You say the king is dead, but I say he walked by me in the night. Not in regalia but the softer hues of a faded smock. There, of that make what you will. You have not shown us his body. His sickness was rather sudden. I have held my tongue ere now; I know not what the king wishes, but I see, whatever else, you prefer this state of things.
If his specter visited me, I say no more. If he’s off on some great mission, I hold my tongue. If bespelled, forgotten his name, what can I do?
Tale Told 