Work Text:
The dirt of the upper courtyard is a familiar canvas of dust and sweat, but the feet treading it today are entirely new. It feels like only yesterday that Henry had been a stray blacksmith’s boy clutching a stolen sword, running a step behind a reckless young heir on the road to Trosky. Now, the old wars are merely memories carved into the scars on his chest. Hans Capon finally stands as the undisputed Lord of Leipa, the weight of a province resting squarely on his velvet-clad shoulders, while Henry of Skalitz remains the captain who keeps the peace, and the squire who guards his legacy.
But today, Henry’s greatest challenge isn't a bandit ambush or a political rival. It is a seven-year-old boy who refuses to keep his guard up no matter how many times he’s taught.
"Again, little lord," Henry sighs, running a calloused hand over his face as Heinrich, Hans and Jitka’s son, scrambles up from the dirt for the third time in ten minutes. "You're leaning into your strikes like a drunk tavern brawler. Keep your weight centered."
"I was trying to execute the master strike you showed me yesterday!" Heinrich protests, defensively hoisting his wooden training sword. He wipes a streak of sweat and dirt across his forehead, his small chest heaving laboriously. "The one you used against the bandits at the mill. You said it requires speed!"
"It requires speed, not a total disregard for balance," Henry corrects dryly, stepping forward to adjust the boy's stance with the toe of his boot. "If you throw your whole body into it like that, a real opponent won't even need to parry. They'll just step aside and let the dirt do the work. Which it currently is."
Heinrich pouts: a perfect, haughty mimicry of his father's trademark look when an argument isn't going his way. "Father says a true knight relies on overwhelming fervor. He said caution is for merchants."
Henry can’t help the small, breathless chuckle that escapes him. Of course Hans told him that. "Your father also used to get thrown into the dirt by me twice a week for neglecting caution. Do you want your mother to see another set of scabs on your elbows? She already looks at me like I'm running you through the millstones."
"Mother worries too much," Heinrich declares, crossing his arms and letting the wooden sword dangle. He stares up at Henry, those striking blue eyes suddenly wide and intensely observant. The boy’s reckless energy quiets for a brief moment, replaced by that innate, gentle perception he inherited from Jitka.
Henry’s heart swells with an ache of fierce pride as he looks down at the tiny reflection of the man he treasures most. He had a hand in this. He helped raise Heinrich, watching from the battlements as the boy first fumbled with a wooden dagger. Hell, he is the boy’s namesake, and he certainly lives up to the name with his fearsome talent for a longsword. Unable to help himself, Henry reaches out and ruffles the boy’s messy blond strands. “Ah, you’re a good lad.”
Heinrich beams, the brief gravity vanishing as he rubs at a fresh scratch on his forearm. “I can see why Father has taken such a liking to you, Henry. You’re always here.”
A bittersweet wave of cheer floods through Henry’s chest, the words tasting slightly of ash. If only the boy truly knew. “And I’m not going anywhere, lad. I’ll be here even until you’re the Lord of Leipa yourself.”
Their exchange is interrupted by the steady click of leather boots against stone as the current Lord of Leipa approaches. His rich presence is as loud and brightening to the courtyard as the midday sun. “My two boys! Training hard, are we?” Hans raises an arm in greeting, letting his hand land heavily on Heinrich’s shoulder in a rare, public gesture of fatherly doting once he reaches them. “I hear from Henry that you’re becoming quite the swordsman.”
A wide, ear-to-ear grin overtakes Heinrich’s entire expression. “Henry has said that I can overturn wars with my talent!”
“Did he now?” Hans chuckles, shooting Henry an amused glance. He finds it ridiculously arousing to watch Henry have such an undeniable influence on his heir. It’s obvious by the twitch of his lip and the devilish light dancing in his eyes, all the usual telltale signs of his barely restrained passion for his right-hand man. “Well, it must be true then. I’ve never known him to lie. Anyways, run along now, Heinrich. I came to steal Henry away for a hunt.”
“I want to go hunting too, Father!”
“Not a chance, little lord. Your mother awaits you in the kitchens. Go.” With a firm, affectionate pat on Heinrich’s back, Hans watches as the boy energetically scurries across the courtyard.
