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Every time I think I know him by heart — @playpausephoto hands me another piece of him. Endlessly thankful.
The southern wind rolled through the hills with a heavy breath, parting the bare branches, driving ragged shreds of cloud — twisting like a beast that had lost its course. The meadows squelched beneath the snow. On the surface, the land still looked white — but not with winter’s purity. More a dull, sodden quilt, heavy with thaw.
The grasslands near Rattay were fading. Their colours drained to grey.
The air was warm. Damp. It carried the scent of wet soil, but no promise of life.
As if winter had let its guard down — just for a moment — before it came back to claim the world again.
Hans pulled off one glove and rubbed his fingers. A clump of melting snow slipped from the branch above and dropped straight down his collar. He flinched and muttered a curse.
Henry cast a glance over his shoulder.
“What do you say… shall we take the upper gate?” he offered with a crooked smile. “Give Hanush the pleasure of seeing us first.”
Hans smirked too. “You think he’s waiting by the gate with open arms?”
Henry let out a snort, but didn’t answer. He simply nudged his horse on, and the road carried them forward — to a place where a side path joined the trail from the woods.
Two riders.
Still distant, but familiar shapes. Mikush in front, Pavel behind. Both had branches strapped to their horses — some bundled, some loose — fresh, fragrant fir boughs.
Hans reined in slightly. Henry slowed as well.
They waited for the pair to catch up.
“My lord,” Mikush greeted, dipping his head. “Sir Henry.”
“My lords,” Pavel added, his voice softer. He gave a brief smile and adjusted his collar.
“What’s all this?” Henry asked — though the answer was plain to see.
“Greenery for the decorations, my lord,” Mikush replied. “Lady Jitka asked for Pirkstein to look fresh and green for the Christmas feast.”
“And we’ve still a stop to make at the merchant’s,” Pavel added. “For ribbons.”
Hans gave a faintly amused nod. “Good. We’ll see you at home.”
Henry gave them a brief wave. Then both men turned their horses forward — continuing down the road toward the town.
The wind went with them. Stronger now. The upper gate was already in sight.
Hans glanced at him.
Not directly — first from the corner of his eye. Then more fully. Observing.
“How are you feeling?” he asked after a moment, quietly.
Henry shrugged lightly. “Well enough.”
Hans turned back toward the road, but his voice stayed soft.
“Even so… rest when we get there. And warm yourself.”
Henry looked ahead. Toward the gate, the path, the grey silhouette of the town.
He rolled his eyes, just a little.
But the corner of his mouth shifted. Barely. But it did.
The guards caught sight of them and straightened. One bowed his head. The other gave a small nod.
Hans returned the gesture mid-ride, no more than a flick of his hand.
They passed through. And onward — across the Upper Castle yard. No one stopped them. No one stepped closer.
But eyes followed.
And then — the town.
The road sloped downward. Narrow, half-mud, half-slush. The horses picked their way carefully. The air was thick with smells — wet walls, smoke, old hay.
The town felt strangely quiet.
Not out of fear — but something like expectation.
Like a breath held just before the bell.
Here and there, someone was sweeping a doorstep.
Most doors bore sprigs of greenery above their frames. Some even had wreaths.
A few shutters were trimmed with ribbons — homespun, dyed with bark, berries, and rust.
People noticed them.
They paused. Looked up.
A woman lowered her basket and gave a bow.
An older man by the butcher’s took off his cap.
Children racing down the lane slowed their steps.
Hans didn’t meet their eyes. But it was in the way he rode — the set of his shoulders — that people watched him.
And beside him… the other.
He was no longer merely a companion.
No word needed to be spoken. The message carried itself.
The Lord of Rotstein was riding through.
Henry felt it. The looks. The kind of silence that rose up around them.
He felt it in his body — every inch of him aware.
A few weeks ago, it would have weighed heavy on his chest. Like it had in Klokotsch, when those first stares had settled on him.
But now…
He realised it was different.
His breath was steady.
His hands held the reins without tension.
His shoulders were loose.
Maybe he was growing used to it.
Maybe he was beginning to understand what it meant to carry such a name.
Or maybe —
maybe it was because this was Rattay.
Because they knew him here.
Not as a lord. But as the one who had served.
Who had forged.
Who had fought.
Who had returned, again and again — no matter what title he bore.
Maybe that was why the weight didn’t drown him now.
To the left, the gate of Pirkstein appeared — snow-flecked, part-thawed, framed by the dark hush of the archway.
They rode through.
The yard beneath their hooves was sodden and heavy.
They stopped.
For a moment, nothing.
Only the breath of the horses. Steam rising from their nostrils. The soft creak of leather and reins.
A stableboy came pelting across the yard — wide-eyed and flushed.
“My lord! Sirs!” he blurted, dropping into a bow and nearly losing his balance.
