Memories of Ghosts

Eighteen: The Heart and Stomach of a King

**Hello again, friends! Finally another chapter done and uploaded (these are getting more detailed and intense than I thought they would be). Hopefully this'll satisfy your monthly dose of England and Elizabeth for a while.

Also, Sunday marks the 100th anniversary of the last day in World War I, which just so happens to fall on Veterans or Remembrance Day (that has to be little bit of destiny, right?) WWI was just full of so many devastations and bravery—10 million lives were lost from 30 different countries, four empires collapsed (the Ottoman, the German, the Austro-Hungarian, and the Russian), and it was the first major war to use airplanes in battle—so here's a friendly reminder to keep all those people who sacrificed everything for the sake of their country (or for the sake of the world itself) in your mind.

Anyway, enjoy the chapter!**

30 January 1587

Arthur released the bowstring, listening to the sound of the arrow zooming pass his ear and spearing through the lone grey rabbit, robbing it of its life. He lowered his bow, observing the dead animal. It laid upon the exposed roots of a yew tree with his arrow stuck in its head. Its dark blood stained the bark of the tree, the snow on the ground, and its ash grey fur. He stared without staring; his conscious left him for a while, abandoning him in the cold truth of reality.

The horse underneath him shook its head, lightly slapping the reins against its thick neck. This motion brought back Arthur's sensibility with the blink of an eye. He sniffed and tossled the steed's mane before throwing his bow into the pack across his back and descending the stallion.

He strolled over to the rabbit, the snow crunching beneath his boots. Once near, he crouched down and pulled the arrow out with ease (the weapon luckily remained in one piece which honestly surprised him). He dropped it in his pack and then grabbed the small circle of rope that hung from his belt. He constructed a noose around the doe's neck, gave it a good tug, and then walked back to his horse with the doe dangling at his side.

His numb fingers tied the end of the noose around a hook near the saddle; two other captured rabbits suspended from it, killed in similar fashions as his recent catch. Arthur finished the knot on the rope and then stepped back. As he did so, his mind floated away once again; his gaze fixed on the lifeless forms of the three rabbits, studying their features.

Their grey or brown fur was matted with dark blood around their neck, ears, and head. Black eyes were open wide just like the entrance to some deep, ominous cave; one rabbit's mouth was left ajar and Arthur could see its yellow buck teeth poking out. Their bodies were minute and their limbs were even more so. He wondered if it was even worth bringing these skinny things back to Westminster Castle—there was little to skin and hardly any meat hung from their bones, marking them as practically useless.

What a cruel winter this has been, he thought to himself. Reminiscences of the recent past trickled into his memory like a leak in a ceiling and his shoulders tensed at the thoughts.

Yes, what a cruel winter, indeed.

Just then, the sound of a horse's hooves galloping in the distance could be heard within the noisy solitude of the white forest. Arthur straightened up and sighed quietly, now staring at his snow-covered boots as he waited patiently for his pissed-off queen to arrive.

He didn't look up at her even when he heard Elizabeth's horse slow to a stop not too far from where he stood. He couldn't formulate the words to somehow address the issue at hand without spurring up more trouble. That's why she dragged him out there in the first place, to get away from her Privy Council's glares and stern remarks. Hunting and riding helped her calm down a bit, but sometimes he wished she would simply go for a walk or play her lute (she was armed with a crossbow, after all). His eyes stayed glued to the ground until she spoke up, a little out of breath: "Darling."