I'm wounded, badly. I can feel the hot seeping of my own blood, as it spills from my stomach and chest, through my shattered armor and onto the ground, upon which I lay sideways.

The field is full of men like me. Some are worse off, some are better off, and at the moment it is hard to tell whether we who are still arrive or those who have already died could be deemed "better off". The pain shoots through me and I wonder less.

Agincourt was a victory. It wasn't supposed to be a victory, and judging from the amount of blood I've lost, it won't be for me. We won, though. We beat them – the French.

I bring one of my gloved hands up to my torso to try and stem the bleeding. The hand shakes violently. Somehow, despite the hot flow of blood from my wound, and the generally warm climate of this part of France, I feel cold. Oh…so cold.

Suddenly, another man is with me. He's bending over me, examining my wound. I take in his appearance. He has long, straight, amazingly shiny black hair, a drawn face that reminds me of royalty, strong features, and some rather odd dress that was mostly, if not completely, hidden by the standard English armor he wore. He looked, at once, strong and tired. Bloodstains lay all over clothing and his arms and face. I don't see a broadsword attached to his back, but that's well and good – I couldn't account for the location of my own weapon, either.

"Who…?" I stammer out, my teeth chattering as my whole head convulses.

"That isn't important," the stranger says. He doesn't look English, but then, he doesn't really look French either.

"Did we…did we…?" I start to ask, although I'm not sure of the direction of the question. I watched the rout occur; I know we won. Why would I be asking that?

"Yes," the stranger says, freezing for a moment. "We won."

After the moment passes, he goes back to examining my wound.

"You were struck down the front by a French broadsword, yes?" he asks.

"Yes," I say, although I can now taste blood in my mouth.

The stranger continues, muttering to himself. He prods the wound a couple of times and I convulse, the pain having intensified for a millisecond. He picks up my arms and tests my digits; they're growing limp and numb. I already can't feel my feet.

"You won't survive this," the stranger says. "I'm sorry."

Well, I knew that, I feel like saying, but I find that I don't have the strength anymore.

"Here," the stranger says, dipping into his side pack. "Take this. It will make the pain less severe."

He puts a root in my mouth. Then, with a weary look in his eye, he stands and moves on. I see him, through my peripheral vision, bend over another man and begin speaking perfect, fluent French to him.

Just as I bite down, I think to myself, What…?

But then I know no more.