To the right, by the kitchen door, someone turned.
Stopped.
A familiar gait.
“Zizka!” Henry called, swinging down from his horse. A grin broke across his face.
The captain made his way toward them with measured steps, a faint glint of amusement at the corner of his mouth.
“Lord of Rotstein!” he boomed.
Henry only laughed and shook his head.
They clasped each other by the forearm — firm, familiar.
Zizka clapped him on the shoulder.
“I ride south for a little while, and when I come back, the whole world’s gone sideways.”
“Indeed,” came a voice beside them.
Hans had dismounted and stepped closer. Their greeting was brief, but warm — the kind that had long since worn its way into habit.
“I’ve heard bits and pieces,” Zizka said. “But I’ll want the whole tale from the two of you.”
Hans gave a small nod. There was tiredness in his eyes — but something lighter, too.
“Plenty of time for that.”
Across the yard, Katherine appeared — Godwin beside her.
Both were headed their way.
Godwin pulled Henry into a firm, wordless embrace.
A solid pat on the back.
Then he stepped aside.
Katherine reached Hans — and pulled him close without hesitation.
He wrapped his arms around her and held her tightly.
His head dropped to her shoulder. His arms didn’t let go.
“I’m glad you’re back,” he said into her ear.
Not quite a whisper — but quiet enough that it was hers alone.
She smiled.
Held him a little tighter.
“What matters is that you’re back,” she whispered. “Especially now.”
Only then did they notice Henry watching — a look of mild surprise in his eyes.
Katherine turned to him — and a mischievous spark lit in hers.
She stepped forward and swept into a flawless curtsey, full of exaggerated grace.
“My lord,” she said, with solemnity far too grand to be genuine.
Henry placed a hand over his eyes and let out a dramatic sigh.
He shook his head — but the corners of his mouth gave him away.
Katherine took his arm lightly and kissed his cheek — quick, friendly, soft.
“It’s good that you’re home. Truly.”
From the direction of the stables came a sudden burst of barking.
Mutt charged into the yard — all flying ears and flailing paws.
He was running so fast that when he tried to stop, his feet skidded out from under him. For a moment, he flailed in place, scrambling for purchase —
but the very next heartbeat, he was a whirlwind of fur, leaping and wriggling, his tongue poised to lick both their faces at once.
With high-pitched barks and delighted yelps, he hurled himself first at one, then the other — incapable of choosing whom to greet first.
Henry laughed and dropped to a crouch.
He threw his arms around him, held him close, and rubbed behind his ears.
“I missed you too, you hairy little monster,” he murmured with a grin.
Mutt gave a low whine and pressed his head gratefully into his chest.
Hans stood nearby, watching —
and something small, almost invisible, tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Then he turned to Godwin.
“Where’s Jitka?” he asked. “Is she well?”
Godwin lifted a shoulder, glancing round the yard.
“Zdislava?” he called.
The maid came hurrying from the pantry near the kitchens.
She bowed at once.
“My lord?” she said, slightly breathless. “Welcome home, my lord. Sirs,” she added quickly.
“Where’s your lady?” Hans asked.
“I know we arrived unannounced, but—”
Zdislava lowered her eyes.
“She fell asleep not long ago. She was tired.”
Hans frowned — just for a moment.
Then gave a small nod.
“I’ll go to her later,” he said quietly.
He turned to Henry and gave a slight motion of his chin toward the stairs.
Henry nodded.
Together they climbed.
Along the corridor.
Through the hall.
And then — into Hans’s chamber.
The door closed behind them.
Hans stepped toward him.
Henry wrapped his arms around him without a word.
They sank into each other —
Hands. Arms. Shoulders.
Small, unspoken motions.
Not to explain.
Just to be close.
They stayed like that for a while.
Not for long — but long enough.
Then they drew back, just slightly.
And kissed.
Slowly.
Without haste.
Without speech.
They smiled.
Henry ran his hand across the back of Hans’s neck,
and a light came into his eyes — one that did not leave, even for a breath.
They kissed again.
And when their lips parted once more, Henry looked around the room.
“Nothing’s changed,” he murmured.
His voice was soft. Not sad. Just quiet.
“It almost feels like… those weeks, the whole journey, everything that happened there…
like it was only a dream.”
Hans smiled.
“I’m actually looking forward to going back.”
A soft knock at the door.
They both startled, just slightly.
Hans crossed the room and opened it.
Godwin.
“Mind if I steal a moment, boys?”
Hans nodded. “Come in.”
Godwin stepped inside and shut the door behind him.
“What about Hanush?” Hans asked at once. “All quiet?”
Godwin gave a nod.
“He’s kept to himself. Been out of Rattay quite a bit.”
Hans raised an eyebrow. “And how do you know that?”
The priest smiled — slyly.
Then shrugged, all innocence.
“I’ve learned to make use of old acquaintances.
