Orsha
1514
Henry felt something rip through his chest. A broken lance protruded from his ruined chainmail; an ugly, jagged piece of wood cleaved in two standing triumphant. Slumping into the muddy, churned up ground Harry knocked back his helmet, sucking in a labored breath his gloved hands crept towards the splintered lance, wrapping his digits around the wood he attempted to wrench the weapon free.
A choked cry of desperation was all that he could muster, the pain was too much and his arms fell uselessly to his side. By some strange miracle the lance had missed his heart, but had most probably punctured a lung, and with every continued beat more blood was being forced from out of his open wound. Harry could have laughed, they had stood with their arquebuses, in front of them horsemen, plate armor glinting in the sun, their standards fluttering in the wind as the ground thundered. Some of the horses had fallen under their fire but the wave continued. The endless wave of human bodies rolled forward, there never seemed to be a shortage of men to follow some prince into battle. Life was being lost all around him and little did anyone care.
Rolling onto his back Henry stared at the rapidly darkening sky, he could feel the oncoming storm. The ground was soaked with blood, dead bodies lay strewn across the battlefield but God would have it washed clean. Harry knew death would soon claim him, to Hell he would be carried, if such a place existed. Born of a whore and to whatever man had the coin to pay, he was not the making of a lord. Instead Henry had run away to sea, falling into a crowd of mercenaries he soon learnt that he could scratch a living from profiting from others countries' wars. He had seen it all and done more, he had sunk chest deep into the pit of human excrement that littered the earth and the small smiling boy that had hid amongst the skirts of those laughing women was no more. Humanity had long left him with the tattered remnants of a soul, shredded by the constant deluge of horror and death.
He was cold now. His heart still beating, but each time it grew feebler. They were coming now, the camp followers, to strip the bodies of whatever value they could find. Harry hoped it would come soon; death would be a welcome relief after this. Cool hands were suddenly upon his body and Henry clenched his fist, but he was too weak to fend off the unnamed shadow.
In one sharp movement the lance was wrenched free of his chest, Harry could have sworn he heard the air escape his chest.
"Do you want me to help you?"
Henry swallowed, his mouth dry, his lips painfully cracked. "I want you to let me die."
"And after that?"
"Hell surely?" Henry let out a small chuckle as a bubble of blood burst at the corner of his mouth.
"You think you're damned?"
"I have killed men and what's worse is that I enjoyed it. My soul if there is anything left of it, is black. Damnation has already found me…" Harry whispered, allowing his head to fall back into the dirt.
"Yes," the stranger nodded. "I have found you."
Henry frowned; there was something odd about the man that had found him on the battlefield. "What do you know of it?"
The man smiled, "I live as one damned. But I can help you; I can let you live of sorts. You will have this earth and every soul in it could be yours."
"You don't even know me." Harry whispered, his eyes closing momentarily.
"I have time though, and I could give it to you as well."
"My name is Henry, you should know that at least."
"John."
Harry gave the man hovering over him a weak smile, "Then I ask for your help John."
John nodded before his eyes turned black.
A/N: Hope you liked this one and any feedback is always appreciated!