I awake in a paradise of sorts, drenched in sweat but incapable of remembering what I dreamt. My surroundings are familiar but I've never been here before. It's a decadent room decorated vibrantly. The walls are white marble. Bolts of crimson silk are strewn around like splatters of blood. Golden statues of nubiles are littered like common houseplants. Some tease, some provoke, some are just figures piled atop each other like animals. Some idols are here and there, represented blasphemously. Some desecrations are juvenile or comic but a surprising amount are plainly disturbing.

There's people here too. All naked. They giggle, moan, squeal and act like beasts. One man is pissing on a depiction of the great fire. Another is attempting to have sex with a cold silver statue of the mother. Several individuals inject a substance into their arms, legs and one idiot plunges the needle between his ribs and right into the heart. The room is thick with sickeningly sweet poppy smoke.

There's a throne at the head of this room. Elevated slightly so the person sitting there can see all the debauchery with ease. Atop it a familiar woman sits. A tall woman wearing a rose mask.

I drag myself up, silk sheets falling from me like a skin I've outgrown, revealing soft tender flesh beneath. My mind is pulled apart by urges. Some pieces of me wish to screw the nearest women, another longs to snatch the pipe from the tattooed man to my right and inhale deeply. A hundred other pieces want to do a hundred other things but I concentrate one portion of my will into a sharp spear and shear through these desires. Reaching that throne is the main goal now, damn everything else. Each step is like wading deeper into the ocean. Every movement grows harder, my ability to push through diminishes. Couples I step over cry mournfully and grope at my ankles. A fully naked woman stands in front of me defiantly, blocking my path. She is shaped to satisfy my every want. Her scent, her outline, every shade, every curve and imperfection excites and entices me. We stand inches apart. She touches me gently, her hand like a pleasant fire against my unprotected skin. I falter for a moment, my hand reaches out and tenderly brushes against her face. It takes all my power to regain control and shove her aside, she trips and falls atop some group of people. I'm sure they're glad to have her as I ascend to the throne.

The masked woman stares at me from behind her eyeless mask, her mouth curled into a mocking grin.

"Something the matter dear?" She asks, her voice honey sweet and beautiful but oddly deep.

I stare like an idiot when I realise I didn't plan any further than getting to this point.

"Did I die?" I ask dumbly.

"If that was the case, do you honestly think any god would send you to somewhere like this?" She counters.

I look around at the spectacle that is this place.

"Fair point."

"You don't seem to be enjoying it here," the woman pouts. Then she leans forward with a wry grin. "Can I help you with that?"

"None of this is real, is it?" I lament. "Them, this and you are all just part of a pleasant dream aren't you?"

"If I'm not real then explain what we did at the angel? Did you merely fuck the air in front of you? If you did then I say you must be quite good, could have sworn it moaned loud enough to wake the dead gods!"

"Delusion brought on by wine," I shrug. "Perhaps-"

"Tell me is it me you're trying to lie to or just yourself? Not that it matters much, we're quite the same."

"I fell asleep in my chambers. This," I gesture behind me, "is quite clearly not them, therefore this must be another dream."

"And it is your belief that dreams can't be real?"

"I believe that's a requirement for a dream."

"How very narrow minded of you."

"What are you then? If not just a dream or delusion?"

"We are one dear," the woman sighs. "We are you and you are us. One mind, one body, one soul, just cracked a bit."

"Very poetic," I yawn. "However I’m still doubtful."

The woman shrugs and rises from her throne. "You'll see differently in time. Sit. Take our throne, King."

I comply. It's rather comfortable, the arms are actual warm golden arms that end with hands that interlock with mine.

"What do you see before you?" The woman whispers into my ear, each word tickling the canal.

I search the mess before me. My eyes drift across a river of flesh, flowing and clashing and merging seamlessly. Beauty in its ugliest forms. Purest sin.

"Hedonism," is the first word that falls from my lips.

"That's what you may see me as," the woman says.

Some people bicker over a syringe. It's almost playful as they push and shove.

"Your hedonism," she continues. "Sex, wine and freedom. Whorehouses, smokehouses and all the other houses."

Eventually one person grows so frustrated they hit the syringe holder hard and try to pry the vital drug out of their fingers.

"Of course we both know what it really is." Once the syringe is finally acquired the person seems to have forgotten why they wanted it in the first place and just rams it into the resistor's eye. "Little more than a cage to keep the true sinner locked away."

Violence spreads like a contagion. Sex becomes rape. Some aren't keen on resistance and strangle their chosen partner to death before mating. They bash each other's heads against the walls painting the white walls arterial red.

