The King ~ Timothée Chalamet

Entirely broken

King~ Ch 25

Henry watched as his men continued to strike down the thinning wave of French troops. Both sides were exhausted, it was clear to see, yet Henry's men seemed to fair well in the heavy armour, likely a product of Amice's excellent training. He glanced around, noting that no more French troops approached. Were they not being given the command to march? Perhaps this was the first gleam of a surrender?

Henry couldn't help but feel a slight relief at the thought, turning now to search for Amice for confirmation. He wanted to see the sparkle of hope in her eyes. He wanted to see her beside him as they claimed the battlefield. Beside him as they marched to the capital and took the crown. Beside him as they took their thrones, king and queen.

He turned around on the spot, confused when he did not see Amice by his side. She had been there. The entire battle, he had made sure that she was always at his side and that he was at hers. Yet now, he stood in the bloodied field, her figure untraceable.

"Where is she?"
His eyes grazed the field of fallen men, piles of bodies lathered in blood and grime. He stood, searching for her, praying to see her standing amongst the unslain. Praying that she had just dipped out of sight. That he would spot her, standing strong and fierce, wiping sweat from her brow and smiling in triumph.

"Where is she?!"
He called out, desperation creeping into his voice as he whipped his head around sharply, now looking to the ground, hoping not to find the figure of a body smaller than the rest, her beautiful eyes hauntingly empty.

"WHERE IS SHE?!"
He was frantic now, his voice tearing from his throat.

"My liege..." Spoke one of his men, his arm extended, directing attention to the tree line.

He turned sharply, eyes locking to where the man was pointing, heart aflame. He could not bear to see her in another mans arms.

Her body limp and broken and cold.

He would never forgive himself. He could not bear to lose her. She was all that he had left to fight for. He would endure the torture of death a thousand times over if it meant that he could see her smile, at least once more. But if she was to be in arms other than his, her frame lifeless and doomed, he would not be able to go on.

Not if her body was limp and broken and cold.

...

But there, from the shadow of the trees, emerged her lonesome figure. She carried with her a sword and helmet. Neither hers. They were much too large, too dark.

As she neared, he could see her shoulder stained a grotesque crimson, as well as a flood of scarlet along the rest of her body. He prayed that the blood not be hers.

She shuffled forwards slowly, before coming to a stop just out of the tree line. She looked up, her eyes meeting his. From so far away he could not see the fear within them.

Suddenly, her arm rose, and she impaled the blade into the ground before placing the helmet atop of it.

A helmet that belonged to no Englishman, neither common french folk.

It belonged to the prince of France.

He was dead.

She had slain him.

Cheers erupted through the ranks, men grateful for victory... for life.

A smile found Henry's face to see her, to see that she had made it to the final moments of battle. And to see that it was infact her, his powerful queen, who had put down the French bastard.

But as suddenly as Henry's hope appeared, the notion fled as Amice toppled forward, her knees colliding with the bloodstained grass.

And he was running. Faster than he had ever ran before. Running to her.

He caught her before her small frame gave into the ground below her, cradling her against him.

And his fears were realised.

The blood.

It was hers.

She was injured.... she was dying.

His vision blurred as tears flooded his eyes, his hands hovering helplessly over her as her gaze settled upon his face. It was a soft look, one of pure love and awe. Yet in that moment Henry felt nothing but regret. A hatred for himself.

"Amice?" He struggled to form the word as he saw her face begin to pale, watching the life trickle from her rosey cheeks.

"We won, my king." She rasped, her breathing laboured. Henry could see the strain behind any movement.

"At what cost?" His words were jumbled as his desperate tears did not cease to flow.

"How does that crown feel now?" Henry could not believe it. Even in this moment, she was cracking quips. It was so like her, yet soon there would be nothing left. He let out a strangled laugh as he pulled her closer to him, not giving a damn about the dirt or blood. He just wanted to hold her. To be with her. For however long they had left.

"You told me. You told me not to come here. You told me not the go to war. You were right, as always, you were right." He was hysterical now, sobs racking his body as Amice gently raised a hand, softly grazing his cheek as she gave him a small smile. Yet it held such an adoration, such a deep love.

"Had we not come here, we may have never realised our love for one another." She whispered weakly. Henry lent into her palm, but her touch was cold, the icy kiss of death. And yet it brought a blaze to his skin, being with her always did. But before he could relish in it, her hand fell to her side and her eyes flashed up to the sky.

Henry's eyebrows furrowed as he cried out, angry at himself, at the world. He could not stop the tears as he spoke, his face flushed and voice tearing out in plea.

"No. No! Amice, listen to me! You shall not die here! Not in this strange country! Not on this bloodied battlefield! You deserve more, so much more. You are going to live. Please live. For me. I cannot bare to see a world without you in it." He cupped her cheek as he screamed at her, his soul screaming, crying out, longing.

"You shall. Your heart shall beat on. You shall see colour in the trees and feel the heartbeat of your steed. You shall hear the leaves of seasons past and you shall find peace." He watched as her wonderful eyes began to fade, her lids struggling to stay open.

"I don't want it, not without you."

"I will always be beside you. Always."

"I love you Amice." Was all he could manage as he watched her eyes close.

"And I you, king of England."

And then there was nothing.

He had never felt such a pain. Such an overwhelming anguish. It felt like nothing mattered any longer. Not his men, not his country, not his crown. If he had stayed, if he had just listened. And now the girl he loved more than life itself would no longer be at his side. She would never be his queen. Once again, he had broken his promise to her.

And so there was nothing left to do but scream. He cried out, an animalistic wail as he choked on his tears, cradling Amice's body closer.

Her limp, broken, cold body.

He buried his face in her neck, barely being able to breathe. He could feel his heart tearing itself apart within him.

~

And so he sat there, rocking gently, her body pulled against his.

He did not know how long he sat there. He did not care.

~

And so there they were. Two people. Entirely different, yet entirely the same.

Entirely broken.