The King ~ Timothée Chalamet

Death would have been kinder

King~ Ch 27

The rafters that held up the angled ceiling were covered in delicate carvings, and even in the dim light, one could see the precision and artistry that it must have taken to produce such delicate work. The brick walls were lighter then most castle walls, almost a sandstone colour, small fragments chipped away from years of wear. A large window was the only source of light, but it was obscured by a heavy piece of material, soft patterns embroidered expertly into the fabric. The lonesome chair was also well made. The wood was neatly carved and polished, iron moulded detailing adorning it's bodice. A table stood near by, made of a dark wood. Upon it, rested an untouched platter of food; meat, bread and vegetables. It was likely cold. The room was large, and shadows matted the walls as the minute candle shivered in the draft from the door. There was little wax left, and it would likely cease to form light soon. The doorway to the room was arched, the stone around it masterfully carved to add elegance and an air of regality. The door itself was arched, heavy steel boots holding it in place. It was a wonderful chamber. Fit for a king.

Amice eyes traced the room as she made her observations, these being the only movements she could manage at this moment. She had only just awoken, her whereabouts strange and unfamiliar.

Unmoving, she calculated whether she was in any danger, before accessing her physical state. She slowly tensed her muscles, concluding her injuries. Her body was blanketed in bandages, each one wound over her bruised and battered form. She could feel the tug of the stitches against her flesh as she shuffled under the thin sheet that had been laid atop of her.

Questions flooded her mind. Where was she? What had happened? Had they won? Was Henry alright? Where was he now? How long had she been unconscious?

But one question haunted her most of all: How was she not dead? She remembered it all. The feeling of weakness as her muscles gave out under her, the pressure in her head as her blood drained away, the blur of the sky above her as she closed her eyes...

And Henry. She remembered speaking to him, saying farewell. She remembered being sure of her demise, ready to greet the grim reaper. She recalled his screams of desperation as they rang in her ears, his hands grasping at her, seemingly trying to piece her back together as she fell apart before his eyes.

She needed to see him. To speak to him. To let him know she was alive. She yearned to see his face, to see the love and adoration in his eyes as he captured her lips with his. Though she did not care for a crown, in that moment, she wanted nothing more than to be his queen. To be at his side. Safe. Always.

Letting out a groan as her muscles protested, Amice sat up on her cot, her eyes dancing down her body as she flung back the sheet. She bit her lip at the sight of herself. She had bruises all over her, yet they were yellowing, a testament to how long she had been out. Her body seemed feeble and thin, a lack of food and water. Her eyes traced to the plate of food and she spied a small chalice beside it. She prayed it not be wine.

Carefully, she reached her hand over, grasping the goblet as she glanced into it. Even such a simple action made her feel tired. The liquid swirled clear in the cup, so she brought it to her lips, hurriedly downing the contents. A sated sigh left her lips as she returned the chalice to its home before concentrating on her next task: getting out of bed. Her lower half was clothed in some plain brown trousers, but her torso was only obscured by the bandages, though they did cover everything. She debated shouting for help, but as soon as she opened her mouth, she found her voice to be hoarse and broken from the lack of use.

She shook her head in frustration, the action shooting a pain down her neck. It had to be done sometime. And so, she huffed, slowly lowering her legs to the floor as she wiggled her toes. She was still seated upon the cot, hands gripping either side, frown prominent on her features. She looked to the end of the cot, seeing a pile of fabric folded there. It was the rest of her usual attire, along with a thin cloak. Beside the cot on the floor, she could see her sword and dagger, cleaned and freshly sharpened. She smiled, glad somebody had recovered them.