Now and then, they let me know where our Lord of Leipa happens to be straying.”
Hans shook his head — a flicker of amusement in his smile.
“What did you come for, then?” Henry asked, smiling too.
Godwin smacked his forehead.
“Nearly forgot. I wanted to ask if you’d mind if we — well — gathered the pack tonight to… celebrate your return.”
He raised a hand in mock defence at once.
“Moderately, of course. As befits the holy season.”
He paused.
His eyes drifted into space, thoughtful.
“Well… with Dry Devil, though, that’s never a guarantee.”
They all laughed.
“We’d be glad,” Henry assured him.
Godwin nodded.
“Good. Then rest for now. You’ll want your strength.”
He turned, and the door closed quietly behind him.
Hans looked at Henry.
For a while, he just watched him.
A thought crossed his mind, and he stepped into the hall.
Moments later, he returned — a wine jug in one hand, two cups in the other.
Without a word, he poured for both of them, set the jug down on the table, and handed one cup to Henry.
He raised his own. Just slightly.
“To us,” he said softly.
Henry smiled. Lifted his cup in return. “To us.”
They drank.
Then they sat — side by side on the bed.
Shoulders touching. Thighs too.
All quiet. All still.
Henry let his eyes fall half shut and stretched his neck with a slow roll.
Then leaned his head against Hans’s shoulder.
Hans gave a small smile. Turned, and kissed his hair.
Henry let out a quiet breath.
“That ride did wear me out a little,” he murmured.
Hans slid an arm around his back.
His hand traced a slow line along his upper arm.
“Then lie down,” he said.
“Get some rest.”
Henry was quiet for a moment.
Then he set the cup aside. Turned toward Hans.
Wrapped one arm around him — and cupped his cheek with the other.
His gaze was thoughtful.
Quiet.
Deep.
“I love you more than anything,” he said softly.
Hans smiled at him — the smile that belonged to no one else.
He leaned in. They kissed.
Long, unhurried.
Neither of them pulled away.
And then they stayed like that.
Still touching.
Still close.
A hand resting on a thigh.
Foreheads gently leaning.
After a while, Henry spoke.
“I think I’ll lie down for a bit.”
Hans nodded.
“And I’ll go check on Jitka. See how she’s doing.”
One more kiss — brief, but warm.
Then Henry rose. Crossed to the side door and slipped into his own chamber.
He stood there a moment.
Looked around the room.
Then took off his outer coat and laid it neatly over the chest by the wall.
He crouched by the hearth. Kindled the fire — kindling, dry logs.
It took a moment.
But the flames caught.
He took off his boots.
Sat down on the bed.
Stayed there for a time.
Head bowed slightly. Thoughtful.
Then rubbed his temples.
And slowly lay down.
Closed his eyes.
The fire crackled.
Not loudly — more like a slow, steady breath.
From somewhere outside came muffled voices.
Distant. Unclear.
Maybe from the courtyard, or the floor below.
A faint clink of metal now and then.
Footsteps. Here and there.
The room was warming.
Slowly. Almost imperceptibly.
Fatigue began to take him.
Not suddenly — but like fog rising.
Fingers loosening.
A soft weight.
A body easing into quiet.
Henry drifted into sleep.
He woke to a gentle touch.
On his hand.
His fingers.
Warm. Familiar. Steady.
He blinked.
Opened his eyes.
Hans was sitting beside him on the bed.
Just sitting there — with a strange, unreadable expression.
Looking at him.
Henry smiled and pushed himself up on his elbows.
Hans spoke softly.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. But… I need to talk to you.”
Henry tilted his head.
Studied him more closely — now fully awake.
Hans was still watching him.
His lips were slightly parted, as if trying to shape a thought that hadn’t yet found words.
He drew a slow breath.
“I spoke with Jitka.”
Henry sat up straighter.
“And? Is she all right?”
Hans nodded.
“She is. She’s not ill…”
He trailed off.
His thumb brushed nervously across the back of Henry’s hand.
Henry watched him — puzzled now.
Hans looked up.
“Henry… It seems I’m going to be a father.”
A shy smile touched his lips.
Henry stared at him in silence — then pulled him into an embrace.
Tight. Wordless.
“That’s wonderful news,” he murmured.
They drew back — just far enough to see one another’s faces.
“So… that’s what she’s been struggling with?”
Hans nodded.
“Apparently, the physician from Sasau was nearly certain she was with child.”
Henry stroked his arm. Thoughtful.
“And now?”
Hans gave a small shrug.
“Now I’ll be praying. That everything goes well. That she and the baby stay safe.”
Henry nodded softly.
“I will too,” he said. “For her. For the child.”
His gaze softened as it found Hans.
“And for you.”
Hans glanced at him — his mouth barely moved, but the smile was there.
He leaned in.
