King Christian woke with a sharp gasp, lungs clawing for air. His arms hung like lead, legs stiff beneath silk sheets. The night’s pleasures clung to him—wine, sweat, and the sweetness of blossoming maidens. Beside him, two girls lay slack, tangled in sheets. Four more sprawled across the cold stone floor—discarded, breath shallow, limbs splayed.
The chamber loomed in shadows, faint city light bleeding through narrow windows. Too quiet.
The washbasin was prepared. He plunged his hands into icy water, hissing as he splashed his face. Droplets clung to his beard. He reached for a basin cloth—then froze.
His reflection had not moved.
Breath caught in his chest. He slowly raised a hand. The figure followed—a fraction too late. He jerked his arm to the side. The reflection lagged, then glided to match him.
A chill prickled his spine. He stepped forward.
The reflection stayed still.
Then, slowly, it smiled.
His heart hammered. His lips had not moved.
Thin, silvery threads stretched from the figure’s wrists, shoulders, and head—vanishing into the darkness above the mirror’s frame. Strings. Like a marionette.
He glanced down at his own arms.
Strings. Gossamer-thin, glinting in the half-light, trailing from his wrists, elbows, knees—disappearing into the ceiling.
He stood carefully. The strings gave no pull. He raised his hand, then the other.
Was this a dream?
He wondered… or someone else’s.
And then— His right arm lifted. He hadn’t moved it.
His fingers curled into a fist, nails biting into his palm. It shot toward his face—crack. Pain bloomed as he cried out. Then his arm relaxed, falling limp.
His left hand rose this time, fingers twitching, as if something were testing control. He willed his arms to stay down. And for a moment, they did. Then his legs jerked forward. A single, mechanical step. Another.
His body jerked forward again—this time faster. His feet moved against his will. The strings above him vibrated, and he could feel it now—something pulling.
He ran.
Or at least, he tried. His body fought him, limbs jerking and twisting, one moment under his control, the next under something else’s.
“I prithee, let me go,” he screamed.
And then, he stopped suddenly, “Not yet,” he uttered without control.
Calm.
Controlled.
Familiar tone.
The maidens stirred at the commotion, slipping from chambers in satin robes barely covering their breasts. They found him—naked, slick with sweat, eyes wild. None moved. None dared.
A giggle—soft, young—broke the silence. Too late, the girl clamped her hand over her mouth.
The king’s head snapped toward her. His eyes narrowed.
“You filthy creature… how dare you?”
His mind worked through the fog of humiliation, sifting through punishments — a lash across the back, a night in the dungeons. Or maybe just the quick, clean mercy of a sword.
But when he opened his mouth, all that came out was a dry croak, “You are pardoned.”
The girl blinked. No one spoke. The king’s chest heaved in the torchlight, and for one moment, he looked as if he didn’t quite know why he’d said it either.
***
By midday, the king’s madness spilled into the light.
He slumped upon the throne—sweat-slicked flesh sinking into damp velvet. The great hall trembled with murmurs. His wives watched from their gilded perch, corseted breath held tight. His ministers stood below, lips drawn thin behind curling beards.
“My lords…” His voice scraped from his throat. “I have…beheld God.”
Heads bowed. Some in reverence. Some in terror.
His fingers danced along the gilded armrests—delicate, like a paramour’s touch. His ministers exchanged uneasy glances.
“You are unwell, Your Grace,” Count Struensee dared.
Christian’s head snapped toward him with a sickening crack.
“I am well. I am chosen.” His lips curled too wide, baring yellow teeth.
He stood. Silence.
“Shall I grace thee with a dance?” he thundered.
Without waiting, his limbs moved—stiff, jerking like a marionette. Arms flailed, hips snapped in obscene rhythm.
Some froze. Others tried to look away.
His mouth hung slack, issuing breathless little giggles as his body twitched and jerked faster and faster until his knees buckled and his legs collapsed beneath him with a crack.
His wives cried out. His ministers stepped forward — but the king’s head jerked upright, eyes wide and bloodshot.
“Not yet,” he whispered.
Then, slowly — painfully — he stood once more.
His joints audibly clicked back into place.
“What… what trickery is this?” the eldest wife sobbed behind her veil.
Count Struensee swallowed hard, hands clenching his ledger.
“The sickness,” he muttered. “The blood malady…that which claimed his sire.”
A wave of muttered agreement rippled through the hall. Yes, that explained it. That had to be all it was. A fever of the brain. A madness in the blood.
Not the strings — thin, silvery threads — vibrating faster and faster above the King’s head. Strings that no one else could see. Only he could and then, his eyes closed.
***
And then opened, his breath rattled beneath the damp sheets. Rough ropes bound his wrists, elbows, and ankles — not pulling, but pinning. Another loop pressed tight across his chest, rising and falling with each shallow breath. His mouth was sealed beneath a strip of cloth, the taste of old sweat and linen thick on his tongue.
Count Struensee leaned close, unfurling the parchment with reverent care.
“By royal decree,” he murmured, eyes never meeting the King’s, “The drought taxes shall be lifted. The kingdom’s granaries thrown wide to the poor. And those cast in irons for the theft of bread… shall walk free.”
The parchment trembled in Christian’s fist. In my bloody dreams. His mind howled behind the cloth, rage curdling in his belly. His kingdom — his coin — squandered on beggars.
The minister guided the king’s hand to the seal, pressing the cracked red wax into the roll.
“The people shall sing thy name for generations untold, Your Grace,” Struensee whispers.
Calm.
Controlled.
Familiar tone.
Author’s Notes:
This story is my homage to Friedrich Nietzsche. Over the past few weeks, I have been exploring his philosophy—not in full agreement, but deeply fascinated by his ideas. Additionally, the story draws inspiration from Danish history, blending it with eldritch horror. While I’ve taken creative liberties, my intention is not to distort history in any form or manner.
This is a non competing story. Any story by Event organizers (Watchers) are non competing unless mentioned otherwise
Photo by Alex Quezada on Unsplash
