It is the year of our (their) (his?) (someone's, anyway) lord 1415.
It turns out, apparently, that the bloody nameless faerie prince, or whatever the fuck that was back in 1389, was probably not just some terrifyingly attractive normal guy saying insane things, because Hob took a whole god-damned war-axe to the chest three hours ago and he should be very dead about two hours and fifty-nine minutes ago and instead he is lying in the mud having a very confusing Last Rites experience. Somewhere in the distance, the King of England is celebrating a historic victory, or something, but Hob is not a knight, or a commander, or a bard. He's just a soldier.
"Have you any last confessions," the priest is saying hoarsely. He is actually becoming steadily less blurry as Hob stares up at him.
"It has been six days since my last confession and I killed I think seven Frenchmen and I am not sure if this is a sin but I guess I repent of that just in case?" hazards Hob, who is pretty sure at this point that he is not dying actually but you never know.
The priest makes an exhausted noise and starts mumbling the Apostles' Creed at him. He recites along, gamely enough, and eventually the guy pats him on the shoulder in a way that is clearly supposed to be reassuring and proceeds to the next guy dying in the mud.
Hob ... does not die in the mud.
He lies there, staring at the sunrise.