Chapter Text
Maleshov fortress, the first day of captivity
The door shuts swiftly behind his back, and before he even has the chance to turn around, the soft click of a lock reaches his ears. His palms find the smooth surface of the door and he bangs his fists on it, quick breaths escaping his lungs.
"This is outrageous! You can't just lock me up in here!" He calls out in frustration.
The ride to Maleshov had been tough, a few full days spent sitting on his arse in an uncomfortable wagon, the edges of the rope leaving irritating scratches on the skin of his wrists, all without a single soul to open his mouth to.
His wounds had been tended to, but his head never quite stopped aching or ringing, a leftover from the traumatizing explosion at Nebakov and a tower's weight crushing his helpless body to the floor. Truly, it was a miracle he managed to escape that without any permanent damage.
The journey bored him almost to death, the chatter of guards making his head ache, all while having very little idea on where he was actually being taken through the hazy state of his mind.
Upon arrival to the fortress, the guards wasted no time escorting him to the top of the tower, and that seemed to have been it.
He is met with silence, as is expected from a guard just doing his job, yet he continues;
"I demand to speak with Lord von Bergow! I am a noble, I have the right to—"
"I am afraid that matters not to them, mon ami." A heavily accented voice reaches his ears from within the chamber and he turns around abruptly, locating its source.
A tall, well-dressed man sits in one of the chairs by the table in the center of the room, seemingly enjoying an apple, his expression quite placid. He eyes Hans with a hint of curiosity as he sinks his teeth in the fruit.
Hans just stares at him blankly, taken aback by another presence he must have missed when the guard shoved him into the room. Who the fuck is this?
As if having read Hans' mind, the man stands up from his seat, placing the apple on the table and clearing his throat.
"Allow me to introduce myself, young Sir. I am Vauquelin Brabant, Chevalier d'Arezzo, at your service." The man bows, one arm stretched out in an exaggerated manner. So very french, Hans thinks.
"It seems we are to be locked in here together. I must say, I am quite relieved to have some company, enfin!"
"You're... a prisoner here?" Hans blurts out in surprise, taking in the man's appearance.
"Oui, I have led the defence of Kuttenberg against the siege, which, as I'm sure you know, ended in defeat. I have been held captive here ever since."
The words take a second to sink in. So this man has been here for a while now. Has no one come with ransom? What if no one knows where he was taken?
Does anyone know where Hans was taken?
"Now, I am curious to know how you got yourself joining my captivity, Sir...?"
"Hans Capon of Pirkstein, Lord of Rattay. And how I got here is none of your business, Frenchie. I am here purely by mistake, and it's only a matter of time before someone comes for me, so don't get used to my company." He spits out with a bit too much venom, which takes the Frenchman aback.
"As you say, monsieur Chapon." The man returns to his seat and picks the apple up from the table, seemingly resigning from the idea of further niceties.
Hans scoffs under his breath, and fully takes in the ornate cell he has found himself trapped in. Perhaps the room would be spacious if it were just him, but, with two prisoners inside, it feels quite cramped. The small windows let in the last remains of the now setting sun, bathing the room in dim light. An ornate table sits in the centre of the chamber, with a dice playing set resting atop and a pompous looking Frenchman sitting by it, seemingly no longer paying Hans any mind.
He walks over towards the empty bed on one side of the room, fists clenched in frustration, and sinks down onto the mattress, exhaling a long breath.
Only a matter of time, he thinks.
Maleshov fortress, the third day of captivity
The nights in the fortress are quiet, the chamber positioned so high above ground you can't even hear the guards bickering from the ground level. Brabant spends his evenings either reading or playing chess by himself, occasionally muttering something in French, which drives Hans half mad. He himself hasn't yet figured out a way to kill time, so usually he tries laying down to sleep as soon as dusk falls, yet that doesn't really seem to work, as his mind makes falling asleep nigh impossible.
It is one of those evenings now. He lays in bed, restless, eyes glued to the ceiling, counting every crack in the surface as he grapples with the idea of his current situation.
This wasn't how this was supposed to go. How did he even find himself in such a situation? All he had to do was deliver a letter to Trosky, receive a reply and return to Rattay, the whole mission taking only a few days. Then everything was finally supposed to fall into place, he would gain his uncle's respect and be recognized as mature enough to finally receive what's rightfully his, never to be denied his property ever again and finally come into his full power. What went wrong?
Quite a lot, as it seemed. And somehow, it all went back to the very first mistake he made, one that started the endless cycle of unfortunate events and landed himself in this position. If only he hadn't been so reckless and inconsiderate, making camp by that cursed pond. How can one be so irresponsible? Does he really expect anyone to treat him seriously after that ridiculous of a spectacle?
The pressure in his skull feels overwhelming now and he shuts his eyes, praying silently to the Virgin Mary to allow him to drift off and forget about his humiliation for a moment. The sleep claims him shortly after.
"Sir Hans?"
"Henry? What the— What the fuck are you doing here?" He spins around, almost dropping the skinning knife from his hand. He is met with Henry's watchful gaze, piercing holes into his body as the man takes in his appearance and the surroundings he had found him in. Hans feels himself shrinking from embarrassment.
