Bedtime Story: WEIRD Sleep Habits Of Medieval Kings

This 3-hour sleep story is designed to help you fall asleep fast and stay asleep all night. Ideal for anyone searching for a sleep track, a long bedtime story for sleep, or a gentle sleep meditation for deep rest.

What if you found yourself in medieval times, not as a tourist, but as the one living it, drawn into the strange and curious sleep habits of medieval kings? This second-person immersive narration places you directly inside the private chambers of royalty, witnessing segmented sleep, midnight councils, whispered prayers, heavy curtains drawn against drafts, and the quiet rituals that shaped royal rest in the Middle Ages.

A soft, steady fire crackles in the background, creating a warm and calming atmosphere throughout the story.

Told slowly and gently, this track is designed to keep your mind lightly engaged while helping your body relax, unwind, and drift into sleep.

Transcript

Hey guys.

Tonight's story starts with a snore so loud it shakes the candlesticks,

A royal slipper floating in a bowl of soup,

And a bed that takes five servants and two goats to fluff properly.

You've just woken up in a medieval palace.

The ceiling is leaking,

Someone's praying very loudly in Latin two doors down,

And the king is arguing with his astrologer about what hour is safest to nap.

No one agrees.

Someone brings you a mug of something hot that smells like regret and boiled thyme.

You're not sure if this is morning or night or just.

.

.

Tuesday.

Welcome to a world where sleep is political,

Suspicious,

And occasionally conducted inside a closet.

Now get comfortable,

Let the day melt away,

And we'll drift back together into the quiet corners of the past.

You wake up in a bed that crunches,

Not in the gentle,

Cozy way that suggests warm straw and rustic charm,

But in the awkward,

Alarming way that implies coins are shifting beneath your spine,

And something may be whispering prayers directly into your kidneys.

You shift once,

And are immediately met with the unmistakable crinkle of parchment and the faint scent of lavender that has given up.

The mattress wheezes like an old priest on a cold stairwell.

Somewhere beneath you,

You're fairly certain a small copper relic just made eye contact with your spleen.

A servant stands nearby,

Fanning you with what appears to be a full goose,

Not a feathered fan,

Not a tasteful plume.

A goose,

Living,

Mildly offended.

Its eyes track your every movement,

Like it's deciding whether you're food,

Royalty,

Or just someone who once stepped on its cousin.

You sit up,

Slowly,

Cautiously,

As the bed groans beneath you like it's been through things it will never talk about.

The frame is carved from some dark wood that was probably sacred before it became furniture.

Intricate symbols are etched along the headboard.

You squint.

One appears to be a bishop juggling fish.

Another might be a bear wearing a crown,

Or possibly just a very fluffy monk.

The more you stare,

The less certain you are that any of this is decorative.

The room is vast,

With ceilings too high for comfort,

And curtains thick enough to count as structural support.

A tapestry hangs crooked above the hearth,

Depicting what might be a battle or a very tense family picnic.

The fire crackles despite it being summer,

And the room already warmer than you're emotionally prepared for.

The scent of honeyed wine lingers in the air,

Mingling with incense and something sharp,

Like boiled onions and indecision.

A footman in a hat that's taller than his sense of self announces that breakfast will be served in two yawns.

You nod solemnly,

As though you understand the measurement of time being used.

He bows so deeply his hat nearly takes out a candle and then backs out of the room,

Tripping only slightly over a golden chamber pot that no one acknowledges.

You swing your legs off the bed and immediately step on a small pile of what you hope is ceremonial confetti and not another attempt at insulation.

The floor is cold stone,

Polished to a shine that mocks you with every step.

Your robes,

Which were left folded on a nearby stool,

Appear to have been scented with something vaguely herbal and definitively disapproving.

A maid enters with a fresh towel and a bucket of water that steams in the way that suggests this is supposed to be refreshing,

Not scalding.

She sets it down,

Curtsies and whispers,

Mind the mattress.

It bites if you bounce too.

Quickly.

Then leaves before you can ask if that was literal or metaphorical.

You return to the bed out of sheer curiosity.

You lift the corner of the blanket,

Expecting straw or perhaps wool.

Instead,

You find layers,

Actual layers,

Each one stuffed with a different ingredient.

One is soft and perfumed,

Another stiff and alarmingly moist.

A third has coins sewn directly into the quilting,

As though someone thought back pain could be soothed by a firm reminder of national currency.

Tucked just beneath the fourth layer is a pamphlet titled Moral Conduct in Dreaming,

Printed in Latin,

And very clearly bloodstained.

The pillow is shaped like a rectangle,

But has the texture of old cheese.

It smells faintly of sage and long-held disappointment.

You poke it once and it sighs.

You don't ask questions.

Outside the window,

The sound of horses stomping and someone screaming about jam echoes through the courtyard.

A bell rings somewhere above you.

The goose hisses.

The door creaks open again,

And a steward in full formal regalia,

Meaning he's wearing twice as many buttons as any man should,

Enters holding a scroll.

He unrolls it dramatically,

Revealing your schedule for the day.

One ceremonial yawn,

Two contemplative sighs,

Breakfast with the royal cousins,

And a nap evaluation to be completed before sunset.

Your sleep quality will be rated by His Majesty's Committee of Somnolent Advisors,

He says.

Please record any dreams you may have had involving foxes,

Feathers,

Or sin.

You nod,

Wondering if the dream about the jellyfish counts.

He doesn't wait for clarification.

Once he's gone,

You sit back on the bed.

The mattress emits a suspicious squelch.

The goose eyes you.

You think about your own bed at home,

Simple,

Flat,

Unscented,

And unlikely to contain political commentary.

But here,

In this room,

Where even the fire seems to judge you,

Your rest is an act of diplomacy.

You shift slightly to the left,

And a tiny voice under the blanket mutters something about penance.

You freeze.

The mattress crunches again,

Coins shifting,

Paper rustling,

Dreams praying beneath you like saints who overslept.

You lie down.

You close your eyes.

You try not to bounce.

You're sitting in a chair that's technically a throne,

But only for consultation purposes.

It's a little too short,

A little too damp,

And definitely smells like someone once ate a pear here and never apologized.

Around you,

The Royal Nap Council assembles,

Each shuffling in with the slow,

Ceremonial pace of people who believe time itself is watching.

You've been invited only as an observer,

Which is a polite way of saying they expect you to stay quiet and maybe hold a candle if things get dramatic.

The physician enters first,

Robed in layers of gray linen and pessimism.

He carries a pouch of herbs and a book that might be titled A Brief History of Mucus.

He clears his throat,

Which sounds like two frogs arguing,

And immediately launches into a monologue about humors.

Not the funny kind.

The body kind.

Yellow bile.

Black bile.

Something about warm spleens.

He concludes that the king's nap should occur precisely one hour after his second bowel movement or during the hour of intestinal grace,

Whichever comes first.

The astrologer follows,

Draped in stars or at least very shiny buttons.

He smells faintly of wax and poorly hidden anxiety.

He unfurls a chart the size of a sail and begins explaining how Mercury's quarrel with Saturn indicates a troubling napping window.

The moon,

Apparently,

Is being petty,

Venus is napping too,

And it would be rude to overlap.

He recommends a fifteen minute rest at dawn,

Facing northeast,

Surrounded by three unripe apples and absolute silence.

Everyone nods.

Like this makes sense.

The bishop enters last,

Laid on purpose.

He carries a scroll,

A candle stub,

And the look of a man who has not slept properly since the last coronation.

His voice is low and reverent as he insists the king's nap must be preceded by confession,

Five blessings,

And a hymn sung backward by someone recently widowed.

It's not about sleep,

He reminds the room.

It's about humility.

The astrologer rolls his eyes so hard you can hear it.

The fourth advisor is already in the room,

Sitting cross-legged on the floor and feeding crumbs to a beetle.

No one knows his real title,

But he's referred to as the Goose Strategist.

Years ago he reportedly beat a goose at chess during a diplomatic summit,

And has since been invited to all state matters involving patience or poultry.

He doesn't speak often,

But when he does,

Everyone listens with the same mixture of fear and fascination reserved for thunder and very large wheels of cheese.

He clears his throat.

The beetle pauses.

He says,

Plainly,

That the king should nap when he is tired.

There is silence,

Deep,

Profound,

Spiritual silence.

The bishop makes a small choking sound.

The physician clutches his herb pouch like it might flee.

The astrologer looks at the stars on his sleeve as if they've betrayed him.

The council immediately begins arguing,

Loudly.

The physician accuses the astrologer of promoting chaos.

The astrologer accuses the bishop of fear-mongering.

The bishop accuses the beetle of witchcraft.

Someone bangs a spoon against a lute for order.

The air grows thick with incense and passive aggression.

You are handed a scroll and asked to document this session.

The scroll is already covered in someone else's scribbles,

Mostly diagrams of noses.

You begin writing anyway.

Unsure what counts as important.

The phrase ritual yawning comes up at least twice.

So does blanket authority.

No one laughs.

An hour later,

The king arrives.

He looks tired in the way only kings can too many rings,

Too many layers,

Too many decisions about whether dreams count as political statements.

He listens to the council with a face like old bread.

When they finish,

He nods,

Thanks them all solemnly,

Then turns to you and asks where the sun is.

You point vaguely toward a window.

He lies down on a nearby bench,

Sighs once,

And falls asleep immediately.

The council looks stunned.

The bishop crosses himself.

The astrologer scribbles a note.

The goose strategist smiles faintly and offers the beetle a crumb.

The meeting is adjourned.

The nap,

It seems,

Has begun without permission.

At sundown,

They begin to arrive,

One by one,

In pairs,

Sometimes in clusters like pigeons pretending not to be organized.

They don't knock.

They don't speak.

They enter the king's chamber like it's a stage,

And the performance is always the same.

The sleepening.

Act ex viae.

You're seated on a low stool by the fire,

Allegedly as an observer,

Though no one seems quite sure who invited you or if you're part of the ritual.

You're holding a ceramic mug of something hot and questionably herbal.

It smells like fennel and mild guilt.

The first two through the door wear identical expressions and very different shoes.

They approach the bed without hesitation,

Lifting the sheets with the solemnity of men unveiling a relic or a mistake.

One pats the mattress gently as though comforting it after a long day.

The other mutters,

Still damp,

Before disappearing into the hallway to find newer,

Less disappointing linen.

No one acknowledges this.

The king,

Reclining in a chair nearby,

Sighs but doesn't open his eyes.

A third person enters,

Strumming a lute with three strings and no urgency.

Her voice is breathy,

Like someone singing directly into a bowl of porridge.

The song is about sleep or birds or perhaps a metaphor about moral cleanliness.