Pressed a kiss to Henry’s lips — gentle, wordless.
Grateful.
Then Henry fell quiet for a moment.
“When?”
“According to Jitka, sometime in summer,” Hans replied. “That’s what it seems for now.”
Henry nodded. Slowly.
“So… come summer, we might have a little—”
“Heinrich,” Hans said with a smile. “If it’s a boy.”
“Named after his godfather…”
He took Henry’s hand in both of his.
“And the one I love.”
He smiled at him.
Henry smiled back — and lowered his gaze.
“The most important thing is that they’re both well,” he said softly.
He looked up again.
“Should I go see her?”
Hans shook his head.
“No need. You’ll see her at the gathering soon. She said she’d be there.”
A brief pause.
“In fact, we should probably start getting ready ourselves.”
Henry gave a quiet nod.
Hans looked at him for a moment.
Then broke into a wide smile — and pulled him into a hug.
With both arms — firm and full — he drew him close.
When Hans left, Henry remained where he was.
He didn’t move.
His arms were folded across his chest.
One hand slowly, absently rubbing the shoulder of the other.
His gaze was fixed somewhere far ahead.
Not on anything in particular — just there. Into space.
He stood like that for a while.
Then let out a breath.
Not sharp — but audible.
He stepped over to the chest.
Opened it.
Searched inside for a moment — quiet, unhurried —
until he drew out a clean tunic.
He closed the lid. Laid the tunic across it. Straightened.
Then reached beneath the fabric of his shirt — and pulled it over his head.
At that exact moment, he heard a soft metallic clink.
He froze. Looked down.
Lying on the wooden boards — between his bare feet — was his pendant.
The leather cord had snapped.
He stared at it without moving.
Then slowly crouched down. Picked it up with his fingers.
Laid it in the palm of his hand. Looked at it closely.
A carved piece of Hans’s armour.
Small. Heavy. Smooth.
Polished. Familiar.
Forged back in Foxburrow.
And just the same — shaped from a piece of his own armour — he had made for Hans.
Henry gently ran his fingertips across the cold metal.
Then closed his hand around it.
Stood up.
And walked to the window.
He stopped there.
Bare-chested. Still.
The pendant in his fist.
A faint chill rose from the stones of the wall and the window ledge.
And for a moment, he thought he felt it graze the nape of his neck.
He looked out.
Snow-covered hills. Black silhouettes of trees.
The slow, restless movement of the wind through the branches.
He felt the shape of the pendant in his palm — its weight, its coolness, its hold.
He knew Hans was happy.
He’d seen him.
The nerves.
The joy.
And Henry was happy too.
For him. And for Jitka.
And — quietly — for himself.
But—
something inside him gave a slight, quiet pull.
Like a tightening, deep down.
Without a cause.
Or from so many causes he wouldn’t know where to begin.
He stood there for a long time.
Just stood.
Holding the pendant.
Before the window.
In the growing dim.
Then he turned.
Slowly.
And walked back to the chest.
He took out a small cloth pouch.
Laid the pendant inside, carefully.
Tied it shut.
Set it back in the chest.
Closed the lid.
Stood tall.
And pulled on the clean tunic.
The main hall was already alive with sound.
Not raucous noise — more a warm layering of voices, laughter, and movement, spilling gently through the space.
Godwin. Dry Devil. Kubyenka. Janosh. Zizka. Katherine. Pavel.
The head of the table remained empty. No sign of Hans.
When Henry appeared in the doorway, the voices briefly swelled.
“The Lord of Rotstein!” Zizka announced, as though proclaiming the arrival of a king.
Dry Devil rose and gestured toward him with exaggerated flair.
Pavel laughed. Katherine smiled.
Henry shrugged and allowed himself to be ushered into their midst.
Before he could say a word, a tankard landed in front of him. Cool. Dew-beaded. Fragrant.
“That’s your welcome back,” Godwin noted. “Something to keep your face from growing too serious, my lord.”
Henry gave a faint grin. Took a sip.
The taste was bitter — familiar — with a pleasant weight to it.
He still felt the trace of that shadow inside…
but the beer, and the company of friends, were slowly drawing it out.
The questions began at once. One after another.
“So what’s Rotstein like?”
“Is there a well?”
“How many souls do you rule over?”
“Could you even see the road, or did your new station blind you?”
Zizka scratched the back of his neck.
“I passed through that region once. But I only saw the castle from a distance.”
Henry nodded.
“It took my breath away at first.
It’s… well, it’s like a massive rock.
Or rather — several rocks. And the castle’s carved into them. Built around them. On top of them.”
Dry Devil pulled a face.
“Sounds cozy.”
“Luckily, I’ve got a fine manorial court beneath it,” Henry said, smirking.
“And even my own forge.”
He laughed.
Katherine touched his back.
“Henry… even now that you’re a lord… you’ll always just be our Henry.”
