A King is fleeing the through forest. Snow flurries swirl around him limiting his vision. Even though it is cold, he is warm, wrapped in several layers of furs. It’s his heart that is cold.
His pursuers follow close behind, obscured by the swirling snow. The forest is silent, all sound muffled by the falling snow. The pursuing Prince is flanked by a score of archers. He is not as warm as his father, only dressed in his uniform, black as his heart.
The Prince catches a fleeting glimpse of a bulky form through the trees. He draws his sword and surges ahead. The King whirls to meet his attacker head on.
“So close, so close,” the Prince thinks, “the kingdom is within my grasp.”
The Prince shouts the order to his archers to loose their arrows just as a gust of wind blows a flurry of snow across the path obscuring their target.
“So close . . . ”
The archers creep forward.
To find the Prince pinned to a tree, arms outstretched, pierced by a score of arrows.
The King has disappeared.
(c) 11/19/2016 Curtis Martin