It's hard to tell.

She sways gently as she plays,

Eyes closed,

Unaware that her cloak is slowly catching fire from the hearth.

You point.

A maid scurries over and bats it out with a pillow,

All without breaking eye contact with the king.

Next come the prayers.

Three clergy in muted tones,

Each representing a slightly different angle on divine approval.

One whispers in Latin,

One hums a dissonant chord,

And the third simply nods at the ceiling as though God owes him money.

They kneel,

Chant,

And make strange shapes in the air with their fingers.

It's either sacred geometry or an elaborate shadow puppet about geese.

The bishop from earlier stands in the doorway,

Watching but not participating.

He's holding a spoon.

No one asks why.

And then,

Inevitably,

The bell arrives.

Carried by a boy no older than nine,

The bell is large,

Dented,

And smells faintly of fear.

He walks in a circle,

Ringing it three times in each corner of the room.

This,

According to tradition,

Frightens away bad dreams,

Wandering spirits,

And anyone who still believes in rational bedtime.

The king doesn't flinch.

He simply raises one hand,

And the boy vanishes as swiftly as he came,

Dragging the bell behind him like an old grievance.

Now,

The room is dim.

The fire has settled into a sullen glow.

The bed,

Freshly reassembled with proper linens and a cedar-scented bolster,

Stands ready like a very polite threat.

Two footmen approach,

One with a tray of steaming water for the royal feet,

The other holding a small glass vial labeled Night Thoughts,

Mild.

The king declines the vial with a grunt,

But accepts the footbath with the tragic grace of someone used to being pampered,

But never surprised.

You watch as a woman you've never seen before approaches with a single feather and dabs it along the edge of the mattress.

You assume it's ceremonial.

She winks at you,

Then leaves.

No one reacts.

You don't ask.

At last,

The king rises.

He is already in his sleep robe,

Which is lined with fox fur and embroidered with something that might be poetry or just a list of cheeses.

He does not speak.

He merely climbs into bed,

The covers pulled back by two people wearing gloves and matching expressions of humble anticipation.

Once in place,

The blanket is drawn up to his chin with the kind of precision usually reserved for folding maps or concealing scandal.

A scribe steps forward,

Records the exact moment of tucking,

And retreats without a word.

The final visitor is a woman who walks the perimeter of the room,

Dropping rose petals and muttering about destiny.

She places one petal on the king's forehead,

Another on his foot,

And a third on the windowsill.

Then she blows out a single candle.

Darkness seeps in like an obedient dog.

The door closes.

You sit by the hearth,

Now barely warm,

Holding your mug of herbal uncertainty,

And watch as the king's breathing evens out into the soft,

Rhythmic grumble of a man sleeping under the weight of history,

Responsibility,

And at least six layers of aggressively monogrammed bedding.

Somewhere in the hallway,

The bell rings once more,

Just in case.

You stand at the edge of the royal bed,

Staring at it like it's just asked you a riddle and offered you a fish.

It looms in the center of the chamber,

Plump and silent,

A mountain of velvet,

Feather,

And things that should probably not be included in furniture.

Someone has folded the sheets with military precision.

There's a single sprig of rosemary on the pillow,

As if the bed might get hungry mid-nap.

The chambermaid beside you is small and wrapped in so many layers of wool she could easily be mistaken for laundry.

She leans in close,

Breath smelling faintly of mint and ominous folklore.

Moan once for good,

She whispers,

Twice for less good,

Three times if you feel spiritually uneasy.

You nod,

And she steps back as though you've been marked for something solemn or flammable.

This is your job tonight.

Official bed tester to his majesty,

Which sounds noble until you realize it mostly involves lying down and not dying.

You're not allowed to speak,

Not even a whisper.

The king believes voices leave echoes in the linens.

Echoes,

He claims,

Steal dreams.

The court debated this once and came to the conclusion that he might be right,

Mostly because no one wanted to test the theory in front of him.

You remove your shoes,

Which are already damp,

Possibly from the weather or possibly because the corridor leading to the chamber had suspiciously squishy tiles.

You climb onto the mattress,

Careful not to disturb the rose petals still scattered from last night's petal ritual.

They crunch faintly under your elbow.

The mattress sighs.

You lie down slowly,

Trying not to bounce,

Though it's difficult because the bed has layers.

It's not just one surface.

It's strata,

A mattress sandwich with fillings that range from plush down to something that might be hay or the idea of hay.

Beneath you,

Something shifts.

It could be a spring.

It could be a mouse.

You wriggle just a bit.

Nothing aggressive,

A mild exploratory wiggle.

You shift to the left and land on something round and firm.

You shift to the right and discover the whisper of a prayer stitched into the sheet with silver thread.

The pillow cradles your head like it's unsure whether you deserve comfort or confrontation.

The maid coughs gently.

You realize you haven't moaned yet.

You let out one sound,

Soft and low,

Trying to keep it neutral.

The bed is fine,

Possibly,

Probably.

You wait.

She tilts her head.

Was that one or two?

She mouths.

You moan again,

Once,

Deliberately.

She nods,

Pulls out a scroll,

And scribbles something with a quill the size of your forearm.

Then something beneath you shifts again.

You freeze.

It's subtle,

Like a breath or a threat.

You roll slightly and feel it a lump,

Firm,

Oblong,

And disturbingly warm.

You press gently.

It makes a noise,

Not a human noise,

Not quite,

But not not human either.

You glance at the maid.

She raises an eyebrow.

You moan twice.

She frowns.

Lump?

She mouths.

You nod.

She writes lump on the scroll.

Then underlines it twice.

Then she steps back further,

Toward the door.

You shift again.

The lump seems to move with you,

As if reluctant to let go.

You moan a third time,

Slowly,

With feeling.

The chambermaid gasps.

She drops the quill.

Three moans.

She sprints from the room.

You are now alone in the royal bed.

With the lump,

You lie very still,

Hoping that maybe if you don't move,

Neither will it.

But it pulses,

Not in a monstrous way,

Just in a way that suggests it has opinions.

You try to rise,

But the blankets are heavier than expected,

Like they've absorbed all the secrets of every royal nightmare and are now reluctant to release them.

The candlelight flickers.

The room creaks.

Somewhere outside,

The bell rings once.

You moan a fourth time,

Instinctively.

Too late.

The lump shifts again.

And then everything goes still.

The king's first sleep begins as a sigh,

A slow exhale of velvet and ceremony,

Tucked beneath layers of ritual and goose-feathered certainty.

The room dims around him,

Not from magic,

But from sheer deference,

As if even the torches know better than to burn too brightly in the presence of a man about to nap under divine sanction.

You sit by the brazier,

Watching the flame roll its eyes.

15 minutes in,

He wakes.

No one speaks.

The attendants rush in like a stage crew mid-show change.

A towel is brought,

Slightly damp but warm.

A basin appears with water infused with rosemary and crushed anxieties.

The king washes his hands like he's trying to remove a memory,

Then his face like it owes him something.

He dries with a cloth embroidered with an image of himself sleeping.

You're not sure if that's ambition or prophecy.

A servant approaches with a small silver tray.

One radish sits in the center,

Glistening with dew or perhaps anticipation.

The king eats it whole,

Chewing slowly.

The crunch echoes through the chamber with the solemnity of thunder in a cathedral.

Then comes the prayer.

The chaplain arrives half asleep,

Robes on backward,

Muttering a blessing meant for chickens.

He corrects himself mid-sentence,

Turns his stole around,

And begins again.

The king bows his head.

The room holds its breath.

You stare at the ceiling,

Which is painted with stars arranged in blest,

Constellations that seem oddly judgmental.

After that,

It's time for second sleep.

He lies down again,

This time with less ceremony,

Just a nod,

A brief grunt,

And a rearrangement of limbs that suggests he's negotiating with the bed.

You're handed a small bell and told to ring it if he starts levitating.

No one explains why that's even on the table.

He dozes.

This one is deeper.

His breathing changes,

Slows.

A wrinkle in his brow smooths.

You think he might actually be dreaming,

Though whether it's of peace,

Ducks,

Or a tactical error in the battle of Slightly Moist Hill,

You cannot say.

His fingers twitch.

His foot jerks once.

A whisper escapes his lips,

Bertram,

Before he falls silent again.

No one in the room is named Bertram.

You shift in your chair and try not to make noise.

Your foot bumps the leg of a table,

And a spoon falls off with a clatter that sounds like a kingdom collapsing.

Every head turns.

You freeze.

The king stirs,

Frowns,

Then mutters something about bread.

A steward makes a note.

23 minutes pass.

He wakes again,

This time with purpose.

He sits up,

Eyes wide but unfocused,

Like someone searching for meaning in a dream they're still partly inside.

He points at the window.

Too much blue,

He says,

Though it's night and entirely black.

A servant nods,

Draws the curtain,

And says,

Of course,

Your majesty.

He stands.

Another basin appears.

This one has floating thyme leaves,

And what you're almost certain is a pearl.

He doesn't wash this time.

He just stares into it like it might confess something.

Someone hands him a tiny book titled Acceptable Thoughts.

He flips through three pages,

Closes it,

And whispers,

No.

It's taken away.

Then silence.

He stands by the bed,

Eyes closed,

Swaying slightly.

A candle flickers near his elbow,

Unnoticed.

You wonder if this is the moment before third sleep or if you're witnessing a royal malfunction.

A page tiptoes forward with a blanket.

The king takes it,

Wraps it around himself like a disappointed shepherd,

And lies back down.

No words,

No ritual,

Just gravity and weariness.

Third sleep begins.

This one is the longest.

His face relaxes completely.

His breathing softens into the kind of rhythm that makes you feel like you're intruding on something private,

Ancient,

And vaguely agricultural.

He murmurs something halfway between a command and a lullaby.

You catch the word ducks and nothing more.

You settle back into your chair,

The bell still in your hand,

And wonder when you're allowed to sleep,

Probably after the fourth radish.

You're holding what might be pajamas or possibly a punishment from a fabric sorcerer.

The sleeves are long enough to touch your knees.

The buttons are made of actual pearls,

And the collar has lace so stiff it could be used in fencing.

A tag stitched into the back reads,

In very neat script,

For dreams of state and occasional hauntings.

You're not sure if it's a joke or a warning.

The wardrobe stands open behind you,

A monolith of cedar and soft groaning hinges,

Revealing a nighttime collection that would put most operas to shame.

Silks embroidered with prayers.

Robes dyed in colors that no longer exist.

A onesie made entirely of chain mail.

Everything smells faintly of lavender and ambition.

The king stands beside you,

Barefoot,

But otherwise already wearing most of his ceremonial sleeping gear.

