Chapter Text
Collage cover I made for funsies in photoshop. Thank you for being here!
The hammer rang against the anvil in a strong steady rhythm, each strike sending sparks dancing across the heated metal and disappearing into the flagstones. Henry wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and squinted his eyes at the horseshoe taking shape on his anvil. He was almost done, another few strikes and the curve would reach the right angle, then he would just need to temper it. He’d been working since dawn, and the pile of completed horseshoes beside him was evidence of his work. Good, honest, and occasionally back-breaking work. The kind that left his shoulders aching and his hands blistered, and swelled with the satisfaction of pieces showing a day well spent.
This was his forge. His life. After everything with Radzig, after Skalitz, and after the misery of Suchdol, he’d finally carved out his own corner of this world. Something that was just his. It had taken time. Months of work, of building a reputation and sucking up to the blacksmith’s guild, of saving every groschen until the forge wasn't just surviving but thriving. Enough that he could approach Radzig and ask for a change in his service. Not complete freedom, he'd never be truly free of that obligation, but something closer to it. Occasional service when needed, rather than constant attendance. Room to build his own life instead of living in someone else's household. Radzig had agreed, and had nearly been impressed, even. Hans too, though Henry remembered the look on his face when they'd discussed it. Something complicated. Pleased for him, maybe. Or disappointed. It was hard to say. But it meant this: his own forge, his own home, his own future.
A few more strikes of his hammer and the horseshoe finally shaped into the perfect curve. He warmed it on the hot coals one last time before plunging it into the bucket of water beside him. Steam bellowed as the heated metal broke its surface. Henry allowed himself a moment to stretch. After hours of hammering his shoulders and back had taken a proper beating.
The sunlight was already pouring the open gate to the courtyard of his forge, showing it had already gotten well into noontime. He tsked as he pulled a few pieces of raw metal rods out of his supply chest. A merchant had committed a knights sword by weeks end and he hadn’t even started–
“I see things are going well here.” A familiar voice spoke from the open gate.
Henry didn’t startle and merely smiled as he set aside the iron he had picked out for his next piece, looking up at the man. Hans Capon stood leaning on the open gate of the forge, backlit by afternoon sun in a way that turned his hair golden, looking like the proper nobility he was.
“They most definitely are,” Henry said. He pulled off his gloves, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “Until someone interrupted.”
“Ugh, well I’ve been standing here for ages. You were too focused to notice.” Hans stepped inside, carefully making his way around the tools scattered on the floor as if they might bite him. “Very industrious. Very… blacksmith-y.”
“That’s the idea.”
Hans scoffed, “I’m just saying, most people would’ve noticed me by now.” Hans stopped just beside him, close enough that Henry could see he was wearing new clothes. Or at least nicer clothes than usual. A deep blue doublet, barely any dust on it. They brought out his eyes so well. “I’m quite noticeable.”
Henry merely laughed and shook his head. Hans wasn’t wrong, though. Henry had noticed him the second his shadow crossed the threshold, actually. Had been aware of him in that specific way he’d gotten familiar with over the past few months.
“You’re here again,” Henry said.
“I’m here again,” Hans agreed, like that was a perfectly reasonable thing to be, for the third time this week.
Henry turned back to the forge, checking the coals. They had burned low and the forge was getting too cold to start the sword. “Don’t you have… noble things to do?” He spoke as he handled the fresh coal.
“Probably. But they’re all terrifically boring, and you’re here, so.” Hans moved closer, close enough now that Henry could smell the floral smell he wore, cut through with mint and something else. Horse and summer air. It shouldn’t be distracting, but it was. “What are you making now, anyways?”
“A blade. Commission for one of the merchants in town.” Henry spoke as he used the bellows to stoke the forge.
“Riveting.” Hans spoke, tone thick with sarcasm.
“You asked.”
“I did, didn’t I.” Hans leaned against the workbench, casual as anything, and Henry absolutely did not notice the way his clothes pulled tight across his shoulders. “Show me how it’s done, then.”
Henry glanced at him. “You want to learn blacksmithing?”
