"How many heads must I wear before I feel like myself?"
——•✧✦ Disgust I ✧✦•——
Knock, knock.
The two guards flung the door wide without asking permission.
They didn't need to.
His Majesty entered.
No announcement. No bow.
Only slow, heavy steps drumming on the floor.
Mitchell jerked the chalk upward, yelling sharply, leaving a broken white streak on the blackboard.
He spun around too fast, hitting the table next to him, sending papers, pens, and ink pots crashing to the floor.
He tried to stop and salvage what he could but stepped on a forming black puddle and slipped clumsily to the ground.
A dull thud, a puff of dust.
"Nooo!
Those... were this month's plans..."
From the floor, he saw the dark silhouettes of the guards, the Emperor... and the personal Advisor.
Mitchell scrambled up hastily, movements awkward and abrupt, involuntarily flinging drops of ink everywhere.
Even onto the Emperor's face, who remained impassive while brushing his pants, staining himself even more.
As if shame could be wiped away by hand.
"Now that you're back...
I admit your reactions always have something picturesque
therapist.." the Advisor commented, his thin smile betraying self-satisfaction.
Mitchell brushed an ink-smeared strand of hair from his forehead and turned slowly.
"Not everyone can afford the coldness of someone who spends his life polishing others' shoes," he retorted without much emphasis.
He bent down to pick up scattered sheets.
They were filled with rough sketches—houses, towers, even something resembling a dragon hastily drawn in blue crayon.
"No, not this one…
It was precious…"
Other blackboards and wooden panels covered in similar drawings lined the walls.
Colorful smudges and impatient scribbles everywhere.
The whole room was both a battlefield of unfinished ideas and a child's playroom.
Between movements, Mitch bumped into a shelf full of mismatched tea cups.
One wobbled precariously before stabilizing.
"Aren't you ashamed to live in such disorder?
And those crude trophies on your shelves…" sneered the Advisor, pacing slowly and looking around.
Mitchell didn't reply immediately.
He passed by an armchair near the fireplace, where a silver teapot still steamed on a tray between two cups, ready for a discussion.
"Crude? You know..."
The fire was low but sufficient to cast flickering shadows on thin glasses resting on the table.
Light and shadow danced over models stacked on shelves: bridges, towers, strange spring-powered machines, books.
"Forget it…" Mitchell sighed, picking up his glasses.
"Some of us produce ideas.
Others... merely produce noise."
He lifted a cup, inspecting its chipped rim.
Infuriated, the Advisor looked to the Emperor, pointing like a child tattling.
"Look, Majesty… not even the tea is safe here!"
Mitchell raised his voice slightly, "Better chipped than sterile."
The Advisor frowned, jaw tightening.
"Sterile? What do you mean?"
Mitchell scoffed softly, adjusted his glasses, and turned to him slowly.
"Well... for example, your life."
A pause.
"I've heard the servants laughing.
Seems things aren't going so well...
with your wife."
The phrase fell like a stone in a pond.
The guards stiffened but held their breath.
The Advisor stepped forward, livid, his mouth open.
Mitchell, without looking away:
"Careful.
You shouldn't leave your mouth open.
A fly might get in…"
The Emperor, silent until then, slightly moved his hand.
The fool stiffened.
He stepped back.
And then another.
Until disappearing through the doorway without a word.
When the door shut, the clumsy man slumped into a chair, creaking worn fabric.
He poured tea for both.
He took the cup, blew away some steam, smelled the aroma, and looked at the Emperor without reverence.
"You're late."
˜"°•. ♪ .•°"˜
The doors closed behind the Emperor with a dull thud, followed by the metallic click of latches.
The sound spread through the study like a dry wave, then—silence.
Mitchell blew again on the edge of the cup he held in his left hand.
Steam momentarily fogged his glasses.
"So... why the delay?"
His Majesty did not reply.
He removed the crown, tossing it onto a desk.
Then, he slid fingers beneath his collar.
Where his skin joined in a crooked, awkward seam, marred by decay.
Under pressure, the flesh sagged slightly, soft, revealing small holes.
Aligned holes, drilled into living skin, threaded with black, shiny wires taut enough to vibrate.
The man clenched his jaw, dug his nails, and pulled.
"Wait…" Mitchell murmured almost unconsciously.
The first thread snapped sharply.
The flesh stretched and tore around the hole, oozing a dense, blackish liquid that dripped onto his fingertips.
Other stronger threads didn't break immediately; they slid slowly out, scraping against frayed holes.