Over his linen undershirt,

A breastplate polished and inscribed with the names of several moderately successful ancestors.

His gauntlets clink faintly as he lifts a goblet of warm spiced milk.

The bishop watches approvingly from the corner,

Nodding every time the armor squeaks.

They come in dreams,

He murmurs.

More to the shadows than to you.

The envy spirits,

The slumber thieves.

They slip through the cracks of sleep and steal legacy.

The queen,

Reclining on a fainting couch shaped like a lion that has clearly given up,

Rolls her eyes and fans herself with a slipper.

He just doesn't like feeling vulnerable,

She says.

Says if he dies in a dream,

He wants to die standing.

The cook appears,

Breathless,

Holding two thick wooden planks.

Reinforcements,

He mutters,

Already crawling beneath the bed.

The last time he wore the greaves,

The mattress gave up and the floor asked for mercy.

You try slipping into the royal sleepwear designated for guests of minimal importance but significant curiosity.

The sleeves itch immediately.

The wool is coarse,

As if it resents being touched and you're almost certain the seams are whispering.

A row of pearl buttons runs from neck to navel,

Impossibly close together,

Each one needing a specific angle and probably a prayer.

You fasten three and give up.

The pants are worse tight in all the wrong places and loose in a way that feels accusatory.

The chambermaid helps,

Her fingers deft and utterly indifferent to your personal dignity.

This pair belong to the last taster,

She says,

Then clarifies,

Of dreams,

Not food,

Though honestly,

Same difference.

You thank her,

She does not respond.

The king adjusts his gorget and asks if the pillows have been blessed yet.

The bishop hurries forward,

Muttering something in Latin while sprinkling water from a flask labeled mostly holy.

A monk wearing a nightcap rings a small bell and scatters dried rose hips across the bed,

Declaring them emotionally fortifying.

The queen pretends to sleep through all of it but peeks through one eye.

The king finally climbs into bed,

Clanking like a knight who lost his horse and his sense of proportion.

The sheets groan.

The mattress sighs with the weight of duty and steel.

He lies flat,

Arms crossed like he's expecting judgment.

Sleep is a battlefield,

He says softly.

You,

Still itchy and mildly panicked,

Lie down on a much smaller cot nearby.

It is filled with straw or possibly shredded tax records.

The wool of your pajamas begins to bunch in strange places,

Forming small mountains of discomfort.

You shift.

A pearl button presses directly into your sternum like it's trying to ask a question.

The candle dims.

The bishop withdraws.

The queen finally sighs and removes her tiara,

Placing it in a bowl of salt to keep the dreams light.

Somewhere outside,

A nightbird calls.

The king responds with a low hum as if challenging it to a duel.

You stare at the ceiling and wonder what it says about a man who feels safest wrapped in metal while unconscious.

Maybe it's about control or prophecy or maybe he just likes the way it rattles when he breathes.

You scratch at the wool and try not to think about the fact that the pearl buttons are said to represent the tears of the last dynasty and that only two were ever removed.

You lie still,

Eyes open in the dark,

Pretending to sleep in a way that feels increasingly like performance art.

The cot creaks beneath you every time you shift so you've stopped shifting.

Your left leg is numb.

Your right leg is suspicious of the blanket.

Somewhere above you,

The king breathes like a man negotiating terms with a ghost.

The door doesn't creak.

It exhales.

A servant enters,

Slippered and silent,

Carrying a brass tray with a single candle flickering like it knows something you don't.

He places the tray on a small table near the king's bed,

Carefully uncorking a bottle of wine with the slow reverence of someone who's been scolded about it before.

He pours,

Pauses,

Sniffs the air,

Then disappears into the shadows again.

The candle stays.

Moments later,

Another one arrives,

This one smaller and wearing a cap shaped vaguely like a fruit.

She adjusts a pillow with such exaggerated delicacy it feels theatrical,

Like she's being judged on form.

She fluffs it three times,

Presses it once,

Then steps back and whispers something toward the headboard.

No one answers,

But that doesn't stop her.

The whispering continues.

You're not sure who they're talking to or why,

But it spreads.

Whisper to the coals.

Whisper to the curtains.

Whisper into the lock of a cabinet that hasn't been opened in 37 years,

But still receives nightly updates about the state of the kingdom.

A third servant arrives,

Looks around,

Sighs deeply,

Then places a single sprig of mint in the king's shoe.

No one stops him.

You suspect no one even knows why anymore.

You close your eyes briefly,

Hoping to signal passivity.

It does not help.

A hand touches your shoulder.

You jolt slightly,

But stay silent.

The hand retreats,

Satisfied.

You hear the rustle of parchment and realize someone is leaving notes by the bed,

Not on the bed stand on the bed itself,

Slipped under the edge of the pillow like fragile,

Dangerous secrets.

You see one catch the light.

It says,

He knows.

Another one follows.

It says,

Maybe bacon?

The king murmurs in his sleep.

His lips move.

You hear something that sounds like traitor,

But it could also be truffle.

The room shifts just a little.

The candle flares.

A servant crouches by the window and mutters a report into the hinges.

Another kneels beside the bed and rebuttons a button that wasn't undone.

A spoon clinks faintly in a bowl that was not there five minutes ago.

Someone's humming now.

It's soft,

Tuneless,

But oddly familiar.

You think it's the same melody the queen was whistling earlier in the day while arranging her wigs by mood.

The tune winds its way through the room and for a moment everything seems to synchronize.

The fire crackles in rhythm.

The king exhales on beat.

A moth flutters past your face in time with the harmony and then vanishes as if ashamed of being noticed.

You hear the bishop's voice outside the door.

A low chant.

Not quite Latin,

Not quite meaning.

The servants bow their heads for three seconds then resume whispering.

One is now dusting the corner of a tapestry you're pretty sure depicts a war no one won.

Another is rearranging the arrangement of fruit on a plate so the pairs look less dominant.

You try to sit up.

A servant immediately places a cup of water near your hand without looking at you.

The cup is warm and slightly salty.

You do not ask why.

The king mumbles again.

This time it's louder.

Beware,

The hound,

He says.

Or possibly,

Where's the ham?

Two servants nod solemnly.

One leaves the room with urgency.

The other tucks the blanket tighter around the king's knees like they hold the truth.

The candle flickers again,

Throwing long,

Uncertain shadows across the wall and for a brief moment you see a reflection of yourself that looks more tired than you feel.

You lie back,

Eyes open,

The room breathes.

The servants whisper and the night goes on as it always does,

Too quiet to trust,

Too loud to sleep.

You're staring at a candle stub melting onto a plate shaped like a miniature knight's shield when the bell chimes.

Not a loud bell,

But a hesitant one.

A bell that feels unsure of its own authority but it rings all the same and everyone in the room freezes like they've just been caught plotting something poorly.

The king opens one eye,

Slowly,

Dramatically,

The kind of eye opening that has been rehearsed in mirrors.

He does not blink.

His fingers twitch.

Then still,

The bishop rises from his seat near the foot of the bed and clears his throat with the ceremonial severity of someone about to say something both nonsensical and binding.

It is now three minutes to curfew,

He says.

Position yourselves.

Servants materialize from pockets in the room you hadn't noticed before.

One rolls out a carpet that seems exactly the same as the floor beneath it.

Another lights a taper,

Extinguishes it,

Then lights it again for symbolic reasons.

The queen looks up from her embroidery today.

It's a depiction of a fox being chased by debts and raises an eyebrow.

Don't they usually wait until it's at least one minute?

She murmurs.

The bishop pretends not to hear.

You remain in your cot,

Unsure if standing is respectful or punishable.

A chamberlain hands you a horn,

Not to blow,

Just to hold,

Apparently.

You grip it awkwardly as a page counts down the seconds with the gravitas of someone diffusing a very slow bomb.

Five,

Four,

Three.

The room inhales.

Two,

One,

Now.

The king sits bolt upright.

His eyes are wide,

His hair perfect,

And his night armor gleams faintly in the candlelight.

He stares at nothing,

Or maybe everything,

As if waiting for applause.

He gets it.

Every person in the room claps precisely three times.

No more,

No less.

Polite,

Synchronized,

Haunting.

The king does not move.

He stays upright,

Hands on his knees,

Breathing in a way that suggests he's read too many dramatic poems about storms.

A servant adjusts the curtain,

Even though it's already closed.

Another removes a single grape from a bowl and eats it as though it were evidence.

This is the bed curfew,

A sacred time bracketed by the moon's angle,

The tides of invisible rivers,

And the direction the stablemaster's cat happened to glance during supper.

Earlier,

Someone sneezed near the chapel,

Which apparently bumped the window by 17 minutes and required a recalculation using beads,

Chalk,

And emotional guesswork.

You asked once,

Just once,

If maybe the king could sleep a bit longer if he felt like it.

A monk dropped a plate.

A jester wept.

The queen patted your hand and whispered,

We tried that once.

There was a drought.

Now the king speaks.

Have the bells tolled thrice,

He asks.

The bishop bows.

Once fully,

Once partially,

And once in spirit,

Your majesty.

Then,

I am risen,

The king intones.

No one points out that he was already risen or that he'd only been asleep for what might generously be called a nap with aspirations.

The royal chronologer steps forward and records the moment on a scroll made of pressed duckweed.

The queen returns to her embroidery,

Now adding a very small crown to the fox.

The room begins to exhale.

Someone brings a tray of warm milk for everyone except you,

Which feels both intentional and wise.

The king finally shifts,

Allowing his spine to settle into a shape less heroic.

A page removes one of his gloves with tongs.

The bishop begins humming.

You glance at the window.

The moon is almost sideways,

If that's a thing moons can be,

And it casts an accusatory light across the chamber floor.

Another servant closes the curtain again,

Just in case.

The king lies back down.

Begin phase two,

He murmurs.

You don't know what phase one was.

You suspect no one does,

But everyone nods.

A candle is extinguished with a kiss.

A flute plays a single note.

Someone whispers something about taxes.

The king closes his eyes again,

And this time,

No one claps.

You're shown the queen's sleeping tower at dusk.

Just as the wind decides to pick up its pace and begins slapping the ivy in small,

Repetitive tantrums,

The stairs curve in a way that feels passive-aggressive,

And by the time you reach the top,

Your knees are writing letters to your shins in protest.

The chambermaid,

With the soft voice and steel judgment,

Opens the door with two fingers and a sigh.

The queen's bedchamber smells like honey,

Mothballs,

And secrets,

Not in equal measure.

She's not there yet,

But the air knows she's coming.

Everything is too arranged,

Too precise.

Pillows fluffed just so,

Drapes tied back with ribbons that look suspiciously like rebranded battle sashes.

