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THE ROYAL CULT

 

The Coronation

 

The throne arrives before anyone has checked the measurements. It must accommodate a person, a franchise, or a fictional gentleman whose principal qualification is having removed his gloves slowly in episode four. The upholsterers have been instructed to allow for greatness.

 

Across the digital kingdom, the heralds sound their trumpets. A sovereign has been found. There is footage. The clip is twelve seconds long. In it, the chosen one smiles, looks briefly away, and says something agreeable about kindness.

 

By nightfall, the smile has been illuminated, the glance set to music, and the remark inscribed across a sunset. An account called The Royal Archive opens with a statement about healing.

 

The coronation committee assembles without being summoned. One member brings a portrait. Another brings a complete genealogy of the sovereign’s previous relationships. A third has prepared the official account of a difficult childhood from two interviews and a photograph in which nobody appears especially happy.

 

A newcomer asks whether this is rather a lot to infer. The committee thanks them for their interest. Seating is available at the rear. There are practical arrangements. The royal colors must be chosen.

 

The approved portrait must be distinguished from the photograph taken outside a pharmacy. Someone must explain why the previous favorite was merely famous, whereas this one has arrived at a moment when the world needs them.

 

The proclamation takes six drafts. Its author has work in the morning. At last, the sovereign appears on a livestream to promote a forthcoming release. The court falls still. Here is the voice they have heard so often, speaking now into the very room in which they sit.

 

“You guys are amazing.” Several thousand people accept the compliment personally. The crown descends. Fan artists unfurl their tapestries; the Heralds announce a new age. Somewhere near the back, the newcomer admits that the latest performance was quite good. Quite good.

 

The Master of Ceremonies lowers his staff. For the benefit of those unfamiliar with court etiquette, the performance was transcendent.

 

Life At Court

 

The first dispute concerns precedence. A devotee who discovered the sovereign in March has been seated above one who remembers the unverified account. The latter produces a screenshot dated February. A third arrives bearing a ticket from a bookstore appearance attended by 11 people and a reluctant bookseller. The seating plan is withdrawn.

 

Once rank has been established, offices are distributed. The Lore Keepers receive custody of the archives and a room in which to disagree about dates. The Heralds are stationed at the gates, ready to proclaim anything that emerges from the publicity department. The Inquisitors request a list of prohibited opinions. Until one can be approved, they will use their own.

 

The Artisans have already begun decorating the palace. Here, the court acquires much of its splendor. A passing remark becomes a comic strip; a minor character receives a magnificent history. Someone embroiders the royal profile onto a waistcoat. The sovereign’s actual costume designer might profitably visit, though an appointment would have to be made around the artist’s shift at the pharmacy.

 

Admission is free. Distinction requires evidence. The Treasury displays commemorative editions, anniversary editions, and an edition distinguished from the anniversary edition by its blue edge. A courtier who owns all three is invited to explain the differences. Others lean closer. There is a fourth.

 

At noon, the Heralds announce an announcement. The court assembles. Refreshments are neglected. A woman in another time zone rises at four in the morning and takes her place beneath a blanket.

 

The proclamation is unveiled: a tote bag. “An embarrassment of riches,” declares the senior Herald. The bag bears a phrase the sovereign once uttered while looking for a charger. It sells out before the woman under the blanket can find her glasses.

 

By late afternoon, the palace is occupied with preparations for the next release. The Grand Marshal of Streaming has drawn up a schedule. Provincial governors submit their numbers. A page hurries between chambers carrying a spreadsheet with several troubling cells. Nobody has been hired. Several people are exhausted.

 

Then a portrait of the sovereign’s dog arrives. The animal is asleep beside a suitcase, one ear turned inside out. The Artisans abandon their commissions. A little crown is added. Someone paints the dog as an admiral. By supper, it commands a fleet. The court is delighted. For once, no proclamation is necessary.