The moment the child vanishes through the keep's threshold, Hans's impressive, lordly conviction slips. He turns back to his squire, the ever-growing fondness in his posture heavily apparent. His fingers twitch at his side, fighting the maddening urge to reach out and rest his hands upon Henry’s shoulders the way he does when they are completely alone. Instead, he steps closer, his shoulder nudging Henry's arm in a bashful, quiet greeting. Hans’s attempts at a discreet, courtly love are almost painfully adorable to witness, made sweeter by the nervous way he fiddles with the hilt of his hunting bow. “So... would you like to come?”
“Have I ever been one to deny a good hunt with you?” Henry grins wide, hardly able to control his countenance. He knows he must look like an absolute fool in love, but is weak to Hans’s attentions, and does nothing to mask it. “Your wish is my command, m’lord.”
They exit the castle gates with all the boisterous fanfare expected of a lord and his captain. But the moment the road opens up and the stone walls shrink behind them, the noise fades. The frantic chatter settles into an easy, familiar quiet. Reaching across the space between Pebbles and Balthasar, their fingers intertwine, their skin warming under the open Bohemian sun. Today is a day for them to reconnect, away from the prying eyes of the upper court.
Truth be told, there is very little hunting done on these trips. The bows and hounds are merely a flimsy ruse—a desperate excuse to vanish into the greenery, to tumble into the grass and gasp words of adoration into a wilderness that keeps secrets trapped in the leaves. They’ve made these escapes so often that the forest has shaped itself around them. Henry doesn't even need to look up to know they’ve arrived at their favorite clearing; the air always finds them first, thick with the comforting, familiar scent of unplucked chamomile, a scent of wild apples and sweet honey. It’s a nostalgic smell to them now, an intoxicating mist that becomes wilder and stronger the longer they tumble in the grass. This visit is no different, limbs woven together in a passionate tangle as they frantically undress one another among the secrecy of the forest. Henry always feels like he’s desperately trying to satiate some kind of hunger, one that won’t fucking go away no matter how many times they escape together. He doesn’t realize his frantic thrusts are more brutal than usual today, not until he can feel the sting of Hans’s nails clawing streaks into his back.
Hans comes with a loud cry, quickly muffled by Henry’s insatiable kisses. The blacksmith is soon to follow, allowing his staggered gasps to escape into blond strands.
For now, the ravenous hunger quiets.
The sun warms their now-dormant naked figures as they remain entangled together, bare skin against skin. With Hans curled up and relaxed in his lap, Henry plucks stray blades of grass and wayward petals from his shoulders. It’s a quiet moment of peace that allows Henry’s mind to wander, that is, until Hans hisses. Henry glances down and takes notice of the imprint of his own teeth embedded into the lord’s skin, throbbing and swollen. “Damn, that burns,” Hans complains, reaching up to rub the fresh wound, “You were more forceful than usual today. What’s with you?”
Henry swallows hard, the bittersweet weight in his chest suddenly feeling heavy enough to suffocate him. He doesn't pull away, but his grip on Hans's hip turns quiet, grounding, apologetic. "Sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you," he murmurs, his voice rougher than usual. "I just..."
He looks away, eyes tracing the line of the forest canopy where the light filters through the leaves. "Heinrich spoke to me today. Before you came out to the courtyard."
Hans shifts slightly in his lap, his brow furrowing as the defensive, sharp edge of his aristocratic pride softens into curiosity. "And? What did the whelp say? More nonsense about overturning wars?"
"He told me he knew why you liked me so much," Henry says, the words tasting like ash. "He said it's because I'm always here."
A quiet settles over the clearing, so absolute that the gentle hum of the woods roars loudly with the wind. Henry finally looks back down at Hans, his thumb gently brushing just beside the swollen bite mark.
"He’s got my name, Hans. He’s got my sword, the one I used at Suchdol. He’s got your face, and your stride, and your blood. And I look at him, and I’ve never been prouder of a little lord." Henry’s chest heaves, a ragged breath escaping his lips. "But then he looks up at me with those blue eyes, and I realize... to the rest of the world, I’m just the shadow in the corner of his hall. I’m the blacksmith who never leaves. I love that boy like he’s my own flesh, but he will never, ever be able to call me Father. And before God and the law, you will never be able to call me yours."
