Archive of Our Own

The oak tree cast a wide, dappled shade across the crest of the hill, its leaves whispering softly in the warm summer breeze.

Grass swayed lazily around them, and somewhere beyond the hill a lark trilled, as if the world itself had nothing heavier to carry than birdsong.

It was a deceptive peace. To the north, Sigismund's Hungarian silver still stained the soil of Bohemia, and the smoke of burned homesteads lingered in the memory of every man who carried a sword. The crown was a fractured thing, and the lords were bickering over the pieces while the common folk bled.

But here, on this specific patch of earth, the war felt like a story told in a language neither of them spoke anymore.

Henry lay back with his hands behind his head, staring up through the branches. Hans sat beside him, knees drawn up, idly picking at a blade of grass like it had personally offended him. The fine silk of his doublet was dusted with pollen, a sight that would have horizontalized a tailor but seemed perfectly right under the cooling canopy of the oak.

"You know," Henry began, as if continuing a thought he hadn't yet shared, "we could just leave."

Hans snorted, though his eyes remained fixed on the horizon where the distant spires of Kuttenberg poked at the sky like needles. "Oh, is that all? Just leave. Why didn't I think of that before? I'll just tell Hanush I've retired to become a professional idler. I'm sure he'll provide a pension."

"I mean it," Henry said, turning his head. The sunlight caught the faint, white line of a scar on his cheek. "Pack up, slip away at dawn. Head somewhere no one's heard of us. No titles. No duties. Just… us."

Hans glanced at him, amused despite himself. The cynicism in his expression flickered, failing to catch. "And what would we do, exactly? You think I'd make a convincing nobody? I radiate nobility, Henry. It's in the bone."

"You'd complain a lot," Henry said. "That part would stay the same. You'd be the most entitled 'nobody' in the Holy Roman Empire."

"Cheeky bastard."

Henry grinned, then softened. "We could work. I know how to. You'd learn."

Hans scoffed, though there was no real bite in it. "Learn? I am a lord. My hands were made for falconry and holding wine goblets, not… whatever it is you do with yours."

"For now, I see potential in you."

That lingered between them a moment.

Hans leaned back against the trunk, looking out over the sunlit field. "You do realize I'd lose everything. My name. My lands. My position. I'd be Hans of Nowhere, Master of Naught."

Henry shrugged lightly. "You'd still have me."

"God help me."

Henry laughed, but it caught halfway, turning quieter. "I'm serious, though. We'd go somewhere small. A village, maybe. Or not even that. A cottage in the woods. Grow our own food. No more politics. No more Cumans."

Hans raised a brow. "You? Farming? I thought you were aiming higher than cabbages after everything we've been through."

"I'd grow excellent cabbages," Henry said defensively. "Legendary ones. People would travel leagues just to see the symmetry of my brassicas."

"I'd starve. I don't even know which end of a cabbage goes in the dirt."

"No you wouldn't. I'd take care of you."

Hans looked at him then, properly this time. There was something disarmingly earnest in Henry's face, something that made the whole ridiculous notion feel almost real.

"And what would I do while you're out tending your 'legendary cabbages'?" Hans asked, quieter now.

"Whatever you like," Henry said. "Fish. Read. Complain about the weather. Come bother me while I'm working. Bring me water and tell me I'm doing it wrong."

"I already do that."

"Exactly. You'd fit right in. You've been practicing for this your whole life."

Hans huffed a laugh, shaking his head. He reached out, his fingers grazing the rough wool of Henry's sleeve. "It does sound… absurdly peaceful. No politics. No worrying if the soup is poisoned or if the garrison is sober."

"See? You're coming around."

"I am not," Hans said quickly. "I'm merely entertaining a fantasy. A very foolish one."

Henry rolled onto his side, propping himself up. "Foolish, yeah. But nice."

Hans didn't answer right away. The breeze shifted, carrying the scent of warm earth and wild thyme. Somewhere far off, a bell tolled faintly from a distant parish.

"Nice," Hans echoed at last. He reached out and, with a lingering hesitation, let his hand rest over Henry's. His skin was pale and smooth against Henry's calloused, sun-darkened knuckles.

They sat in silence for a while after that. Henry traced patterns in the grass with his free hand. Hans watched the horizon like it might offer an answer a question neither of them had asked aloud.

"You'd hate it after a week," Hans said eventually, softer now. "No fine clothes. No wine worth drinking. No one to remind you how important you are. No tavern brawls to win."

Henry smiled faintly. "I don't need that. I've had enough 'important' to last three lifetimes."