 

Treason in the Comments

 

The petition is delivered shortly after breakfast. Its author enjoyed the latest release, admired several performances, and found the ending disappointing. The clerk reads it twice, looking for the portion that will permit it to be filed as praise. There is none.

 

The Inquisitors are summoned. A screen is lowered. The offending sentence appears above the dais, enlarged sufficiently to trouble the rear galleries. “Disappointing,” reads the First Inquisitor. The petitioner nods. “In your opinion?” The petitioner brightens. Yes, precisely. The clerk adds unrepentant to the record.

 

The defense presents a ticket stub, three favorable reviews, and evidence of having purchased the blue-edged edition. For a moment, the court is divided. The Treasury confirms the purchase. The Inquisitors observe that ownership of a tote bag has never conferred immunity from treason.

 

From the public gallery, someone calls for context. The Lore Keepers enter with a transcript. Unfortunately, the sovereign once said that audiences should make up their own minds. The passage is examined for irony. A longer interview is requested. Before it arrives, a second dispute breaks out over two characters who looked at each other across a room.

 

The House of the Glance declares a betrothal. The Order of the Faithful Text points out that one character was watching the door. Both dispatch ambassadors to the Artisans, whose latest tapestry depicts a wedding. The artist explains that it was a commission. This establishes foreign interference.

 

By evening, the palace has two courts, three official accounts of the dispute, and a corridor nobody can enter without declaring a position. The sovereign issues a brief appeal for everyone to be kind. Each faction has it embroidered on its banner. 

 

Then a photograph appears of the sovereign dining with someone the court has not approved. The matrimonial committees demand an audience. The Heralds request time to prepare a response. From the rear galleries comes a dreadful sound: the opening of the archives.

 

Old interviews are carried back into the hall. A hesitation once admired as modesty is presented as evidence of calculation. The sovereign’s celebrated warmth is reconsidered. Witnesses recall having felt uneasy about the pharmacy photograph.

 

The petitioner, still waiting to explain the ending, asks whether the hearing is over. Nobody remembers who admitted them. Outside, a crowd gathers beneath the royal balcony. They have brought the portraits they once held aloft. This time, they’ve brought matches.

 

Long Live the Successor

 

The Lord Chamberlain has barely ordered the portraits removed when a Herald appears at the servants’ entrance. He has found someone.

The council receives the news with appropriate caution. Several members are still explaining how thoroughly they were deceived by the previous sovereign. They will require evidence.

 

The Herald produces a clip. In it, a promising newcomer laughs at a faulty microphone, thanks a technician by name, and admits to being nervous. The council watches in silence. The technician’s name is checked. “This one,” says the Chamberlain at last, “seems genuine.”

 

The upholsterers are recalled. There is much to prepare. The royal colors must be changed; the previous proclamation contains several claims of uniqueness that will need transferring. A portrait painter asks whether the new commission should retain the same dimensions. The Chamberlain sees no reason to waste a perfectly good frame.

 

At the gates, returning courtiers surrender their former account names and collect new ones. Those who once defended every royal utterance now speak gravely of the dangers of blind devotion. Their experience recommends them for positions of trust.

 

The Artisans inspect the newcomer with professional interest. One has already drawn the faulty microphone wearing a little crown. Trade resumes in the outer courtyard. A novice asks what happened to the last sovereign. The guide lowers her voice. There were signs, she explains. Everyone sees them now.

 

Inside the great hall, the council prepares safeguards against another disappointment. Henceforth, authenticity must be established beyond reasonable doubt. A Keeper offers a second interview. In it, the newcomer says they have never been comfortable with attention. The motion passes unanimously.

 

By dusk, the banners are raised. The Heralds take their places. At the rear of the hall, a familiar petitioner unfolds a chair, resolved this time to keep an open mind. The trumpets sound.

 

The kingdom endures not because the monarch is worthy, but because the faithful need the pageant.

 

⚜

 

 

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