“God no, I want to watch you work. But if I learn something, excellent. If not, at least I’m not sitting in the castle listening to Hanush complain about grain taxes.” Hans settled into a stool besides the workbenches in the corner.
There was something in his voice, something Henry couldn’t quite pin down. It’d been there more often lately. An edge under the humor, like Hans was saying one thing and meaning three others.
“Fine,” Henry said. “But don’t touch anything.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
A lie. Hans touched everything, but that’s fine. Henry picked out the best rod from his supply and thrust it into the freshly heated coals.
“You have to watch the color as it heats up, the hotter it gets the lighter it gets.” why he was even bothering he wasn’t sure, but why not. “The perfect color is a golden wheat. Too cold and the metal will fight against you. Too hot and it might crack and split the metal.”
“Hmmm.” Hans hummed in response, which meant he wasn’t listening. Henry could feel his eyes, though. Watching intently as he always did.
The iron had begun to glow and the color shifted from a deep orange into that perfect golden hue, and so he pulled it out and set it upon the anvil. As Henry grabbed his hammer and prepared to start, Hans sputtered.
“What? You’re not even wearing gloves?”
“Don’t need them for this.” Henry brought the hammer down, let the ring of metal fill the space between them.
“Right… I knew that.”
Henry brought the hammer down, let the ring of hammer hitting metal fill the space between them. Starting to shape the blade, Henry fell into the rhythm of it, the way he always did. Strike, turn, strike. The metal sang, and he whistled in tune with every swing. He always kept rhythm.
When he looked up again, Hans was closer. Much closer. Standing just behind his shoulder, near enough that Henry could’ve felt the heat radiating off him if not for the forge.
“That’s…” Hans paused. “It’s different, seeing it up close.”
Henry’s next strike landed slightly off-center. He corrected, focused harder on the blade. “Different how?”
“I don’t know. More impressive, I suppose. Watching you just… make something out of nothing.” Hans’s voice had gone quieter. Softer. “You’re building a whole life out here. This forge, your work. Something real.”
There it was again. That thing under the words, the thing Henry couldn’t let himself examine too closely.
“It’s just a blade,” Henry said.
“It’s not, though.”
The metal was cooling again. Henry set down the hammer, and pushed the blade back into the coals. When he turned back, Hans was right there, close enough to touch.
They both froze.
Hans’s hand had come up, probably to clap Henry on the shoulder or some other casual friendly gesture, but it hung in the air between them now, uncertain. His eyes were so blue. Henry had known that before, obviously, but right now, in the dim light of the forge with the fire burning hot behind them, it always felt so different.
“You’ve got soot,” Hans said quietly, “On your face.”
“I’m working a forge.”
“Right. Obviously.” But Hans’s hand was still raised, and then it moved, and his fingers were brushing Henry’s cheekbone, wiping at something, and Henry forgot how to breathe.
It lasted maybe three seconds. Then Hans stepped back, laughed, and the moment shattered like dropped glass.
“Christ, you’re a mess,” Hans said, bright and careless again. “Do you ever actually wash, or is this just your permanent state?”
Henry turned back to the forge, his heart pounding. “Get out of my workshop, you lout.”
“Make me.”
Henry chuckled, “I’m holding a hammer. Don’t tempt me.”
“You’d never.” Hans was grinning now, Henry could hear it in his voice. “You like me too much.”
That was the problem, wasn’t it?
“The blade’s going to crack if I don’t focus,” Henry said, which wasn’t quite a lie. “So either sit down and shut up, or go bother Magdalena.”
“Magdalena threatened to brain me with a ladle last time.”
Henry gave a small laugh, “Can’t imagine why.”
But Hans did sit, dropping onto the stool in the corner like he belonged there, and Henry went back to work. The hammer falling back into its rhythm on the blade. Normal things. Things that made more sense.
He definitely didn’t think about the ghost of Hans’s fingers on his face, or the way his own hands had trembled after.
Definitely not.
Henry worked in silence for a while, highly aware of Hans watching from the corner. The blade was coming along well– the edge taking was shape nicely. It was a good piece of steel, and would be a solid piece when he was done.