The confession leaves him completely hollowed out. The 'hunger' from earlier wasn't merely passion—it was a frantic, desperate attempt to consume Hans entirely, to claim him so deeply in the dirt and the grass that the nobility and the laws of God couldn't strip them apart.
Hans doesn't answer right away. He stares up at Henry, the playful arrogance entirely drained from his face, replaced by a profound, breaking sorrow. Unable to handle the weight of the truth, he lowers his gaze to the floor, voice quieter than ever before. “So then, what? Have you finally grown tired of your place at my side?” It’s a terrifying question, one that Hans barely has the strength to speak. “Have you finally decided that you want more from your lot in life?”
The silence that follows is agonizing, the space between them suddenly feeling as vast and cold as the stone halls of Rattay. Hans’s shoulders tremble slightly, a rare and vulnerable fracture in his noble facade. He’s a lord who can command armies and levy taxes, but right now, stripped of his fine silks and silver signets, he is simply a man terrified of losing the only person who truly knows his soul.
Henry feels a sharp pang of regret cut through his hollow chest. “No, that’s..” He reaches out, his large, rough hand reaching for his lover, but the blond moves away before it can connect.
“Forget it, Henry. I understand. Let’s go home.”
The empty air where Hans had just been feels colder than the winter stone of Skalitz. Henry’s hand hovers, fingers curling inward before dropping heavily back into the crushed chamomile. Frustrated, he locks his eyes onto the grass beneath him. Hans is absolutely wrong. But for whatever reason, the reassuring words won’t come out. Instead the two are left in the deafening silence of their favorite clearing, the whisper of a setting sun reminding them that it’s time to go home.
When the pair return to the upper estates of Rattay, the silent understanding that usually bridges their world is replaced by a rigid, hollow barrier. There are no intertwined fingers to unravel on the road back, no lingering smiles to fade. Instead, the heavy distance between Pebbles and Balthasar remains wide and unyielding all the way through the gates. Dismounting in a tense silence, they fall into their practiced roles, their strides stiff. As lonesome a notion it may be, Hans is the prestigious Lord of Leipa, and today, that title feels like a mountain between them. But there will never be anything to challenge his legitimacy or right to rule the lands owed to him; Henry will always personally make sure of that, even if it leaves him a ghost in his own skin.
Inside, Jitka has a brew of pottage boiling over the hearth, stirring the thick contents with a heavy wooden spoon. Despite Hans’s initial dread that his bride would be lacking in beauty, she is a modest-faced maid with a heart of gold and a singing voice that can lull animals to sleep. She’s a gentle soul through and through, as graceful and pious as a young noble lady could ever get. She never speaks of the late nights Hans spends "reviewing ledgers" in the armory, nor does she question why the Lord of Rattay only ever seems truly at peace when his blacksmith is within arm's reach. Instead, she simply ensures Henry’s place at her family’s side, acting as the quiet, steady anchor that keeps the castle a comfortable home.
When the two men step into the warmth of the kitchens, she raises her head from the bubbling hearth, a single brunette braid falling loosely over her shoulder. “Welcome back, Husband. And Henry.” She nods goodheartedly to her son’s guardian. “You two must be hungry after your hunt.”
“No, I’m fine. Thank you, Wife.” Despite his best efforts to sound casual, Hans responds curtly as he props his bow against the stone wall. Without allowing for any protest, he sweeps past them toward his private chambers, not sparing a single glance at the two most important people in his life.
As the creak of his leather boots fades down the corridor, Jitka continues stirring the pottage, seemingly unbothered by the frost her husband left in his wake. Serene as ever, she ladles the thick broth into a wooden bowl and holds it out, offering a genuine smile to her husband’s squire. “And you, Henry?”
The knowledge of exactly how he had spent the afternoon with her husband sits like lead on Henry's conscience. He can’t deny her—not when she has spent her evening tending a fire to ensure he was fed, completely blind to the betrayal. Swallowing the tightness in his throat, Henry forces a strained smile to his lips. He steps forward and accepts the bowl with a low, heavy bow of his head. “Er... yes. Thank you, my lady.”
