Chapter Text
The rush of cold was a familiar feeling for Harry Hart, and it was something he had felt often in his 449 years on this earth. Waking up after death was a familiar feeling for him, but he hadn’t experienced anything like this in well over thirty years, which was enough time for a boy to grow up and a father to die.
Harry Hart was born in 1566, to a family of farmers in England, which wasn’t really the best place to be born, but he managed. He worked all of his life, tending wheat and barley fields until he contracted smallpox at the age of 22 and died.
His mother and father mourned him, and buried him hours after his death, not realising that something had happened to him, something that would have been okay if it wasn’t for the fact that he was now buried alive and suffocating to death underneath the soil once every couple of seconds.
It took him three days to dig himself out of that ground, and by then, it was a relief to not feel the burning sensation of no air in his lungs that he didn’t even think about his parents or his sister, who were now gasping and crying in horror to see him sitting on top of his own grave, clutching his chest and heaving.
But instead of calling it a miracle, they called in a priest to see if he could expel the demon from his body, the demon that was keeping their baby boy from passing over from this Earth.
He was chained down to a table for another three days, with only very limited food and drink shoved down his throat whenever the priest was around to make sure that the demon didn’t grab any other family members in its clutches.
Two weeks later, he escaped, through the kindness of his sister slitting one of the ropes that held his hands down to the table.
The next years that followed, however, were some of the worst of his life. All the way until 1603, he was living on the streets as a beggar, stealing when he could and killing himself when he ended up in jail so that he could escape, even if that meant he condemned the other men in his cell to death.
He ended up in a very bad place, and it took Harry Hart over 300 years to climb out of that hole. And then he found Kingsman.
His name wasn’t really Harry Hart, but it was a good name, a name he liked, and a name he was going to keep. He had created that name for the purpose of joining Kingsman, because what use was having infinite lives if you didn’t use them to save others.
But, even though he had signed up to one of the most dangerous career paths on the planet, somehow, he hadn’t died in over thirty years. Maybe it was because he had improved his skills, maybe it was because he was immune to diseases. But he didn’t know and he didn’t care.
He was just okay with what he was doing, okay with himself, and everything was okay. And then he died, got shot in the head by a man named Valentine.
He had a whole plan mapped out, about what he would do if he was killed in action while working for Kingsman. He had two safe houses in every country, all purchased under different names using money earned by those people. He would flee to any country and wait there, becoming a stock broker or someone who could earn money from home but not enough to attract attention.
He would wait until Merlin and Arthur and the rest of the Kingsman were dead, before even thinking about venturing into London again.
And he would have gone through with it, because there was an opportunity right now to get out of this life, and to keep himself safe.
He would have done that, if it wasn’t for Eggsy.