“How long does this usually take?” Hans asked eventually
“Depends. This one? Few more hours of work, but it can take a couple days. Can’t rush the tempering.”
“Few more hours of just… hitting it with a hammer?”
“That’s the job.”
Hans made a noise somewhere between admiration or boredom. Hard to tell.
“Let me try,” Hans said suddenly.
Henry looked up. “What?”
“Let me try.” Hans was already standing, moving toward the anvil with that particular expression he got when he’d decided something was a good idea despite all evidence to the contrary. “You keep saying I’m useless at this. Let me prove you wrong.”
“You are useless at this.”
“You don’t know that! Maybe I’m a natural.”
"Fine," Henry heard himself say. "But you're doing something simple. And you're following my instructions exactly."
Hans grinned. "I'm very good at following instructions."
That was absolutely a lie, but Henry pulled a fresh piece of iron from his stock pile, just long enough for a small blade. It was a decent piece but it had fallen to the wayside for Henry, as most of his commissions had been full blades or horseshoes recently.
Henry turned back, holding up the metal, "We're going to make a knife. Just a simple one. Working blade, dagger even, nothing fancy."
"A knife." Hans looked genuinely pleased by this. "That's actually useful."
"Don't get excited. You're only doing the rough work. I'll finish it later."
Henry thrust the iron into the coals, and waited for it to heat. When it glowed like golden wheat, he pulled it out and set it on the anvil with his metal tongs.
He beckoned the blonde over. "Here. Stand like this." He gently grabbed Hans’s arm and brought him in front of the anvil, his back nearly pressed to Henry’s chest. Henry swallowed hard as handed him the hammer. "You're going to draw it out, thin the metal. Not too hard– you're shaping it, not trying to crush it."
Hans cleared his throat, and tested the weight of the hammer in his hands, sort of waving it around. “Draw it out. Sure. Simple enough.”
Henry chuckled, “Right, aim around where I’m holding the tongs, and every few strikes wait for me to flip it without crushing my tools.”
“Tsk, I would never. I think I know how to hit something where I intend it.”
"You absolutely would."
Hans made a defiant sound and brought the hammer down, and it wasn't terrible. Not good, but not terrible. The angle was wrong and he hit too hard, but the metal moved, which he supposed counted. Henry adjusted it with the tongs, nodded. "Again. Lighter this time. You're coaxing it, not beating it into submission."
"I thought that was exactly what blacksmithing was." muttered indignantly.
"It's what bad blacksmithing is."
Hans huffed a laugh but adjusted his next strike. Better. Still clumsy, and wildly inefficient, but better. They fell into a rhythm. Henry turning the metal, Hans striking. The blank slowly lengthening, thinning, starting to look like it might become a blade if you squinted. Hans's form was terrible, all arms, no rhythm, but he was trying. Actually concentrating, jaw set, sweat starting to bead on his forehead.
"There," Henry said after several minutes. "That's... actually not completely useless."
Hans looked up, breathing hard. "Really?"
"The taper's uneven and you've got a thick spot here," Henry tapped the metal with the tongs, "but it's recognizable as a blade. I can work with this."
"High praise from Master Henry the blacksmith."
"Don't push your luck." But Henry took the piece, examining it. It would need a lot of refining. The edge was rough, the spine inconsistent. He'd have to reheat it, draw it out more evenly, establish a proper edge. "Still. You made this. First part of it, anyway."
"We made it." Hans was grinning, pleased with himself in a way that did something dangerous to Henry's chest. "When will it be finished?"
"Few days, maybe. Need to refine the blade, heat treat it, grind the edge. Then fit a handle." Henry set it aside with his other works in progress. "I'll make sure it's actually usable before I give it back to you."
"You're giving it to me?"
"You started it. Seems only fair you get to keep it."
Something shifted in Hans's expression. Went soft around the edges. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. You might not want it once you see how much fixing it needs."
"I'll want it." Hans said it with certainty, like there was no question. Like of course he'd want something they'd made together, even if it was rough and imperfect. "No matter what it looks like."
Henry turned back to the forge, throat tight. "The metal's cooling. I need to finish this commission."
