Week 1 Storytelling: The Fallen King

The King of France went up the hill,

With twenty thousand men;

The King of France came down the hill,

And ne'er went up again.

The war had been waging on for a long time now, far too long in the King’s mind. Winter had arrived a few weeks ago and today marked the first snow of the season. White flakes, slowly thickening fell from a dull, flat gray sky, blanketing the ground turning it into a soft sheet of pure white. It stood in stark contrast to the hardness of the soldiers camped there. Twenty thousand soldiers hardened and weary from all the battles they had fought up until now. The soles of their boots worn through, their clothes providing no insulation from winter’s biting chill, their armor dented and broken, their swords dulled and blunted. The King walked among these soldiers, his soldiers who had stood behind him and followed him with unwavering faith throughout all the, battles they had fought until now. He could feel his resolve forming. Today, regardless of the outcome it would be the final battle. Today this long and bloody war would finally come to an end. He climbed atop his horse and rode to the front of the formation. They stood at the base of a hill. On the other side was the opposing force which outnumbered them 4 to 1. The King raised his sword and turned to face his men.

            “Today, no matter what, we end this! We keep fighting until the last man!”

            The soldiers raised their swords and twenty thousand voices joined his in a battle cry. He turned his horse and began to charge up the hill. His men followed closely behind. As they came over the top of the hill he paused; his men swarming around and charging down in from of him. Spots of black began to dot the gray sky. He didn’t feel it when it hit. The roaring in his ears turned first to deafening silence, and then to a high pitched ringing. He felt himself falling backwards. Something else hard hit his chest and it hastened his fall. He looked down and saw the ends of two black arrows sprouting forth from his chest. He hit the ground hard and the angle of the hill forced him to roll downwards. He let himself roll choosing not to fight it. When he came to the bottom he stared up at that gray sky. The flakes began covering him with their softness and he felt himself slipping. The face of his oldest and dearest friend swam into his vision. Briefly the world came back into focus in painful clarity.

            “Your highness, don’t move, we’ll get you somewhere safe.”

            The king shook his head. He reached up and his friend clasped his hand. “Lead them forward, take them home.”

            The world once again began to fade from focus and this time he allowed it. He slipped away into white softness. The King had fallen, never to rise again. 

(A King falling, art by Greg Newbold)

Author's Note: This story is based on the nursery rhyme "The King of France". The rhyme can be found in The Nursery Rhyme Book, edited by Andrew Lang (1897). For me this rhyme conjured an image of a king leading his soldiers into battle, and yet just as he leads his twenty thousand men over a hill he himself is struck down. He falls back down the hill alone, and never rises again. That image stuck with me very strongly so I decided to write this short story detailing it.