The Last Kingdom

Great empires rarely perish from catastrophic convulsions. More often than not, they simply fragment into individual rooms, corridors, and sanitary zones.

Chapter 1. On the Hazards of Silence and Shrivelled Clappers

That morning, the sun rose over the kingdom as usual—steady, slightly dusty, tinting the lofty Gothic windows of the castle the exact colour of weakly brewed tea.

His Majesty was rather fond of these first twenty minutes of the day. For those twenty minutes, the castle belonged not to history, but to the parquet, which creaked pleasantly underfoot, and to the old porcelain teapot emitting a delicate wisp of steam. In such moments, one might easily imagine that the realm was merely a vast, slightly neglected house where everyone was family, where an old hound slept beneath the settee, and a cherry pie baked gently in the kitchen. Nothing, as the wise old volumes were fond of observing, portended disaster.

The King sat in his favorite armchair. He wore a faded velvet dressing gown, unopened correspondence rested upon his knees, and his soul enjoyed a rare, almost forgotten tranquility.

The King stretched lazily, reached out, picked up the familiar silver handbell, and gave it a shake to summon Bertrand with his morning oat decoction.

The bell remained silent. There was no familiar crystalline chime—only a dull, hollow click.

The King raised an eyebrow in mild surprise. He shook it once more, somewhat more vigorously. He then brought the silver dome to the very tip of his nose, squinted with one eye, and peered inside. The clapper was missing. That is to say, it had certainly been there for thirty-two years, but now only a bare, empty loop remained. It gave the distinct impression that the clapper had simply shrivelled up out of resentment or sheer old age and quietly departed for parts unknown.

Puzzled, the King scratched the back of his neck, set the useless instrument down on the side table, and for the first time that morning looked attentively at the closed oak door.

No one was hurrying behind it. Beyond the door lay a strange, thoroughly un-domestic silence.

Chapter 2. Corridor Autonomy

The oak door opened slowly and without a sound.

Bertrand entered the hall, bearing a silver tray upon which rested a cup of morning decoction.

Bertrand had served the court for thirty years and knew the King’s habits to the smallest detail. Yet today his gait was visibly altered. His posture bore an unfamiliar, newspaper-derived austerity.

He halted several paces from the armchair, drew himself up, and, without inclining his head, neatly adjusted his snow-white cuff.

“Your decoction, Your Majesty.”

Bertrand’s voice retained its customary composure, though a dry, formal echo had crept into it.

“Thank you, Bertrand,” the King sighed with relief, leaning forward and reaching for the cup. “I tried to summon you with the bell. The clapper seems to have vanished.”

Bertrand smoothly took half a step backward. The tray and the cup drifted cleanly out of the King’s outstretched fingers.

“I cannot say, sir,” Bertrand replied, gazing impassively at a point somewhere above the royal crown. “The bell falls outside my jurisdiction.”

The King froze, his hand still extended. His fingers closed helplessly on empty air.

“What do you mean, outside your jurisdiction? This is our castle.”

Bertrand deliberately drew a folded sheet of paper from his side pocket, unfolded it with two fingers, and gave it a slight wave in the air.

“As of this morning, Your Majesty, the Main Corridor and the Cellar are declared the Autonomous Territory of the Palace Staff. We are not leaving the castle. We are merely placing our relations upon a new footing.”

The King slowly lowered his arm and rubbed his chin in bewilderment.

“Bertrand, have you lost your senses?”

“Far from it, sir,” the Footman sighed sympathetically, though he did not put the paper away. “Henceforth, I present your decoction not as a servant, but as the representative of an independent party.”

“And what is the status of my decoction?” The King watched the steam curling above the cup.

“The decoction belongs to you,” Bertrand explained. “However, the corridor parquet across which I must convey it is henceforth sovereign territory. In order for me to hand you the cup, you must recognize our autonomy and execute a transit agreement.”

