"How many heads must I wear before I feel like myself?"
——•✧✦ Disgust III ✧✦•——
Knock, knock.
The two guards flung the door wide without asking permission.
They didn't need to.
His Majesty entered.
No announcement. No bow.
Only slow, heavy steps drumming on the floor.
Mitchell jerked the chalk upward, yelling sharply, leaving a broken white streak on the blackboard.
He spun around too fast, hitting the table next to him, sending papers, pens, and ink pots crashing to the floor.
He tried to stop and salvage what he could but stepped on a forming black puddle and slipped clumsily to the ground.
A dull thud, a puff of dust.
"Nooo!
Those... were this month's plans..."
From the floor, he saw the dark silhouettes of the guards, the Emperor... and the personal Advisor.
Mitchell scrambled up hastily, movements awkward and abrupt, involuntarily flinging drops of ink everywhere.
Even onto the Emperor's face, who remained impassive.
The guy, while brushing his pants, was staining himself even more.
As if shame could be wiped away by hand.
The Advisor commented, his thin smile betraying self-satisfaction.
"Now that you're back...
I admit your reactions always have something picturesque.. Therapist"
Mitch brushed an ink-smeared strand of hair from his forehead and turned slowly.
"Not everyone can afford the coldness of someone who spends his life polishing others' shoes."
He bent down to pick up scattered sheets.
They were filled with rough sketches—houses, towers, even something resembling a dragon hastily drawn in blue crayon.
"No, not this one…
It was precious…"
Other blackboards and wooden panels covered in similar drawings lined the walls.
Colorful smudges and impatient scribbles everywhere.
The whole room was both a battlefield of unfinished ideas and a child's playroom.
Between movements, Mitch bumped into a shelf full of mismatched tea cups.
One wobbled precariously before stabilizing.
"Aren't you ashamed to live in such disorder?"
He bent over a low shelf and sniffed with disgust.
"I smell mold. The same kind that creeps into the walls of crumbling barracks and the minds of failed artists..."
Mitchell turned calmly.
"Have you ever thought that mold is sometimes the only living thing left in certain places?"
"Ugh... I'm feeling terribly nauseated..
And those crude trophies on your shelves…"
Mitchell didn't reply immediately.
He passed by an armchair near the fireplace, where a silver teapot still steamed on a tray between two cups, ready for a discussion.
"Crude? You know..."
The fire was low but sufficient to cast flickering shadows on thin glasses resting on the table.
Light and shadow danced over models stacked on shelves: bridges, towers, strange spring-powered machines, books.
"Forget it…" Mitchell sighed, picking up his glasses.
"Some of us produce ideas.
Others... merely produce noise."
He lifted a cup, inspecting its chipped rim.
Infuriated, the Advisor looked to the Emperor, pointing like a child tattling.
"Look, Majesty… not even the tea is safe here!"
Mitchell raised his voice slightly. "Better chipped than sterile."
The Advisor frowned, jaw tightening.
"Sterile? What do you mean?"
Mitchell scoffed softly, adjusted his glasses, and turned to him slowly.
"Well... for example, your life."
A pause.
"I've heard the servants laughing.
Seems things aren't going so well...
With your wife."
The phrase fell like a stone in a pond.
The guards stiffened but held their breath.
The Advisor stepped forward, livid, his mouth open.
"Careful.
You shouldn't leave your mouth open.
A fly might get in…"
The Emperor, silent until then, slightly moved his hand.
The fool stiffened.
He stepped back.
And then another.
Until disappearing through the doorway without a word.
When the door shut, the clumsy man slumped into a chair, creaking worn fabric.
He poured tea for both.
He took the cup, blew away some steam, smelled the aroma, and looked at the Emperor without reverence.
"You're late."
˜"°•. ♪ .•°"˜
The doors closed behind the Emperor with a dull thud, followed by the metallic click of latches.
The sound spread through the study like a dry wave, then—silence.
Mitchell blew again on the edge of the cup he held in his left hand.
His glasses clouded with steam.
"So... why the delay?"
His Majesty did not reply.
He removed the crown, tossing it onto a desk.
Then, he slid fingers beneath his collar.
Where his skin joined in a crooked, awkward seam, marred by decay.
Under pressure, the flesh sagged slightly, soft, revealing small holes.
Aligned holes, drilled into living skin, threaded with black, shiny wires taut enough to vibrate.
The man clenched his jaw, dug his nails, and pulled.
"Wait…" Mitchell murmured almost unconsciously.
The first thread snapped sharply.
The flesh stretched and tore around the hole, oozing a dense, blackish liquid that dripped onto his fingertips.
