"Where is it?" shouted the king.

The guard stared at the floor. He was struggling to keep his trembling in check and managed to only have his teeth betray him. They chattered within his tightly closed mind, sounding like a troupe of dancers making their way on stage, legs kicking and shoes tapping against the wooden boards. He had no idea what the king was talking about, but that wasn't unusual. Often, His Majesty would emerge from his chambers and bellow a question at whomever was unlucky enough to be passing. The query would almost always be random and ambiguous, as if he were testing his subject, expecting an erroneous answer so he could exact some bizarre punishment.

The guard had no way of knowing what 'it' the king referred to.

"It's in the kitchen, Majesty."

"Well, what's it doing there? I can't wear it in the kitchen, can I?"

His voice, already loud, increased in volume with each word, making the guard wince. He could feel the spray of the king's spit against his cheek and could smell the fetid breath.

"I'll go get it."

"Do that. I want my crown here on my head!"

The crown! Of course. The guard scampered off. If he'd been a dog, which was how he felt, his tail would be in between his legs. He knew the crown wasn't in the kitchen, of course. The King of Spades would never reduce himself to entering a room filled with so many of the hired help. He could only just tolerate the servants and guards who served him and that was only because he, usually, had to associate with one or two at a time.

The king was quite insane. He would admit as much himself. His crown, he'd say, would never sit quite straight. Rather than getting any help, however, he revelled in his madness, behaving like a child in a bath at times - surrounded by bubbles and playing with his duck and his toy warship until the water went cold and he had to execute somebody.

The bath was allegorical. The execution, not so much. For little more than coughing at the wrong moment or breathing just too heavily, guards had been dragged off to the dungeons by the hair - the king carrying out the person's removal himself. The dungeon was merely a series of stone cells, mostly empty. Those still occupied had individuals awaiting their demise, something carried out swiftly and inventively.

There were three executioners. Each was called Edward, though none of them really were. His majesty didn't worry himself over trivialities such as names and identified everyone as he felt at that particular time. The trio of Edwards felt quite lucky in that their name had yet to have been changed to something more random.

But, they did their very best to please the king. They had one task. Well, two, really. The main one was to kill those who angered him. They realised the reasons behind this were flagrantly nonsense much of the time, but they didn't want to end up on the wrong end of one of their own weapons. The second task, which was equally as important to them as the first, was to come up with new methods of death. The king refused to witness two consecutive deaths carried out in the same manner. The Edwards had to think of a large variety of techniques to ensure this didn't happen.

Once, they had to kill, by Royal Command, so it was acceptable, twenty men. They were not allowed to use the same process twice in that entire score of individuals.

The Edwards kept very extensive records of whom, when and how. They wanted to live. They used to feel bad about taking lives, but their own were far more important. It became commonplace. Normal. Just a thing they did.

The guard knew the Edwards well. They socialised at the tavern in town. Shared horror stories about their employer, though they made sure no-one was listening. He didn't want to be more intimate with them than he already was so he hurried to find the crown. He already had an idea where it was.

Along the halls, down a long flight of stairs adorned with paintings of the king and through a banquet hall. Eventually, the guard came to a door and knocked.

"Come in."

Slowly he opened the door. It swung silently on well oiled hinges, one of the few (apart from the king's own) which had been so treated. All the better to not make any noise or raise suspicion. He stepped inside and closed the door.

"Ben," said the woman happily. "How lovely to see you."

She stood and took the guard in her arms. Her embrace was awkward due to his thick, stiff clothing, required wear for all palace guards, but she did her best. As ever, he blushed and smiled. She knew Ben's feelings for her but knew he would never act on them. She cared deeply for him too, though not necessarily in the same way. Or, at least, that's what she told herself.

She had to, being the king's unofficial consort. Whether she liked it or not. Whether His Majesty admitted it or not.

The King of Spades had taken a strong liking to her when she was a maid. She had earned, through hard work, the title of Matron and the king had taken her elevation to be her way of standing out to him. Wanting to be noticed. It was nothing of the sort and everyone but he knew this. She had no choice.

She wanted to live.

If it wasn't for Ben, she would, perhaps, have visited the Edwards herself and asked for them to free her in their own unique way. Ben kept her grounded. He told her it wouldn't be forever. Somehow, someway, someday he would help her. He showed her that there were people who were genuine. Nice. Caring.

"Bernice," Ben said, the smile in his voice reflected on his face. "How are you?"

"I'm wonderful," she said. "You're here."

Ben mentally pushed down the well of emotion such a simple comment produced and glanced around the room. It was immaculately kept, with not a single item out of place or out of straight. Bernice didn't suffer from any obsessive disorder, she simply liked everything just so. He saw what he was looking for on a chair. It was the only item in the room which didn't sit square or lay right. The crown was on its side as if discarded without thought.

"I'm afraid I can't stay," Ben told her. His heart sank in line with the drop of her face.

"You're here for that, aren't you?"

Bernice gestured at the crown and moved to pick it up, handing it to her friend.

"I am," he said. "Sorry."

"Don't worry. I understand. You want to keep your head. I want that too - your head to remain exactly where it is."

She smiled and, though it wasn't as bright as her usual beaming rays of sunshine, it did lift the shadow looming over the pair. Ben turned the crown in his hands. He wanted to think of something encouraging to say, but couldn't. He tossed it on the bed and swept her into his arms, holding her tight. He kissed her temple, grabbed the crown and left the room in silence. He didn't see the swell of tears pricking her eyes.

He didn't need to. They were doing the same to his.

Ben returned to the King of Spades, eyes down so as to avoid the contact which would surely lead to his demise.

"Where have you been?" the king asked, his voice echoing in the large, lavishly adorned but devoid of personality or person, ceremony room. The title 'ceremony' was more than it deserved. Breakfast was the only use the room was put to and it was a meal served in silence by the staff but in exuberance by His Majesty. Loud exclamations of how absolutely wonderful he was resounded. Just. Kind. Generous and giving. He made sure all could hear, perhaps in the hope that he might convince them. Perhaps, because he was trying to convince himself.

Perhaps because he believed and thought everyone else did too and so was simply stating the facts.

"It had been put away in a cupboard for safe keeping, Majesty," said Ben. "They didn't want it to be damaged."

He handed the crown to the king who grabbed it impatiently and put it on.

"Glorious, isn't it?"

"Indeed it is, Majesty," agreed Ben.

"OK," said the king. "Go."

"Thank you, Majesty."

Ben exited quickly. He would have liked to have returned to Bernice but knew better. Emotions were beginning to run high between them as the king's demands asked too much of her and Ben was unable to step in but, as he told her, he would find a way.

Someday.

The King of Spades finished his breakfast, belched loudly in the face of the servant clearing his plates and returned to his chambers. He had a meeting planned in a little over an hour and had things he needed to do first. In his chambers, he removed his crown and set it down on the left of two plaster busts, each a perfect likeness of his head, down to the individual hair strands.

When he looked at them, he felt as if he were staring into a mirror and would stand for hours examining the contours and colours of his features. On this occasion, he barely noticed they were there. Instead, he stood before the actual mirror that hung on the wall opposite the always lit fireplace. He liked to see himself surrounded by flames so the fire was permanently lit, even on the hottest summers day. With his reflection appearing as if it were on fire, the King of Spades could imagine he were a god.

He reached up to touch the glass, his fingers tingling at the touch.