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.
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.