"A facade to keep the real monster hidden."

It's now a river of blood that never breaches a small circle around the throne. I see the woman who touched me as her beautiful face is being mashed into the floor until it's a flat mess.

"Still" the masked woman shrugs, "the mask is no less real." She toys with her own as if to prove a point.

I stare silently at the massacre before me, unsure if the fact that this is all in my head should reassure or concern me.

By the time it's all done the floor is a stagnant pond of pulverised meat. Everything is painted red. A centipede crawls out from some unseen crevice and scurries into the carnage to make a nest in the warm guts.

I awake once again drenched in sweat. My bed is soaked and my skin feels like it's been set aflame. My hand particularly hurts. The bones are charring beneath the meat and if that hand still had skin I'm sure it'd be blackening. Acid could be poured all over it and honestly, it might actually manage to soothe the pain.

I groan and attempt to crawl out of my bed but I collapse under my own weight as soon as I attempt to stand. I rise again, using the bedside table for support. A wave of nausea hits me like a hammer to the belly and I double over. I vomit, except vomiting shouldn't feel like this. This is the inverse of sword swallowing. The black mess doesn't look like vomit either, it's more akin to tar. The bitter taste lingers in my mouth.

Like a feeble cripple I haul myself up and drag my weak body to my desk. I collapse into the chair. With a letter opener I begin to inspect my hand. The bandages are brittle. They snap more than they tear. Peeling them off of the skinless mess that is my hand is painful. A thick crust comes with them, pus oozes out slowly. At least it's not black. Not black yet.

"It's infected," the physician states as if that's some great surprise. I wonder if it was the fever that led him to this diagnosis or the raging headache I complained about or perhaps it was the copious amounts of thick yellow pus the wound discharged.

"How much will the poultice sting?" I groan, holding my hand up for my own inspection. I see little more than a blurred yellow mess with streaks of red and black here and there. My head feels like it's been forced into a vice. This pain fills my eyes with a constant stream of tears, making it hard to see. It's ugly and it smells bad, it smells fucking horrible but that's as much as I can discern. I doubt the sting will add much to this sensation.

"Poultice," the physician snorts. *Mud would be as effective at this stage!"

"Heat a wire then, I'll find something to bite down on while you get scourging."

"I could scourge and scourge until only bone remains and you could still be at risk."

"Boil it in some whiskey then."

"My king, I'm going to have to amputate the limb-"

"No," I say firmly.

"There's no other option-"

"You're not crippling me."

"My king if that infection spreads before you come to your senses I'll have to take the whole arm, if it spreads to your blood-"

"You're not fucking crippling me," I repeat. "Suggest it again and I'll remove every bone in your body one by one. Speak of this to anyone and I'll do much worse."

The physician is silent for a few moments, staring at me from behind those beady glass covered eye slits. "As you wish my king."

"Give me something for the fever," I order.

"Nothing will treat that unfortunately, the malady is too strong-"

"Get me something to take the fucking edge off then!" I yell suddenly.

The physician pauses again before taking a scalpel and offering it to me.”Cutting your throat now should save you from the worst of it.”

I take a second to attempt to control myself. Every time I gain a few threads of rationality I lose focus and it all unravels so I give up. I end up forcing the physician into a wall with my forearm while using my decent hand to hold the scalpel to his throat, I’m not quite certain how this happened but oh how easy it would be to end him right now, to bring his miserable life to an end. To rip him open like a fa juicy parcel of meat. To soak myself in his warm blood and smear his organs all over the wall. These thoughts are not my own. They can’t be. I am better than such senseless depravity.

Are we really?

For a while there is nothing but the sound of our breath. The physician rendered almost comical by that stupid fucking suit, mine is haggard panting.

“Had I wanted jokes I would have consulted the jester,” I spit before releasing him and dropping the scalpel.

“You will beg me for that blade if you don’t allow me to amputate,” the physician insists.

“Do you learn nothing man?” I moan. “Do you-”

“If you die it’s going to be your bitch cousin who inherits the throne! She’s a fucking monster who cuts open whatever fails to interest her!”

I sigh and place a hand on the physician’s shoulder. “Allow me to give some advice, doctor. No matter how much I want it to be otherwise, no matter how hard I try to make it so, I will never be a better devil when compared to anything or anyone. Serah may dance this kingdom into ashes but that’s all she can do. She lacks the patience to do worse. But I lack that one fault, doctor and I am so much worse because of it. There is a plan for the next ten years, a concept for the next twenty, a nightmare of the next thirty. Unfortunately that is the only fault I do not share with her. The things I’ll do doctor, oh the things I’ll do. I won’t like a single one of them but that hardly makes a difference now does it?”

