Henry cannot fasten his arms around Hans in this position, but he brackets Hans’ instead. The closest to tender that he can be, and it seems Hans knows it for he resumes combing Henry’s hair.
After some time has passed like this, Hans hums to get Henry’s attention. Henry hums in return against Hans’s sternum, and this prompts the lord to speak. “I’ve been thinking.”
“Careful,” Henry answers. “I think that could be quite dangerous for you, sir.”
Hans swats Henry’s crown, taking no heed for the bruising he might leave or the laurel that rests there still. “You mongrel.”
Henry laughs, but attempts to bury the sound into Hans’ skin. It sounds too harsh to his own ears, and he doesn’t wish to break the evening. Hans’ hand returns to his nape, and the touch is so uncertain that Henry pauses. It lingers, tickling his skin and calls to arms the short hairs there. Gooseflesh rises in Hans’ wake, and Henry lifts himself once again to meet Hans’ gaze.
“What if we killed Lord Capon?” says Hans, as if that is not the most insane thing that Henry has ever heard.
Blinking, Henry feels his brow furrow again. “But…you’re Lord Capon.”
Hans rolls his eyes, a laugh on his lips that does not sound. “Well, that’s rather the point, isn’t it? Well, actually no—that’s the opposite of my point. I am…well, I’d have to be Hans. Couldn’t stand being called any other name, could I? I mean, could you imagine some peasant calling to me, familiar as you like, and shouting the name Christopher?”
“Hans,” Henry breaks, because he’s lost, and he holds his weight up on his palms as he keeps close to Lord Capon’s body. “You couldn’t ever live as anything other than Sir Hans Capon, Lord of Pirkstein—the future of Leipa. Can’t even stop callin’ us peasants, can you?” And Henry tries to tease to ease the bite, but Hans’ wild words need to be pruned, don’t they? Hans is likely to run off with his own head the amount of trouble he’ll get himself into, and that’s what Henry is here for. To be sensible. To keep him out of trouble.
But Hans frowns. Not one of his usual pouts, but something that turns his face and twists it all up. “Well. I’m not doing much living as Lord of Pirkstein, am I?” Hans’ voice is soft. Then he wets his lips and attempts to shutter his soul up by looking anywhere but in Henry’s direction. “I think I could have a dramatic death. Perhaps fall off a cliff, having been bested by far too many bandits? No, I couldn’t possibly submit to something as simple as bandits.”
Henry doesn’t find whatever joke Hans is digging at funny, really. It was hard enough living through the actual danger that nearly took Hans from Henry, but hearing Hans conjure up his own death for amusement? It makes the sweet words on Henry’s tongue stale.
“But I bet I’d be mourned for an age, wouldn’t I?” Hans’ jest is rotten. “Even Uncle would have to shed a few tears, for decency's sake.”
“It’s not funny, Hans,” Henry pushes himself up and away, rolling off onto his hip and seating himself to look away from Hans. Everything that was blessed bread and wine about their union is now the reality of sweat and spend. It’s cold, this evening, now that the untended fire has begun to die. And Henry hates himself for it. That he can’t just let Hans prattle on with this pointless humor and be for a moment longer. While the moment is still there to be had. But, like the fire, it is gone when not fed and there is only the smoke and embers to remember it by.
Hans shifts—Henry can hear him, first—and places his hand so gently over the scar on Henry’s shoulder. He remains; quiet and heavy enough to almost feel permanent. As if he too is part of the skin and sinew of Henry that is exposed there. Then he rests his forehead against Henry’s nape. “If I sound cavalier about it, it’s only my way to cope.” He whispers gently. “I’ve…given it some thought, I promise. Really. I wouldn’t have mentioned it if I didn’t. God’s wounds, Hal, I couldn’t even tell you that I loved you when I thought you might die—and I had given that plenty of thought, believe you me.”
Henry turns, because he can’t not look at Hans when the lord says the word love as he does. With Henry as its direction and its source. He rests his hand on Hans’ waist, and Henry wants to fall into him. Close his eyes and rest. But he can’t. Not without having said what needs saying.
“Then think,” Henry begins, “could you really see yourself living without? All of your plentiful hot baths and all of your finest linens. Food always on your table and wine in your belly. And—” shaking his head, Henry only barely notices the blurring of his vision. It’s through the haze of his own sorrow that he sees his Hans, though. Glistening. “And that’s not to even speak about the title, Hans. What you’ve worked so damn hard for. To prove to Hanush that you’ve more than earned. Your family’s name.”
And it speaks, Henry thinks, that Hans knows what he does not say. How Henry hasn’t even a family name to keep from his parents. How the only thing that he has of Ma is the memory of her smile. And the only thing he has of his Pa is the sword they built together. And how both things belong to Sir Radzig just as much. How none of it is Henry’s own. None for him to covet and keep and bequeath as he sees fit. And Henry knows he need not say these things, because Hans’ tender hands come up to cradle his face with that understanding.
