Chapter 1: Battle of Agincourt

Fires raged across the land. Trees were not just destroyed—they were consumed and reborn in flame.
Blood splattered the ground like paint hurled by a madman. Men were drenched in it, head to toe. Few of us remained standing.
Archers moved forward alongside us, bows raised like skeletal arms reaching for the sky. As we charged, they stayed behind—for support, for distance, for precision.

We were outnumbered—six thousand against at least fifteen thousand.
The French could surround and crush us with ease.

In moments, we closed in on the heart of Agincourt, where French soldiers poured out like a living waterfall—except this one bled.
Their uniforms, emblazoned with white crosses, blurred together in the frenzy.
As we neared the fort, a deafening cry burst from within. Spears rose. The French surged forward.

We fought. We bled. We broke.
Our line, once proud, splintered. The overwhelming force of the French swept through us, tearing comrades apart and scattering limbs across the trampled earth.

Defeat clawed at our heels. With fewer than four hundred of us left, we knew. We braced.

But they didn’t see them.
More archers—hidden on a nearby cliff. Longbows ready. Silent. Lethal. Divine.
They rained arrows with unflinching precision. They became our salvation.

I, with the last of the cavalry, charged—like a beast with nothing left but instinct.
Yet we could not break through. One by one, my brothers fell.

A dozen men surrounded me, ripping me from my steed like wolves descending on a stag.
They bound my limbs like hay and stripped me of my sword.

Just as I braced for death, something sparked—
not outside, but within.
From flicker to flame, from ember to inferno.
It refused to die.

Chapter 2: Travelers, Knights, and Commanders

I’d thought the war would be over by now.
The French had suffered defeat after defeat.
But they never ran out of men—only time.

We rode through the countryside, chatter echoing among the brigade.
But not from me.
Though I was a captain, I remained silent. They saw me not as a leader, but as a shadow of my father—the general’s son who hadn’t earned his scars.

I listened.

“I mean, we just can’t attack the French,” exclaimed a major named Louis.
“Yes, it’ll be another Roosebeke,” said another.
“Oh, that was the worst defeat for us in decades,” the first sighed.

Then, my father arrived. He rode into view, calm and cold.

“Sir, you’re here!” Robert called.

“Yes, I am,” my father replied, his tone grave enough to freeze the air.

“Sir, how many French are we facing?” one asked.

“I say… twenty-five thousand men.”

I gasped. That many… against our six thousand? It would be a massacre.

And still, my father planned to attack.

Around the bend, flames blocked the road, devouring trees in their path.

“ARRRGH!” one of the commanders shouted.
“We’ll need another way!”

With a groan, I dismounted and began slicing through shrubs, each swing fueled by dread.

It took nearly an hour before someone cried, “Alright men, this way—don’t ride your horses, lead them!”

We passed through thick woods and emerged onto open plains.

Knowing the forest offered some protection, we decided to camp there.

Tents lay scattered, clustered like grapes on a rotting vine.

I found no space of my own, so I pitched my tent between two trees.

Then came my father.

If I had to describe him in three words, only one would be kind.
The others? Ruthless. Ambitious. Cold.
But I could never tell him that. He wouldn’t understand.

He smiled weakly.

“Son—I know you don’t want to attack—”

I cut him off.

“Father, what are you thinking? Attacking the French with merchants and boys?
You’re dragging us into death—for what? Your pride?”

His face twisted with fury.
Still, I didn’t stop.

“I thought you had sense—to spare these men.
But you’d rather play king on a chessboard soaked in blood.”

He stared at me, blue eyes like ice. Unmoving. Unblinking.

Then, he dusted his coat and walked away.
As he always did.

Chapter 3: Sorrows & Angers

I was grooming my horse when a young man came sprinting toward me, his cloak plastered to his chest with rain and sweat.

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

“S-sir, the general requests your presence. He says he wants to discuss battle plans,” the messenger panted.

“Tell him I do not wish to see him tonight,” I said, voice firm.

“Sir… he demands it.”

I sighed. “Fine.”

If Father planned to act as if my words meant nothing, he should expect resistance.

I left the horse and made my way toward his tent.
It was massive—white with blue linings, too grand for the misery it contained.
The flaps were small, like tiny lies trying to mask an enormous truth.

I didn’t knock. I ducked under and entered.

My father sat in the corner, muttering over a large map. Tiny wooden soldiers were strewn across it. His fingers moved them like fate.

He looked up.

“Welcome, my son… still not pleased with me, I see,” he said.
“Sit. Let me explain.”

He gestured to a chair, but I remained standing.

He sighed.

“I know you oppose the plan, but this—this is how England wins.”

He smiled faintly, as though that could soften the blade.

