King Firgen lounged in an old leather armchair tucked under a thick blanket. He leaned towards the ember filled fireplace, dug his bare toes into the sheepskin rug, and cursed his missing, treacherous slippers.

Reaching beneath his chair, Firgen rummaged through the hessian underside until he found one of his hidden throwing knives. He pulled the knife from its wooden scabbard and dropped the sheath onto his lap. He twirled the knife and tossed it from hand to hand. With each throw, the knife went higher and Firgen’s smile a little wider.

The knife nicked his skin.

“Damn!” He sucked his finger and hurled the knife at the door. It sunk into the wood, joining several other knife-shaped holes. He rubbed his swollen, bony knuckles and stared at the evil morning light threatening to creep around the shutters.

Sir Ebýr Wylde barged into Firgen’s bedchamber. Ebýr was short, stringy, and bald. He wore a soft leather gambeson and matching hose.

“Good morning, Sire,” said Ebýr.

Firgen shuddered. He disliked ‘Sire’ and the varied sentiments with which it was spoken. It was supposed to be his title, not an opinion. At least it wasn’t as pompous and confusing as, ‘your majesty’. He’d never been able to determine whose majesty the speaker was talking about, theirs, his, or the furniture, especially if the speaker gestured a lot.

“I’m sure it’s fabulous,” said Firgen, “but it’s still morning.” Ebýr retrieved the knife and tossed it back to Firgen, who caught and sheathed the blade.

Ebýr leaned against the doorframe, “Why did you have Áberd fetch me?”

“I am going to appoint my successor today.” Firgen tried not to sound too grumpy and failed miserably. How would his reign be remembered? I’ll be dammed to the darkest abyss of the afterlife before I suffer an ignoble oblivion among jumbled footnotes.

Ebýr straightened and shuffled from foot to foot.

Firgen blinked a few times, he was forgetting something, “Ah! I need you to announce I’ll tell the court who the heir will be in the throne room, sometime after lunch.”

“Sire, what-”

“And no, you may not enquire a damn thing. Tell everyone to be prompt, I don’t want to be found comatose and drooling on the throne at three in the afternoon.”

“Yes, Sire,” said Ebýr.

“Fetch Áberd on your way out. No doubt he’s flitting about the apartment, dusting fresh flowers, airing potpourri, or ironing his handkerchief.”

Ebýr nodded and slipped out.

Firgen smiled and tried to form the words for his speech this afternoon, but no matter what he thought of now, come the afternoon he’d have forgotten it. He could scrawl a few notes, or improvise later. As a monarch, it was important to be consistent; I’ll improvise.

Delicate knuckles brushed the other side of his bedroom door.

“Come in, Áberd and knock on the door properly this time. I called you to dress me, not tickle my bedroom door.”

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Áberd tapped and opened the door. He winced as his knuckles grazed the iron studs. He glided to Firgen’s side, elegance and precision oozing from him with every stride.

Áberd had adorned himself in an embroidered purple silk doublet, a white cotton tunic, and tight fitting, midnight-blue hose. His clothes were a little odd on someone so tall and thin, yet he rarely wore anything else. A pair of silver needles, with garnets for eyes, were pinned over his heart, glittering in the gloom.

Firgen sneezed. He glared at Áberd through bleary eyes as the valet sailed around the room opening shutters, a leaded window, and a bottle of wine.

Soft light flooded into the room in sharp bursts, sweeping away the brackish murk. An opulent room materialized with three adjoining doors and a huge, four poster bed. Firgen winced as the light reached his face.

“No water, Áberd. It’s far too early for water; warm some spiced wine.” He shivered as the fresh cold air burrowed beneath his lapis blue nightgown, “Gods, whatever possessed you to open that damn window?”

Áberd smiled an apology but made no attempt to prevent the offensive deluge of clean air. Instead, he floated towards the fireplace and picked up the warming iron from a black scrolled stand with an almost imperceptible scrape and clunk. He knelt by the hearth and placed the iron amongst the embers.

“Anything else, Sire?” said Áberd.

Firgen startled. Had he fallen asleep? It took him a moment to remember what he was supposed to command: dressing for today’s circus.

“Clothes, Áberd, lots of clothes. Nothing too frilly, I am the King, not an over-stuffed pheasant.”

“Sire.” Áberd disappeared into Firgen’s dressing room.

Firgen yawned, pushed himself upright and shuffled to his personal privy. It was a large, pretentious room with a padded commode, ornamental wash stand, and perfumed soap.

This room needs more pelts and less silk, maybe some sturdy earthenware too, rather than delicate porcelain; it’s a damn chamber pot, not a soup tureen.

Firgen washed his hands and face then examined himself in the mirror. He didn’t expect to look any different today than he did yesterday, yet somehow he became older as the years rushed by.

The mirror displayed a withered frame of shrunken sinew and flapping folds held together by wiry muscles and dry, translucent skin, marked by a crude web of faded, puckered, pale lines: painful reminders of his youthful trophies and martial failings. Satisfaction filled him as he examined his bountiful crop of grey hair.

Firgen exited the privy and ambled across his bedchamber to the fireplace, stopping every few paces for a lone squat or stretch. He pulled the warming iron from the fire and tapped it on the grate, removing the few, stubborn specks of ash clinging to its dull, red ring. He lowered the iron into the spiced wine goblet prepared by Áberd, standing as far away from the hissing, dark-red liquid as he could.

Firgen's nose tickled as the scent of spiced wine drifted towards him. He dropped the cooled iron onto its stand, grabbed his goblet, and returned to his tatty armchair.

He made several attempts to move his chair closer to the flames before he remembered he’d nailed it to the floor with Queen Wenthelen’s old hair pins to prevent Áberd from swapping the armchair for a newer one. He sipped his mulled wine; she’s been dead thirty years, I don’t think she’ll mind.

Squinting, Firgen spotted the blurred edges of a lone slipper. He gestured obscenely towards the rebellious footwear, then stared into the engraved, silver goblet, clutched between his hands. He closed his eyes and drifted into his dreams.

Firgen howled at mindless creatures and danced between sharp claws while listening to the wet thunk of steel carving flesh. Next, he knocked at a young noble woman’s front door, with a rare mountain plant in hand, and not so noble intentions – is that Wenthelen? The woman invited him into her manor and-

-Áberd tapped him on the shoulder, “I have prepared a variety of outfits for you, Sire.”

“You have the worst timing, Áberd,” said Firgen, as he woke up for the second, or perhaps third time that morning.

“Sire,” said Áberd, without inflection.

Firgen rolled his eyes.