The King ~ Timothée Chalamet

Broken king

King~ Ch 26

Henry's back was painfully arched as he sat, a slump in his wooden chair. It had arms and a back, yet one would find that being settled upon it day and night did not bring much comfort. His hair was a wild field of knots, the long curls overbearing his face, hanging over his forehead and eyes.

His youthful features had paled, and his sickly cheeks were adorned with a flood of stubble as his unkept appearance was the only thing about him that stood strong. His eyes were closed, for for the first time in days, he slept.

One would believe that he would relish in slumber, a moment of peace apart from his torture, yet night terrors tore at his mind, so the boy king never truly found rest.

His empty eyes snapped open when a knock rasped at the door. Henry drew in a breath, running is hand down his face as he adjusted to the dim light of the room. He shifted slightly in his seat, his muscles stiff and frozen, a dull ache passing through him.

"Enter." Was all he could manage, his voice void of emotion, long unused, throat raw from tears.

As per routine, a squire boy entered, leaving a plate upon the small side table, before picking up the one from the meal before and taking it away. It was a pointless notion. Henry's appetite evaded him, his face becoming sunken in, the onset of starvation.

He did not even look upon the food, instead trying to find comfort in his odd position on the chair.

The once powerfully green eyes held no life, no colour, only a void of numbness. For there was no longer a person behind them.

The French castle rooms were comfortably decorated, a life within the stone walls, yet over the days that Henry had locked himself in one of them had allowed him to make changes. He did so first to his tent, and now he had opted so mimic that here.

He scarcely wanted to see the light of day, it reminding him that there was still a world out there. A world that did not know his pain. And so, heavy, dusted curtains blanketed the room in a haunting darkness, the room dim spare a lonesome candle by the bedside.

It was a tragic sight to anyone burdened enough to have to witness it. The once mighty leader of the English army, reduced to nothing but a numb, hollow skeleton.

But today was different. Today it would be more than just his advisers that would have to see his misery. It was his fated enemy, the king of France, who was to look upon his grief. A meeting, arranged to allow the two monarchs to discuss their crowns. He did not want to go, yet he knew it was more than expected, it was necessary

Henry stood, finally shouting for someone to tend to him.

And so he was bathed, his hair cut and neatened, his beard shaved and skin scrubbed raw. He was dressed in his armour, plate polished and sword strapped to his side.

To an onlooker, he looked like himself again. To those who knew him, he was anything but. Luckily there was no one who knew left to see.

He was left alone in his room for a moment, collecting his thoughts. There were far too many to keep track of, so instead, the broken king tugged upon the handle of the chamber door, ready to free himself.

Yet before he did, he spared a glance back at the small castle room.

And at the cot in the far corner, against the wall, a lonesome chair beside it.

And at the small girls body upon it, her chest rising in shallow breaths. Her eyes, still, unopened.