"Right. Of course." But Hans's voice had gone quiet, and when Henry glanced back, Han’s was still looking at the rough blade blank like it meant something before he quickly turned and walked out of the workshop, without looking back at Henry.
+=={═══════>
The sun was setting by the time Henry finally set aside his tools. The merchant's blade wasn't finished, still needed refining, sharpening, fitting a hilt, but the main work was done. Hans was still there. He'd moved back to the stool at some point, and now he sat there in the dimming light, looking like he had nowhere else to be.
"Don't you need to get back?" Henry asked, pulling off his apron.
"Probably." Hans didn't move.
The door from the house opened and Magdalena appeared, wiping her hands on her skirts. She took one look at Hans and sighed. "You're still here."
"Good evening to you too, Magdalena."
"It would be a better evening if I didn't keep finding nobles lurking in my smithy." But there was no real heat in it. She'd gotten used to Hans showing up, same as Henry had. "I suppose you'll be wanting dinner."
"I wouldn't want to impose—"
"If you’re going to hang around might as well feed you." She looked at Henry. "You. Wash. You're not eating at my table covered in soot."
Henry glanced down at himself. She had a point. "Yes, ma'am."
"And you," she said to Hans. "Make yourself useful. There's bread that needs slicing."
Hans actually looked delighted by this, which was insane. Magdalena knew he was of nobility but at her age, having lived so long on purely her terms, that was merely a title when under her roof. Hans happily followed Magdalena into the house, and Henry went to wash up at the basin. The water was shockingly cold against his skin,. heated by the flames in the stuffy forge. He scrubbed at his hands, his face, his arms. Watched the soot and ash wash away.
When he finished he walked towards the other main room of the first floor that housed Magdalena’s things and the dining table. Henry leaned on the doorway. Hans was at the table, cutting bread with intense concentration while Magdalena ladled stew into bowls. They were talking, and Han’s was chuckling at something she had just said.
Hans looked strangely in his element, despite it being everything but. The lamplight caught in his hair, turned it gold at the edges. His sleeves were rolled up– when had he done that?– and there was flour dusting his doublet from the bread. He looked nothing like the polished noble who'd stood in the forge doorway hours ago. He almost seemed like someone who could exist in Henry's life instead of just passing through it. Henry’s chest felt like it was being squeezed and he stopped that train of thought. It was stupid. Hans had a life at Rattay. Responsibilities. A future that had been planned out since birth, and none of those plans included a blacksmith's forge outside Kuttenberg. This was borrowed time. Nothing more.
He stood there, hands dripping, watching the scene through the window like something he wasn't part of. Like he was outside looking in at a life that could never quite be his, even though it was his house, his table, his—
"—ry. Henry!"
Henry blinked out of his stupor and turned. Standa the Fly was standing a few feet away, looking at him strangely.
"You coming in or you planning to just stand there?"
"I—" Henry glanced down at his wet hands. "Yeah. Coming."
Standa moved past him toward the door, then paused. "Lord Capon's staying for dinner again?"
"Seems like it."
"Hm." Standa's expression was unreadable. "Must really like Magdalena's cooking."
There was nothing in his tone. Just an observation. But Henry felt defensive anyway. "She's a good cook."
"That she is." Standa clapped him on the shoulder in passing. "Come on, then. "
He headed inside, and Henry could hear him greeting Magdalena, heard the scrape of a stool being pulled out. The sounds of normal people doing normal things. Having dinner. Being easy with each other. Henry dried his hands on his shirt and followed.
The warmth hit him when he finally through the door. Then the smell of bread and herbs and cooked meat. Hans looked up when he entered, smiled, and Henry felt something in his chest twist sideways.
"There you are," Hans said. "Magdalena was threatening to start without you."
"I wouldn't dare," Magdalena said dryly, setting a bowl in front of Henry's usual seat. "Sit. Eat. Before it gets cold."
+=={═══════>
Dinner passed in easy conversation. Standa ate quickly and excused himself, heading back to the apprentice quarters with a nod. Puschko quietly came and went. Magdalena cleared the dishes while Hans helped without being asked, stacking bowls and wiping down the table like he'd done it a hundred times before, and he didn’t even seem annoyed about it.