He gave a sheepish shrug — but she smiled at him.
“And I’m very glad for that.”
Henry turned to Zizka and back to her.
“And what about you? How was the south?”
Zizka scratched at his neck again. “Well… interesting times. Lately, the lords of Rosenberg and I haven’t exactly seen eye to eye.”
Katherine snorted. “That’s a polite way of putting it.”
Zizka nodded.
“Anyway, we heard a rumour at one point — that the King had elevated the bastard son of Sir Radzig Kobyla to nobility.”
Katherine burst out laughing.
“That was quite the surprise.
But the moment we heard it, we knew we had to come back.
And find out what in God’s name was going on.”
Henry lifted his hands.
“Well. Here I am.”
A burst of laughter.
The door opened.
Hans stepped inside.
Jitka was just next him, her hand resting lightly on his arm.
The room quieted for a moment.
They crossed the hall side by side and took their seats at the head of the table.
Henry fell silent.
He glanced — just once — at the empty chair to Hans’s right.
Then his head dipped slightly, his eyes cast downward beneath his brow.
The quiet inside him deepened — not louder, but heavier.
Hans lifted his cup of wine.
“To your health, friends,” he said.
Then he turned to Jitka.
“And to the health of my remarkable wife.”
Jitka smiled, raising her cup of watered wine.
The others followed — tankards, goblets, cups raised high.
They drank.
Henry did not.
He stared at the grain of the table.
The noise returned — slowly at first, then warmer, broader.
Tankards clinked.
Laughter rose and mingled with the smell of food brought in by Mikush on a tray.
Pavel was trying to carve something far too tough with a knife far too dull, and Katherine leaned over his shoulder offering advice — with little success.
Godwin and Zizka were debating whether it was greater heresy to drink watered wine or serve it with carp.
Janosh was half-whispering a tale about a drunken priest and a wayward goose.
Henry smiled — faintly.
Just the corners of his mouth.
His gaze drifted to the head of the table.
Hans sat close to Jitka, his posture tilted slightly toward her.
They were speaking in low tones — intimate, not loud.
Their words dissolved into shadow, but it was clear Hans was entirely absorbed in the moment.
Henry watched them for a while out of the corner of his eye.
Then felt a hand on his shoulder — Godwin’s.
“And how’s the estate, lad?” the priest asked with a glint in his eye.
“What’s it like?”
Henry straightened a little.
Smiled, gently.
“It’s a bit like the land around Trosky… Forests, rocks, a wide valley.”
The others fell into a hush — listening now.
“And Klokotsch?” he went on.
“It’s a fine village. Big, but not a town like Rattay… and maybe better for it.”
Someone nodded. Katherine smiled.
“There’s a beautiful little wooden church there, Godwin,” Henry added. “I think you’d like it.”
Godwin smiled — but something in Henry’s face shifted.
A shadow passed across it — brief, but real.
“Only thing is…” he said quietly.
He paused.
“That’s what Hans and I were hoping to ask your advice on.”
He turned toward the head of the table.
“Hans?”
No answer.
“Hans,” he called again — louder this time.
Hans turned his head.
There was a moment’s vacancy in his eyes, like returning from someplace far away.
Henry gave a hesitant smile.
“I was just saying — we’d meant to ask about the borders of my estate.”
Hans nodded.
It took a second.
“Of course. Go on,” he said.
And turned back to Jitka.
Henry watched him a moment longer.
Then drew a slow breath.
Faced the table again.
“To the south… near Trosky,” he began,
“we’ve been seeing frequent intrusions from the neighbouring estate. The Trosky lands.”
“How many men’ve you got under arms?” came Dry Devil’s voice — blunt as ever.
Henry let out a breath.
“That’s just it. About six… nine if I count the ones my father left behind.”
Dry Devil pulled a face — but this time without humour.
“Nine men and one lord. Not much of a force to hold a border.”
Zizka nodded.
“Forget any thoughts of a direct fight. If you did go that way, you’d have to use everything. Every tree, every stone. Cleverly. And you couldn’t afford to repeat yourself.”
Then he breathed in — calmer now.
“But I’d try something else first. Talk. With the neighbour. See what there is to settle.”
Henry stared down at the table.
“Von Bergow…”
Zizka raised an eyebrow. Said nothing.
Godwin nodded.
“What Zizka’s saying makes sense. At least to start with.”
Henry sighed.
“That’s what Hans said too…”
For a moment, the table fell quiet.
Then Henry looked around at all the faces.
“One day I’ll take you there,” he said softly.
He smiled — broad, open.
But something else was in his eyes.
As the evening wore on, Henry spoke less and less.
Pavel kept refilling his tankard with cheerful ceremony, as if it were an honour.
Katherine touched him now and then with quiet fondness. Zizka drew him into conversation.