"No?" Hans glanced at him again. "And what do you need?"

Henry held his gaze a moment. The playfulness vanished, replaced by a rather raw truth that sat between them in the shade. He didn't say you, but he didn't have to. The way his thumb brushed against Hans' wrist said it for him. "Something simpler."

Hans let out a quiet breath. "You always did have poor taste."

"Yeah," Henry said. "Well, I stuck with you, didn't I?"

Hans laughed brightly but it faded quicker than it should have. He leaned his head back against the tree, closing his eyes and letting the dappled light play across his lids.

"If we ran," he murmured, "they'd come looking. They always do."

"I know."

"And even if they didn't… it wouldn't last. Not really."

Henry didn't argue. Another stretch of silence came, heavier this time.

Then, with forced lightness, Hans said, "Still. I suppose I'd look rather dashing as a humble woodsman."

Henry chuckled, the tension breaking like a dry twig. "You'd last a day before demanding a servant to sharpen your axe."

"I would not. I am perfectly capable of… hitting things with wood."

"You absolutely would. You'd ask the axe to apologize for being too heavy."

Hans smirked, eyes still closed as he offered a small, private smile that felt like a gift. "Fine. Half a day."

Henry laughed again, and this time it lingered, echoing softly under the boughs. The oak leaves rustled overhead, scattering sunlight across them in shifting patterns.

"Hey, Hans," Henry said after a while.

"Yes?"

"If we did run… where would you want to go?"

Hans opened his eyes, looking up through the branches. He considered it for a moment. He thought of the coast, perhaps. The sea, which he had only ever read about in dusty scrolls. Or the high mountains, where the air was too thin for lies.

"Somewhere no one expects anything of me," he said. "Somewhere I can be… no one at all."

Henry nodded, though Hans wasn't looking at him.

"That sounds good," Henry said.

"It does," Hans agreed.

Neither of them moved. The sun dipped a little lower, and the shadows grew longer, stretching toward the horses tethered nearby.

Henry had rolled onto his back again, one arm flung over his eyes now, as if to block out the world, or perhaps just the weight of it. Hans remained where he was, fingers idly brushing against the rough roots of the oak.

Then Hans spoke again, almost too casually.

"Well," he said, "if we are to abandon all sense and live as cabbage farmers in the wilderness…"

Henry huffed faintly, the sound muffled by his arm. "They're going to be very good cabbages. I'll develop a secret fertilizer and people will tell stories."

"I'm sure they will be legendary, as you say," Hans replied dryly. "It would only be proper, then, to do things correctly."

Henry shifted slightly, peeking out from under his arm. "What things?"

Hans didn't look at him. His gaze stayed fixed somewhere ahead, unfocused, like he was watching that imagined life play out just beyond reach.

"We could marry," he said. It landed strangely: light in tone, but not quite a joke.

Henry blinked. "Marry?"

Hans gave a small shrug. "If that's what you would want."

A breeze stirred the leaves again, softer now. The world seemed to quiet around them, as if listening.

Henry pushed himself up onto one elbow, his expression searching. "Hans…"

"The Church would, of course, condemn us both to hell," Hans continued, his voice taking on that familiar, aristocratic lilt, yet it remained anchored by a desperate sort of sincerity. "No priest would agree to it. No law would recognize it. We'd be heretics, outcasts, and probably terrible at housework." A faint smile tugged at his mouth, though it didn't reach his eyes. "But there's nothing stopping us from pretending. The King is far away, and God… well, God has a lot on His plate lately."

Henry studied him, something careful in his expression now.

"Pretending," he repeated.

"Yes." Hans finally glanced at him, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "We'd say a few words, stand under some tree and there. Bound for life." He let out a soft breath through his nose. "A scandalous thought, really."

Henry didn't laugh this time. "And what would we promise?" he asked quietly.

Hans hesitated, just for a moment. Then, more softly than before, "The usual things, I suppose."

"That's not an answer."

Hans' smile faded, though not entirely. "No, I suppose it isn't."

Henry sat up properly now, facing him. "If we're pretending, we might as well do it right."

Hans arched a brow, a faint spark of his usual sharpness returning. "Oh? And you're an expert on such matters, are you?"

"No," Henry said. "But I know what I'd say."

Hans held his gaze. "Then go on."

Henry hesitated, suddenly looking far less certain. His hand moved absently through the grass, pulling at it without noticing.

"I'd say…" he started, then stopped. "I'd say I'd stay. That's all, really."

Hans watched him, very still.

"Stay?" he echoed.

