The King ~ Timothée Chalamet

Deaths clutches

King~ Ch 17

Henry held his head in his hands, staring at the small section of map that he could see between his elbows. His knee jerked as he tapped his foot, a habit he had recently developed. Exhaling in exasperation, he rubbed his eyes as the flap of his tent swung open and a squire rushed in.

"My liege-" he began.

"What!" Henry was frustrated and didn't mean to lash out at the boy, but his mood was temperamental.

"A lone rider, your grace."

"French?"

"They bear no armour, your grace."

At this, Henry rose from his position at his desk, making his way out of the tent to observe this odd occurrence for himself.

The first thing he saw was the men in the camp, all gathered to witness the arrival of the odd traveller. And amongst the tents, he could see men bowing their heads in respect, making his curiosity peak as he craned his neck and narrowed his eyes. And then he understood.

For entering the camp was someone worthy of such a display.

He could see her hair in the distance, flowing in the warm breeze.

It took all of his might to keep his composure as he walked briskly towards her, a grin plastered to his usually melancholy face. War had done that to him.

Yet, as she neared, he found that his glee was slaughtered by worry.

Amice was not her usual bright self. She did not ride with her usual esteem and she appeared broken down.

Her back was slouched, hunched over, with her neck barely supporting the weight of her head. Her arms were limp, lifeless fingers gripping the rains. Her trusted sword was at her side, yet it was covered in crimson- the same shade that her clothes and her were tainted with. The colour seemed plastered to her, and in her state, Henry could fear nothing but the worst.

Murmurs broke out amongst the men as the horse moved further through the camp, even the beast seemingly tired. Henry's breath hitched as he approached, watching as the girls eyes shot up to meet his approaching form. Yet, her expression did not change. Her face was void of emotion and a numbness enveloped her.

Then they closed. And Henry watched as the small girl swayed with the horses movement, rocking sharply before tumbling to the side, hurdling down onto the cold ground below.

She landed heavily, her body limp, her head thudding against the dirt with such a force, it ricocheted before falling still.

And then his composure crumbled.

And then he was sprinting across the field before all of his men, uncaring.

And then he was on his knees, tugging her into his embrace, his hand gently grasping the side of her face, desperately trying to get her to see him, to hear him, to respond.

But she didn't.

Her breaths were scarce and shallow, an image of slipping into deaths clutches.

He couldn't even hear his own thoughts in his panic, but in the midst of it all he knew he had called for a healer for they were quickly at their kings side, looking over the girls body.

Henry's ears seemed muffled, a hollow ringing in them as he screamed out for her to wake up, and his hand held her head up as his own tears drizzled his face.

He didn't care who saw.

And then, all of a sudden, all of his senses seemed to return, as if he had been swallowed by reality.

Amice's breathing picked up, raspy yet prominent. Her eyebrows drew inwards, as if in intense concentration and her head lolled slightly in his palm.

His rationality returned, he was able to observe her. Amice's face seemed sunken in, her eyes fluttering beneath the lids as incoherent whispers resonated from her cracked lips. She looked as if the weight of a thousand sins had rocked through her, and in an instant, Henry regretted every decision he had made. He had left her behind. He would never make the same mistake again.

~

Henry sat, watching Amice's chest rise and fall as she lay in the small cot in his tent. He had refused to leave her side, wanting only to ensure that death would not claim her. She would not be taken from him.

The healers had told him that she had experienced extreme exhaustion, a head trauma and seeming muscle fatigue. They also found no visible injuries, meaning that the blood was not hers. However, they had observed odd brushing on her neck, arms, hips and waist.

Henry didn't need an explanation for that. He had sat there long enough to piece together an explanation n his mind.

And it disgusted him. He felt a burning rage shatter through him, the feeling agony.

She was touched against her will.

Perhaps the blood was her defending herself. Perhaps she did so in time. Perhaps not.

Henry's every prayer was consumed by the image as he begged that she had not paid a price first.

But as for the reason for her presence across the seas in France, Henry was unsure. His mind had toyed with many an idea, yet he could not settle upon a logical one. The answer to that, only Amice knew.

So all there was to do was wait.

And so, there sat the king of England, in a wooden chair beside a low cot, a small girls hand clasped protectively in his, praying for her to awake, vowing to never let anyone hurt her again.

(I apologise for the short chapter and I know it's a little late, but Merry Christmas everyone and happy holidays ❤️)