Godwin glanced at him with that old look — the one that said I know, lad.
When Pavel topped off his tankard again, Henry didn’t protest.
He just lifted it, gave a small nod — and drank.
Sometimes just so he didn’t have to speak.
One hand held the mug.
The other rested on the table, fingers gliding slowly over the wood. Not purposefully — just moving.
His gaze drifted into the grain, then into the flame of a candle, then into a face — but never for long.
When he laughed, it was soft.
And brief.
Then he stood, with a faint apologetic smile.
“I’ll go get some air.”
No one stopped him.
Dry Devil grunted something. Godwin gave a nod.
Henry left the hall, walked the corridor, and made his way down the stairs to the courtyard.
A guard at the gate wished him good evening.
He gave a nod.
Didn’t stop.
Passed through the gate — and farther still.
The square in Rattay was still awake.
Not noisy — but not lifeless either.
Windows flickered with candlelight.
Shadows moved behind shutters.
The streets weren’t empty — just slowed.
Someone passed with a torch.
Someone with a basket.
Someone with children.
Henry stopped near a wall.
Leant back against it.
Folded his arms. Closed his eyes.
He heard nothing in particular.
Just the city, breathing.
A murmur of voices.
A gate creaking.
A shout from the tavern.
Footsteps.
Then he felt it.
A light, cold tap on his cheek.
Then another.
And another.
He opened his eyes.
Snow was falling.
Softly, hesitantly —
as though it had come to ask permission first.
Henry looked up.
Didn’t smile.
Didn’t frown.
Just watched.
Then he pushed off from the wall.
Took a few steps deeper into the city.
His boots slipped a little on the muddy road.
He stopped.
Stood still for a moment.
Then gave a small wave of his hand — turned back.
Back toward the castle.
Through the gate, across the yard, to the stairs.
He paused.
His eyes drifted to the door on the right.
He turned toward the kitchen.
Passed through the darkened room, past the hearth, long gone cold, across flagstones faintly catching the light of a single candle from the hallway.
He opened the door to the workshop.
The air was colder there.
He lit a candle. Set it on the table.
Stood for a while.
Breathing.
Then let his eyes travel slowly around the space.
Not looking for anything — just letting the place reach him.
Eventually, he began to search.
Carefully, without haste.
He moved aside scraps of cloth.
Shifted pieces of leather.
Until he found something.
A thin leather cord.
He held it in his hand.
Turned it over, studying it.
Smooth.
Sturdy.
Soft to the touch.
He stood like that for a while —
just standing, the cord in his palm.
Then let out a long breath and slowly sat down on the bench.
Rested his elbows on his knees.
Stared ahead for a long time.
His fingers moved without thought, playing with the strap.
Again and again.
In silence.
Until only the silence remained.
And the strip of leather between his fingers.
The main hall was settling into quiet.
People still sat at the table, but the conversation had thinned.
Laughter faded to murmurs, broken phrases, half-smiles.
Janosh, who not long ago had been demanding a song, now dozed with his head propped in his hand.
Even Dry Devil had gone quiet — just rubbing his chin in silence.
Jitka leaned against Hans’s shoulder, gently.
“I think I’ll go to bed,” she said softly. “I’m rather tired.”
Hans turned to her with a warm smile.
“Of course. Thank you — for the evening.”
She nodded. Touched his arm. Slowly stood.
Her dress gave a soft rustle.
Hans rose as well.
Then paused.
His gaze swept the room.
He looked again at Jitka, who was already turning toward the door.
“Where’s Henry?” he asked quietly.
Jitka glanced back.
Shrugged. Shook her head.
Hans exhaled.
“Goodnight,” he added, but the words were already distant.
“Goodnight, Hans,” she said — and slipped through the doors.
Hans stood watching her go.
Then slowly turned back to the table.
“Has anyone seen Henry?” he asked, still standing.
Katherine looked up.
“He went outside,” she said.
A brief pause.
“It’s been a while.”
Then she met his eyes.
“You didn’t notice, Hans?”
He didn’t answer.
Only looked away for a moment.
Then drew a sharp breath, turned, and left the hall at a brisk pace.
In the corridor, he stopped — just for a heartbeat — as if trying to catch the echo of footsteps.
Nothing.
He crossed to the door of Henry’s chamber.
Hesitated.
Then opened it quietly and looked in.
Empty.
He returned to the corridor and made for the stairs.
He walked the ramparts.
One direction.
Then the other.
Peered into the dark.
No one.
He descended to the courtyard.
Headed straight for the guards.
“Sir Henry?” he asked — curt, low.
The guard looked up.
“He went into town a while ago, my lord. But… I thought I saw him come back.”
He shifted slightly.
“… I think.”
Hans paused.
Looked around the courtyard — still, dark, empty.
Then, without a word, he turned and stepped through the gate — out into the night of Rattay.
