The King ~ Timothée Chalamet

The ferryman

King~ Ch 15

Days turned into weeks.

Clouds raced across the ever present sky as the sun and moon exchanged dances upon heavens stage. Time raced onward, unconcerned by the troubles of men, their pitiful existence speaking nothing to the gods; prayers falling on deaf ears.

The world moved on, untroubled, untouched.

But to Amice, time could not pass quick enough.

The castle seemed hauntingly dull as it lacked the kings presence, almost as though he was no just it's inhabitant, but it's soul. The embers within the fires did not flicker with life as before, the brickwork cast ghastly shadows when not immersed in light and it felt as if a cold chill flowed through the halls; reminding Amice that this was not a place she belonged without Henry.

She knew it was all in her head, this loss she felt, yet she could not seem to detach from it. Her every thought was consumed by a dark hunger as Charon seemed to bring his ferryboat ever closer, hand outstretched, demanding payment.

Council meetings went by uneventfully, other than Amice demanding an increase in rye production to accommodate the needs of the peasants. She was given this role, this... burden. Yet her commands could never equal those of a king.

When not bound by her responsibilities, Amice found herself in the training grounds more frequently than usual in an attempt to exhaust herself and escape her worrisome thoughts.

There had been no ravens or letters from France with any news of Henry's movements. Amice knew it was due to the risk of them being intercepted, still she worried that when one finally came, it would hold news she couldn't bear to hear.

If Henry was defeated, would he be imprisoned? Executed? Would he die in battle? Or would his body be dragged from the field as he cried out for the loss of his men, before he was thrown over the executioners block and his head was removed by foreign steel. Would crowds cheer and mock the boy king as his head fell from his shoulder? Would she have time to get to him, to help him? Or would she rush to the walls of Paris only to be met with her kings head mounted upon a spike on its walls; life drained from his careful features, his eyes dull and hair matted with blood.

The image made Amice's mind whirl. A sense of hurt she had only ever felt once before, with the death of her father, rushed through her. Her veins seemed to turn to ice, and a disgusting ache settled in her chest. Her breaths became shallow and pained, her vision blurring as she struck the target with her sword, each swing sloppy, corrupt with emotion. She let out a pained whine, a cry of loss and fear and hurt, as she stuck the target a final time, severing it in two.

And then she crumbled. Her knees hit the dirt below her with unsettling thud, the wet splashing upwards, coating her trousers. Her sword fell at her side, reflecting the suns colourless light. Amice drew in ragged breaths, her eyes locked onto the elegant handle of her beloved weapon. Finally, she had reached her breaking point. She had mentally and physically exhausted herself. She had let herself deteriorate because of the intense worry, a hatred for her own actions blooming in her stomach.

She didn't know how long she sat there, in the cold, wet mud, numb to the biting wind.

But when hen she finally stood, a sence of purpose enveloped her. She gripped her sword and sheathed it. She couldn't be this damaged little girl. Not again. She had to be strong. For the people, for the kingdom, for Henry... and for herself. She could not be so rash, nothing had even happened yet. The thought rattled her. If this is how she acted from pure guesswork, how wild would she become if Henry's head was sent back to her in gift wrap.