He rapped the throne with a knuckle. "Do you know why this seat was quarried so flat and angular? So that no one would sit comfortably on it..."
Hrothgar to Eragon from Eragon by Christopher Paolini
Throughout the centuries, thrones have been a symbol of power. Typically, when we think of thrones now, images of high-backed chairs layered in gold filigree and adorned with intricate scrolling with red velvet cushions come to mind. Kings, queens, and even gods themselves were bestowed with such honorable places for sitting, and true to my namesake, I am no different.
My throne is unlike most that exist in the world. There exists a special bond between its soft contours and my extended frame, one that cannot be broken by the fact that I did not purchase it. No other throne in the world presents so many choices, angles, and positions by which to lay, sit, or bathe. Perhaps this was due to great foresight on the part of my pet when she secured my majestic seat.
Originally, black, glistening leather covered the entire length and width of my precious throne. The rounded arm rests puckered with fullness, and the seat cushions provided a firmness beyond compare. The sleek back stood strong in contrast to the rolling lines of the front portion, and no knick or tear was to be found.
That is, until my sister, Isis, decided to redecorate.
With envy burrowed into her heart, she scratched and clawed viciously into the corners of my throne's frame. She ripped its beautiful leather skin wide open, tore out chunks of its white, fluffy innards, and scattered the remnants of her attacks across the living room floor. Her eyes held madness within them as she kneaded the cushions with her needle-point claws, leaving trails upon trails of tiny pinpricks along the fabric. I could only watch in dismay as I saw my perfect fulcrum destroyed.
Apparently, I was not the only one to be in mourning over the desecration for my pet also suffered. No one came over to our abode for months as my pet believed the blasphemy of my throne to be an embarassment, a sign of her poor housekeeping skills. I remember watching how my pet would slink onto the throne with a deep, regrettable sigh, and the immediate wince that arose when she would hear the leather ache and groan from its open wounds.
Our sadness came to an end, though, with the gift of a royal slipcover. Cords of green design stretched across the sturdy fabric while thick bands of cloth tied in bows secured it to the sovereign seat. The pet tucked, tugged, and toiled with smoothing out the wrinkles and imperfections until one could almost mistake the luscious, verdant textile as the original.
I truly have never been happier.
But I am wiser.
Never again will I let the comforts of my throne pull me away from keeping a closer eye on those who would dare oppose my seat of power. Never again will I sit idly by while my enemies attack that which is most precious to me. Never again will I tolerate the mockery of my throne by others.
Consider this a warning, Isis.
The couch is mine.