Other stronger threads didn't break immediately; they slid slowly out, scraping against frayed holes.
"No… come on—" he hissed, shielding his eyes with his right hand.
As they slipped, the threads dragged inner tissue fragments, scraping raw flesh with wet, squelching sounds.
Some threads snapped suddenly, spraying dark liquid; others got stuck, requiring twisting and shaking to remove.
"You're going too far..." whispered Mitchell, more to himself.
The head detached in jerks, held only by a few threads stretched like exposed nerves.
With a final violent tug, the man pulled it off, blood thick and black spurting from the open stump, smelling of burnt metal and rotten flesh.
"Ah—fuck!"
Sinisterly calm, the body raised the head by the temples.
Fingers squeezing tightly.
Approaching the table, it dropped the head with a loud thunk.
The head bounced, hitting the teapot and the single cup.
Hot liquid splashed everywhere.
A large amount hit the head's cheek, burning skin, singeing hair amidst the steam.
"ASSHOLE!" the head shouted, twisted in pain and fury.
"Any idea how much boiling tea burns an eye?! Brain-dead idiot!"
The body didn't react.
It simply pushed the cup to the floor with its foot, in a calm gesture, avoiding the burning gaze of its own head.
Then it sat down with a long breath, stepping on the damp carpet below.
"Alex, stop complaining...
You don't even feel pain."
Mitchell sipped the remaining tea, shrugging with the tired air of someone who's seen far too many absurd things.
"It has the aftertaste of an old kiss and bitter ink," he said, rubbing his lip.
"And a hint of soot as well... excellent vintage."
"As for the two of you... a step forward... I'd say..."
The body nodded.
Then it took the head in its hands.
Alex immediately tried to bite its fingers, growling like a trapped dog.
"A-ah! You bastard!
Let me go! Or I swear I'll—"
The other ignored him.
With surprising gentleness, he began tucking his hair behind his ears with almost brotherly gestures.
Alex's teeth snapped again, into thin air.
Then his pupils began to spin — disconnected, like the eyes of a badly-assembled doll.
Ultimo adjusted them with his thumbs, pressing until they aligned.
The head huffed, but stopped biting.
"Come on."
"Spit."
The dried blood came off in dark crusts.
The other cleaned it with the tired patience of someone who's done it far too many times.
"Elegant as ever," Mitchell remarked, without sarcasm.
But not without irony either.
The body leaned back against the chair.
His hands trembled slightly, holding the head at the ankles, still wrapped around the decapitated face.
Then he spoke.
The voice was hoarse.
Human.
"...I'm sorry. For being late."
A moment of silence.
A line of ants stubbornly crossed a sheet scribbled with Whales, dolphins, and other little fish in the sea, heading toward a pool of crystallized sugar near the fireplace.
Somewhere beyond the stone walls, a muffled argument could be heard.
Fragmented words, a piece of furniture overturned, then the brief cry of a woman... or maybe a child.
Or a mix of both.
The therapist barely lifted his gaze.
"Sometimes I wonder if we're at the top of the tower... or just at the bottom of the pit."
Another moment of silence.
Mitchell set the now-empty cup on the stained table.
And watched the decapitated body settle into place, then glanced at the abandoned crown on the far table.
"You really don't want to wear it, huh..."
Ultimo shrugged.
"No need for it in here.
Here, I don't have to pretend I know what I'm doing."
Alex smirked.
"And besides, it's heavy.
That damned crown weighs as much as all the lies you have to tell yourself to keep it on your head."
"I see..." the therapist sighed, continuing.
"So?
Why are you late?"
The body didn't look up right away.
He kept smoothing a damp, fragrant curl onto the forehead of the head.
"There was a meeting..." he finally answered.
Mitchell raised an eyebrow.
"A meeting.
Interesting.
And... what, pray tell, could possibly be more important than your therapy?"
Ultimo sighed.
The head in his hands rolled its eyes with an expression that said everything before words were even needed.
"Care to tell him yourself, Alex?" the body asked, with a hint of sarcasm.
"No no, please... go ahead.
You're half the Emperor too, after all," the head replied, with a crooked, poisonous grin.
"I'm just the part that gets embarrassed..."
Ultimo sighed, lowered his shoulders, then turned to Mitchell.
"A rebellion!
Not one of those peasant uprisings.
No pitchforks, no freedom chants...
This one's silent, elegant... and well-funded."
Mitchell relaxed slightly into his chair.
"Go on..."
Ultimo paused for a moment, then turned toward a shelf.
"Wait. I've got a better idea."
He gestured to Mitchell.
"Do you have... a map of the Empire? And the Ashlands?"
Mitchell raised an eyebrow, but quickly understood.
