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The clanging of the Trosky bell strikes a fear into the marrow of Hans Capon. His hands start to shake and his breathing comes quick. Once again, he finds himself indebted to Henry of Skalitz. For not only saving his life, but also for grounding him in front of Lord von Bergow. The gentle timbre of Henry’s voice quells his panic and rage, the rest of the parley passing in a haze after Hans delivers their message. His anger ignites and lashes at Chamberlain Ulrich once they step out. Hans has never mastered control of his sharp tongue when it comes to matters of pride. The relief he expected from verbal beating does nothing for the tremendous pressure coiled in his gut. Instead, he feels trapped, the only other feeling is the insatiable need to run. He dismisses himself and stalks off to his room, driven by his body’s desire to flee. But when he closes and latches the door to his chambers with a soft click - the familiar, deep-rooted loneliness washes through his soul.
He’s too proud to admit it out loud to others, almost too proud to admit it to himself. His hatred of being isolated, cut off from others. The bone deep solitude tumbles over him like a gentle spring. Distantly, he hears the jarring sound of the bell ringing, metallic noise reverberating in his skull. The warmth leeches from his limbs and his awareness of the room narrows as he stumbles forward. His shoulder collides with the wall near the window, legs collapse beneath him and he slides down to the floor. He feels as though his chest is being crushed - denying him the ability to draw a full breath. Alone, the bell hollowly rings out, you would have died alone.
Awareness trickles back to him like melting snow. There is an ache in his hands, and only then does he notice they have been tightly balled into fists, clutching the fabric of his hood. His hands flex, the returning blood flow reminding him of the burning chaff of the skin around his wrists. He pulls in a shaky, wet breath once and then again. His hands blur; a hard blink clears his vision and he feels a dampness on his face. Quickly, he swipes away the tears with a richly embroidered sleeve, the fabric darkening with his weakness. It would not do for others to see him in such a state. Although, a few hours prior the inhabitants of the castle had gathered around as a noose was tightened around his neck. His hand touches his throat at the memory, so certain that it would meet rough, braided rope. Another sharp inhale fails to fill his lungs as he feels the shake of executioners stump beneath the thin soles of his shoes. The cruel gazes of the onlookers and the sneers that painted their faces.
Hans Capon, Lord of Pirkstein - reduced to nothing more than a terrified man facing death alone. He feels the air in the room thin, his chest constricts again. The hammer of his pulse rings out like the toll of a bell.
Out.
Out, he must get out.
Outside, away, it doesn’t matter.
The walls mock his inability to breathe, the stagnant air of the room clings to his skin as a sticky sweat accumulates in the bend of his arms and back of his neck. Standing from the floor takes a subjective eternity, his shallow breaths bringing a lightheadedness that adds unsteadiness to his legs. Before they give way again, Hans pushes himself away from the wall, crossing the room just short of a run. He hurriedly tugs on his jacket to smooth the wrinkles, wipes his face with both hands, then clumsily unlatches the door. He is thankful there are no guards to see his shame as he strides through the landing and out onto the dark wooden walkway. The light breeze is a balm to his heated face and pounding heart. His legs start to tremble as he looks up and sees the now silent bell tower. The rough texture of wood meets his palms as he leans onto the closest pillar for support. Tears prick in the corners of his eyes as pulls his gaze from the view of the tower cutting into the sky and drops it to the courtyard below. He tells himself the involuntary deep sigh he releases is to soothe his mind and not because it falls onto the messy hair of his page speaking with the Trosky blacksmith.
Hans is too far to catch the words of the conversation clearly, but the familiar rumble of Henry’s voice occupies his mind. It pulls the memory of a rope from his neck and brings him down from the executioners stump. His voice solid like the hands that danced across his neck before clutching his arms as they were lead away from the gallows. Solid like the presence that stood by him during the meeting with von Bergow. Solid like Henry’s presence in his life since he stumbled into Rattay and into the service of Sir Radzig what seems like a lifetime ago.
Hans is slowly drawn back to the night prior; awareness of the aches from the wedding brawl beginning to bloom for the first time since they were driven into his skin. He recalls the rush of blood and wine mixed with an unnamed warmth thrumming through him as he pulled Henry from the ground; hands clasped together before falling into step to guard each other’s backs. The easy rhythm they found despite being apart had brought an amused look to Hans’ face and caused an exasperated sigh from Henry as he brought his hands up into a loose guard. A vision of those hands pressing salve into Hans’ forming bruises rises unbidden to his mind. He blows a breath through his teeth and tenses his jaw, only partially from the imagined sting of pain. His eyes track Henry across the courtyard and through the gate. Hans moves to follow as Henry turns the corner and vanishes from view.
By the time Hans descends the creaking walkway and comes around the edge of the gate, Henry is already inspecting a wooden mace from a stand of practice weapons. No doubt he’s made a fast friend of the knight standing in the dusty center of a sparring area. Henry has always seemed to slip into an easy camaraderie with everyone he encounters, finding connection with commoners and nobles alike - something Hans has always been envious of. Hans watches as Henry swings over the fence, his eyes following the arc of his strong legs cresting the splintered wood and landing solidly on the other side. Dust kicks up as Henry strides to meet the man in the middle while Hans finds a place on the nearby benches. His mind wanders and he idly thinks of how far Henry’s legs must have carried him in the region since they had parted at the stocks, if Hans’ kick had marked his thigh. If Henry had thought of him each time the bruise ached. He himself had done much walking during his time in the forests and found himself sore for it nearly every night. Hans is jarred out of his thoughts as the bell rings out the hour. His stomach drops, pulse quickens, and blood runs cold. Is he doomed to relive his walk to the gallows at the toll of every bell? Hans is silently begging his traitorous mind to still when he feels something warm on his leg.