“You won’t cut me open for fun,” the surgeon counters.

“You can value your life over a few thousand others if you so choose,” I shrug. “I’ve deemed much less to be worth the same price.”

I turn and leave, snagging a bottle of undiluted poppy syrup on my way out.

One teaspoon can help a man with a broken leg walk an extra mile. Two can put a man to sleep even as if his bedding is on fire. Three can have him sleep a day or four. Five and he shouldn’t wake. That’s what the physician says, what nearly everyone says. Yet somehow I have single handedly enjoyed half the bottle of this bitter poison and nothing has changed. If anything I hurt more. My legs burn as I stalk through the halls. My hand may as well be a gate that allows unrelenting merciless agony to flow through my entire arm unimpeded. My guts churn and boil as I struggle to keep from vomiting. I make it all the way to my chambers before my will finally breaks. I slam the door shut and immediately double over and puke up a milky white substance. I vomit again and again. My throat burns as this putrid liquid forces its way out. Eventually something changes, something large catches in my throat and I begin to choke on it. Initially I think it’s some lump of half-digested food. I almost laugh. King Harold the Red choked to death by his own puke. Yet this isn’t puke anymore. This thing obstructing my throat isn't food. This vile anomaly is far too large to be so and it still crawls up my throat. Not like the acidic flow of bile. This is like a long row of pins being scraped across my insides. It forces its way to my mouth and out violently, ejecting itself into the pool of sick. After a long period of gagging and retching I inspect this oddity curious as to what caused me such discomfort. Something shifts and I immediately jerk back. The thing scurries away rapidly, slipping underneath the door leaving a white trail behind it. I stare at this puddle in horror for a moment. Something shifts within my guts.

Fear is weakness. Some bastard creature within my skull whispers in my skull, almost mute. It sits in the centre of my brain like a cold steel splinter.

“Parasites are a weakness,” I mutter.

We could be undefeatable together, embrace strength and we can destroy and burn and poison. The voice changes, it twists and writhes.

I burst into the physician’s chambers.

“Back so soon?” he says, surprised. “Shall I ready the-”

“I have heard of a process they use quite often in Mentus,” I spit out hurriedly. “A process called vivisection. Were you shown how to perform it?”

“It’s a rather complex procedure, requires two or three assistants and a sterile-”

“Can you do it?”

“It involves the opening of the torso and-”

“For fucks sake man can you do it?” I yell

“Not here. The tools are too crude and the drugs too lacking, the subject would die before anything could be learned and if it just a punishment a butcher could execute the task just as-”

“There is something inside of me,” I say attempting to maintain an illusion of calmness, failing. “Something I want removed. I can supply whatever tool you need, whatever medication,whatever reward, just name it.”

The physician stares at me for a moment, his expression hidden behind that mask.

“What?” he asks after a long moment of consideration. A fair enough question I suppose.

“Something crawled out of me, my mouth. It left something within me, I can feel it.”

“May I see this specimen?”

“It fled as soon as it left me,” I admit.

“Impossible.”

“I assure you it-”

“You hallucinated the event.”

“I did not-”

“When a parasite removes itself from a body it is to disperse its eggs, usually this is done by killing the host but sometimes-”

“I am not hallucinating!”

The doctor leans forward and snatches the near empty stolen bottle of poppy syrup right out of my body.

“It’s a miracle your heart is still beating yet hallucination is out of the question?

I don’t respond.

‘“If you want the delusions to stop let me remove the hand. If you want the pain to stop let me remove the hand. If you want to live a reasonable length remove the fucking hand.”

King Harold the weak allows his surgeon to belittle him. King Harold the weak, concerned over some puke and a smarting hand. King Harold the weak soon to be King Harold the cripple.

“You can’t amputate,” I say meekly.

“It’s just a limb, the king doesn’t need an extra hand, he has a hundred spare willing to serve his every whim-”

“With my hands, my own hands I will carry out every deed that matters, that really matters.”

The doctor sighs. “I can scourge the worst of it, soak the thing in maggots, then whiskey then maggots again. It might buy you a few extra weeks if done a few times a day but you will die and it will be ugly.”

“Leave it, doctor. I will suffer outside of an infirmary bed. I will suffer free.”

“King Harold the martyr for no cause,” The physician snorts, “ruled a few days, died months before everything those before him crumbled to ash. As you wish, king.”

King Harold The Martyr. King Harold The Sufferer. Decent titles but together we could be KIng Harold The Great. King Harold The Unbroken.