The Unfortunate

while he had been appointed to a position of absolute power, he had also accumulated immense responsibilities.
During his time as the leader of Armania, he had been required to make decisions for the good of his people. That was and always would be his priority. A king is strong when all are weak. His is the advice others seek. He is the one who cannot fail. For he will betray his people. Beadurof had heard these words many times. It was a concept he had been taught nearly two decades before he had ascended to the throne. They had been recited to him by his father, and he had learned them from his. All the kings of the Known Realms knew these words.
Although his decisions had benefited his people, they had also caused extensive suffering to befall his enemies. Beadurof had always tried to limit the pleasures his men gained from their conquests. Since war had no laws, however, barbaric acts had still been committed, and the memories of these dark deeds had continued to weigh heavily on the king’s conscience for years after most others had forgotten. Most notably his sleep had been affected. The restless phantoms in Beadurof’s mind had never failed to plague him with nocturnal horrors, and upon awakening he had always prayed for them to cease and not return. But it was to no avail. No matter his attempts, nothing had ever worked, and the king had tried many.
Consumption of excessive amounts of alcohol until he had passed out had been among the earliest trials. Whereas he had been able to obtain sleep, Beadurof had awaken with an unremitting headache, sensitivity to sound and light that if exposed to either made him feel as if daggers were piercing his skull, and uncontrollable bouts of vomiting. When drinking had failed, he had followed the advice of his physician and had used sleeping tonics. Those, too, had been an unsuccessful attempt to calm Beadurof’s mind, and the concoctions had been vile and had had an even worse aftertaste than the sour, morning remnants of the excessive alcohol consumption.
It had been enough to propel him to madness. Other than remaining awake, nothing had ever proven to remedy the memories from haunting his sleep. Nothing had ever caused the visions to cease. Nothing had ever succeeded in rendering the screams and crying. Nothing Beadurof did could ever negate the pillaging, and the raping, and the murdering that had been committed during his reign.
For hours like countless nights prior, he had desired sleep but had instead become a victim of insomnia. It was a never-ending cycle of torment. Tiredness was healed by sleep, but sleep allowed for the conception of dreams, and dreams were the vehicle for the demons of the king’s past, demons that were relentless and that thrived to refuse Beadurof the peace he desired.
The king exhaled deeply and turned to lie on his left side, but it was only momentary. I am the bloody king of Armania! The words were only in his mind, but the tone was an echo of the same authority he would have used to counter an inferior who had reached too high. But who am I trying to intimidate? The demons that haunt my past? As if that will ever happen! The king cursed, and with another sigh he flopped back to his initial position. Thoughts continued to plague his mind and persisted to taunt his conscience. He was certain now more than before that he would not feel the embrace of sleep. Not this night. He turned to his right with another flop. I am the bloody king of Armania! If I cannot sleep, no one should be permitted to rest!
✽ ✽ ✽
After leaving his private chamber, Beadurof went directly to his study. Having had time to consider his thoughts, he had concluded it would be unnecessary to wake others. What purpose would it serve? He realized the issues of the day could wait until dawn’s first light or even until he had broken his fast. For the next few hours, all he desired, other than sleep which he knew would never greet him, was to be alone.
Contrary to what many would expect from a royal castle, Beadurof’s study was modest compared to other rooms in Caberton Keep. The floor was basic cobblestone, and there was nothing on the walls to hide the mundane pattern of mortar and brick. Whereas the room’s architectural design was lacking, the furniture more than compensated. Two entire walls were lined with decoratively-carved, mahogany bookcases. Despite the years, decades, and even centuries represented by the collection, there were few bound volumes. The shelves overflowed with carefully-balanced, rolled parchments, and most were discolored with age.
At the center of the room was an elongated table, also mahogany, and each of its legs had been carved in the semblance of a mythical creature. A dragon, a phoenix, a kraken, and a griffin each held dominion at their respected corners. Among several other costly items, some more useful than others, the table had been a wedding present for Beadurof and his bride, but other than the extensive craftsmanship, Marlisa had hated the gift, and she had once protested, the color has the appearance of being stained with blood, and the creatures are disturbing. Remove it from my sight! I cannot bear to gaze upon it!
But the table was only the first of many disagreements between the king and his wife. Despite Marlisa’s disgust Beadurof admired not only the craftsmanship but also what the beastly designs represented—the idea of what he someday hoped to achieve, legendary status.
In addition to the table, Beadurof’s hope that his name would be immortalized was also fueled by another piece of furniture, a desk. It was positioned in the corner opposite the bookcases, and it had been passed from father to son for several generations. Because each of the previous owners had added to the desk, it, being composed of several types of materials, had developed