# The Rogue

Author: Harper
Tags: M/M, Medieval, Pain, Werewolf

Chapter One  
  
  
  
They had just formed ranks. This was the battle  
for Herstmonceux castle, The War of The Roses. Sean  
had been hired in, one of about twenty Irish  
mercenaries. Two days ago, he had defected from the  
Lancastrian side to the Yorkists. The Lancastrians  
might have had cannons, but the Yorkists paid better,  
and had an advantage in troop numbers. Being a  
Commander, he was given charge of two ranks of ten. He  
adjusted his helmet and sword, and made sure the  
chainmaille was on right. One final time, he ran over  
the plan of attack in his mind.  
  
"Alright men, march up in two blocks behind Lady  
Joan, and watch for archers. Beware of cannon fire.  
Good luck. If you die fighting, which many of you  
will, you will have died an honourable death. May your  
souls find peace. Now, Let's kill these dirty  
Lancastrian bastards!" Sean had called over his  
troops. The priest went and blessed them in Latin, and  
bade them farewell. Sean drew his sword, and shouted  
the order to advance. Lady Joan said her piece, and  
made herself scarce. Arrows rained down around them,  
some firey. Occasionally, he would hear the sound of  
one of his men be struck down by an arrow, but he kept  
marching, leaving the dead and wounded where they  
fell. The enemy rank hard formed into a block, so Sean  
ordered that his companies form a wedge, and then  
charge the Lancastrian block. Sean was a skirmisher,  
picking off stragglers. He went in, fll and hard,  
hewing an enemy in half, diagonally across his body,  
blood glutting upon him. The blood steamed upon the  
st! eel of his blade, and he licked at the blood that  
had landed on his face. Then, out of no-where an arrow  
pierced his chainmaille, and went straight into his  
shoulder. He could tell it was tainted with poison, he  
could feel it enter his blood. He fought on  
regardless, until he got too sloppy from the poison,  
and misjudged an attack, and took the brunt of a  
hammer blow on his helm. It knocked him for six, and  
left him out cold, and bleeding.  
  

  He had fallen at the edge of the forest upon the  
hill. A stranger noticed him, and recognizing his  
livery as that of the king he served, he took this  
Sean's injured body, and removed the arrow and applied  
a poultice to the wound. It slowly stopped bleeding.  
Sean weighed close to 250 lbs with his armour on, and  
regardless, this stranger wanted to see him safe. Sean  
drifted in and out of consciousness, reality tisted  
and turned on it's head from the poison on the arrow.  
He carried Sean's body in his arms to the medic tent,  
and set him down inside, casting the priest one stony  
glance before exiting the tent. The poison was in his  
brain, causing him great nightmares. He recalled the  
horror of the battle, twisted and made more  
frightening by the poison. Then, his memories went  
back to his childhood. He remembers his mother  
abandoning him in a forest back home. He was about six  
at the time. He followed his mother back to the clan's  
camp. He stayed in the cover of the brush and  
undergrowth, only to watch the cheiftan, his father  
stab his mother through the heart with a simple silver  
blade. He learned later in life that his mother had  
been bitten by a werewolf while she was pregnant with  
him. Eleven years later, he killed his father with the  
silver blade. He kept that blade on him at all times  
since his revenge. He kept his lycanthropy a secret,  
having seen with his young eyes what it had cost his  
mother. He had discovered his ability to change when  
he was about thirteen, and he had lived rough for most  
of his life, only joining a clan when he was twenty.  
The terror of those nights when he slept in open  
ground, prey for the wild beasts. He was taken in by a  
pack of wolves, and he only discovered why when he  
discovered that he could change.  
  

  He snapped awake, his hand instinctively going for  
his silver dagger, and when he realised he was in a  
tent, he looked around to see wounded soldiers around  
him. His shoulder throbbed like fuck, he reckoned it  
was infected. A weedy, shrivelled voice startled him,  
it was the priest. The priest told him of the rogue  
that had saved him. Told him he was one of the lucky  
few of his company of Yorkists to survive the first  
charge. He took some tea from the priest, it was  
disgusting, but he drank it, rather than be rude. The  
priest was distracted with another soldier, so Sean  
took that opportunity to talk to his saviour. He got  
about as far as the tent opening, which wasn't far,  
maybe 15 feet, and managed to call out to the rogue  
before collapsing in pain. Before he knew it, the  
rogue was at his side easing the pain in his shoulder  
with some kind of potion.  
  
They were accosted by two guards, one armed with a  
spear who was threatening the rogue. Sean saw the  
feral shine in his saviours eyes, and knew he had to  
talk to him. The guards, however, had a different  
idea. One of them presumed him a spy, and went at him  
with the spear, the stranger sidestepped, and snapped  
the spear, cast Sean one last look, and made for the  
darkness beyond the light of the fire. "No....come  
back....." Sean said resignedly, and, looking at the  
darkness, he thought he had seen the feral shine from  
the rogue's eyes. The guards dragged him back to the  
tent and put him to bed. He slept like the dead.

Source: https://sofurry.com/s/dmWJNlwe