“You needn’t worry about the men. They’re well trained. Skilled.”

He slammed a handful of figures onto a cliff on the map. Archers.

“Archers,” I muttered, the word bitter on my tongue.
“They’ll do more harm than good. You’ll rain death on our own men.”

As if reading my mind, he added quickly, “They’ll be precise. We have our best marksmen.”

“That’s always your answer, isn’t it? ‘Our men are better.’ But better doesn’t stop arrows. Better doesn’t stop blood.”

His fist slammed the table.

“I am in charge. And just because you’re my son doesn’t mean you have power over me.
We will fight in Agincourt. That is final.”

His voice rose like thunder, but I had nothing left to say.

Then, softer, darker: “Get out.”

I stepped out into the night.
The air was cold, but my chest burned.
I staggered back to my tent, thoughts spinning.

This wasn’t just war—it was pride wearing armor.
And we were the pawns.

Our men would fight bravely, yes.
But bravery dies quickly beneath the wrong command.

Chapter 4: Dark & Rainy Days

The sun had vanished behind thick clouds.
The sky wept.

At first, the rain came gently—then in torrents, as if the heavens wished to drown the very thought of war.
It battered the tents, pounded the dirt, and turned the earth to soup.

Soldiers scurried about, soaked and shivering.
I was no different, my uniform clinging to me like a second, heavier skin.

Two wretched things happened that morning—both thanks to my father.

One: we learned the battle was in two days, even as the skies broke apart.
Two: my father trained the men all day. In the rain.
He shouted commands through thunder, shaping merchants into warriors beneath a drowning sky.

I returned to my tent, my boots slopping through mud.
It had nearly collapsed overnight.

Inside, a portable cot sagged under a wet, stained blanket.
Two flimsy chairs leaned at odd angles, threatening to crumble.

In the center, a wooden table held a single map—smeared, rain-dotted, the ink bleeding like wounds.
A chest in the corner held my few possessions, its lock rusted, its hinges squealing like a dying crow.
Beside it, a torn flap served as a window. Rain streaked down it like tears.

But I had no interest in the outside.
My mind wandered elsewhere—toward the battle, toward my father, toward the edge of the unknown.

I sat in that soggy silence, and waited.
Not for orders.
But for the storm inside me to stop.

Chapter 5: Why Did You Come Here?

The end drew near.
Very soon, I would go not by choice, but by command—into a battle I did not believe in.
It wasn’t that I pitied the French. I didn’t.
But something deeper gnawed at me.
A whisper that wouldn’t stop.
A voice beneath all logic that murmured: We are not meant to win.

And still it rained.

I couldn’t understand how our archers would fire in this downpour.
The strings would slip. The arrows would falter.
But maybe that didn’t matter.
Not to my father. Not to King Henry.
The world, it seemed, was drunk on victory.
All around me, men readied for glory.
Swords were sharpened like promises.
Armor gleamed like silver regret.
Even the horses were brushed and robed like kings.

I sighed, my chest heavier than my blade.
I dragged my feet toward my horse.
He stood tall—proud, unshaken, carved from strength itself.
He didn’t suit me. I wasn’t a hero.
I was just a shadow pretending to be a man.

Still, he whinnied and leaned forward, trying to reach me.
I placed a hand on his flank.
Even through the mud, he was warm. Alive.
More alive than I felt.

I mounted slowly. My dagger was tucked at my side. My thoughts were elsewhere.
I rode through the edge of the forest, hoping the trees might grant clarity.

But instead, they gave me danger.

A rustle.
A jolt.
The horse reared, stumbled.

Before I could draw my sword, a blade pressed to my throat.
I was yanked from the saddle and slammed into the mud.
I rolled, coughing, clawing at the ground.
My hand closed on the dagger just as footsteps closed in like thunder.

A man emerged from the trees—tall, soaked, merciless.
“Hommes anglais stupides,” he spat.
“You British are fools. Traitors walk among you. Garçon idiot!”

I forced calm into my voice. “You have no idea what we’re planning.”

He sneered. “That’s what I want to know, ami.”

He lunged. I slashed.
Steel tore into his leg and he stumbled back with a growl.

But there were more.
A man tackled me from behind, another from the front.
Fingers locked around my throat.
I gasped, choked, the world tilting sideways.
Panic bloomed like fire in my chest.

I drove the dagger upward—into soft flesh.
A scream, then silence.
The weight collapsed.

But the others weren’t done.
They slammed me down again, harder.
Mud filled my mouth.
Hands wrenched the dagger away, and knotted my wrists behind me.

“Dites-moi le plan, anglais!”
“Dis-moi, espèce d’ordure!”

I clenched my jaw. I would not speak.
Even if it meant death.

The tall one stepped forward, club in hand.
“Tell me the plans, boy.”