On the far side of the room,

A window glows from the moonlight that filters through an obsidian lens,

Because apparently even the moon must be curated.

The bed is a generous shape,

Wider than it is long,

And positioned at a sharp diagonal in the center of the room,

Like it's mid-debate with the floorboards.

The sheets shimmer faintly,

Either from embroidery or because they've been whispered to.

There are five blankets,

Each representing a different emotion,

Though no one will tell you which is which.

You assume the scratchy one is grief.

The queen enters not so much walking as declaring her presence through posture alone.

She carries herself like she's always on the verge of a monologue.

Her hair is braided with dried mint leaves.

Her robe is crimson and heavy and trails slightly behind her as though it,

Too,

Is exhausted by court politics.

She does not acknowledge you,

But you feel deeply acknowledged.

Her attendants float in behind her like polite shadows.

One lights a candle.

Another unlaces her boots.

A third presents a silver bowl filled with what can only be described as aggressively golden honey wine.

She swishes,

Gargles,

And then makes a noise that sounds like betrayal with vowels.

She spits delicately into a second bowl shaped like a duck and whispers a name into her pillow.

The name is Edmond.

You do not ask.

She flops into bed the way a swan might if it had been drinking and had strong opinions about inheritance laws.

She adjusts the pillow once,

Then again,

Then she throws it on the floor and selects another,

Smaller,

Angrier-looking one.

She curses into it,

Softly.

It sounds heartfelt.

A servant bows.

Will Her Majesty be requiring the lullaby tonight?

The queen snorts.

If I wanted to be lied to,

I'd attend council.

No one laughs,

But several people smile in ways that suggest they will bring this up in the kitchens later.

She stretches out diagonally,

Perfectly bisecting the bed like she's proving a theorem.

A monk enters and adjusts the moon chart on the wall,

Noting the position of Taurus and whether or not the stars have been acting suspicious.

Someone opens the window just a crack,

Lets in a breeze,

Then closes it again immediately.

Ritual satisfied.

A single bell chimes.

The queen closes her eyes.

Someone extinguishes the main candle with a feather.

The silence is immediate,

But not empty.

The chambermaid leans toward you and whispers,

It's romantic.

You nod.

You do not understand.

From somewhere below,

Faintly,

You hear the king sneeze.

The queen opens one eye.

Too much cinnamon,

She murmurs,

And then,

Finally,

Sleeps.

Morning begins not with sunlight,

But with throat clearing,

An ancient theatrical kind,

Long and musical,

Like someone tuning a cello made entirely of irritation.

You're sitting in the corner of the king's chamber,

Trying to look like a piece of old furniture when the dream interpreter enters.

He does not knock.

He drifts.

His beard is an ecosystem.

Tiny feathers nest within it,

Some dyed,

Some still twitching.

He wears a robe the color of unease and smells faintly of cloves and the kind of incense you light when you want to feel important.

He does not introduce himself.

He assumes you know.

Everyone assumes you know things here.

The king is propped up by two velvet wedges and the lingering weight of inherited mystery.

He blinks slowly and reaches for his goblet,

Filled with something that may once have been wine but now resembles the memory of juice.

He drinks,

Swishes,

Sighs.

I dreamt of a goat,

He announces.

The interpreter bows at the waist,

A movement so smooth it seems detached from bones.

Flying or hovering,

He asks.

The king squints.

Flying,

Definitely wings,

Bat-like.

Also,

It wore a crown.

Murmurs ripple through the servants lining the wall.

You count six scribes,

Each furiously documenting different aspects of this moment.

The temperature,

The angle of the king's knees,

The goat's wingspan.

One draws the goat.

You think she's added tiny boots.

The interpreter strokes his beard and a feather floats to the floor like a verdict.

And what was the goat doing?

Hovering above a field.

Then it sneezed and a village caught fire.

A pause.

Which village?

The interpreter asks,

Already opening a scroll.

Hard to say.

There were turnips.

The interpreter's eyes widen slightly.

He pulls another scroll from his sleeve,

Unfolds it with reverence,

And reveals a chart that looks like someone tried to play chess with a thunderstorm.

He hums,

Points,

Draws a small goat in the margins.

And after the fire?

The king leans back,

His eyes distant.

Someone shouted about taxes.

Then I was naked and trying to explain civic responsibility to a trout.

The interpreter gasps.

Not loudly,

But with intent.

A classic symbol of renewal,

He whispers.

He turns to the bishop,

Who nods without comprehension.

Then,

Solemnly,

The interpreter speaks.

This is a dream of peace.

You blink.

No one else blinks.

The king nods,

Relieved.

The scribes write peace in six different scripts.

One servant begins preparing celebratory toast.

Another brings a goose feather quill and signs something that looks suspiciously like a declaration of optimism.

You sit quietly and replay the dream in your head.

Flying goat,

Tax rebellion,

Flaming turnips,

Naked diplomacy,

Peace.

The interpreter now places both hands on the king's chest,

Just above the heart,

And mutters in a language that seems mostly made of sighs.

Then he reaches into a pouch and sprinkles a handful of dried rosemary over the blanket.

The king doesn't flinch.

He just watches it fall like rain in a dream he hasn't had yet.

The goat,

The interpreter adds softly,

Chooses the dreamer.

The king beams.

You're not sure what that means,

But the room reacts as though he's just won a siege or pronounced the wheat taxes forgiven.

The queen's interpreter,

Who has been lurking by the door in a quieter,

More judgmental robe,

Scoffs and vanishes down the hallway in a huff of lavender and competitive symbolism.

The king yawns.

The dream has been interpreted.

The day may now proceed.

As everyone begins to shuffle out,

You linger.

The interpreter brushes past you,

And you catch the edge of another feather lodged behind his ear,

Small and gray,

And possibly from a bird that never existed.

He looks at you once,

Briefly.

You dream too loudly,

He says.

Then he's gone.

The silence is enforced with the kind of intensity usually reserved for revolutions and royal marriages.

You've been told politely,

Ominously,

Twice that noise after midnight is forbidden in this wing of the castle.

Not discouraged,

Not frowned upon.

Forbidden,

As if sound itself becomes treasonous once the sun has had enough.

The clock in the hallway chimes once,

Faintly,

Then explodes into a mechanical cough before giving up altogether.

Midnight,

Immediately,

The torches are dimmed to whisper,

And every candle is snuffed with the care of someone closing the eyes of a dying friend.

The mood shifts.

People walk slower.

Even the dust seems to float more cautiously.

You're in your cot,

Which is technically a glorified bench with ambitions,

Trying to balance your legs under a blanket made of decorative disappointment.

The bed creaks,

Like it's confessing something every time you shift.

You try not to breathe with enthusiasm.

You fail.

Outside,

A frog croaks,

Loudly,

Passionately,

Possibly in defiance.

From the shadows,

A servant appears and gently shakes a rattle wrapped in velvet.

A soft warning,

They call it.

The frog stops,

Or dies.

You're not sure.

You'd feel bad,

But the frog started it.

You roll onto your side.

The cot releases a groan that sounds like an old man remembering a bad investment.

Instantly,

A curtain flutters,

And a woman you've never seen before materializes beside you.

Her shoes make no sound.

Her expression suggests this is not the first groan she's punished tonight.

Stillness is the kingdom's lullaby,

She whispers,

Pressing a single finger to your lips and then vanishing again like a fever dream with good posture.

You blink.

In the hallway,

An owl hoots,

Then hoots again,

Louder,

Like it's correcting itself.

Rude,

Someone mutters.

There is a brief scuffle.

Feathers drift by the window.

The owl does not hoot again.

Then comes the fart.

Not dramatic,

Not defiant,

Just consistent.

From the direction of the chapel,

It has rhythm,

Like someone attempting Morse code with poor judgment.

You hold your breath and wait for the inevitable.

Sure enough,

Two monks in sleep robes emerge,

One holding a brass bowl,

The other ringing it in slow,

Sorrowful chimes.

The bowl is for penance,

The sound is for shame.

No one speaks of the farter.

Everyone knows who it is.

You close your eyes and try to surrender to sleep,

But your cot has different plans.

It shifts under you like it's remembering old battles.

You hear a creak,

Then another.

You freeze.

A servant pokes their head through the door.

Their expression is neutral,

But their presence is aggressive.

Is it the cot or the soul that stirs,

They ask.

You don't answer.

They nod and leave a pine cone beside your bed.

You have no idea what it means.

A distant chicken sneezes,

Probably accidental,

Possibly political.

Someone in the next room coughs and immediately follows it with an apology.

The air feels tense.

Even the shadows look nervous.

Somewhere beneath the floorboards,

Pipes groan from centuries of poor planning.

You wonder if the king hears it from his gilded mattress or if someone simply lies beneath his bed all night,

Ready to absorb the noise into their body like a noble sponge of silence.

You turn your head slowly,

Cautiously.

The pillow emits the faintest wheeze.

Your door opens.

Two servants enter with a vial of scented oil and a bell made of glass.

"'Forgiveness,

' one says.

"'Correction,

' the other adds.

They dab oil on your forehead and place the bell on your chest.

It's cold,

Very cold.

You lie still and try to appear deeply unconscious.

Eventually,

The room empties again.

The wind rattles the shutters once,

Twice,

Then remembers the rules and backs off.

You breathe shallowly,

Like someone pretending not to cry during a toast.

The frogs do not return.

The owl has either repented or been relocated.

The farter,

Miraculously,

Has found peace.

You close your eyes.

The cot sighs beneath you.

And this time,

No one comes.

You are awoken by the sound of royal discomfort.

It's a specific kind of groaning less.

I stubbed my toe and more.

I have made a decision that will alter the fate of the kingdom and also my spine.

The king is missing from his usual perch of 24 embroidered pillows and an aggressively overstuffed mattress that moans like a cursed opera singer every time someone sits on it.

You find him outside,

On the ground,

Wrapped in what appears to be a flower sack and nestled in straw like a chicken that's lost its way in life.

"'Perspective,

' he mumbles,

Face half buried in hay.

The royal physician is pacing nearby with the urgency of someone who believes a sneeze might change history.

The bishop has already fainted into a bowl of porridge.

One advisor stares at the sky like it has betrayed him personally.

Another simply writes,

"'This is how empires fall over and over on a parchment scroll.

' The queen throws a spoon,

Not at anyone,

Just into the void.

"'It's for balance,

' she mutters before storming off to gargle honey wine and plot.

You inch closer to the king who looks surprisingly pleased with himself in the way only a man could be after sleeping in a barn he technically owns.

His beard has hay in it.

His nightcap is askew and looks more like a dunce hat than usual.