"Hunting poachers, is what I'm doing! I was sent by the Nebakov gamekeeper. Jesus, poaching, seriously? You couldn't pick something different?"
Hans takes a good look at him. He looks well, no traces of the beggar's attire he had last seen him in left on his body. He's wearing nice travelling clothes, as well as a few pieces of light armour, and there's a fine blade attached at his hip. His hair appears a bit longer and there's a light stubble now present on his chin. He smells good, too, Christ be damned.
"Now, Henry, poaching is something peasants do. What I'm doing here is called hunting." Just like that, the mask is on. Who does he think he is, accusing Hans of something as lowly as poaching?
"You're hunting without permission on grounds that don't belong to you. Sounds like poaching to me. Christ, Hans, this is very risky, you could get in serious trouble!" Henry exclaims, a note of something less accusatory slipping into his tone, something Hans can't quite decipher.
"Look, if you must know, no one found me here until you turned up. And you're only here because you're doing some terribly noble deed again and helping out old grannies in distress."
"Are you fucking serious? There are plenty ways to make money, why poaching of all things?"
"I've always been good at hunting. Remember how we went hunting together the first time? I really showed you up, didn't I?" He offers, pride rising to the surface. He will be damned if he doesn't restore the proper authority balance between the two of them. "Besides, this is an exceptional situation. Once I make enough coin off this game, I will get myself into the Semine wedding and explain everything to Sir Otto, I'm sure he will understand. These are simply the noble ways in desperate times, you wouldn't get it."
Henry's expression turns sour at that, and Hans does his best to avoid his eyes. Good, he should know his place. He turns his back on him, desperately looking to busy his hands again as he returns to the task of skinning a deer. He hears Henry sigh and mutter something unintelligible behind him before he shuffles.
"I have coin, Sir. More than enough for the two of us. If you come with me, we could get you a nice set of clothes and make it to the wedding together. You could stop poaching before you get yourself in trouble." He finally offers calmly, and Hans can feel his stomach twist.
This was too much. Was that pity in his tone? Was Henry, a simple peasant yokel, pitying him, a noble lord? Did he think Hans to be too incompetent to handle himself?
"That won't be necessary." He spits out through gritted teeth. "I can take care of myself, thank you very much. I don't need help from the likes of you. Now, if you'll excuse me, I am quite busy here." The venom rolls off his tongue too easily.
He's being cruel again, he knows that. There's something about Henry that often strikes him a bit too close to home for his liking, making him resort to cruelty as the only way to restore the balance he so desperately clings to.
Henry is silent for a moment and Hans doesn't dare turn around, lest he crumbles under his gaze. The silence lingers for a moment, before he hears Henry sigh resignedly again and slowly turn back from the camp, his gentle footsteps sounding more distant as he leaves.
Good. He better not come back. Hans would sooner starve and be forced to eat dirt than accept money from someone of his status, not that it would ever come to that.
It was true, money was tight as it were, the Troskowitz trader he had struck a deal with cutting prices due to Hans' goods being sold to him illegally. It was barely enough to purchase equipment and he was mostly forced to eat whatever he managed to hunt, which resulted in going full days without food from time to time. Still, it was nothing he couldn't handle, and it was only a matter of a few more successful hunts before he'd be able to clean up nicely enough to get himself into the wedding. No blacksmiths needed.
It takes him a while longer before there is nothing more left of the deer to salvage. He wraps the pieces of meat in cloth and hangs the hide over the skinning rack before heading towards the rock overhang where his bedroll is sprawled out under. He almost doesn't notice it at first, but, upon closer examination, he spots a small object resting on top of it, one he's sure was not there earlier.
A coin purse, by the looks of it. He inhales in surprise, before putting the dots together.
That insolent bastard.
He scoffs in exasperation, bending down to pick it up, and he startles at the weight of the purse. It's completely full. There must be enough coin inside to buy a sword! He turns his head towards the direction Henry left, but the man is long gone.
The audacity, the disrespect painted by the act! How dare he!
Hans fumes at the small purse in his palm, almost choosing to chuck it at the rocks, but he stops himself at the last second. He has no choice but to keep the money, and he feels his stomach grumble at the idea of being able to afford proper food for once.
He decides he will simply pretend this never happened for the rest of his life, and if Henry chooses to remind him of it in any way, he will have him put in the stocks.
The wine leaves a bitter taste on his tongue as he watches Henry win the duel against young Olda Semine in the stable's fighting pen. The young groom congratulates him, if a bit breathlessly, shaking his hand. Henry beams with triumph and he dusts himself off as his eyes scan the cheering crowd. They reach a stop when they lock with Hans' own, who, to his own horror, didn't even realize he was gawking the whole time. He turns his head immediately, but can already see Henry leaving the pen and approaching from his peripheral vision.
He takes another sip of the wine he's nursing, pretending he does not see Henry stopping at his side at all.
"Quite a wedding, eh? I have not seen this much food and ale since the Rattay tournament feast!" Henry starts, the remains of his victorious smile still present in his voice. He's looking towards the people around them, which allows Hans a sneaky side glance.
