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The King is Dead
The old man had been in bed for weeks. Too sick to move his
brittle, creaking carcass. Rotting from the inside, his decomposition already
begun. His courtiers, practised in sycophancy, masked their distaste at the
cloying stench.
Only his eyes seemed alive. Bright, sharp. They darted
around the royal chamber, following every movement of the chosen few allowed to
witness his demise.
His latest demise. Not his final demise, that wouldn’t come
for centuries, perhaps not at all.
His Grandson and his wife were, as carefully co-ordinated,
expecting a baby.
Here one goes again, what?
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