A cool, and misty fog begins to slowly envelope the whole of the English country side in it's mysterious embrace. Like a great serpent it slithers into every nook and cranny, and between every tree and blade of grass.
All else is apparently still and calm this night, the moon making her usual rounds across the black canvas of space. But then there's the surprised cry of a cuckoo, and if one were to look closely, they would spy what appeared to almost be a ghost, running wildly up the side of a hill. Desperately trying to keep up with this specter of the fog, was a figure clad in a red jacket and trousers. Perhaps an army man?
"You'll never catch me silly boy!" chides the specter over his shoulder as he runs into a near by glen. The trees almost seem to spread their branches to embrace him.
"Bloody hell!" curses the soldier as he desperately tries to keep track of the specter in the fog and shadows. His black boots, usually shined and pristine, are caked in mud, the low, hanging branches slapping him in the face as if even nature herself was mocking his attempts.
The specter could be heard wailing in the fog. "The floods! The floods man! Quick we must move the court from London post haste! Wot Wot!"
"Please. Please slow down!" cried the boy, tears falling from his green, emerald eyes.
"NO! NO! NO! We must reach London before-"
But the specter never finished his sentence. Instead the sound of branches and brush breaking violently could be heard, then all was still.
The soldier stopped at the edge of a steep hill in stunned silence. He quickly yet carefully made his way down the hill, following the path through the brush the specter had made.
Once he reached the bottom he stopped, his blood running cold.
Laying there, as still as the trees around him, was an old man in a night gown, his poor head bleeding.
"Sire! Sire!" the boy cried, running over to hold him.
The old man opened his bright blue eyes. A look of astonishment crossed his face, and for a moment he was dazzled by the cool night air and the stars over head.
"W-Where am I. Oh my poor head!" He then caught sight of the fallen brush and branches.
"I say! Did I do that?"
"Yes your majesty. You did." replied the boy, tears of relief flowing freely. But upon seeing the strange and frightened look his king gave him, the boy quickly dried his tears and smoothed back his dirty, blond hair.
"Come sire. Allow me to escort you back to the manor."
The King rose tenderly and leaned heavily against the young man, limping along up the hill with him.
"You are very kind to us Lord Kirkland." He said, the specter now gone. "And we are sorry."