He waves a hand slowly like he's blessing a harvest.

"'Do you feel all right,

Your majesty?

' someone asks.

He blinks slowly,

Then smiles.

"'I have discovered truth,

' he says.

There is a long pause where no one is sure if this is good or bad.

He stretches or attempts to.

His back pops like a small fire.

A servant winces.

Another offers him a damp cloth and a story about a noble who once tried something similar and was never heard from again.

"'It was humbling,

' the king continues,

Now attempting to rise from the straw with the assistance of a broom and a peasant named Ulrich,

Who happened to be walking,

Passed at the wrong time.

No bed curtains,

No hot stones,

No choir of monks humming the psalms of drowsiness,

Just earth,

Honest,

Scratchy,

Bitey earth.

' "'Bitey?

' the bishop asks faintly,

Regaining consciousness in time for the worst part.

"'Yes,

' the king replies,

Casually scratching his leg with a look of enlightened misery.

"'It appears I have been blessed with the company of nature.

' He holds up a flea between two fingers.

It bows.

Probably.

The queen returns,

Now armed with a goblet and an opinion.

"'You slept in a barn,

' she says.

"'You're not enlightened.

"'You're itchy.

' He shrugs.

"'I understand my people now,

' he says.

"'I understand suffering.

"'I understand hay.

' He sneezes,

Violently.

The royal astrologer,

Who has arrived late but dramatically,

Begins charting the sneeze on a vellum scroll.

"'This may align with Mars,

' he says,

As if that will help anyone.

Later,

Back in the castle,

Servants scrub him with mint and vinegar while a line of physicians inspect him for rustic diseases.

He hums,

Still wearing the flower sack,

Which he refuses to return because it speaks to his soul.

"'You are handed a small box of salve "'and asked to apply it liberally.

' He winces,

Then sighs.

"'I was brave,

' he says.

"'You were itchy,

' you reply.

"'Both can be true,

' he murmurs.

The next night,

He returns to his proper bed,

15 mattresses tall and fluffed by people who went to school for it.

But now he insists on a single piece of straw tucked under his pillow,

For grounding,

He says.

"'For humility.

"'You think he's forgotten what humility is,

"'but you tuck the straw in anyway.

' And he sleeps like a man who's sure he's changed forever,

Even if he still snores like a drunken bell tower.

You're handed a goblet that smells like it's been steeped in medieval disappointments.

A thick,

Moss-colored liquid sloshes inside,

Thick as guilt,

And just slightly warmer than body temperature.

The sleep physician,

Who insists on being called Somnalius the Gentle,

Watches you with the reverence of someone unveiling a masterpiece or a crime.

For dreamless rest,

He intones,

Swirling his own cup with the flair of a magician who's too confident,

Balanced with valerian,

Soot of lavender root,

And just a whisper of eel bile,

A subtle note of anise for the bold.

You glance into the goblet,

And the goblet stares back.

Somewhere,

Deep inside,

Something bubbles unprompted.

You're assured this is normal and therapeutic.

The servant next to you dry heaves silently into a napkin.

You take a sip.

It tastes like betrayal,

Not the emotional kind,

The root kind,

Dirt,

Boiled socks,

And something vaguely cinnamon,

If cinnamon had been left in a drawer too long and developed opinions.

The king sips his calmly,

Seated on a throne made entirely of pillows,

Robes draped around him like a plush onion.

His version has a cinnamon stick and a lemon slice floating atop like someone tried to apologize with garnish.

He smacks his lips and nods.

Soothing,

He says,

Eyes already glassy.

You do not feel soothed.

You feel watched,

Specifically by the chamber pot in the corner,

Which seems to have shifted three inches closer while you weren't looking.

You blink.

It doesn't move,

But its handle now resembles a judgmental eyebrow,

And you're certain it just sighed.

You look away.

Somnelius claps his hands and begins humming in E minor,

Claiming the frequency enhances absorption.

A monk appears with a gong.

The gong is silent.

The monk is not.

He chants something about the spine being a river and dreams being boats or goats.

You're not sure.

The words are sticky and keep clinging to your forehead.

You try to lie down.

The bed feels like it's made of moss and decisions.

The pillow exhales beneath you,

Not in a comforting way,

More like it resents being involved.

Your limbs tingle.

Your ears feel bigger.

The tapestry on the wall starts whispering in French,

And you don't speak French,

But the tone is unmistakably gossipy.

You close your eyes.

Behind them,

Your brain begins projecting images you never ordered.

A choir of badgers,

A tax ledger that weeps,

The queen riding a giant beetle while reciting poetry about soup.

Your heartbeat plays a rhythm that sounds suspiciously like a tavern jig,

And your toes try to join in.

You open your eyes.

The chamber pot is definitely closer.

The king is snoring now,

Peacefully oblivious to the drama unfolding in your bloodstream.

A servant mists his forehead with rose water while another brushes his hair with a comb made of ivory and ambition.

He's glowing,

Literally.

It's unclear if it's spiritual or just a side effect.

You whisper,

Help,

But only the chamber pot hears you.

It winks.

Eventually,

The potion thins in your veins,

Melting into a soft,

Fuzzy numbness.

The badgers leave.

The tapestry returns to being judgmental in silence.

Your muscles release,

And the bed feels less like a dare and more like a suggestion.

You drift,

If not into sleep,

Then into something adjacent,

A floating.

You dream of moths folding laundry.

It's the most peace you've had all night.

In the morning,

The king rises refreshed,

Sipping mint tea like he hasn't betrayed every natural law of sleep.

He declares the elixir a triumph of modern medicine and nods to Somnalius,

Who bows with enough flourish to hurt his own back.

You're still blinking at the sun with one shoe on and the distinct sensation that your tongue is wearing a hat.

Somnalius offers you another goblet.

You decline.

The chamber pot,

Still watching,

Seems disappointed.

At exactly 2.

14 a.

M.

,

Bells do not ring,

Horns do not sound,

But something in the air shifts like the walls inhale.

It's the hour of the midnight confessor,

And the ritual is somehow both sacred and slightly awkward,

Like spiritual dentistry.

The priest arrives silently,

Barefoot,

With a candle balanced in one hand and a tiny stool in the other.

His robes are made of velvet and secrets.

You hear him before you see him,

Muttering psalms like he's trying to sue the cat.

The king is already semi-upright,

Hair tousled like a disgraced cherub,

Eyes squinting with the clarity of a man who's lived too long with too many opinions.

He gestures for you to leave,

But also to stay,

And you're too tired to interpret which,

So you simply slide further into your shadow and pretend to be part of the wall.

The priest sits beside the royal bed,

Crosses one leg over the other,

And leans forward like a gossiping ant with holy credentials.

His voice is soft but expectant.

The king exhales dramatically.

I once faked a headache to avoid a joust.

The priest nods,

As if he hears this sort of thing often.

The king continues.

It wasn't even a convincing one.

I just said ow and fell onto a cushion.

They called off the entire tournament and sent me pears.

I ate all the pears.

I still have the helmet.

The priest offers a slow blink of spiritual understanding.

I also may have replaced the bishop's wine with watered-down cider during the Feast of St.

Wibbert.

The priest's head tilts,

Not with judgment,

More like he's mentally tallying how many Hail Marys that's worth,

Adjusted for ecclesiastical inflation.

The king pulls the covers up to his chin.

Sometimes I dream of throwing the crown into a well and running off to become a duck herder.

The priest places a hand on his heart and whispers,

We all dream of ducks,

Your majesty.

There is a pause,

The kind that grows moss if you leave it too long.

Then the priest reaches into his pouch and pulls out a small ceramic flask.

Warm goat milk,

He says,

Steeped with thyme for the soul.

The king accepts it reverently,

Sips and sighs like he's just been forgiven by a dairy product.

A smile plays at the edge of his mouth.

You are beginning to wonder if confession is less about guilt and more about curated insomnia.

The priest leans in again,

More curious now.

And is there anything heavier,

Any burden that gnaws at you like a fox at the pantry door?

The king frowns thoughtfully.

Sometimes I pretend not to hear my advisors,

Just to see how long they'll keep talking.

The priest does not react.

And I once told the queen that her new tapestry was inspired.

I did not clarify that I meant inspired by confusion.

The priest closes his eyes,

Perhaps to pray,

Or perhaps to picture the tapestry.

Forgive me,

Father,

The king mumbles,

Not quite meeting his gaze,

For I am very tired.

Then sleep,

The priest whispers,

Rising.

Forgiveness is often found between breaths.

He moves to leave,

But not before offering a final pearl of nocturnal wisdom.

Do not let the goats of shame trample the fields of your dreams.

No one knows what that means,

But it sounds incredibly wise at 2.

29 a.

M.

As the priest glides from the room,

Candlelight flickering behind him like the tail of a memory,

The king sinks back into his pillows with a small,

Milky smile.

You remain very still,

Unsure whether you're a witness,

An accomplice,

Or simply part of the furniture.

The room settles again,

And somewhere far below,

The chapel goat sneezes.

The scandal begins with a whisper,

Which,

Like most whispers in the castle,

Starts in the laundry chamber and ends in the throne room.

Passing through at least one pantry,

A suspicious-looking broom closet,

And the mouth of a footman who knows too much and dusts too little.

It's morning,

Barely.

The sky still wears its nightclothes.

You're brushing ash off your borrowed sleeves when the alarm is sounded,

Not with bells,

But with the loud,

Flustered exclamation of a chambermaid named Lotha,

Who storms out of the bedchamber holding what appears to be a mildly insulted blanket.

Flax,

She hisses,

Like it's a curse.

It's flax,

Not wool,

Not wool.

The hallway freezes.

A cup of barley tea trembles on a tray.

A pigeon turns back around.

Soon,

The astrologer is summoned.

He arrives in his usual gown of swirling constellations and very real stars,

Tiny,

Sharp,

And occasionally flammable.

He squints at the offending blanket,

Sniffs it,

And announces with great gravity that Mercury has entered a house it has no business being in,

And this is clearly the work of sabotage.

The bishop mutters about heresy,

The queen mutters about texture,

And the cook mutters into a bowl of oatmeal while quietly increasing the butter content.

You are invited to inspect the blankets yourself.

One is traditional wool,

Thick,

Scratchy,

Slightly judgmental.

The other,

Flax,

Smoother,

Lighter,

Suspiciously modern in vibe.

The contrast is stark,

Like comparing a stern nun to a slightly tipsy aunt,

Both warm,

Both well-meaning,

One clearly plotting something.

The king,

Meanwhile,

Remains nestled beneath both,

Snoring in the key of minor discontent.

He has not yet noticed the change,

Or if he has,

He's decided not to dignify it with wakefulness.