"You don't have to do that," Magdalena said like she always did, but she didn't stop him like she used to.
"I know." Hans handed her the last bowl. "But if I don't, you'll complain about nobles next time I'm here."
"I'll complain about nobles regardless."
He merely smiled. Henry watched them, this strange little routine they'd developed. Magdalena had stopped being annoyed by Hans's presence somewhere around the second week. Now she just accepted it, the way you accepted rain or morning frost. Like it was an inevitable part of life. Hans caught him looking and smiled, and Henry looked away.
Eventually Magdalena shooed them both out of her kitchen. "Go on. I'm sure you have things to discuss that don't involve me."
"We don't—" Henry started.
"Out."
Out they went to the courtyard, with Magdelena’s stern ushering. Outside it was quiet, the sky overhead deep blue fading to black as night took hold. Stars were starting to show. Hans's horse nickered softly when it saw them approach, and Hans went to check the saddle, adjusting straps that didn't need adjusting. Another part of the routine, delaying wherever possible. He probably just wanted to avoid Hanush as much as he could these days. Henry leaned against the wall of the stables, waiting. Giving Hans the time he seemed to need.
"I’ll finish the knife by next week,” Henry said to finally break the silence. “The one we started?”
Hans looked up to him. “Don’t rush it now, Henry.”
“Tsk– its not rushing. Just needs refining. A little heat, a handle. Simple work for me. It’ll take no time at all.”
"Still." Hans's hands stilled on the saddle. "Take your time with it. I want it done properly."
"Don't trust my work, my lord?"
"I trust your work more than anyone's, Henry." Hans said it simply, like it was obvious. Henry pretended like it hadn’t landed heavily in his chest.
Henry shifted his weight, and looked away toward the dark gateway of the forge. "It'll be ready when you come back."
"When I come back," Hans repeated, quietly. He gathered the reins, but still didn't mount. Just stood there, one hand on the saddle, looking back at Henry in the darkness. "Do you ever get tired of it? Me showing up constantly. Interrupting your work."
Henry looked at Hans with a raised brow "You don't interrupt."
"I absolutely interrupt. That's half the point of coming here." Hans laughed quietly, but it was wistful. "I just mean... you have your own life now. Your forge. You're not stuck waiting around for nobles to need something anymore. I wouldn't blame you if you wanted the peace and quiet."
There was something in his voice. Something careful. Maybe it wasn’t about the forge at all.
"I don't mind," Henry said. Then, because that felt insufficient: "It's good. Having you here."
Hans went very still. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." Henry met his eyes. "Gets quiet otherwise. Nice to have the company."
It was the most honest he'd let himself be. The closest he could come to saying what he actually meant. That the forge felt more like home when Hans was in it, and that the days Hans didn't visit felt longer somehow, that he'd started listening for hoofbeats on the road without meaning to. Hans was looking at him like he'd said something significant. Like those few simple words may have meant more than they should’ve. But he was probably just wishing and hopping.
"Well," Hans said quietly. "Good. Because I don't plan on stopping."
"Didn't think you would."
"Stubborn. It's one of my best qualities." He said dramatically, tilting his head up.
Henry chuckled, "It's one of your only qualities."
Hans laughed, and the moment broke. He swung up into the saddle, settling with that easy grace he'd always had. From up there he looked different. More distant. His noble posture slipping back on like a coat.
"Next week, then," Hans said.
"Next week, then, my lord."
Hans held his gaze for another breath, like he wanted to say something else. Then he clicked his tongue and turned his horse toward the gate. Henry watched him ride out and slowly fade into the dark street. The hoofbeats faded down the road, growing fainter and fainter until there was nothing left but crickets and the distant sound of the town settling in for the night. He stood there longer than he needed to. Long enough that the cold started to seep through his shirt. The courtyard felt emptier now. Bigger, somehow, with just Henry in it. He turned back toward the house, where warm light glowed in the windows. His house. His forge. His life, built from nothing, finally his own. It was enough, he kept telling himself. It had to be enough,