King of the World

He sat brooding in his chair, servants slinking by his feet. It seemed that the darkness and grime of the place had solidified to form his armoured being. His face lay in shadow save the eyes, which shone with malice and pain.

Searing aches dashed from his temples and criss-crossed his skull. His crown, the cold, thick ring of iron cut deep into the sides of his head.

Yet he glowered at the world and bore the torment, and even as the pain increased, it brought a grimace of a smile.

Sweet vengeance, he thought, and so pretty a prize.



A/N – Many thanks to Alassante, without whom I would never have thought of this.