Jitka sat in her chamber, drawing the comb slowly through her hair.
Each stroke was deliberate, unhurried. The strands slipped over her shoulders — soft, gleaming in the flickering candlelight.
After a while, she set the comb aside. Her gaze drifted into the distance, unseeing, as if her thoughts had scattered somewhere beyond reach.
Then, with a slow tenderness, she placed a hand on her belly.
The smile that touched her lips was faint — barely there.
Brief. Intentional. A smile turned inward.
She remained like that for a while. Then reached for the pitcher on the table and looked inside.
Empty.
With a quiet sigh, she stood and made her way to the door. Stepped into the hallway and headed toward the kitchen.
When she entered, she paused.
The door to the workshop stood ajar.
A faint candlelight flickered from within.
Jitka hesitated.
Then she stepped closer, pushing the door open very quietly.
Inside, by the light of a single candle, sat Henry.
He was hunched slightly forward on the bench, head bowed.
Something rested in his hand — though in the dimness, it was hard to see what.
He didn’t stir when she entered.
“What are you doing here, Henry?” she asked softly.
He didn’t look up. Just gave a slight shake of his head, eyes still fixed on the floor ahead.
“Shouldn’t you be upstairs with Hans?” he said quietly.
The question lingered.
Jitka didn’t answer. She simply watched him for a moment.
“Shouldn’t you be with Hans instead?” she said.
Henry slowly turned his head toward her.
His eyes were steady, not sharp — but deep.
Then he looked away again, back toward nothing in particular.
When he spoke, his voice was even lower.
Full. Weighty.
“It didn’t feel like I should be.”
Jitka came closer. Sat down beside him, slowly. Studied him for a moment in silence.
“What’s wrong, Henry?” she asked gently.
For a long while, he said nothing.
Then he looked at her.
“I’m truly glad you’re carrying Hans’s child, Jitka,” he said.
“I am. I’m really looking forward to it.”
She smiled a little. But she didn’t stop watching him.
Henry lowered his eyes.
Stared at the tips of his boots.
“But…”
He drew a breath. Barely audible.
“I’m starting to feel like I… don’t belong.”
Jitka said nothing. She just reached out and wrapped an arm around him. Pulled him close.
Henry hesitated, then returned the embrace.
He closed his eyes.
Jitka breathed out softly.
“You weren’t here, Henry,” she whispered, “when Hans—when he mounted his horse and rode like a madman to bring you from Nikolsburg.
You didn’t see him after Hanush had you taken away. How he nearly tore the bed apart. With rage. With fear.”
She paused.
“And how certain he was that he’d bring you home.”
Henry stayed leaning into her shoulder.
“I know…” he said, barely above a whisper. “But…”
Jitka pulled back slightly to look into his eyes.
“Hans has been extraordinarily kind to me,” she said.
“And maybe… that’s why I don’t feel like the one who doesn’t belong.”
He looked down. Then up.
Met her gaze, quiet and undefended.
“Henry…” she continued.
“I may be carrying his child. But I’ll never have what you have with him.”
She gave the faintest shake of her head.
“I’ll never be to him what you are. I don’t think anyone will.”
“I’m sorry,” Henry murmured.
Jitka smiled faintly. Reached out to brush his cheek with her hand.
“I know both of you,” she said.
“And I hold you closer than I sometimes know how to say.”
“That’s why I… simply can’t feel sorrow over this.”
Henry smiled at her.
A real smile this time. Gentle. Soft.
He embraced her firmly.
They stayed like that for a while.
After a moment, Jitka rose.
“Go on upstairs,” she said, nodding toward the door with a smile.
Henry nodded too. He began to stand, but she stopped him with a touch.
She held his arm — lightly.
“Henry… when the child comes…”
For a moment, her voice caught.
“I would truly like you to be part of its life. Just as Hans will be.”
She paused, searching his face.
“And part of mine, too.”
Henry looked at her.
Smiled. Moved.
“I’d be honoured.”
When Henry stepped back into the hall, Hans was nowhere to be seen.
He hesitated — barely — then made his way to the long table and eased back into his seat among the others.
He reached for his tankard.
Godwin leaned toward him.
“I think he went looking for you,” he murmured. “Outside. Seemed like he feared you’d vanished to the far end of the world.”
Henry stilled.
Then turned — just as the door creaked open.
Hans stepped inside.
Snow clung to his hair. His cheeks were flushed raw from the frost.
He paused just past the threshold, his gaze sweeping the room — until it landed on Henry.
And then he stopped.
In Hans’s eyes, there was everything.
Relief. Regret.
Silence.
Henry smiled and gave the faintest nod.
He shifted slightly, making space beside him.
“I think you all ought to hear what Hans said when he first laid eyes on my castle,” he said with a crooked smile.
A few people snorted.
Hans scoffed.