"No… come on—" he hissed, shielding his eyes with his right hand.
As they slipped, the threads dragged inner tissue fragments, scraping raw flesh with wet, squelching sounds.
Some threads snapped suddenly, spraying dark liquid; others got stuck, requiring twisting and shaking to remove.
"You're going too far..." whispered Mitchell, more to himself.
The head detached in jerks, held only by a few threads stretched like exposed nerves.
With a final violent tug, the man pulled it off, blood thick and black spurting from the open stump, smelling of burnt metal and rotten flesh.
"Ah—fuck!"
Sinisterly calm, the body raised the head by the temples.
Fingers squeezing tightly.
Approaching the table, it dropped the head with a loud thunk.
The head bounced, hitting the teapot and the single cup.
Hot liquid splashed everywhere.
A large amount hit the head's cheek, burning skin, singeing hair amidst the steam.
"ASSHOLE!" the head shouted, twisted in pain and fury.
"Any idea how much boiling tea burns an eye?! Brain-dead idiot!"
The body didn't react.
It simply pushed the cup to the floor with its foot, in a calm gesture, avoiding the burning gaze of its own head.
Then it sat down with a long breath, stepping on the damp carpet below.
"Alex, stop complaining...
You don't even feel pain."
Mitchell sipped the remaining tea, shrugging with the tired air of someone who's seen far too many absurd things.
"A step forward... I'd say..."
The body nodded.
Then it took the head in its hands. Alex immediately tried to bite its fingers, growling like a trapped dog.
"A-ah! You bastard!
Let me go! Or I swear I'll—"
The other ignored him.
With surprising gentleness, he began tucking Alex's hair behind his ears with almost brotherly gestures.
Alex's teeth snapped again, into thin air.
Then his pupils began to spin — disconnected, like the eyes of a badly-assembled doll.
He adjusted them with his thumbs, pressing until they aligned.
Alex huffed.
But he stopped biting.
"...Come on," the body hissed, bringing up a sleeve to wipe the stained lip.
"Spit."
The dried blood came off in dark crusts.
The other cleaned it with the tired patience of someone who's done it far too many times.
"Elegant as ever," Mitchell remarked, without sarcasm.
But not without irony either.
The body leaned back against the chair.
His hands trembled slightly, holding the head at the ankles, still wrapped around the decapitated face.
Then he spoke.
The voice was hoarse.
Human.
"...I'm sorry. For being late."
Mitchell set the now-empty cup on the stained table.
And watched the decapitated body settle into place, then glanced at the abandoned crown on the far table.
"You really don't want to wear it, huh..."
Ultimo shrugged.
"No need for it in here.
Here, I don't have to pretend I know what I'm doing."
Alex smirked.
"And besides, it's heavy.
That damned crown weighs as much as all the lies you have to tell yourself to keep it on your head."
"I see..." the therapist sighed, continuing.
"So?
Why are you late?"
The body didn't look up right away.
He kept smoothing a damp, fragrant curl onto the forehead of the head.
"There was a meeting..." he finally answered.
Mitchell raised an eyebrow.
"A meeting.
Interesting.
And... what, pray tell, could possibly be more important than your therapy?"
Ultimo sighed.
The head in his hands rolled its eyes with an expression that said everything before words were even needed.
"Care to tell him yourself, Alex?" the body asked, with a hint of sarcasm.
"No no, please... go ahead.
You're half the Emperor too, after all," the head replied, with a crooked, poisonous grin.
"I'm just the part that gets embarrassed..."
Ultimo sighed, lowered his shoulders, then turned to Mitchell.
"A rebellion!
Not one of those peasant uprisings.
No pitchforks, no freedom chants...
This one's silent, elegant... and well-funded."
Mitchell relaxed slightly into his chair.
"Go on..."
Ultimo paused for a moment, then turned toward a shelf.
"Wait. I've got a better idea."
He gestured to Mitchell.
"Do you have... a map of the Empire? And the Ashlands?"
Mitchell raised an eyebrow, but quickly understood.
He stood slowly, sidestepping death, opened a low drawer, and pulled out a heavy parchment, its edges worn, bearing ancient imperial seals.
Then, from a black wooden box, he retrieved a small leather pouch.
"Root powder. Will that do for ash?"
"Perfect."
Ultimo slowly unrolled the map on the low table between them.
The surface quickly grew damp, but smelled of spent smoke and old fabric.
For a moment, he stood still, gazing at the parchment.
