He needed the curtains closed. That’s what he kept telling them over, and over again. So why, he found himself asking as he woke, once again, to sunlight streaming through the windows, why didn’t they listen?

He sat up slowly, feeling the heaviness of his limbs. The coughing fit began suddenly, like it had countless times before. The sound of hurried footsteps barely registered as his lungs squeezed and his eyes blurred.

“My Lord!”

“Close the drapes!” he rasped.

“My Lord?”

“Close the godsdamned drapes!”

“Yes, Lord!”

His airway cleared, and he leaned back against his pillows weakly, breathing in the sudden darkness and merciful cool, eyes closed.

“Shall I call the physician, Lord?”

“No need.” He rested his hand on his chest. “It was just another dream.”

“A nightmare, Lord?”

He clenched his jaw. “Yes, Sorel, another nightmare."

"They've been happening more frequently, if I may say so, Lord."

“Yes.” He let out a sigh and pressed his palms over his eyes.

“But then the invasion, Lord. the wars. Surely—”

“All necessary, Sorel. And they must happen on our terms.”

“But—”

“You’ve exhausted my tolerance of your company, Squirrel. Do you ever stop running that rodent mouth?”

“Y-yes, Lord.”

“Then exercise that ability and leave me. I will dress myself.” He finally opened his eyes, which were a brilliant shade of blue, and glared at the man standing at quivering attention near the door. “And tell those fools that they will leave my drapes closed, unless they want the Salt.”

It made him feel better to see Sorel’s peaky features contort with fear, before he made a shaky bow and scurried off. Much better.

After a few moments passed in silence, he made his way out of bed and stood in front of the mirror. His hair, though still retaining some of its youthful black, was nearly completely silver, and he found to his displeasure that the skin under his eyes was dark and wrinkled.

“Seven Hells,” he muttered. His body was decaying, and he knew it. It had to happen soon. “I won’t wait for time to take its course,” he told his reflection aloud. “I must end it, once and for all, before it is all lost and I forget again.”

He turned away from the mirror and stumped toward the clothing closet. Along the way, his toe caught in a hole in the rug, and, with a startled yell, he careened into the large, richly decorated vase that had sat, until then, purposefully upon a pedestal.

Though it wasn’t a terrible fall, and he was certainly in better condition than the poor vase which lay in pieces on the floor, his withered limbs refused to cooperate and help him up from the dust of his dignity.

It was in a state of considerable humiliation and pain that Sorel found him several minutes later, still sprawled on the floor.

“It’s all your fault!” he hissed at the man, face red and hair askew across his sweaty brow. “I told you to get those damned rats caught!”

“I did catch them, Lord, only I suppose they must have come back—”

“Didn’t I tell you to drown them?” he fumed, pushing away his servant’s helping hands and brushing his robe down himself.

“I tried to Lord, but they didn’t drown, Lord. They swam away.”

“Fool!" he groaned. "You were supposed to tie them in a sack so they couldn’t swim away!”

“Yes, Lord. I will try that next time, Lord.”

“No. No, you won’t.” He glared at the man; expression furious and humilliated. “I heard you complained that your dinner rations were too small.”

“Lord?”

He kneaded his knuckles into his aching arms. “Well, Squirrel, problem solved. I give you my permission to eat every rat you catch, nay I insist.”

“But—”

“Do you have something to say about the benevolence and generosity of your Lord? No? Then get out.”

“Yes, Lord.”

“And be sure to catch the rat.”

“Yes, Lord.”

Once again alone, he allowed himself a moment of pure frustration. The shards of the vase on the floor took the brunt of it, though even when they had been reduced to near dust it did little to dampen the fire raging in his blood.

It is so humiliating, he thought as he sat upon the bed, pulling painted shards out of his feet. So frustrating to know that what they saw was a doddering old man, bent and aged, living off a hunger for vengeance. A mad king. A Lord of fantasy and pretend. How could they when he finally remembered everything? A barbed knife twisted in his heart every time he was reminded that they could not see what he was. There was fear, but no respect. And rather than fearing his power, they feared his temper.

Patience, he soothed himself. When this is over, they shall see with their own eyes who I am and shall bow down in reverence and fear, humbled and empowered by the glory of their god.