The world had dissolved into a screaming red madness. The air was a broth of smoke, mist, and sprayed blood, thick enough to taste with every searing breath—a flavor of iron and wet soil. But it was the sound that defined the hell: a relentless, deafening orchestra of violence. The shouts of men were a constant bedrock—hoarse battle cries that cracked into screams, barked orders that were cut short, and the raw, guttural shouts of pure rage as blades met.
These human sounds were woven through with the grinding shriek of steel on steel, the dull, wet thuds of axes biting into shields and the sickening, softer chops they made when they found flesh. Underneath it all was the panicked screaming of horses, the snapping of lances, and the terrible, bubbling gurgles of the drowning where a lung was pierced.
Henry was no longer a king. He was a butcher in a silver shell, his armor a grotesque, sticky canvas of other men's lives. He moved through the din, his own breath a ragged roar in his helmet. His broadsword rose and fell not with grace, but with a final, heavy crunch against a helm, a wet rip through gambeson, a sharp crack of a parried blow. The shouts of the soldier before him ended abruptly, replaced by a choked sigh as Henry's blade punched through mail.
He felt the battle's turn not by sight, but by sound. The enemy's unified war shouts fractured into isolated cries of alarm. The cohesive roar of clashing lines broke apart into the desperate, scattered clangs of individual duels and the rising, panicked wail of a routed army. The fighting was no longer a contest; it was a slaughter, and its music was changing.
A final, ragged trumpet blast from his own lines pierced the din, a sound of metallic triumph. It was met by a last, weak wave of shouts from his men—hoarse, exhausted, but victorious—as they pushed forward. The fighting became a mopping up: the swish of blades cutting down fleeing men, the thud of bodies falling.
Then, silence began to rush in, hollow and startling. The shouts faded, replaced by the low moan of the wind and the ubiquitous chorus of the dying—a sound not of fighting, but of ending.
Henry planted his sword, its tip sinking into the soft, red muck, and leaned on it. The metallic taste in his mouth was victory, and it was the same as the taste of the blood drying on his lips. In the sudden, ringing quiet, the phantom echoes of shouts and fighting still seemed to beat against his skull. But they were gone. The only war left was the one waiting in the silence of his castle, in the heart of the woman with winter in her eyes. This battle of blood and din was over. The quieter, more dangerous one was about to begin.
***
The courtyard, once a place of grim departure, now boiled with a feverish, roaring joy. The air shook with the sound of rejoicing—a cacophony of cheers, weeping laughter, and the relentless, rhythmic chant of "VICTORY! VICTORY!" that echoed off the stone walls like sacred thunder. Petals and herbs, saved for this moment, rained down from the ramparts, a sweet confetti over the smell of sweat and horses.
Gisela stood on the high balcony, a statue of composed elegance amidst the tumult. Below, a river of returning soldiers parted as their king rode through. Henry, astride his black destrier, was a vision of terrifying triumph. His silver armor was a grim, rust-brown canvas, streaked and spattered with the evidence of the slaughter. His face, beneath a film of grime and dried blood, was set in lines of exhausted severity. As he reached the center of the yard, his gaze lifted and found hers.
It was a cold collision—his eyes, chips of flint in a battered face, locking onto her amber ones from across the roaring crowd. In that suspended moment, the noise seemed to fade. A single, traitorous tear broke from Gisela's eye, tracing a clean path down her cheek—a stroke of pure, unguarded feeling. Then, as if in answer to it, a wide, radiant smile appeared on her lips, a masterpiece of royal devotion forged in the sight of his bloody return.
His attention snapped back to his people. With a brutal, deliberate motion, he raised a gauntleted fist. Clenched in it was not a standard, but the severed head of the enemy commander, the hair matted, the face frozen in a final grimace. He hurled it onto the cobblestones before him, where it landed with a sickening, final thud.
"WE RETURN VICTORIOUS!" Henry's voice, hoarse from shouting orders and smoke, carried over the multitude, hollowed out and terrible. He pointed a bloody finger at the grisly trophy. "WITH THIS! We have broken them. And we will show all of Europe the strength, the might, the greatness of England!"
The crowd's frenzy reached a crescendo, transforming into a unified, deafening roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of the keep:
"LONG LIVE THE KING! LONG LIVE THE QUEEN!"
On the balcony, Gisela smiled and waved, the perfect portrait of a proud consort. The tear on her cheek had dried. Only the smile remained, fixed and brilliant, as the chant of their joined fates hammered against her ears—a celebration that felt less like freedom and more like the door of her cage being slammed shut, forever.
---
Gisela stood in the dim corridor, a silent observer as Henry spoke in low, curt tones to a departing servant. The moment the man bowed and scurried away, the space between them emptied, and his weary gaze lifted to find her.
She offered a slight, formal bow, then closed the distance, her steps measured on the stone. Halting before him, she seemed to hesitate, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her features before she stepped forward and pressed herself against the cold, blood-crusted plane of his breastplate. Her arms wrapped around his armored waist in a tight, uncharacteristic embrace.
He did not move. He was a statue of stained steel, offering no reciprocation, his hands hanging at his sides.
"I… have missed you, Henry," she murmured, the words muffled against the grime and metal.
After a prolonged moment, one heavy hand rose to pat her head twice, a gesture devoid of warmth, more an acknowledgment of a persistent animal.
"Little one," he began, his voice rough.
His hands then came up, not to embrace, but to frame her face. He lifted her head firmly from his chest, forcing her to meet his eyes. His thumb, coarse and still bearing traces of grit, brushed the tip of her nose. "Is this how badly you have missed me?"
She gave a soft, almost imperceptible nod, her amber eyes wide.
"Hmm." The sound was a low vibration in his chest. "Why, then, do I feel I am watching a performance? The audience has departed. You may cease the pretence."
"Pretence?" she breathed, her lower lip trembling with a convincing delicacy. "I only miss my husband. Is that a crime?"
His cold, assessing eyes lingered on every detail of her face—the slight tremor, the sheen in her eyes, the part of her lips—searching not for truth, but for the flaw in the artistry. The silence between them grew thick, charged with the unsaid, as he looked for the crack in her exquisite, grieving mask.