He stood slowly, sidestepping death, opened a low drawer, and pulled out a heavy parchment, its edges worn, bearing ancient imperial seals.
Twilight was approaching, darkening the room more and more.
Then, from a black wooden box, he retrieved a small leather pouch.
"Root powder. Will that do for ash?"
"Perfect."
Ultimo slowly unrolled the map on the low table between them.
The surface quickly grew damp, but smelled of spent smoke and old fabric.
Above them, as dusk deepened and shadows draped the room, faint glimmers stirred on the ceiling.
Tiny points of light — imperfect, irregular, clearly fake — but glowing nonetheless.
: Stars
Alex narrowed his eyes, squinting.
"Ah, the Milky Way, huh?
Thought someone had scraped it off.."
Mitchell said nothing at first.
He just looked up, as if surprised they were still there.
A long breath escaped him.
Not tired — touched.
He crossed his arms, glancing at the dim constellations.
"That's exactly what happened.
But I managed to get new ones... "
"...The ceiling was bare for a long while. Just black. Like a void that used to mean something."
His voice softened, like someone recounting a small, private act of rebellion.
"I put these up myself.
One by one.
With glue that barely holds in the humidity."
"Took me a whole weekend. My fingers stuck together for hours."
He smiled faintly.
"I did it, because they remind me that:
Even false dreams can still light up the sky."
A brief silence followed, soft, like a breath held in stillness.
Then Ultimo spoke, his voice tinged with rare sweetness.
"It's a shame that such wonders don't exist in the real world."
Mitchell tilted his head, thoughtful.
"True.
I've never once regretted being here.
I'm absurdly happy with my life in this little bubble."
"And yet… I do miss the stars."
Ultimo's gaze remained fixed above, unreadable.
"I miss lying in a field, staring from the darkness of the earth...
Raising my arm toward that distant glow and wondering: how many lives are unfolding up there, beyond all reach?"
He paused, his tone lower now, but with a sincere smile.
"But maybe... what I truly miss isn't the stars themselves.
Maybe I miss the idea of a star — hard to explain, really.."
A half-smile curled his lips.
"And of course… I miss spending the night talking with that curious little boy."
Alex scoffed softly.
"Only if you bring wine next time."
"But enough about stars—where were we?"
For a moment, the body stood still, gazing at the parchment.
Then, calmly, he raised his right hand.
Only then was it clear: his fingers were sewn as well, like battered puppets — tiny black stitches held skin to skin, tracing tendons like broken roads.
He grabbed the ring finger of his left hand.
Mitchell squinted, sensing danger a moment too late.
"Is that really necessary?" he began, raising a hand halfway.
Too late.
Ultimo twisted the finger with a quick jerk.
A wet, dry sound filled the air, like torn cloth.
The finger split in two, revealing bone and a dark, elastic, hollow pulp.
No real blood spilled.
Ultimo clenched the ring finger in his fist.
Squeezing hard, he made a few thick drops of red and black drip onto the center of the parchment.
Mitchell watched over his glasses, his right eyebrow twitching in a mix of polite horror and resignation.
"Please tell me you'll at least stitch it back properly..."
Ultimo, without replying, slipped the broken finger into the inner pocket of his pants.
"I'll do it later," he said simply, as if talking about mending a shirt.
Then he opened the black leather pouch and poured out the root powder.
With a quick, precise motion, he spread the ash along the veins of the map, weaving it into the dried blood like threads in a dark loom.
Alex, resting on the edge of the table like a macabre decoration, smirked halfway.
"Time for cheap parlor magic!"
Leaning slightly — a gesture that made his head swing like an overripe pear — he blew softly onto the parchment, spraying a bit of spit with his breath.
Mitchell clenched his jaw.
"Great.
Now I won't be able to eat in this office for at least two months..."
Alex chuckled, clicking his tongue.
"You've always been a bit squeamish, Mitch."
Then, as if stirred by an invisible tremor, the ash came to life.
Particles rose, slowly dancing in the musty air of the office.
They formed hills and valleys, winding rivers and cities pulsing with golden light.
At the center, the heart of the Empire beat slowly.
The ash, mixed with blood, seemed to live, as if breathing in time with the weary pulse of the Emperor himself.
Mitchell, meanwhile, leaned over his chair, looking down at the map, rubbing his temples.
"A finger, saliva, stale ash and latent trauma...
Typical Tuesday session," he muttered.
Alex laughed quietly, a dry, cracking sound, like wood splitting in frost.
"Welcome back to court, therapist."
Ultimo pointed to a spot in the northeast, near the border of another kingdom.
There, the ash was swelling on its own.
"I'm talking about Darveth," he said, voice low.