Moving stiffly, Henry crosses the room to settle onto a bench by the hearth. He rests his elbows on his thighs, holding the steaming bowl loosely in one hand and stirring weakly with the other. He doesn’t have much of an appetite, not after the debilitating misunderstanding he created with Hans. All he can do is pretend to eat, scooping spoonfuls of air into his mouth to satisfy her.
“Was today’s hunt fruitful, Henry?”
Henry can’t, and doesn’t, lift his head to meet Jitka’s gentle gaze. He lies out of his teeth, ignoring the guilt that settles in his stomach like stale bread. “Not really.”
“I see that. You returned awfully early.” Her melodic voice comments as she pours wine into his goblet, her graceful movements apparent even in the corner of his vision. Her observations, while good-hearted, are suffocating.
Begrudgingly, Henry forces a spoonful of pottage into his mouth, the hot liquid scratching its way down his throat. “Yeah.”
“Without any quarry.” Jitka continues her busy movements, now rearranging cheeses on the table, the moving and rustling overwhelming each of Henry’s senses. “And my husband went straight to our chambers.”
Henry has a white-knuckled grip on his wooden spoon, now. “Yeah.”
“So.. you two must have argued.”
The wooden spoon groans slightly under the sudden, fierce pressure of his hand. Henry’s breath hitches, his eyes locking onto a floating piece of turnip in his bowl as if it were the most fascinating thing in Bohemia.
He expects the axe to fall. He expects the accusations, the anger of a wife defending her household, or worse—the wrath of a woman who knows she is sharing her husband with another man.
Instead, the rustling of the cheese stops. His silence was enough. The soft, rhythmic click of Jitka's leather slippers approaches the trestle table, stopping just short of his bench.
"He is a stubborn man, Henry," she says softly, her voice carrying no malice, only the tired, fond indulgence of a woman who understands her husband’s volatile nature completely. "When the weight of the province presses too hard on his shoulders, he lashes out at the people who stand closest to him. I have seen him do it to his cousins, to the old Lord Hanush... and to you."
Henry swallows the lump of dry pottage in his throat, his jaw clenching so hard it aches. If only it were about the province, he thinks, the lie burning hotter than the broth. If only I were just a captain he was angry with.
"He will lock himself away until morning, nursing his pride in the dark," Jitka continues, reaching out to place a gentle, stabilizing hand on the edge of the table near his bowl. "But he always comes around. Perhaps you should address it, before it festers. After all, you are the man he loves.”
The world tilts on its axis.
The groaning of the wooden spoon stops, but only because Henry’s fingers have gone entirely numb. The breath he had been holding catches like a hook in his chest, burning worse than the boiling hot pottage. He doesn't look up—he can't—terrified that if he meets her eyes, the entire illusion of the castle will shatter into dust around them.
The words hang in the warm, herb-scented air of the kitchen, heavier than the stone blocks of the keep, yet lighter than anything Henry has ever heard. There is no accusation in her tone. No bitter edge of a woman scorned. There is only a quiet, steady truth—a factual acknowledgment of the invisible foundation that keeps the House of Leipa standing.
All of the air has been sucked out of his lungs, leaving only a gasp as he croaks his next words. “You knew?”
The soft, rhythmic scraping of her spoon stops. Jitka doesn’t look at him with anger, nor does she offer a bright, easy smile. Instead, a quiet, wistful look crosses her face: the expression of a woman who has long since made peace with a difficult truth.
“I am his wife, Henry. I am not blind,” she says softly. “My husband is a great many things, but he has never been a subtle man. I knew before we even arrived in Rattay.”
Henry shrinks beneath the quiet weight of her voice, his chest burning with shame. He waits for the other shoe to drop, for the judgment that never comes. His hands can support the heavy weight of his bowl no longer. “I’m sorry.”
Jitka lets out a slow, gentle exhale, her comforting hand moving to cover Henry’s tense one where it now rests on the table cradling his pottage. “Don’t be. It is not the life I envisioned when I was a girl, no. But I am happy here, Henry. Hans is a good husband to me, and a wonderful father to our son. And I know... I know he would not be the man he is today if you hadn't been by his side.”
She lets her hand fall away, her voice remaining steady and calm as she continues. “When he is hurting, this entire house grows cold. Heinrich notices it. The servants notice it.” She offers Henry a small, tentative smile—one born of a shared, quiet understanding. “He is proud and foolish, and he is up there nursing his wounds alone. Go to him, Henry. He needs you. Our family needs you.”