He looks peaceful in that fragile,

Too-still way that implies either deep sleep or contemplation of a coup.

By noon,

The castle is divided.

The linen faction,

Led by the queen's tailor and three bored cousins,

Argues that flax is breathable,

Fashionable,

And less likely to give one dreams about itchy farm work.

The wool loyalists mostly shepherds,

Older nobles,

And a decorative goat named Bartholomew stand firm on tradition,

Comfort,

And the sacred obligation to itch nobly in one's sleep.

At one point,

Someone tries to sneak in a velvet throw as a compromise.

The queen gasps.

The bishop nearly faints.

A servant covers the throw with a pewter plate like it's a scandalous relic.

In the middle of it all,

The king stirs.

He doesn't speak.

He merely rolls to his side,

Dragging both blankets with him in a sweeping diplomatic gesture.

He sighs long,

Theatrical,

And tinged with the kind of melancholy only monarchs and poets can pull off at 3 p.

M.

I dreamt,

He mumbles into the pillow,

That I was a biscuit.

The room pauses.

A biscuit?

The astrologer asks cautiously.

A large biscuit,

The king confirms,

Warm,

Crumbly,

Content.

No one knows quite how to respond.

The priest mutters a blessing.

The cook nods thoughtfully,

Perhaps making plans.

The flax blanket puffs slightly in pride.

Later that evening,

A royal decree is issued.

It states that the king shall henceforth sleep under both blankets as symbols of unity and balance,

And also because choosing is exhausting.

The wool is labeled the blanket of tradition.

The flax,

The blanket of enlightened curiosity.

Both are embroidered with the royal crest and a small,

Smiling biscuit.

You pass the queen in the hallway as she sips wine and glares at a tapestry.

It was definitely fashion,

She says without looking at you.

You nod,

Though you're not sure what she means.

Back in the bedchamber,

The king slumbers,

Tucked beneath layers of compromise.

The wool scratches,

The flax whispers.

Together,

They form a truce that rustles softly through the night.

Outside,

Bartholomew the goat eats a napkin in protest.

You see it the first night,

Sitting like a forgotten relic on the edge of the royal chaise lounge,

Slightly puffed,

Slightly smug,

As if it knows something you don't,

Which frankly it does.

The embroidery is old gold thread in the shape of a lion with one eye closed,

As though it's either winking or has seen too much.

Someone's tried to clean it,

But the scent clings stubbornly.

Lavender,

Mildew,

And something you can only describe as treasonous.

No one touches it.

They clean around it like it's a royal ghost.

The steward dusts it with a feather that never quite makes contact.

The chambermaids avert their eyes when passing.

The jester,

Of course,

Tells you it's cursed.

He whispers it with glee,

Like a child sharing scandal,

Eyes wide and dancing.

It swallowed a duke,

He says,

Deadpan,

Before cartwheeling away with a squeaky horn and absolutely no clarification.

Later,

The steward corrects him.

It did not swallow a duke,

He says,

Folding linen like he's been personally offended.

It merely belonged to one,

The last one,

The one who fell off the balcony during a mild breeze.

He pauses while holding the pillow.

You ask if that's a coincidence.

He says the wind was unusually opinionated that day.

The cat,

However,

Loves the pillow,

A round,

Squishy thing named Monfort who moves like he owns land and votes.

He pads over each night,

Makes an elaborate show of circling the lion three times,

Then settles in with a sigh that feels louder than the king's declarations of war.

No one stops him.

Even the bishop steps around him like the feline has diplomatic immunity.

One night,

In a moment of questionable courage and definite boredom,

You decide to sit next to it,

Not on it,

You're not unhinged,

But close,

Enough to maybe hear it whisper or emit smoke or demand your soul in exchange for eternal back support.

It doesn't do any of that.

It just sits there,

Innocently sinister,

Like it's waiting for someone to confess.

You lean in.

It smells older now somehow,

More potent,

Like the memory of a betrayal that still echoes in the stone walls.

You think you hear a sigh,

Or maybe it's just the cat who opens one eye,

Stares into your soul,

And flicks his tail like he's making a note of something.

You inch away.

The king enters moments later,

Robe trailing,

Crown askew like a man whose sleep is constantly interrupted by political obligations and dietary misadventures.

He says nothing about the pillow.

He never does.

He walks past it,

Climbs into bed,

And begins snoring as if it's a royal decree.

You ask the priest about it the next morning.

Over burnt porridge and a confused egg.

He only shakes his head and mutters something in Latin that might be a prayer or a recipe.

Some things,

He says,

Are best left unexplained,

Like the pillow or the queen's cousin who speaks only in riddles.

You consider moving it,

Just once,

Just to see,

But as you reach for it,

Monfort appears.

You didn't hear him come in.

No footsteps,

No creaking floorboard,

Just sudden,

Imperious feline presence.

He plants himself between you and the pillow,

Slow blinking like an assassin with velvet paws.

You retreat.

That night,

The pillow remains untouched.

The lion's embroidered eye seems more open,

Or maybe it always was.

The cat settles in.

The king snores.

The wind outside carries the faint echo of a laugh that may or may not be the jester.

In the morning,

You ask if you can change rooms.

The steward simply smiles and hands you a different pillow,

This one embroidered with a goat.

You're not sure if it's safer,

But at least it doesn't smell like betrayal.

Not yet.

There is frost on the king's eyebrows.

You try not to stare,

But it's hard when they sparkle like two confused snowflakes trying to unionize.

He's swaddled in 12 layers of wool,

A bear pelt,

And something that might once have been a rug.

No one knows why he insists on napping out here.

The balcony is narrow,

The wind is judgmental,

And you're reasonably certain a pigeon just tried to file a noise complaint against the royal snoring.

Still,

Here you are,

Holding a brass bell with no clapper because the sound was deemed too stimulating.

If the king stops breathing,

You're supposed to gently tap it against the stone railing until someone notices.

That's the plan.

That's the entire plan.

The steward calls it a tradition.

The queen calls it nonsense.

The king calls it invigorating.

Right before settling into his frost-covered chaise lounge with the determined optimism of a man who's never personally known hypothermia,

You shift your weight from one foot to the other,

Trying not to freeze solid in your borrowed boots.

The fur lining is mostly decorative and partially inhabited by something that might be alive.

You stop wiggling your toes in case it gets offended.

Across the courtyard,

A monk is pretending not to watch.

He's technically on candle duty,

But his candle hasn't been lit in half an hour,

And he's clearly using the flame to toast a chestnut.

When you catch his eye,

He shrugs.

You nod.

That's the kind of day it is.

The king shifts slightly,

A crackling sound rising from beneath him like a frozen parchment being unfolded.

One arm sticks out of the blanket pile,

Fingers stiff and noble,

Pointed directly at the sky as if challenging the clouds to a duel.

You consider saluting it.

Instead,

You tap the bell once for morale.

It makes a disappointing clink.

From somewhere inside,

Someone plays a lute with the emotional energy of a man who once lost a bet involving sheep.

The sound wafts out the window like a musical sigh.

The king does not stir.

A droplet of condensation slowly trails from the corner of his mouth and freezes mid-drip.

You watch it grow,

Hypnotized,

Until it forms what can only be described as a beard icicle.

You briefly imagine it winning a small award.

The physician arrives.

Wrapped in so many scarves,

He looks like an ambitious onion.

He kneels beside the king,

Places two fingers against the royal neck,

And squints.

Still noble,

He says solemnly,

Then disappears back into the castle without elaboration.

You wonder if this is a normal winter.

The wind smells faintly of rosemary and unresolved trauma.

A bird lands on the balcony rail,

Eyes the king,

And decides not to engage.

It flies off with what might be a judgmental squawk.

You envy its freedom.

Eventually,

The king sighs,

A grand,

Frosty exhale that sends a puff of steam into the air like a tiny storm cloud.

His eyelids flutter open.

He looks around,

Bleary but content,

As though the freezing of his nasal passages was a spiritual experience.

Bracing,

He whispers to no one in particular,

Deeply bracing.

You nod as if you understand.

He stands,

Or tries to.

The layers rebel.

It takes two footmen,

A prayer,

And an ill-timed sneeze from the astrologer.

But eventually,

The king is vertical and moving back inside.

You follow,

Bell in hand,

Feet numb,

Dignity frozen somewhere between your knees.

The steward claps once.

Everyone pretends this is normal.

You hang the bell on its hook and walk away,

Hoping for warmth,

Or at least tea that doesn't taste like licorice and despair.

Next week,

You'll be back on that balcony,

And the icicle beard might have a name.

The king begins his wandering just after the third bell,

Sometime between the astrologer's final chart adjustments and the castle owl's second complaint.

The guards don't speak of it openly,

But you notice how they grip their spears tighter once the moon reaches a certain angle,

Like they've been warned too many times not to interfere with a man in motion who's dreaming of the 14th century.

He doesn't announce his departure.

One moment,

He's snoring beneath seven layers of ceremonial wool and spiritual doubt,

And the next,

He's upright,

Barefoot,

And gliding across the stone floor like a noble ghost with unresolved cavalry issues.

Your job is to follow.

You were told this casually,

As if it was just another item between polish the goblets and don't insult the tapestry again.

The steward handed you a candle stub and said,

Gently guide him,

Don't wake him,

Definitely don't let him near the poultry.

Then he disappeared into a hallway that doesn't exist on any map.

Now here you are,

Candle in one hand,

Blanket in the other,

Stalking a king who moves like sleep has divorced time.

Tonight,

He heads east,

Murmuring names that sound like retired horses or forgotten cheeses.

Brindle,

Maxtrot,

Oatmeal.

His tone is wistful,

Like a man recalling lovers that were half horse and half metaphor.

You stay a few paces behind,

Just enough to avoid suspicion.

The king doesn't seem to register your presence.

Though once,

He pauses,

Tilts his head and whispers,

No,

That's not your bucket,

To a chair.

You nod,

It isn't,

The castle at night is different.

Walls breathe,

Candles flicker at odd rhythms,

Distant snores and murmured prayers bleed through the stone like echoes of a nap gone sideways.

A tapestry sways despite the absence of wind.

You pretend not to notice.

The king passes a guard who stiffens like he's being knighted by dread itself.

The king pats him on the shoulder and mutters,

You did your best,

Gregory.

The guard's name is Peter,

He doesn't correct him.

You nudge the king away from a staircase with the same energy you'd use to steer a goat away from a wedding cake.

He complies,

But not before pausing at the top and declaring,

The battle will be fought with spoons this time.

You bow in agreement,

Who are you to argue with sleep logic?

The poultry,

Unfortunately,

Have noticed.