Henry's cheeks are flushed from the duel, his chest still heaving, but he cleans up nicely, elegant purple coat fitted perfectly to his physique. He must have had it made specially.
Henry's voice sounded warm and inviting, but Hans doesn't grant him a response, seemingly fascinated by the contents of his cup. He feels Henry's gaze turn to him and he studies Hans for a second.
"So, how did you manage to get here? Did your hunting raise enough coin in the end?"
"What's it to you? Mind your own business." Hans snaps, irritated. "And it did, if you must know. I can take care of myself just fine without you on my arse."
It's a lie. His poaching hunting barely managed to cover the costs of a new pair of leather boots and some soap, forcing him to spend the contents of Henry's coin purse to purchase the rest of his outfit. He'd sooner die than ever admit that, though, and as soon as he gets back to Rattay he will burn the yellow pourpoint currently covering his back, so that it may never remind him of such a disgrace again.
"Glad to hear it. Listen, Sir Hans— How about we just forget about, well, everything?" Henry starts, his voice still warm despite the coldness Hans offers him.
Yes, please, Henry, can we do that? I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything I said, Hal, please forgive me.
"We had a rough start, but we're back on track now. Sir Otto should be he—"
"Don't you worry about Sir Otto. I will gladly wait and speak with him myself. Now, would you be so kind and stop pestering me?" Hans bites out, the icy blades of his tone slashing anything in their way.
There Henry was, offering an olive branch, willing to forget Hans' cruel comments and insults and simply move on, ready to continue pursuing their shared goal with a smile on his face. And Hans wouldn't accept it. Why in God's name would he not accept it?
Henry startles, and there's a shift in his presence, as if his arm extended in an offer of help and friendship was met with a nasty bite to his fingers. He looks away and inhales a long breath.
"Fine, have it your way. Terribly sorry to have disturbed your peace, my Lord." He spits out, although it lacks the venom Hans' words carried. He turns on his heel and leaves Hans alone with no one but a wine barrel for company.
The second he's gone Hans wants to call out to him, ask him to come back, but the words die in his throat. He gulps the rest of his wine down before slamming the cup on one of the tables and storming out of the stable.
Stupid fucking Henry with his stupid fucking sweet words and warm smiles. His stupid fucking grand gestures and noble deeds and words so nice Hans doesn't feel he deserves them half the time. Just who does he think he is?
Would he really be willing to forgive him, just like that? After everything Hans had said to him in the pillory? After the attitude he presented when Henry found him in his camp? After all the mistakes he had made that landed them in this situation in the first place?
There must have been some catch to it, people don't just forgive, especially not when it comes to Hans' faults and wrongdoings. No, Hans' faults and wrongdoings do not get forgiven or forgotten - they get rubbed in his face, used as leverage against him, so much so that he may never forget he failed.
There must have been a catch, Hans decides, and that is exactly why he would not accept Henry's forgiveness. The only thing there was for him to do was proving he is still competent, even despite his mistakes. And if Henry is around to see that happen, he wouldn't be opposed to it.
He wakes drenched in sweat, the walls of the chamber already bathing in the morning sun's rays as the early birds sing out their greetings to a new day. Brabant is still asleep, the light not yet reaching his eyes as he lays in bed on the other side of the room.
Hans lets out a shaky breath, collecting himself after the abrupt awakening. He hadn't had dreams so vivid in years, ever since he got sick that one winter and the feverish dreams had him convinced the Devil himself had risen from Hell to claim his soul and drag him down there for eternity.
Henry. What on earth happened to him? How could Hans possibly forget to wonder about that? The last time he saw him was through foggy vision from his still concussed head. He had yelled something that didn't reach Hans' ears as the soldiers hauled him away and the next thing Hans knew, he was being shoved onto a different wagon, one without Henry beside him. Back then he didn't quite comprehend what was going on, his brain too focused on how much his head hurt and how uncomfortable the planks beneath his arse felt.
But what really happened? Where did they take him? Was he still with Godwin and Žižka? Oh, Christ, was he still with that whoreson, Toth?
He feels his head spinning as he tries to recall anything that would allow him to put the pieces together. He didn't see Istvan among his escort on the way to Maleshov, but he remembers the bastard leaving Nebakov with them. That must mean von Bergow and him split up on the way, with the former leading the way to Maleshov.
Did they take them away for questioning? Godwin and Žižka were of noble descent, surely they wouldn't kill them. But Henry?
No, they would not kill Henry either. He is a noble's bastard, and, most importantly, he is Hans' page. They would be fools to harm him. Surely, they're also being held prisoners someplace else, and they will shortly get freed by someone coming for them, along with Hans.
But, if that's the case, why would Hans get split up from them? Why not take all of them to the same place? Surely the ransom negotiations would be easier if all the subjects were being held in one place, right?
He shakes his head, trying to push his worries away, but there's an uncomfortable feeling brewing in his gut that almost makes him sick. He takes a deep breath and convinces himself that everything will get sorted out somehow. After all, it is only a matter of time.