"No matter what," Henry said, a little firmer now. "Even when it's hard. Even when you're… you." A small, crooked smile. "I'd stay anyway."

Something in Hans's expression shifted.

"That's a rather poor vow," he said quietly. "No poetry. No grand declarations."

Henry shrugged. "It's true, though."

Hans looked away again, back toward the fading light. For once, he didn't have a quick remark ready.

"And you?" Henry asked after a beat. "What would you say?"

Hans exhaled slowly. "I don't know," he admitted. "Something suitably impressive, no doubt. I'd have to maintain some dignity, even in disgrace."

Henry snorted faintly. "Of course."

"But…" Hans paused, his voice lowering just a fraction. "I suppose I might promise the same."

Henry's gaze softened.

"Yeah?"

"Yes." Hans gave a faint, almost self-conscious smile. "Though I would phrase it better, naturally."

"Obviously."

They sat with that for a moment, something fragile settling between them, unspoken but understood.

"Two men," Hans said after a while, his tone drifting back toward something lighter. "Married in secret, in some forgotten corner of the world. Living off your cabbages and my... whatever it is I'll be doing. Hunting, I expect. I'm quite good at that."

"You'd love it. No one to tell you how to sit or who to marry for an alliance."

"I would tolerate it," Hans corrected, though he reached out and flicked a bit of leaf off Henry's tunic with a lingering touch.

Henry smiled. Then, quieter, "We wouldn't need anyone else."

Hans didn't answer immediately. When he did, it was soft enough that it might have been meant for the wind instead.

"No," he said. "We wouldn't."

The church bells sounded again in the distance, clearer this time: calling the pious to vespers, calling the soldiers to their posts.

"Of course," he added, a touch more briskly, adjusting his doublet as if to straighten his soul. "It's all entirely hypothetical."

"Yeah," Henry said.

"Completely impossible."

"I know."

Another pause.

Then Henry lay back down again, staring up through the branches.

"…Still sounds nice, though." A pause settled, long enough to feel like the end of something.

Then Henry suddenly pushed himself upright.

"Why wait?"

Hans blinked, thrown off guard. "I beg your pardon?"

Henry was already fumbling at his belt, his pockets, anything he had on him. "If it's all pretend anyway," he said, half to himself, "then it doesn't matter, does it?"

Hans let out a short, incredulous laugh. "Henry - what in God's name are you doing?"

"Hold on-" Henry muttered, finally pulling free a small bit of twine, worn but still whole, from the small satchel hanging from his belt. He looked at it, then back at Hans, something bright and stubborn in his expression. "This'll do."

Hans stared at him incredulously. "You cannot be serious."

Henry stood, brushing the grass from his trousers, then turned and held out a hand toward him.

"Get up."

"No."

"Get up, you lout!"

Hans hesitated, just a second. With a quiet sigh that didn't quite hide his curiosity, he took Henry's hand and let himself be pulled to his feet.

"This is absurd," Hans said, though he didn't let go.

"Yeah," Henry agreed. "It is."

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Henry straightened slightly, suddenly unsure but only for a heartbeat. He took Hans' much cooler hand in his own warm one.

"Hans Capon," he began, voice steadying as he went, "Lord of Rattay and Leipa… yet disgraced beyond recognition-"

Hans huffed a quiet, disbelieving laugh, but he didn't interrupt.

"-will you do me the honour of marrying me?"

The words hung there, fragile and impossible.

Hans gazed at him as though seeing him for the very first time. At the dirt on his hands, the earnestness he didn't bother to hide, the ridiculous bit of twine held like it was something precious.

For once, Hans Capon had nothing clever to say.

His gaze flickered down to their joined hands, then back up again. Something in his expression softened, the sharp edges of it giving way to something much more tender.

"You do realize," he said slowly, "this is the worst proposal in the history of proposals."

Henry smiled, small and nervous. "Yeah."

"No witnesses. Not even a proper ring."

Henry lifted the twine slightly. "I'm afraid I don't have any gold on me. But I've got this."

Hans let out a soft breath.

"God help me," he murmured, bowing his head for a second before meeting Henry's eyes again. Then, more quietly: "Yes."

"Yeah?"

"Yes," Hans repeated, a touch firmer now, though his voice still carried that same softness. "If we are to damn ourselves, we might as well be thorough about it."

Henry let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, a grin breaking through. "Right, then."

Carefully, more carefully than the situation deserved, he looped the bit of twine around Hans' finger, tying it as best he could.

"There," Henry said, his voice dropping to a lower register. "That's it. You're stuck."