Chickens in the courtyard begin to cluck in defensive formation.

You think you see the goose,

The one that hates everyone but especially the monarchy.

Its eyes narrow as the king approaches.

You interject swiftly,

Positioning yourself between man and bird,

Whispering something that sounds vaguely holy.

The goose retreats,

But only to regroup.

The king turns west now,

Toward the queen's tower.

This is strictly off limits.

You've been warned,

Several times.

There are signs,

One of them is just a painting of the queen frowning.

You toss the blanket gently over the king's shoulders like a diplomatic offering.

He halts,

Tilts his head.

You smell like porridge,

He says,

Not unkindly.

He turns back,

Heading toward his chambers with the sleepy dignity of someone who believes he just attended a summit on dream treaties.

You follow,

Heart still pounding,

Candle sputtering like it's losing confidence in your mission.

When he reaches the bed,

He climbs in without a word.

The blanket you gave him stays on,

Though slightly misaligned.

He tucks one foot beneath a pillow and exhales so deeply it might qualify as a weather event.

Within seconds,

The royal snoring resumes,

Weaving through the room like a lullaby played on a broken accordion.

You sit beside the door until dawn,

Watching the hallway for movement,

Poultry,

Or anything else that might try to derail the kingdom's most mysterious midnight routine.

The rooster crows,

Somewhere in the distance,

A duck laughs.

The fire crackles with the same tired rhythm as your voice.

It's your third page of The History of Potatoes,

And the king is already dabbing his eyes with the corner of his sleeve like a maiden in a tapestry.

You're not sure what part got to him,

Maybe the paragraph about soil acidity,

Maybe the footnote about tuber shapes in wet climates.

Either way,

He's moved,

Or melting,

Possibly both.

You didn't expect to be the royal storyteller.

In fact,

You were just looking for the kitchens when a chamberlain plucked you from obscurity and pressed a book into your hands with a haunted whisper.

He prefers slow narratives,

Nothing too exciting,

No twists,

Nothing involving bears.

Then he disappeared down a corridor that didn't exist an hour ago.

Now you sit at the foot of the king's bed,

Knees tucked under a quilt that smells faintly of time and expectations,

Your voice echoing through the dim chamber like a librarian's ghost.

The king is swaddled in sleep robes stitched with embroidered vegetables,

A beat on the collar,

A leak near the elbow.

He calls it his comfort harvest.

He nods at you to continue.

You clear your throat and begin chapter four,

The expansion of tuber cultivation in lowland marshes.

1,

200 and 11 to 1,

220.

It starts with a long list of farming methods and ends with a surprisingly aggressive anecdote about a monk who hoarded yams.

The king sighs softly,

His eyes glassy,

His expression somewhere between reverence and mild indigestion.

You pause to take a sip of lukewarm herbal tea,

Which tastes like dandelion and disappointment.

One of the attendants adjusts your chair by half an inch and nods solemnly.

You thank them,

Not because it helped,

But because they clearly needed it.

The story continues.

You read about potato blight,

Crop rotation,

And a local rebellion sparked by a poorly planned root festival.

The king wipes away another tear.

This,

This is the good part,

He whispers.

You nod.

Even though this chapter is mostly about the history of mulch,

Behind you,

The royal cat paces along the windowsill,

Tail twitching with the sort of disdain only possessed by animals who have personally witnessed monarchs snore.

It stares at you,

Then at the king,

Then disappears behind a curtain to curse your bloodline in private.

You reach the climax of tonight's tale,

A regional summit in which five noblemen argued for three days about storing potatoes in barrels versus baskets.

The tension is mild.

There's a chart.

The king clutches his blanket tighter.

He's fully reclined now,

The flickering firelight making shadows dance across his face like wistful root vegetables.

You lower your voice,

Adopting a reverent tone as you deliver the final line,

And thus concluded the 1,

220 planting season with yields surpassing even the estimates of brother Ulrich,

Whose charts remain controversial.

Silence.

You close the book.

The king exhales through his nose one final trembling breath of starchy satisfaction.

That was exquisite,

He murmurs.

The part about the basket's very moving.

You bow slightly,

Unsure whether to thank him or offer a refund.

A servant enters and silently replaces your tea with a bowl of warm broth.

You're not supposed to drink it.

It's ceremonial.

You hold it anyway,

Like a trophy for surviving one of the slowest narratives in recorded history.

The king's eyes close.

He is not yet asleep,

But deep in thought,

Probably about storage methods.

You rise to leave.

A quiet nod from the steward,

A rare smile from the guard.

Even the cat offers a slow blink of reluctant approval before flicking its tail and vanishing again into the folds of nobility.

Tomorrow,

Someone else will read.

Possibly the evolution of mud bricks in northern settlements.

Maybe an incomplete guide to baskets.

You don't know.

But for tonight,

You were the voice that carried a monarch gently into the arms of tuber-induced dreams.

And that's not nothing.

The bishop declares it with the gravity of a man announcing a flood.

No sleep for two nights.

The king must remain awake,

Eyes peeled for divine signs,

Prophetic dreams postponed in favor of prolonged blinking and mood swings.

It's called sleep fasting,

An ancient rite from a scroll no one has seen,

Translated from a language that may or may not be real.

The bishop holds up the parchment like it bit him.

The king nods solemnly,

Even as his eyelid begins to tremble.

By midnight on the first night,

The royal court has the energy of a barn owl with tax problems.

Candles burn lower,

Shadows lengthen,

And everyone speaks with that syrupy slowness that makes even polite words sound like threats.

The king paces in circles around the great hall,

Muttering about the clarity of silence while his shoe catches on a tapestry and nearly sends him into a pewter bowl of jam.

You trail him,

Tea tray in hand,

Wearing the fixed smile of someone who knows this won't end in glory.

A musician in the corner plays one string on a harp every 20 minutes,

Claiming it helps with temporal awareness.

The rest of the room flinches with each note like it's a small slap from God.

At hour nine,

The king writes a poem about fish.

No one asks him to.

He announces it loudly,

Calls for ink,

And scratches it onto the back of a royal decree like it's his magnum opus.

It rhymes,

Barely.

He stares at it like it contains universal truth.

You read the line,

Gills like whispers in a lemon stream,

And choose to keep your feedback to yourself.

By dawn,

The queen is sleeping upright in a chair,

A thin string of drool connecting her chin to her collarbone.

The bishop slaps a brass triangle every hour to keep people alert,

But mostly it just startles the cat.

The jester begins quoting tax codes and laughing hysterically.

Someone's wig is on backwards.

No one mentions it.

You offer the king a nap.

He squints at you like you're speaking betrayal and fluent heresy.

If I sleep,

He whispers,

I might miss the message.

You nod,

Understood.

But if you don't nap,

You might start seeing messages in the curtains.

He thinks about that.

You both settle for tea.

It's the spiced kind,

Brewed with cinnamon bark and desperation.

It does nothing.

The king's eyes are wide but vacant,

The look of a man who's heard too many bells and now thinks in echoes.

By the second night,

Everyone is unraveling.

The steward walks backward and insists it's for balance.

A falconer starts whispering apologies to the chandelier.

The bishop maintains this is all according to plan,

Though his eye twitches every time the king recites the fish poem out loud,

Which he now calls the aquatic gospel.

Eventually,

The king begins seeing things.

He points at a bowl of apples and demands it stop judging him.

He weeps at the sight of his own foot.

He tries to knight a chair,

Then forgets why halfway through and scolds it for poor posture.

Still,

He refuses sleep.

You begin to suspect the visions aren't divine,

Just side effects of a nervous system filing complaints.

When he tries to eat a candle,

You gently redirect his hand and offer more tea.

He accepts it with the gravity of a monarch accepting surrender.

By sunrise of day three,

The bishop declares the ritual complete.

No explanation,

No vision,

Just a loud,

Satisfied declaration and a triumphant exit.

The king collapses into a chaise like a puppet whose strings were cut by someone angry at upholstery.

He snores instantly.

You sit beside him,

Sipping cold tea,

Watching a beam of light crawl across the tiles like it's seen things it will never speak of.

Someone begins,

Reading the fish poem aloud again.

You pretend not to hear.

The tapestry doesn't move so much as it exhales.

A little puff of old dust,

The scent of lavender and long-forgotten decisions.

You brush it aside,

Thinking you'll find a wall or maybe a draft.

Instead,

Your fingers find wood,

Then a handle.

Then,

Almost without permission,

The wall opens,

Not loudly,

Just enough to feel personal.

Inside is a room the size of a confession,

Small,

Hushed,

And clearly not on any official diagram.

There's a cot,

A single thin blanket that smells faintly of cinnamon and rebellion,

A stubby candle burned halfway down like it got bored midway through illumination,

And an orange split in half,

Sitting delicately on a pewter plate like a peace offering between two very tired factions.

On the wall,

Scrawled in chalk above the cot's headboard,

Are five words,

Do not tell the bishop.

They are underlined twice.

The second underline trails off like the chalk got nervous.

You freeze in that soft and crumbling kind of silence that only ever exists in secret places.

There's a hum to the room,

Not of sound,

But of agreement.

This is not a room built for declarations or rituals or scrolls.

It's a place of surrender,

A little corner of human need carved into stone and hidden behind the grand noise of courtly things.

You glance behind you,

But no one has followed.

You shut the tapestry again,

Gently,

As though the wall might change its mind.

Then you sit on the cot.

It creaks the way only honest furniture does,

A sound that says,

Yes,

Yes,

I've held many.

The blanket is scratchy but familiar,

The kind of wool that once hugged a sheep with political opinions.

It has weight,

Which feels strangely like kindness.

You pick up the orange.

It's cool,

Freshly peeled.

Someone had planned to eat it and got distracted,

Or maybe they meant for you to find it.

Either way,

You eat it in silence,

Tasting citrus and secrecy.

There are no windows,

No bells,

No bishop,

Just you,

The cot,

And the memory of someone very royal needing a nap badly enough to hide from an entire castle to get one.

It occurs to you,

Slowly,

That the king must have used this room more than once.

The chalk is smudged.

There are indentations on the cot not shaped like you.

The candle is shorter than it should be for something untouched.

There's a teacup in the corner with a chip shaped exactly like the kingdom's northern border.

You lie back.

The mattress isn't soft,

But it doesn't poke you with coins or pamphlets.

There are no servants fanning you with poultry,

No astrologer's humming approval,

No whispered updates from the hallway,

Just stillness,

A stillness with its elbows on the table and its feet tucked under a quilt.

And just as your eyes begin to flutter shut,

You hear it,

A voice,

Soft,

Familiar,

Raspy with authority and sleep.

I never told anyone either,

Says the king.