He swung.

Pain tore through my skull like lightning.
The world spun. My vision blurred.

He raised the club again.

Then—
a sound.
Not close, but not far.
Boots. Dozens of them. Crunching leaves. Splashing through mud.
Steel clinking. Orders shouted in English.

The Frenchmen froze. One of them hissed, “Merde…”

Another cursed under his breath. “They’re coming.”

The tall one spat in the dirt. “We’ll finish you later, chien.”

And just like that, they vanished—shadows slipping back into the trees.

I lay there, broken and dazed.
Alone.
Bleeding.
And then—
the world went dark.

Chapter 6: Before the Battle

I don’t remember being found.
Only that the French fled when they heard our soldiers approaching—
and that somehow, I woke up.
A man was shaking me frantically.

“We’re going now. We’re going to Agincourt.”

His voice was frantic.

“What… how did I get here?” I mumbled, my vision still swimming.

“No time, sir. We must prepare you.”

I groaned and slumped back, the ache in my head blooming like fire.
Flashes returned—mud, fists, the club, and the sound of boots that had saved me.
I didn’t know how I survived. Only that I had.

The man rushed out, no doubt to fetch my father.

I rolled off the cot, head pounding like war drums.
Armor waited beside the table like a second skin.
Metal over bruises. Duty over doubt.

My sword hung heavy at my waist.

Then, the horn blew.

One long note. Final. Irrevocable.

I stepped out into the storm.
Into the battlefield.

Into fate.

Chapter 7: Battle of Agincourt

The world had lost its color.
What remained was fire, ash, and the scent of blood.

Fires raged across the land.
Trees were not merely felled—they were obliterated, then consumed in flame.
The earth reeked of iron and smoke.

Blood splattered the ground like spilled paint.
Men were coated in it—some shouting, others silent.

Few of us still stood.

Archers moved beside us, bows raised.
They would not charge with us.
They were the storm behind the front. The whisper before the scream.

We were hopelessly outnumbered—six thousand to fifteen thousand.
The French encircled us like a great maw, ready to close.

Still, we pressed forward.

We neared the beating heart of Agincourt, where the French poured out in waves, white crosses flashing through smoke and flame.

It wasn’t a charge—it was a flood.
And we were the shore.

A battle cry rang out from the French as they surged forward.
Spears rose like a forest of death.
They came fast—furious, fearless, full of fire.

We fought.

And then we fell.

The weight of their numbers crashed over us like a collapsing sky.
Men screamed. Swords shattered. Blood soaked the trampled mud.

Less than four hundred of us remained.

We waited for death.

But they had made a mistake.

They didn’t see the cliffs.

More of our archers were hidden there—longbows drawn, hearts steady.

They unleashed fury.

The sky rained arrows. Death from above.
Each shaft a silent judgment.

They saved us.

I led what remained of the cavalry, charging with what strength I had left.

We didn’t charge to win. We charged so history would remember we stood.

We thundered forward—not for triumph, but for defiance.

We couldn’t win.
But we would not die on our knees.

One by one, my brothers fell.

A dozen enemies surrounded my steed, dragged me down, and pinned me to the blood-drenched earth.

They tore away my weapons and bound my arms and legs.

I lay still. Waiting. Bleeding.
Alone in the eye of war.

Then—

a spark.
Not of fire. Of something deeper.
A flicker in my chest that refused to go out.
And from it rose a flame that would never die.

Chapter 8: Aftermath

Richard H. James was one of four hundred English knights who never returned from the fields of Agincourt.
His name is not carved into marble, nor sung in songs.
But somewhere beneath the mud and ash, his story lingers.

Agincourt became legend.
An impossible victory.
Six thousand against twenty-five thousand—
and the six thousand stood.

But they stood on broken ground.

The rain before the battle had turned the field into mire.
French cavalry, heavy in armor, sank into the earth that once fed them.
The English, light and desperate, endured.

And above them—
the longbow.

A weapon of distance.
A weapon of silence.
A weapon that made corpses of kings and shadows of boys.

They say England won.
That it was God’s favor.
But Richard never saw the victory.
And neither did the dead.

Agincourt changed little in the course of the war.
The Hundred Years’ War bled on, hungry for more.

And Richard?

He died not as a hero. Not even as a soldier.
He died as a question no one would ask.
A body no one would recognize.

No medals.
No monument.

Just a flicker.
A single spark, swallowed by the rain.

And yet—

I am Richard H. James.

– Iwan Lee

Author’s Note: “Four Hundred” is a historical fiction piece set during the Battle of Agincourt, told through the voice of a young English captain confronting war, identity, and legacy. Though the setting is 1415, the story asks timeless questions about power, sacrifice, and what remains after death.