Then, calmly, he raised his right hand.
Only then was it clear: his fingers were sewn as well, like battered puppets — tiny black stitches held skin to skin, tracing tendons like broken roads.
He grabbed the ring finger of his left hand.
Mitchell squinted, sensing danger a moment too late.
"Is that really necessary?" he began, raising a hand halfway.
Too late.
Ultimo twisted the finger with a quick jerk.
A wet, dry sound filled the air, like torn cloth.
The finger split in two, revealing bone and a dark, elastic, hollow pulp.
No real blood spilled.
Ultimo clenched the ring finger in his fist.
Squeezing hard, he made a few thick drops of red and black drip onto the center of the parchment.
Mitchell watched over his glasses, his right eyebrow twitching in a mix of polite horror and resignation.
"Please tell me you'll at least stitch it back properly..."
Ultimo, without replying, slipped the broken finger into the inner pocket of his pants.
"I'll do it later," he said simply, as if talking about mending a shirt.
Then he opened the black leather pouch and poured out the root powder.
With a quick, precise motion, he spread the ash along the veins of the map, weaving it into the dried blood like threads in a dark loom.
Alex, resting on the edge of the table like a macabre decoration, smirked halfway.
"Time for cheap parlor magic!"
Leaning slightly — a gesture that made his head swing like an overripe pear — he blew softly onto the parchment, spraying a bit of spit with his breath.
Mitchell clenched his jaw.
"Great.
Now I won't be able to eat in this office for at least two months..."
Alex chuckled, clicking his tongue.
"You've always been a bit squeamish, Mitch."
Then, as if stirred by an invisible tremor, the ash came to life.
Particles rose, slowly dancing in the musty air of the office.
They formed hills and valleys, winding rivers and cities pulsing with golden light.
At the center, the heart of the Empire beat slowly.
The ash, mixed with blood, seemed to live, as if breathing in time with the weary pulse of the Emperor himself.
Mitchell, meanwhile, leaned over his chair, looking down at the map, rubbing his temples.
"A finger, saliva, stale ash and latent trauma...
Typical Tuesday session," he muttered.
Alex laughed quietly, a dry, cracking sound, like wood splitting in frost.
"Welcome back to court, therapist."
Ultimo pointed to a spot in the northeast, near the border of another kingdom.
There, the ash was swelling on its own.
"I'm talking about Darveth," he said, voice low.
"The local duke, Rahlen, has started blocking caravans — merchants, mercenaries, even common folk."
The area he pointed to darkened.
"After, allegedly, a series of attacks on these people — some of them in the Empire's service — he began halting incoming convoys."
Tiny red sparks lit up along the roads in the area, like signs of raiding or unrest.
A caravan made of ash disintegrated mid-journey, with a tiny silent explosion.
"His territory is the fastest and most direct route to the capital.
The others are full of mountains and rivers, but this one — this is the Empire's neck, you could say."
Mitchell tilted his head.
"A strategic point, then.
A vein that, if pinched, makes the Empire bleed?"
Ultimo nodded slowly, as a thin red line of ash began to snake its way between Darveth and the heart of the capital, pulsing with irregular interruptions.
"He says it's for safety. Of our citizens, and of others.
That his roads are no longer safe for travelers...
That every delay is in the Emperor's best interest.
But he never asked for permission..."
Mitchell raised an eyebrow.
"Of course.
The best betrayals come with a mouth full of loyalty."
"Some of those merchants hired mercenaries.
Not Imperial soldiers, but private companies, contracted to escort goods into the inner provinces.
Their employers are nobles, traders protected by the Imperial seal.
Not to mention people from other kingdoms.
And now, all of them are stuck in Darveth."
On the map, stylized figures made of ash were surrounded, encircled by invisible walls.
Any attempt to move them failed: the ash collapsed silently.
Mitchell tapped two fingers on the armrest, a slow rhythm.
"No public statement, I assume. No one daring to speak up?"
Ultimo shook his back.
"One advisor claimed Rahlen acts out of duty. That the funds are being reinvested.
That he's never denied his loyalty to the Emperor.
But he knows how to speak, that bastard.
The caravans are housed, the goods 'secured', and the travelers treated like rich guests... but subject to sudden taxes.
Lodging, food, storage, even the right to move between villages: everything has a cost, decided by Rahlen's officials."
Alex scoffed.
"And the people call them nobles... those worms.
Velvet parasites."
Ultimo pretended not to hear.
