The King ~ Timothée Chalamet

Damnation

*Hopefully the clip above helps with this chapter.*

King ~ Ch 22

Henry rode back to his troops, the news he would have to deliver bearing a great weight. The cowardly prince did not agree to the duel. Instead of two men settling Satan's debt, it would be thousands.

Henry's eyes instantly searched the alignment of men, looking out for a small girl within their ranks. Yet he did not see her.

His heart instantly felt heavy. He knew that she would be unhappy with him. He had left her behind, something he promised he would never do. He feared that she would never forgive his blunder. Yet he did not regret his decision. He did it to protect her; better the prince not know of Amice else he would try to use her against Henry.

His eyes dropped, tracing the blazes of grass below him. But his glance shot up when he heard the shifting of armour. The men parted like the waves of the Red Sea, allowing a path for the young commander as she walked to meet her king.

Henry's eyes followed her as she neared, fearful of what she would say.

When she finally reached him, she stood beside his horse, her eyes looking anywhere but at him.

"I know why you did it." She started, her voice low enough so that only he could hear.
"But you broke your promise to me." Her eyes shot up to meet his. "Do not do so again."

He nodded at her.

"When this is all over, I shall ensure you understand the penalty. But I do not wish to bring additional conflict to this field. I shall let it rest." She let slip a small smile at his worried expression.

"Now go, your grace. Inspire them." Her eyes blazed into his and no more words needed be exchanged.

Henry straightened his posture, looking out over the gathering of soldiers before him. A gathering of brothers in arms, of people willing to defend their king and country with their lives. He respected them; all of them. He hoped that he would see many of their faces with life in their eyes once the fighting had ceased.

"You expect of me a speech?" He began, his voice a powerful echo around the lush field; a field soon to be stained with grotesque crimson.

"I have only one to give. And it is the same one I'd give were we not standing on the brim of a battlefield. It is the same one I'd give if we were to meet in the street by chance."

"I have only ever hoped for one thing! To see this kingdom united under this English crown!" He descended harshly from his horse, moving level with the men he would soon fight alongside.

"All men are born to die, we know it. We carry it with us always. If your day be today, so be it. Mine will be tomorrow. Or mine today and yours tomorrow, it matters not. What matters is that you know, in your hearts, that today you are that kingdom united. You are England. Each and every one of you; England is you! And it is the space between you. Fight not for yourselves, flight for that space. Fill that space. Make it tissue. Make it mass. Make it impenetrable. Make it yours! Make it England! Make it England!" He moved back to the front of the ranks, his chest heaving as the words hung in the air around him.
"Great men to it, captains, lords. Great men to it!"

Amice's approving smile was a hard line, a boundary between respect and fear. But when Henry met her eyes, they nodded to one another. For perhaps his speech would be remembered. Perhaps it would be the subject of songs and poems for years to come. Perhaps men would utter it in the streets, and perhaps it be documented in great texts.

Or perhaps there would be nobody left to repeat it.

~

The lines of men stood, readied. Their silver armour gleamed in the striking sunlight, the steel if their weapons almost beautiful, like ripples upon water, reflecting the sky above.

Silence consumed the field, an eerie ghost.
The enemy seemed a cloud atop of the hill, a looming spirit, it's might all destroying.

One may say it was a heroic sight; men united under common cause, standing in all their majesty, in all their glory, as one.

But Amice could see the faint shadows that flitted through the ranks, the talons that clutched at every man; death was fair that way. It did not pick and choose. It stole all.

Suddenly, she heard the cry of command, followed by a storm of support. And then the men began to advance, sinking deeper into the grip of the night man.

It was a slow approach, not one they tell of in stories nor songs. It was no chaotic tumble to the front line. It was almost lulling, metal plates slapping along moist dirt, the sound of movement an echo in the vast plain.

~

Henry marched through the trees, Amice ever only a stride behind, her bow clutched in her grasp. His paces were sure and powerful, yet from him she could sense a troubled mind and a weighted soul.

All that could be heard in the trees was the grinding of metal as the men marched on, a sharp, screeching sound.

And then they heard it. A slight whistle in the wind; the French horn, signalling their advance.

This was it. Today, they would make history, one way or another.

The enemy line began to move, slowly too, the men not wishing to reach their destination any sooner than was required.

From beside her, Amice heard Henry's command: "Archers."
It was soft, but the word held no less power.

The men in the field loaded their weapons, drawing to the sounds of orders.

Amice heard the slight twang as the sky was littered with minuscule specks, the capsules of death soaring silently, almost peacefully, overhead.

And so, the storm had brewed.

The arrows hit their mark, obliterating the previously organised advance of the French. Cries of fear and agony flooded the field. And suddenly they were charging. A full force retaliation.

The Englishmen readied for the approach, bracing for the chaos that would soon swallow them whole.

And so it did.

Amice felt Henry's body shudder as sword met sword, man met man, death met death. She too could not stop the chill that engulfed her as she watched the men topple like cards in the breeze.

The noise was harrowing, screams, clangs, cries of passion, all muddled into one. The men were outnumbered. They were going to die.

Mud coated the soldiers as they tackled one another, even the ground seemed to weep as more lives were claimed. From afar, it was difficult to tell whose armour was whose. A testament to battle. It does not matter which side you fight for, neither are so different.

And soon, the sea of men was so constricted, movement was impossible. Men were crushed like ants beneath giants, nothing left but a hollow body; a reminder of what once was.

Amice's head shot from the madness as another horn was heard, and the second wave of attack neared. Henry thrust out his hand, taking an axe from a man behind him, abandoning the notion of a weighted sword.

Amice gripped her bow tighter, her fingers calloused, palms sweaty.

And then he moved forward, away from her, closer to the awaiting cloud of damnation.

Arrows continued to paint the sky, the twiglets claiming lives as easily as the prongs of steel.

Amice watched as Henry sank to crouch, breathing out a heavy breath. She moved to stand beside him, her presence all that she could offer in the moment.

"I'm still mad at you." Her voice was a hushed whisper as he stood once more, his eyes meeting hers. "But I love you." She said, watching as his expression hardened but his eyes gazed lovingly back.

Then, he readjusted his grip on his axe. "I love you." He whispered, before standing tall and letting out a sharp cry; "ON ME!"

And then they were charging, a bellowing cry emitting like a phantom from amongst the trees as the sped forward, the sea of dying men soon to become an ocean.