Hans glanced down at the crude knot of brown string, looking at it with more reverence than he had ever shown his family signet. It could have been a trick of the light but an odd, somewhat glassy haze seemed to cloud his eyes. He blinked it away fervently.

"…and what now?" he asked, his voice barely audible over the rustle of the leaves.

There was a swelling pause, just long enough for either of them to pull away. When neither did, Henry moved first. His hand slid from Hans' sleeve to the nape of his neck, fingers tangling in the fine, fair hair that usually looked so prim in the court at Rattay.

His hands were strong, stronger than an ox when thrust into the middle of a hand-to-hand sparring ring, bloodied and bruised, but he knew to be gentle here. Their lips met with a softness even he didn't realize he could reduce to, their mouths finding one another's as though the way they fitted so perfectly together was always meant to be as so. Henry could feel him ebbing towards more with each change in direction of the kiss.

There was no need for lungs now, not when Henry would gladly breathe for them both.

Hans became undone before him and Henry pulled him in with a sudden, rough hunger, as if he could physically drag Hans out of his noble lineage and into the mud where society believed they both belonged.

Hans met him with a desperate, sharp intake of breath that was almost a sob. He collapsed into the space between them. His hands, usually so careful clawed into the sturdy wool of Henry's gambeson, bunching the fabric until his knuckles went white. He held on like a drowning man clutching at a mast in a storm.

The kiss was no longer gentle. Veering moreso onto the side of a collision.

It tasted of the heat of the day and the salt of skin, a frantically intense pressure that seemed to say everything they had been forbidden to speak since that first night at the baths. It was the taste of Skalitz burning and the long, cold nights on the road; it was the taste of every moment Hans had looked at Henry across a war-room table and had to look away.

Henry pressed closer, his body a solid, unyielding heat against Hans' silk-clad frame. He kissed him like he was trying to prove something to him, his thumb tracing the line of Hans's jaw with a fierce possessiveness. Perhaps he was.

Perhaps, deep down in some wild, faraway dream, Henry really believed that he could prove to Hans that this was enough to run away for. This, right here, in the space between their chests, where both hearts were hammering against their ribs as if trying to reach each other.

He would be so good to him. So very good and so very devoted to him. God and all things mighty, only him.

Perhaps Hans knew it too by the way that he kissed Henry with such a starved, frantic certainty, his breath catching against Henry's lips as if he were trying to memorize the very soul of the man before the sun went down. Devouring every morsel he possibly could before the moment subsided.

He tasted so sweet. He always had. Hans had always suspected as much, from what the verses told him - the apple in the garden of Eden was supposed to.

Lord, was this anguish masking itself as lust? This aching that the two of them felt? Clawing for the closeness, desperate to be together, entwined as one for this life and into the next?

Breaking away from this kiss was hell in and unto itself. However, Henry kept him there, his hands either side of Hans' face, their noses close enough to brush.

"How am I ever supposed to be content with anything but this?" Henry's voice was barely louder than a whisper. "I'm nothing if not yours."

"I know..." murmured Hans, "I know... I..." He struggled for what to say next, sniffing sharply as though a lump was beginning to form at the base of his throat. A single silver tear escaped from his left eye, then his right, streaking the contours of his face in thin, dazzling lines.

Henry shook his head slowly, pressing deliberate kisses to his eyes to capture the tears. He could taste them on his tongue, the very essence of the only man that ever mattered.

"We should get back..." he said, his eyes tracking the skyline as it descended into shades of orange and magenta.

Hans didn't move immediately. He stayed anchored in Henry's space, his forehead coming to rest against the roughness of Henry's shoulder. 

"Yes," Hans finally whispered, his voice regaining a fraction of its usual composure, though his hand squeezed Henry's one last time.

They stood together for a moment longer before parting to readjust their clothes with practiced, mechanical movements, evidencing that they had done this several times before. The transition back to lord and soldier was a silent, painful shedding of the skin they had just grown. Henry reached for the horses, his movements steady, while Hans took a long breath of the cooling air, looking at the oak tree as if he were memorising the exact placement of every leaf.

As they swung into their saddles, the distance between them returned, enforced by the lengthening shadows of the trees. They were once again the young Lord Capon and his loyal man-at-arms, bound for the grey stone walls of the city.

But as they turned their horses toward the road, the bit of brown twine stayed hidden beneath Hans' leather glove.

Henry caught Hans's eye just as the first star pricked through the purple haze of the evening. He didn't say anything, but the small, knowing tilt of his head was enough. They rode in silence, the rhythm of the hooves against the dirt marking the steady, inevitable march.