“I’ve thought about that, too,” Hans’ voice is tight around whatever thought he’s swallowed. “It…of course I’ll miss it, I think. It’s hardly fair to say that I won’t. And I’ll complain, mind you, but that you are well used to.” An inhale. An exhale. Hans’ eyes close and he rests his forehead against Henry’s own. “I meant what I said: I love you, Henry. I’ll always want a full belly and a warm hearth—but how is that any different from what you want?”
Henry means to argue, he does, but Hans kisses him quiet. A gentle urging to let the lord continue, and Henry would not deny him anything.
“The land—let’s be honest with ourselves—I don’t think my uncle plans on giving me my inheritance while he yet lives. It does not matter what goal he sets; I will never achieve it. There will always be some way in which I am lacking. And,” here he trails off for a minute before he can continue. He pulls back, just enough to force Henry to face him. Their gazes lock. “Henry, the land of my father, my prided title—those were all that I had wanted, for the longest time. But I can’t help but wonder if that was because it was all that I thought I was owed. They belonged to me, and they were priceless. Uncle is…he is good hands for those lands. A good head for those people.”
“You are, too,” Henry argues. Just to argue. But also because Hans needs to hear that people believe in him.
Hans smiles, but it is a sad, bitter thing as much as it is sweet. “Perhaps. I’m a conceited arsehole, too, when I want to be though.” And there, that seriousness of a power that Henry cannot name again. “I have wanted my entire life, it feels like. Except I never knew what I was waiting for, until you, Henry.”
“Hans—” Henry swallows thickly, meaning to continue his argument, but he hasn’t the words. And Hans allows no quarter.
“I mean it, Henry of Skalitz.” Hans’ voice is thick, the slap of leather against knuckles. And it is soft, the run of a bandage across a wound. “I meant my vows to you; you’re my fucking husband, and saying so, it—” a laugh. An uncontrolled laugh summoned by the force of Hans’ happiness. It surprises them both, and Henry is too stunned to take the opportunity to speak or kiss or do much of anything. Can only watch Hans as he always does. “You’re my husband.” He whispers, reverent with the weight of jubilation. Disbelief, too.
And Henry knows. He knows. He knows that he is Hans’ husband in every way that will matter to either of them. But he also knows the sting of a blade. The feeling of starvation. The rot of your gut as you wish to bleed a faster death than one beaded under the sun. And in a world where that has to be suffered, so too does Hans have to marry Lady Jitka.
“What sort of life would there be for you, then?” Says Henry, who has thought of this, too. “Sir Hans Capon, to beholden himself to another lord’s grace? Or perhaps we live in the woods as hermits ‘til we meet an unassuming lord’s wrath?”
“I’ll have you know,” Hans furrows his brow, and his smile is tarnished by Henry’s practicality, he knows. Precious, soft gold cut against the strike of steel. “That I would like a honeymoon.” And the words are so ridiculous as to strike Henry silent once again. “We could travel for some time, I should think, until we find a land best suited to our needs. I’ve a strong enough hand for hunting, and you would make a fine addition with any of your skills.”
Henry shakes his head, willing away the hope that Hans attempts to ignite in his chest. “Aye, so are we to kill me, too? Live our lives as nameless men in a nameless town? You’d rather actually die to bandits than to die in obscurity.”
“I’d rather die beside my husband,” Hans’ voice raises and his hand lifts from Henry’s skin. “Or did you not mean a word of what you swore to me?”
Although Henry doesn’t have much a hand for it, he knows enough about snaring. It’s part of a hunt, isn’t it? Whether it’s beast or man, you set a lure. Once the trap is sprung, then—SNAP. And that’s what Henry’s teeth do as he turns to face Hans. Snarls his answer as anger seethes out his bones.
“And what sort of man do you take me for, aye?!” Henry blazes. Burns like everything he’s ever known. “Never once have I taken an empty oath. Never. An’ never did I so mean it than I did with you. So fuck you for even thinkin’ otherwise.” He’s tight as a bow. Blown as a furnace. And he hates himself for it. Hates that he’s more soldier than poet even in something as delicate as love.
But Hans does not flinch. He smiles. Henry has to blink as he comes to the realization: if it’s a trap that Henry’s fallen into, it was Hans Capon who set it. “There’s my husband,” Hans’ voice is soft. Falls like evening does. Slowly, then all at once. “And he’s a fighter—especially if he wants something.” Then Hans cradles Henry’s cheek. His hand cool to Henry’s still heated face. “And I will find any way to bring him happiness, if not this.”
Henry can’t speak. It chokes him, the things that he wants to say and the things that he ought to say. As if now, in this moment, his oaths have contradicted one another. To love Hans and to protect him mean two things as opposite as the moon and her sun. To protect Hans would be to stay. Where he would be fed and respected. Where he would have his birthright. Where he would continue his family line, and where he would be buried in his family tomb. To love Hans would be to run away. To live a quiet life as Henry has dreamed of, somewhere neither of them would need worry about feuds and blood and duty. A cottage where Henry might have a quaint forge, buried in plentiful woods that would feed them both until Death took them with age. And Henry, he aches for it. Wants.