He's standing in the corner,

Holding a second half of orange and wearing what can only be described as a robe of tactical avoidance.

He looks at the cot like it's a chapel.

Then he sits on the floor,

Cross-legged like a child hiding from homework.

This room,

He whispers,

Is older than my title.

You don't ask questions.

You just nod,

Mouth full of citrus,

Mind full of fog.

The two of you sit in silence.

No declarations,

No ceremony,

Just a candle,

A cot,

And the quiet understanding between two people who have both,

At some point,

Needed to disappear for a little while.

The king is ill and the castle has begun to unravel.

Not dramatically,

No flaming tapestries or hastily written wills,

But in a slow,

Passive-aggressive way.

The kind of unraveling that begins with silence and ends with someone crying in a pantry.

The halls are quieter now,

Except for the muffled,

Tectonic snores emanating from the royal bedchamber.

It sounds less like a man sleeping and more like a series of avalanches politely taking turns.

You're handed a mop with no instruction other than a condry.

Pitying glance from a chambermaid named Sybil who mouths something that might be,

"'Godspeed,

' or,

"'He bit me.

'" You're not sure which is worse.

Inside the room,

The air is dense with the scent of boiled herbs and existential fatigue.

Candles flicker in corners like they're reconsidering employment.

A bowl of something once medicinal festers on a stool.

It may have been soup.

It now looks like it resents you.

The king lies in bed,

Half buried beneath an impressive mound of fur blankets,

His nose red enough to qualify for sainthood.

His snores pause only to allow for phlegmatic declarations of injustice and doom.

At one point,

He mutters something about a treaty and sneezes hard enough to shift the drapes.

The jester is here too.

He's wearing a hat that seems louder than necessary and is moving around the room,

Waving a bundle of sage like he's conducting an exorcism that keeps changing its mind.

He doesn't speak,

Just hums a note that may or may not be green sleeves and glares meaningfully at the corners of the room as if illness might be lurking behind the wainscotting.

You begin mopping or at least pretending to.

The floor is mostly dry,

But the mop gives you something to hold,

Something to aim your thoughts into.

You wonder what your life choices were that led to being a royal illness buffer.

You also wonder if the jester has any idea what he's doing or if he's just stalling for applause.

The king coughs,

Not delicately.

It's the kind of cough that makes birds startle three counties over.

A basin is thrust into your hands by someone you didn't see arrive and won't see leave.

You hold it with the grim reverence of someone catching rainwater in a teacup during a flood.

At some point,

The physician enters.

He smells faintly of vinegar and crushed hope and declares the king is suffering from an imbalance of winds.

You're not entirely sure what that means,

But it sounds like something you'd apologize for after a feast.

The physician offers a syrup made from garlic,

Honey,

And something he won't name.

The king throws it at a wall without opening his eyes.

Later,

The bishop visits.

He blesses the pillows,

All of them,

One by one,

Then prays over the mop just in case.

You try not to make eye contact.

He whispers that sickness is a test of the soul.

You wonder why your soul is being tested by a puddle of someone else's sneeze.

The queen doesn't enter.

She sends a note that simply reads,

Again,

And a second one that says,

Tell him I'm in the east tower until further notice.

It smells faintly of rosewater and detachment.

Night falls,

Though the room remains unchanged.

The snores grow louder,

Deeper,

More philosophical.

The jester is asleep on a stool,

Clutching his sage like a teddy bear.

You sit on the floor,

Mop beside you,

And listen to the rhythm of a monarchy slightly unwell.

Somewhere in the corner,

A frog croaks.

You don't remember letting in a frog,

But no one else reacts,

So you pretend not to hear.

And as the fire crackles and the king wheezes something about grain tariffs,

You close your eyes just for a moment.

The sickness isn't yours,

But somehow you're part of it,

Part of the room,

Part of the care,

Part of the strange ballet of comfort and chaos.

You breathe in the scent of sage and soup and candle wax,

And you begin to hum along with the jester's forgotten tune.

The summons comes at dusk,

Wrapped in velvet and mystery,

Handed to you by a boy with a candle and a suspicious mustache.

He says nothing,

Just gestures with the solemnity of someone delivering a prophecy or bad soup.

You follow through the south wing,

Past the room where nobody makes eye contact,

Around the hallway that always smells faintly of jam.

Tonight is the final sleep.

Once a month,

The king's entire schedule bends like a reed in the wind,

Except the reed is embroidered and the wind has a title.

Everything is rearranged,

Meetings canceled,

Trumpets silenced.

A goose that normally greets him in the morning is politely asked to stand down.

This is not an ordinary sleep.

This is ceremony.

This is legend.

This is a performance with one audience member and 20 witnesses,

And somehow you're both.

In the preparation chamber,

He is being wrapped,

Not tucked,

Wrapped.

Layers of silk,

Lavender,

And something referred to only as ancestral thread.

You're not sure what that means,

But it looks expensive and mildly itchy.

A steward brushes the king's eyebrows.

Another polishes his slippers,

Even though he's not wearing them.

He eats plums slowly,

Like each one is a confession.

Juice glistens on his chin.

No one wipes it.

The queen sends a short note.

Don't wake him,

Not again.

It's underlined twice.

Before the sleep,

The king recites a poem to his own reflection.

It is about rivers and loyalty,

Although a stanza or two could be about soup.

The mirror says nothing,

Which is apparently a good sign.

He bows to it,

Once with dramatic flair,

Then turns to you and says,

Write this down,

Before promptly forgetting what he was about to say.

You do not write anything down.

A monk steps forward to hum.

That's his job,

Humming.

A single tone,

Vaguely in key,

Meant to guide the king's spirit into sleep like a foghorn in a night made of velvet.

A falconer tosses feathers in the air.

No one asks why.

Then comes the placement.

The royal bed has been remade six times.

You watched.

The first time was too crisp,

The second too casual.

The third had a lump described as emotionally jarring.

Now,

It looks perfect,

Like a nap written by a poet who's never been tired.

The mattress sighs as the king climbs in.

Not metaphorically,

It makes a noise.

Someone apologizes to it.

You are handed a quill and a piece of parchment and told to document anything unusual.

You ask what qualifies as unusual.

The steward replies,

A wink from the void,

A prophecy in crumbs,

Or if he snores the tune of the national anthem again.

You nod.

Like that answers everything.

The candles are dimmed to royal twilight.

The humming fades.

The king exhales a long breath that seems to carry the weight of minor treaties and one unresolved chess match.

He sinks into the bed like a jewel being returned to its velvet box.

His crown is removed,

Not with reverence,

But with care,

As if it might bite.

Then nothing.

For 14 hours,

He will not speak,

Will not rise,

Will not demand a radish or throw a spoon at a tapestry.

His sleep is not restless.

It is complete.

A sleep that requires an audience and a title.

A sleep so grand it has footnotes.

You sit in the corner,

Scribbling things that sound important.

Twitch at 2.

14.

Whispers,

Possibly Latin,

Possibly about pudding.

You eat the rest of the plums when no one's looking.

At hour seven,

The cat arrives.

It curls beside the bed like it has jurisdiction.

At hour nine,

The jester peeks in and immediately leaves.

Even he knows this is sacred.

At hour 12,

The bishop sneezes in the hallway and is exiled for the evening.

You,

However,

Remain.

You watch the king sleep under more fabric than most small nations could afford and wonder if this is enlightenment or just very fancy camping.

You consider starting a journal.

You start to nod off but catch yourself.

The parchment flutters.

The king shifts,

Sighs,

And smiles.

No one claps,

But they want to.

The bed is quiet,

Too quiet.

Not just absent of sound but vacant of everything.

No creaks from embroidered headboards,

No distant humming,

No subtle waft of time and vaguely medicinal herbs.

The royal linens are neatly folded at the foot like a forgotten truce.

The mattress holds no imprint of a monarch or memory.

You reach out to confirm its emptiness,

As if the king might have learned invisibility in the night or been folded into the bedding like a dignified towel.

No one's there.

You sit up slowly,

Joints surprised.

The air tastes like morning but unbothered.

No bells,

No chanting,

No frantic shuffle of slippers across stone.

No servants,

No priest tucking his notes into his sleeves,

No jester pretending to be a potted plant for reasons no one had the energy to question.

Even the cat is gone,

Which is unsettling because the cat has never willingly missed a nap or a scandal.

You check the window,

Expecting at least a trumpet or an argument.

Nothing,

Just sun,

Polite and gold,

Draping itself over the garden like it paid rent.

You rub your eyes.

Maybe you dreamt the whole thing.

Maybe you're in a different castle.

Maybe this is a trap,

Cleverly disguised as breakfast.

But the silence holds,

Not ominous,

Not grand,

Just unfinished.

You find your shoes by the door,

Where no one has ever left them neatly before.

Someone's done you a kindness.

This unsettles you more than betrayal would.

You step into them,

Half expecting alarms to blare.

None do.

You open the door,

Still nothing.

The hallways echo gently as you walk.

The tapestries don't whisper.

The chandeliers don't tremble.

The suits of armor don't blink.

You pass the bishop's office.

It's empty,

Save for a half-eaten pear and a note that simply reads,

Tuesday,

As if even time has given up specifics.

You keep walking.

In the courtyard,

The cobblestones are warm.

The pigeons have reclaimed authority.

They waddle like officials.

And there,

Beneath the only tree that dares grow in the shadow of royal routines,

Is the king,

Sitting.

No throne,

No velvet,

No fanfare,

Just a bench.

Just a man in loose robes,

Holding a small spoon and a very tired-looking plum.

He sees you,

Smiles.

Not the formal smile of decrees and portraits.

The other kind.

The one that feels like finishing a sentence you didn't realize you were writing.

You've learned,

He says,

With the quiet confidence of someone who didn't.

You open your mouth to respond,

But stop.

Because you haven't.

Not in the way that makes sense,

With facts and timelines and solid explanations.

But something in your shoulders has loosened.

Something in your breath feels less borrowed.

Something in you knows what time it is without asking the stars or the cook.

So you nod.

Not because you know,

But because it feels like the right thing to do.

The king gestures toward the plum,

Offers it like a relic.

You decline.

He shrugs and eats it whole.

You turn.

You walk back through the halls,

Which now feel neither royal nor haunted.

Just halls.

You pass your old cot,

The one that always squeaked and smelled faintly of soap and ambition.

You pass the tapestry that once hid secrets and now only hides dust.

Your bed waits for you.

Not the king's.

Not the tester's.

Yours.

Lumpy in a familiar way.

Slightly crooked from too many uncertain nights.

You climb in.

No trumpets.

No ceremony.

You sleep.

And this time,

No one watches.