After a reassuring pat to the shoulder, she turns back to the hearth, picking up a cloth to handle the hot iron pot. In her wake, she gracefully giving him the privacy to leave should he heed her advice. It’s a sentiment that weighs heavily on his brow, leaving only the crackling of the hearth to fill the silence of the room.
Henry sits frozen for a fraction of a second, the suffocating guilt in his chest melting into a profound, breaking gratitude. She isn't casting him out, and she isn't pretending things are perfect; she is simply asking him to help her care for the man they both deeply care for.
Standing up so fast his bench scratches against the floorboards, Henry offers a low, deeply respectful bow to her calm side profile. He has wronged her, and he knows it. In his infinite gratitude, all he can do is promise to himself that he will forever protect her dignity and rally for her legacy, shielding her husband and her son until the day his hands can no longer hold a sword.
“Thank you, my lady.”
After drinking in her reassuring nod, Henry turns and hurries toward the stairs, the heavy silence of the castle waiting for him as he climbs toward the closed oak door.
Stopping short of the entrance to Hans and Jitka’s shared chambers, Henry presses his forehead against the cold wood, heartbeat thrumming in his stomach. He can only imagine the expression on Hans’s face, the devastation that must be festering in his veins. Insecurity is an ugly thing, but this misunderstanding is even uglier. Beyond his duties as a squire and captain, he has a duty as Hans’s lover to always be there, to accept every punishment and lashing out that comes his way.
Henry scoffs good-heartedly to himself, his hand moving down to the door’s heavy iron latch. Heinrich was absolutely right.
There is no reason to be ashamed of it anymore.
Henry will always be here in the shadows, protecting the Pirkstein legacy. And from now on, he internally promises, he will do it with pride.
The door swings open to reveal an open stone fireplace with far too much firewood stacked in its flames: a nervous habit of Hans whenever he needs to busy his mind. Pacing in front of the sweltering blaze is the young lord himself, fidgeting with his bottom lip and muttering something incoherent.
The heavy creak of the door is enough to catch his attention. His striking blue eyes snap to the threshold, falling squarely upon his lover, but the connection is instantly lost. Hans scoffs, deliberately turning his back to the room as he busies himself with the first mundane task his hands can find. In this case, he begins meaninglessly shuffling a stack of official letters across his desk: documents he clearly has no intention of actually reading.
Henry wastes no time crossing the room, his long strides free of hesitation or doubt. He can see the sweltering indignance even from the back of the young lord’s head, and he knows Hans has likely recited his words a million times in his head, prepared to chew him out. But it doesn’t deter him, no—it only inspires him to move quicker, his arms moving to wrap around the blond’s waist. “Hans.”
The sudden weight of Henry’s chest pressing against his back makes Hans go completely rigid. For a second, the only sound in the room is the furious crackle of the over-fed fireplace and the brush of a stray parchment fluttering to the floorboards under the sudden movement.
"Let go of me, Henry," Hans commands, but the lordly authority drops right out of his voice, leaving it thin, ragged, and entirely unconvincing. He plants his palms flat on the desk, his knuckles turning white against the oak as he tries to push himself backward, away from the heat of the embrace. "I am in no mood for your jests. Go back to the barracks. Go back to the yard. Go anywhere but here."
Henry doesn't budge. Instead, he hitches his chin over Hans's velvet-clad shoulder, his grip around the young lord's waist tightening into an unyielding anchor. He can feel the frantic racing of Hans’s pulse against his own forearm. Poor thing.
"I'm not going anywhere," Henry murmurs, his rough voice a low, steady vibration right against Hans's ear. "And you know it."
"Do I?" Hans scoffs, a sharp, bitter laugh cutting through his chest as he finally stops fighting the embrace. He tilts his head back, blue eyes flashing with a desperate, bleeding vulnerability as he looks at Henry sideways. "Because in the woods, it seemed very much like you were preparing your farewells. It seemed as though you looked at my son, looked at my house, and decided the blacksmith's boy was far too grand to remain a shadow."