“More like what the lord of Rotstein looked like when he saw the forge,” he shot back — his voice vanishing beneath a burst of laughter.
He crossed to the bench and sank down at Henry’s side.
For a moment, he only turned to him.
Henry met his eyes.
A glance, no more. A smile — on their lips, in their eyes.
Then Hans drew a long breath, lifted one arm with theatrical flair, and launched into his tale.
The fire crackled softly in the hearth of Hans’s chamber.
Now and then, the wind joined in — pressing softly at the windowpane before drawing back again.
The hall had long since gone quiet.
The last of their company had drifted off to bed — tired, content, perhaps a little drunk.
Silence now reigned.
Hans lay on the bed, his gaze trailing the shape of Henry’s chest.
Henry was just pulling his tunic over his head.
The firelight caught on his skin, moved with it.
He padded the room barefoot — a few quiet steps on the wooden floor —
and slipped beneath the covers.
Hans drew him in with one arm —
and held him close.
They kissed.
Slowly.
Softly.
With a breath.
Then Henry rested against Hans’s shoulder, and Hans stared up into the darkness above.
Henry brushed a kiss across his cheek, his fingers trailing across Hans’s chest.
For a time, nothing moved.
Then Hans turned toward him.
Held his gaze a while —
slid a hand through his hair and smiled.
“My Henry…” he whispered.
Henry smiled back.
Kissed him.
“Yours.”
Hans took his hand, pressed it to his lips —
kissed each finger in turn —
then held that hand to his chest.
“I love you, Jindro. More with every day.”
They folded into one another once more.
Only breath.
Warmth.
Touch.
Later, when they’d drawn apart just enough, Hans let his hand drift through the hair on Henry’s chest —
slowly, carefully, as if relearning every line.
He paused.
Looked up.
Henry had a faintly sheepish smile on his lips.
“It’s in the chest,” he murmured.
“The strap tore. But I’ve got a new one now. I’ll fix it tomorrow.”
Hans smiled —
then reached for his own pendant and closed it in his fist.
The fire crackled softly.
And the silence was in no hurry to leave.
Henry curled closer,
his cheek against Hans’s shoulder,
his nose tucked beneath the line of his collarbone.
The hand that held him drifted in slow, easy strokes along his side.
Until, at last, sleep took them —
warm and still.
Held.
Henry opened his eyes.
The chamber was filled with the pale hush of early morning. He lay still for a while, listening to the quiet — soft as cloth, almost sacred. Beside him, Hans slept deeply, his back warm against Henry’s chest, their bodies folded close.
Henry didn’t move. His gaze drifted — over the tousled strands of Hans’s sleep-ruffled hair, the line of his neck, the scattered freckles across his shoulder, the gentle tension in his resting arm.
He held him just a little tighter.
Barely more than a breath.
Pressed his lips to his shoulder. Let them linger there.
Then closed his eyes again — breathing in the warmth of Hans’s skin, its familiar scent, the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest beneath his hand.
He stayed like that for a moment longer.
Then slowly — with great care — he slipped from beneath the covers. Pulled the quilt back up over Hans’s shoulder, smoothing it into place. Let his hand rest for a moment on his arm, a soft touch through the fabric.
Hans stirred faintly, mumbling something unintelligible — but didn’t wake.
Henry gathered his clothes, stepped silently into the next room.
He knelt beside the chest, rummaged for a moment, and found the small pouch. Drew out the pendant and slid a new leather cord through its loop. Hung it around his neck — then held it in his palm for a breath, thumb brushing over the metal.
He dressed, then made his way downstairs to the courtyard.
The day was only just beginning. A few sounds stirred from the stables; the kitchen, too, had begun to wake. Henry turned that way — but a voice called out behind him.
“My lord!”
He stopped. Turned.
One of the guards stood by the gate. He looked uneasy — not alarmed, but close enough to it to be noticed. He stepped forward a little.
“There’s a messenger,” he said. “From the Upper Castle.”
Henry frowned. “I’m not sure Lord Hans is awake yet,” he muttered.
The guard shook his head.
“He’s asking for you, my lord.”
Henry straightened.
“For me?”
A nod.
Henry walked to the gate.
The messenger stood off to the side, stiff with cold, his eyes red-rimmed from the wind. When Henry approached, he quickly straightened.
“What brings you here so early?” Henry asked.
The messenger bowed.
“Lord Hanush sends his regards, my lord — and says he wishes to speak with you.”
A brief pause.
“He asks whether he might welcome the Lord of Rotstein to dine with him at noon.”
Henry stared at him, startled.
“Today?”
The messenger gave a brief nod.
“At noon, my lord.”
A soft breeze pushed against the stable door.
Henry stood still. Silent. Just watching him.
The messenger shifted awkwardly.
“My lord? What reply shall I take back to Lord Hanush?”