"The funds raised from these 'temporary taxes' don't go to public works.
They go to buying favor.
To finance banquets, political marriages, and small private armies.
Rahlen isn't preparing for war... he's preparing for what comes next.
He's speaking with those who hate the Emperor.
I'm sure he's backing another claimant.
And if I were to fall, that duke would turn the page with a perfect bow."
Mitchell paused. The tapping stopped.
Then he spoke, almost in a whisper.
"And you? Are you ready to stop him... or are you just getting ready to fall with style?"
The body sighed. "I wrote him. Three letters.
All unanswered.
But my messengers returned... with gifts.
Wine, silk, and a poem."
He spread his arms.
"A poem, Mitchell..."
Amused, the therapist began to laugh.
"Well, I suppose those nobles are expecting you to set them free...
Not just for their own interests, but because the money must flow, or they'll all turn on you."
The curious one asked: "So what are you doing?"
"The meeting was with the Inner Council. Six ministers and three generals.
And none — not one — is willing to act openly."
"Why not?"
"Because Rahlen is popular.
Even as a duke, he plays the philanthropist, pays for food at orphanages, offers 'protection' to fallen soldiers' families.
He's a snake wearing a saint's face.
If I strike without solid proof, half the court will cry: tyrant.
If I do nothing, his influence grows."
Mitchell nodded slowly, tracing an invisible circle on the armrest with one finger.
"So you came to me... to decide whether you're still fit to rule?"
Ultimo looked him in the eyes for the first time.
"I came to see if he..." he pointed to the head,
"...has something to say that I can't put into words myself."
Alex, resting on the table among tea stains, ash, and the long shadows of afternoon, smiled slowly.
"Oh, I've got plenty...
Your Majesty.
But the question is: do you actually want to hear it?"
Alex let out a sound like a cough, but it was pure, refined sarcasm.
"Raw or sugar-coated, Emperor?"
Ultimo stared at him for a moment. Then nodded, wearily.
"Raw."
Alex rolled his pupils like he was shaking off the pain of being right.
Then he spoke, in a voice sharper than usual — as if he was enjoying himself and suffering all at once.
"The problem isn't Rahlen."
Mitchell stiffened slightly.
"Oh no?"
"No. The problem is who's using Rahlen."
Alex slowly turned his gaze toward Ultimo.
"Do you really think a minor duke, okay...
Woke up one day
with a hard-on and balls big enough to challenge the very Empire that raised him?"
Ultimo didn't react.
Only a vein began to pulse on his neck, just below where the head had once been severed.
Alex went on.
"The one behind it all...
He knows you better than you know yourself.
He knows you hesitate, that you wait, that you want to be 'just'...
Meanwhile he builds a kingdom inside yours.
He's doing what you don't have the guts to do: he decides."
Mitchell clasped his fingers together, resting them beneath his chin.
The body grew tense. "So what's your advice, Alex?"
"Cut him."
Taken aback. "Excuse me?"
"Cut the snake. Now.
No need for proof. No need for explanations.
You need fear and resolve.
You want to rule? Rule.
But if you want to sleep at night...
Then keep talking to me while we lose everything."
Ultimo clenched his fists.
"It's not that simple...
And if a second head appears?
What's the point in striking a puppet that'll only cause me more trouble?
If I attacked the puppeteer, he would have to stop — out of sheer fear, right?"
"No, it is that simple," Alex snapped, nearly shouting.
"Whether we like it or not, we're ruling together now.
You want to be loved. You want applause.
Then you'll have to dirty your hands...
There's no secret book with all the right answers.
You write it over time, with the mistakes you learn to keep.
And this is a necessary mistake!"
Silence.
The therapist asked:
"And you, Alex. Is it just power you want?"
"I... I want to survive.
And those who don't command, die."
Silence again.
Without changing tone, he asked:
"And you, Ultimo. What do you want?"
"I want to survive too."
He leaned in.
"And those who don't command..."
A distant chime echoed through the silence.
"...Die."
Three more followed, deep and far away.
The decapitated body stood up.
He picked up the head, ready to place it back — this time without stitching it on.
After putting on the crown again, he turned toward Mitchell.
"I've decided.
I'll go meet Rahlen in person!"
Mitchell stood as well.
"Then good. I'll support that.
But know this — one head won't be enough. So come to me before you leave."
Behind him, on a shelf in the dark, more heads appeared on the tiers.
Eyes opening. Smiles flickering to life.
Alex chuckled softly.
"Welcome to the club."