A dog?
Yes. Mutt, Henry’s dog. That animal that follows him across creation, rarely far from his sight. His hand finds the side of the dogs head, intent on pushing him away. On contact, Mutt sits and shoves his head further into Hans lap, dragging slime and dirt and God knows what else across his hose. He grimaces and his hand take a mind of its own and slowly begins to rub behind the beasts ear. Mutt lets out a satisfied huff as Hans continues to run his fingers across the dog’s short fur. Honestly, how does the animal always seem to know where Henry is? Hans thinks that Henry could ride all the way to Prague and Mutt would show up on his own. Perhaps the dog will follow him to the ends of the earth and beyond.
“Lord Capon?”
Hans startles as Henry calls out to him. He looks up, slightly dazed as he realizes the practice bout is over. His eyes lock with Henry’s and then move across his face; sweat plasters the hair sticking out from his coif against his forehead in gentle curls, a red welt from an unblocked blow is forming along his cheek, but what draws Hans attention most is the thin line of blood marking the space above his lip. “I reckon our horses are ready,” Henry explains “I’ll need to tidy my face, but we can ride out as soon as you wish.” Hans tears his gaze away from Henry, then lets it flick back to his page, his friend.
He stares.
Henry’s labored breathing from the exertion of his fight causes sunlight to dance across his mail as it rises and falls with his chest. The weight of his body and armor in a casual lean on the fencing, one leg propped on the lower rung exposing how the the leather straps of the armor cling around his inner thigh. Henry drags the sleeve of his padded coat along his face, smearing the blood like ink across his lips. Hans’ throat clicks as he tries to swallow, he doesn’t trust himself to speak, and instead gives a curt nod. Henry stares back for a moment longer, blue eyes unblinking, then returns the nod and heads to the nearby water trough. Hans looks down to see Mutt looking up at him, as if the dog could see through his soul. He stands abruptly and wipes the front of his hose with a grimace, then heads towards the stables, a strange ache spreading in his gut.
True to Henry’s word, their horses have been saddled and prepared. Hans leads them to just outside the gate and his gaze is drawn to the gallows at the base of the hill. He busies himself with tying the horses to the nearby post. How is Henry able spar and act as though it had been a perfectly normal situation they found themselves in this morning? Hans feels on edge, pulled taut. He steadies himself against the wall of the castle, letting his head fall back to bump the solid surface. Perhaps they should have rested for the night before departing? The idea of stepping back inside the cramped walls of the castle seems the furthest thing from restful. Even now, Hans can feel the walls pushing in on him, caging him, blocking his escape and cutting him off from others. He would rather ride out tired and worn than stay another moment in Trosky. He clenches his fists. How dare the Chamberlin confine and attempt to execute him, and then expect his cooperation and respect? Hans wishes instead of a verbal lashing, he had struck Ulrich with a physical blow. Christ knows the bastard deserves it.
Henry blessedly chooses this moment to walk through the gate, Mutt close at his heels.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Hans murmurs as he approaches, he is eager to be rid of the walls of Trosky, its ringing bells, the gallows platform that juts out from lower courtyard. Mutt weaves his way around his legs and Hans breathes out a single laugh as Henry echos his sentiments about acquainting his fist with Chamberlain Ulrich’s face. The easy grin on Henry’s face is radiant, and Hans thinks he would do anything to keep it there. He stumbles through his apology, the words sit foreign and strange on his tongue and he has to make an effort to fit them in his mouth. But Henry, oh Henry. He forgives him as easy as he breathes, washes over Hans’ burning senses like a cool rain and then tenderly sets him in the sun.
Henry’s statement that Hans is his closest friend is something he hadn’t realized he wanted, how he needed, to hear. His stomach soars, the inverse of how he’s been feeling since his walk to the gallows. He desperately attempts to calm his heart as it flutters in his chest. His face heats. Another entry in the long line of treacherous betrayals from his body today. When Hans says he wouldn’t want anyone else by his side, he desperately prays that Henry understands, that he can feel the subtle meaning and desire poured into the words.
And oh, oh how Henry strikes him with an easy riposte. Says he will stand at his side.
Speechless, he gives Henry a quick nod to break their gazes and mounts up. The thought of a life lived with Henry by his side, to never be alone again sets his mind alight. He settles into the saddle for the ride to Nebakov, busies his hands to hide their tremors and the desire to reach out and take and take and take. Looking down, Hans is treated again to a subtle display of Henry’s strength as he pulls himself onto his grey mare. Henry simultaneously plants his foot in the stirrup and wraps his gloved hand around the top of the saddle, then effortlessly swings his trailing leg over as he hauls himself up. The warmth of Hans’ cheeks spreads and trickles its way under his collar as he watches Henry flex his legs to adjust his position on the saddle. He belatedly realizes Henry is looking back over his shoulder at him, blue eyes peering from under his lashes in a way that would put the demure ladies of court to shame. His lips part slightly, as if to speak, before twisting into a gentle smirk. Hans silently curses and spurs his horse forward, allowing the wind to cool his face as they leave Trosky, and its gallows and walls, behind.