I don't much care for sleep. As a child it was almost impossible to evade. I'd do anything to stay awake. Almost drowning myself in the filthy ice cold water of the river redemption worked for a few days, then it didn't. I moved onto trying to keep my body active through other means, taking pleasure in flesh and tinctures to keep my heart thumping fast. That too faded. Fighting thugs in the street, gutting them like fish and knowing full well they were trying to do the same to me. Faded. I dug hot knives into open wounds my grandfather had so graciously blessed me with. Opened new gateways to pain with a fruit knife. Stood on the castle wall with a noose around my neck. I traveled deeper and deeper into the depths of desperation until sleep was finally alien to me. An unwanted visitor exiled from my body. I could avoid my bed for months and when I did retire to it, peaceful oblivion claimed me.

Perhaps the visitor has returned, perhaps there is no room left within me for oblivion, perhaps this is why I sit here in the doctors chamber at the dead of night as he injects the most heavenly stimulants into my veins while still insisting on wearing that stupid plague suit. He'll probably burn the chair I'm sitting on for fear of contamination. It doesn't matter. His tincture serves its purpose. Just a moment ago I was going to pass out on that oh so comfortable chair. Now my body refuses to remain still. Now I need something to do.

There are few places that allow anyone in at this hour and I'm doubtful of my ability to convince anyone I'm the king in this state.

We could kick open their doors. Cut them if they doubt our claims. Cut them bad. Ensure everyone in this putrid cesspool know the exact fucking shape of King Harold.

"Shut up," I groan. "Just shut up."

We could take a man's wife. Have her all night long. Geld her husband when we're done. Make her-

"Shut up!" I scream. "Shut up! Shut up! Shut up or I'll have the doctor cut you out of my head!"

Something the matter? It's like three separate voices swirling through my head, mixing and mingling, all speaking at once. Like three different people trapped in one body. Images form in my mind. Fractured thoughts of bloodshed and decadence, bitter resentment dissolving and mixing with sickening delight felt by a creature that is not me. Consciousness and morality are shackles. We should free ourselves from them. We should obliterate and maim and fuck and rule without restriction.

"You are not the king! You are not the pilot of this mortal cage! You are little more than parasitic delusions that are trapped within me!"

We are you and you are us. Our union may be fractured but we will always be with you.

"What god did I offend to warrant the curse of you?"

Would you beg forgiveness?

"We would obliterate it. Burn every temple, rip apart every idol, gut every follower. We bow to nothing, neither man nor god." I speak the words but something else in my head mirrors them perfectly. The voices go silent, as do I.

The angel is always open for adulterous lords to come and go as discreetly as they please. I don't even think they have locks on the door. I slip in with ease. It's quiet, only the occasional creak or moan indicates life still resides here. A woman sits at a table alone, papers strewn all over it. I recognize her beautiful golden hair. I sit across from her, the scraping of the chair causes her to stir.

"Diana," I say dully.

She looks up blear eyed and confused. Then startled.

"My king!" She exclaims. "Forgive me, I did not hear you enter-"

"I noticed."

"Would you like something to eat or drink."

"No, no thank you."

"Would you like someone-"

"I wouldn't want to inconvenience anyone or interrupt what precious little sleep your girls get."

She goes silent for a few seconds.

"Would you care to give me a hint Harold?"

"I couldn't sleep," not entirely a lie.

"Are your nightmares back?"

"Back?"

"When you lay with me you often spoke in your sleep. It never sounded pleasant."

"It never was," I admit. "Never ever was."

"What was it that haunted you then?"

"Imagine being judged by your worst sin," I begin. "Being accused of the same fucking thing over and over and over again for no reason. Having the crime inflicted upon you, being powerless to stop it, to defend yourself or even attone yourself."

"And are these current nightmares the same?"

"No. They're tame compared to the old ghosts but I don't doubt that they are only the prologue to my suffering."

"Have you tried attoning in the material world?"

"There's nothing I can do to purge that stain."

"Gods are forgiving Harold. Even just confession can ease your burden."

"I deserve so much more than the maladies of unfortunate dreams. I don't want forgiveness, I just want to forget."

"I heard the priests up north forget everything. They do something to their brains so they forget all their past, who they were, what they did, everything."

"Wouldn't that be something," I chuckle. "Father Harold the priest. I command you to purge your unclean flesh with flaming thorns so you may be reborn as pure ash!"

"As the thorns wish Father!" Diana imitates. We laugh at that.

"What are these?" I inquire, scraping up a sheet of paper nearest to me.

"Accounts," Diana groans. "Irene used to handle them, gods know how. This is more frustrating than smuggling poppy oil west."

"You've done this one wrong," I state.

"What?" Not offended or upset, just exhausted.

"You added the cost of all the wine to the sales rather than subtracting it."

She puts her head down the table and groans.

"Give me a pen," I sigh. Accounting is hardly the most exciting way I could spend the night but it's far better than dreaming.

"How are you so good at this?" Diana asks after a few hours of my scribbling.

"A crown affords a better education than a pair of spread legs," I state plainly. "When compared to dealing with nobles dealing with numbers is child's play."

Diana shudders at that, she tries her hardest to conceal it but I notice it.

"What have you been told?" I inquire calmly.

"Just what Irene told me. That you-"

"Killed the entirety of my grandfather's court," I finish. "I did and I feel no remorse over the act. I took no pleasure in it either. The only joy I felt was when jumping up and down on Thaddeus' skull and even then that wasn't as fun as I'd expected it to be. The killing was a necessary deed, like excising a tumour. They were parasites who if allowed to live would spawn more of their kind. Besides they never cared for you, they'd have cut your throat for a few coins. They'd never love you. They'd never love me either. I'll love each and every one of you provided you return the favour."

"Irene used to be scared for you," Diana snorts. "Worried you were too temperamental for your own good. Thought you'd get yourself killed over some squabble with your brother."

"Now?"

"Now she's scared of you Harold. Everyone is and you can't really blame them with all these displays of savagery you parade around."

"You don't seem to be afraid."

Diana goes quiet for a moment.

"The king Harold I hear about is a figure sculpted from nightmares. A creature drenched in blood and malice. The king Harold sitting before me seems kind, rough around the edges but he has a soft face, he does kind things, he has reasons for committing the unpleasant things. He never fails to remind me of the sweet boy I once knew, who came here and talked for hours and hours. Who barely ever touched a girl and who cut the fingers off of men who were too rough with theirs."

"Do you love me Diana?"

"Harold I'm paid to-"

"Not in that way. Forget sex and marriage and mistresses. Do you love me? Love me in the same manner you love your father, mother, child, sister, friend, whatever?"

"Harold I've never had family and-"

"I won't be upset if you say no," I lie. "I've never hated the truth. Just tell me do you love me?"

No response.

Love is a pathetic lie. A tool used to tear apart lesser creatures. A broken idea invented by idiots.

"Harold!" Diana exclaims, appearing horrified.

"What?" I inquire, confused as to her distress. Then I follow her wide eyes down to my hand. I've jammed the pen in there. Jammed it deep, very deep actually. Worryingly deep. I wonder if I decided to do that to silence the parasites or if they did it to punish me. I rip it out quickly and pocket it quickly.

"Apologies," I utter nervously, rising from my chair. "Sometimes I forget myself. I'm sorry for the discomfort I've caused."

I turn and leave hastily before anything else can be said.

When the tincture of drugs fades away I'm left worse than when I started. Exhaustion is a trivial issue compared to my state. I feel closer to death than I am to sleep. I pray that's true as I crawl into my bed.