“I—” Henry says, even if he cannot bear it. “I can’t—”
“You can.” Hans takes his other hand to Henry’s face, and now the tender hold is all that holds Henry’s head afloat. He is nearly separate from his body. Could weep himself into a river, if not for Hans being the dam to stop him. To make him whole, full-bodied. “Henry, my love,” and this Hans says like lord and husband and Henry. Henry’s own name, given new form on Hans’ lips. “What do you want?”
Shaking as the leaves do beneath felling winds, Henry closes his eyes. There have been many things that Henry was not made to bear tonight, but this is the largest of them all. It drags his shoulders to the earth and his hands shakily grasp Hans’ wrist for support lest he fall completely. He knows then that in spite of his efforts it is done. He has shown himself weak. Frail. The same boy who ran from Skalitz. Even with every effort and oath to never run again, Henry could dash barefoot through mountains unending if he were running to Hans. But even amidst that weakness as tears begin to trek down his cheeks, Henry’s wife has asked him something. And the words spill as carelessly as wine, not the prayer that it is.
“I don’t want to be alone,” Henry’s confessional feels as a lash’s tongue already flogging him for his sin.
“Never,” Hans swears, and the strength in his voice beckons Henry to open his eyes. Unwavering, loyal eyes pin Henry in place between two gentle, loving hands. “Never while I draw breath.”
But Henry fears that he is no better than Toth. That his love is selfish and cruel. That it will ask for more than he can ever give. So he dares not say anything else. Bites his tongue and lets the sacrament of blood wash him of his sins. Or he would, if Hans was not holding his jaw. Was not so aware of his self-flagellation as to make his body hold its function. The world without a breeze. Quiet. Uncertain.
“Henry, I will move the heavens and the earth for you,” Hans pleads. Henry recognizes the tone. “It won’t be as large as we had intended, but I will build you a forge with my own two hands. Or,” Hans trails for a moment, and his smile catches on his humor, “Well, you’ll have to do that, because I haven’t a fucking clue how they work, really. But I’ll build you a house. Yes, brick by brick I will lay it. And I will hobble together whatever groschen need be so that it is ours. And there will be plenty of land for that mutt of yours, and plenty of harvest for our bellies, too. And—” here Hans eyes water and his voice wavers. It is not soft, but thin. Frightened, Henry catches. “And me.”
Henry knows his own words, especially those that he used to ask Hans to marry him moments ago. Where they held one another with begging breaths to remain. To tarry in a moment that was their own. Now Hans is begging that they steal more. That Henry swipe him away from a world of comfort and certainty, and they take on a new one of their own. Terror seizes Henry’s heart—that they might not make it out at all, or if they do that they not last long. Or, perhaps worst of all, that Hans will regret it. That one walk in too-worn trodden boots and he will long for Pirkstein once again. And, in a way that Henry knows, one cannot burn the home out of a man’s chest. Hans will always long for it in some way, even if they were to build a new home together.
But Henry can’t deny Hans anything, either. So around the shattering pieces of his own heart he says, “Say the word.” And his voice rasps. “Say the word, and we’re gone.”
Maybe Hans knows, though, what Henry cannot say—or hears what he does confess to—and Hans wraps his arms around Henry tightly. They hold each other quietly, shivering in the evening, until they can bring themselves to part. Even then they do not move far, for they have learned how two grown men might share one bed roll. Henry allows Hans to hold him as he often does not, lets Hans be found wanting himself, and although fitful dreams will threaten his sleep, Hans’ whispered prayers against the nape of his neck will stave them off.
They say no other words to each other, but perhaps there is nothing more to be said tonight. Instead, they bequeath each other the only wedding gifts that they can: silence and understanding. Where Henry will follow Hans to the ends of this earth and unto the next, but he cannot ask it of him. Will not ask it of him. At least not yet. Hans understands this, or perhaps he has oversold his own confidence. There is a hesitance to the way that his arms wrap around Henry’s trunk. As if he too fears an answer. But Henry fears the future, not now, and he holds Hans’ hands tightly around himself. Finds strength to dream this evening, even if not dare hope for tomorrow.
When dawn comes they will separate as they always must, and they will ride out for greener pastures where the hunt might yield something for them. Henry will hesitate to take up the bedding, and Hans will know without words that it is their wedding bed. But the alternative is to leave it for some marauder to snatch, and their unholy hands defiling the symbol of their matrimony seems graver a sin than to take it up. So Henry will hide it beneath all other belongings, and Hans will say not a word. Their laurels will be consumed by the soil, just as one day their remains might, but this is so that the earth too remembers their vows.