Unfazed and unaffected by his lover’s words, the blacksmith moves a calloused hand down to intertwine their fingers, gentle caresses freeing tense muscles. Calmly, lovingly, he presses a kiss to the side of Hans’s head. “Hans,” he repeats, to calm the young lord’s rambling, “Jitka knows.”
The silence that casts over the room is instantaneous, heavy, and suffocating with the smoke of the fireplace.
Hans goes completely slack in Henry’s arms, his breath hitching so sharply it sounds like a gasp of pain. The hand Henry is holding turns ice-cold, the fingers locking rigid within the blacksmith’s warm grasp.
For three long, agonizing heartbeats, Hans doesn't move. He doesn't even seem to breathe. The only sound is the aggressive, sweltering crackle of the over-fed fireplace, casting long, dancing shadows of two men across the chamber walls.
"What?" Hans whispers. The word is barely a breath, stripped entirely of his lordly cadence, his arrogance, and his armor.
Slowly, as if moving through deep water, Hans twists around within Henry’s embrace. He doesn't pull away. If anything, his free hand reaches out to blindly clutch at the rough wool of Henry’s doublet, seeking purchase as his mind races with the implication of what happens next. Sodomites, society will deem them. He may lose his lands. Henry will most definitely be hanged. When he finally glances up, his blue eyes are wide, glassy with a sudden, rising panic that borders on terror. “When did she mention it?”
“Just now, down in the kitchens,” Henry answers softly. He doesn't flinch away from the frantic, crushing grip Hans has on his doublet. Instead, he brings his other hand up to cup the side of Hans’s face, his calloused thumb smoothing over the sharp, trembling line of the young lord’s jaw. “But she didn’t seem to mind. She has known since before we arrived in Rattay.”
For once, the young lord has nothing to say, his lips parting and closing as his flickering eyes try to search for answers within Henry’s face. How is it possible that a pious woman doesn’t care about two sodomites, especially when one is her husband?
Henry can sense the tension in his veins, the desperate need for answers. “My love,” he begins, licking his dry lips as he gathers his thoughts, “What I said in the woods, I hadn’t meant it like that. I don’t want to leave. I want to stay by you, always. But at times, I want all of you, consequences be damned.” A dry, humorless chuckle escapes him as he realizes the extent of his adorations for Hans, the borderline obsession that would lead him to abandon all sense to escape together. “Does that make me a fool?”
“Yes,” Hans chokes out.
The single word breaks from his throat, raw and entirely stripped of all composure. His fingers tighten on Henry's doublet, pulling the blacksmith down those last few inches until their chests flush together.
“You are a massive, provincial fool,” Hans whispers, his blue eyes flashing with a fierce, burning intensity as he looks up into Henry’s face. The truth of Jitka’s knowledge and the fear of losing each other melts away, consumed by the sheer relief of knowing Henry hadn’t grown tired of being his Lancelot. “And if you ever leave me to drown in that deafening silence on the road again, Henry, I’ll have you thrown in the stocks.”
Henry’s heart hits his ribs, a breathless, genuine smile finally breaking across his face. “I would never dream of it, my lord.”
"Good. Because I've grown used to you, you fool." With a ragged exhale, Hans’s defenses crumble completely. He doesn't wait for another word. He tilts his chin up and pulls Henry down into a deep, desperate kiss, his hands sliding up from the doublet to knot fiercely into the hair at the nape of Henry's neck. It’s a possessive, yet passionate reminder that he will always keep his squire by his side, that he would risk his lands and his reputation every single day for their devotion.
Henry smiles through the kisses, bliss flooding his chest despite Hans biting his lip hard enough to draw blood. His young lord has always been a fierce little thing, and Henry is never afraid to keep him grounded. Scooping Hans up into his arms, he carries him across the sweltering room to the bed, settling down to hold the blond securely in his lap. They kiss until the frantic, roaring flames of the hearth have cooled into soft, quiet embers, the gentle crackling of the wood entirely deafened by their whispered words of adoration.
In the quiet sanctuary of the mattress, there is no Jitka here, no Heinrich, no Hanush to remind them of their true lot in life. There is only Hans, the brilliant fire of his blue eyes, and the stupid, breathless smiles on their faces as they realize this is enough.
A young lord and his blacksmith, stolen away into the shadows of his chambers.
A piece of history that the world will never know.