Reginald The Third, in his finest purple velvets and snowy-white ermines and shining golds, strode magnificently into the throne room, head held high, higher than usual, perhaps higher that it had ever been held, held high above his shoulders and the place where it had been severed from his neck, with only a small tell-tale splatter of blood on his chin. He tried to shout something to match the look of absolute outrage on his face, but owing to his head and neck being not connected, managed only a kind of wet gurgle, more blood spurting forth, staining those velvets and ermines, drenching those golds. And then, finally realizing the futility of it all, collapsed into a heap better resembling his status as mere corpse, sending his head rolling towards and stopping at the feet of Reginald the Fourth.

This most recent Reginald bent over to pick up his recently late father's recent bowling expedition, and tried not to giggle. This he managed with alacrity. He held the head aloft, much higher, it should be noted, than the previous king had, and in this way, illustrated the absurd truth of one of those adages or sayings or proverbs about how children should always respect and elevate the memory of their parents.

R-IV managed a stern face. He locked eyes with his dead father. He mustered as much hate and disdain, disgust and enmity, resentment and anger, pure and unadulterated hatred as he could, which was a lot, owing to how much of an ass his father had been to him. Then he turned that gaze onto the court, its courtiers, advisors, ladies in waiting, gentlemen in waiting, chancellors, viziers, dignitaries, men-at-arms, ladies-at-arms, page boys, page girls, knights in shining armor, knights in rusting armor, knights not in armor because their knighthood was more honorary than bellicose, priests, prelates, novices, cenobites, elevated middle-class landowners, fase barons, legitimate barons, and Jester, the court jester.

As blood trickled down his arm, threatening to stain his own velvets and ermines, Reginald shouted “See! Even in death tyranny attempts to assault this throne. Be his death just or nay, tis unnatural for the headless to stalk these halls. Or any hall but the halls of hell. This was your king, and t'was he who taught me how to swing a sword. And swing I did, twaining his head from his neck, and yet even in that tutelage he failed me, as such twaining was twained but an hour ago, and yet here still he is!”

All in the courtroom watched, frozen. Except Jester, the court Jester, who juggled apples. Reginald glared at him, until all turned to stare. Jester finally let all of the apples drop, each of them landing neatly next to his feet. The king tossed his dead dad's head to the side, unsheathed his sword, and pointed it at the jackanapes.

“As always your words, fool, yet unspoken, ring with wisdom,” Reginald said. “If you, symbol of the foolish wisdom of the subjects of my rule, fear that I will only ever be what my father was, then get me a queen that I might create and quicken mine own regicide.” He paused for a dramatic beat. “But until then, see, my father's blood, your late king's blood, the tyrant's ichor, still splashed on my blade. If the king is a realm's sickness, then only the strength of a king can be her cure.”

The various and different people in the courtroom looked at one another, some shrugging, some hemming, a few hawing. Reginald sheathed his sword and sat down. Muttering turned into soft conversation, which began to compete with other conversation for volume, until once again the throne room was abuzz with courtly activity as if there wasn't a dead king crumpled in the middle of the place and a dead king's severed head lolling in a corner.

After a few minutes, a figure entered the room, and wormed its way through the crowd, with many “sorry”s and 'excuse me“s and “beg your pardon”s. He walked up to the king, bowed, and said, “Sire, my most humble apologies, had I known your late father would rise and carry his head with him, I would have begged to inter him sooner. A terrible inconvenience, I'm sure. I'll have the body removed forthwith.”

“Do,” said Reginald. “But leave the head.”

The sexton bowed again. “Sire,” he said. Then he turned, threw the headless corpse over his shoulder, and walked through the crowd again, with as many “sorry”s and 'excuse me”s and “beg your pardon”s as before.