“And if I simply stand up and take it myself?” The King pressed his hands against the armrests, making a movement as if to rise.

Bertrand did not flinch; he merely shifted the tray slightly to the side with a strict, authoritative gesture, his expression hardening.

“In that event, sir, we should be obliged to regard it as a border violation. We would then be forced to suspend the supply of firewood, seal off the kitchen, and restrict you entirely to the perimeter of this rug.”

The King lowered his eyes and looked at his morocco leather slippers. Half a metre remained to the edge of the rug. To the Footman—two paces.

“Bertrand,” the King said softly, clutching a fold of his velvet gown in his fist. “I am merely thirsty.”

“We are prepared to grant you access to the resource,” Bertrand inclined his head courteously, without forfeiting an inch of his stature. “The moment you sign the document. Otherwise, we shall proceed to an indefinite strike and block all logistical routes to your bedchamber.”

Chapter 3. Land and Horses

Before Bertrand could finish, the heavy door was flung open with a broad shove.

The Groom entered the hall. He exuded tar, dried clover, and a heavy, stubborn conviction in his own righteousness.

“Your Majesty,” the Groom said, without bestowing a single glance upon the Footman. “The Stables are seceding from the kingdom.”

The King shrank back, pressing himself deeper into the soft cushions of his armchair.

“What do you mean, seceding?”

“In the most natural manner possible, sir,” the Groom replied. He squared his broad shoulders, gestured grandly across the room, and set his hands on his hips. “Our land is historically closer to the Northern County. We held a council with the stablehands and resolved to accede. Along with the carriage yard and the greenhouses.”

At this expansive movement, his collar gaped open, revealing the very same silver clapper from the royal bell dangling upon his chest from a piece of rough twine.

The King and Bertrand stared at the clapper simultaneously, then exchanged a swift glance. Bertrand compressed his lips into a tight line for a fraction of a second, yet both remained silent—each had his own politics to manage today.

“But the greenhouses and the carriage yard stand upon my land,” the King said quietly, waving an indefinite hand toward the window.

“They used to be yours, sir, but now it is the territory of the Northern County,” the Groom cut in, tightening his broad leather belt for emphasis. “A moat has already been dug at the border. Should you require horses, pray submit a formal request to the ruler of the Northern County.”

Bertrand turned slowly toward the Groom. Dry, blotchy patches appeared on the Footman’s cheeks, and the tray in his hands quivered slightly.

“Allow me,” Bertrand said strictly, pursing his lips. “You are standing in the Main Corridor. This is the sovereign territory of the Palace Staff. You have no right of entry without prior clearance.”

The Groom turned his head deliberately, surveyed the Footman with a heavy gaze from toe to crown, and ostentatiously wiped his nose on his sleeve.

“You can inspect your papers back in your kitchen,” the Groom muttered sullenly. “Beyond our threshold lies another state now. And the passage to the carriage yard is closed to all. Including you and your tray.”

He turned abruptly on his heel and strode out, slamming the heavy door behind him.

Bertrand stood rooted to the spot, his chin trembling with indignation.

The King sat in his chair, shifting his bewildered gaze from the door to the Footman. They stood in the silent hall—a former ruler and his former servant, with a brand-new international frontier running between them.

Chapter 4. The High Belfry and Static on the Airwaves

Bertrand regarded the closed door with deep, bureaucratic contempt, then turned back to the King.

“I must take my leave, Your Majesty. At eleven o’clock we have a briefing regarding the maintenance protocols for the sovereign parquet. I am obliged to take the decoction back. You have not executed the transit agreement.”

The Footman turned and, tray in hand, departed with solemn dignity, closing the door delicately behind him.

The King was left alone. Silence returned to the hall, but it was no longer that cozy morning quiet scented with cherry pie. It was the silence of a deserted railway station from which the final train had departed.

His Majesty rose slowly from his armchair. Forgetful of the perils of “border violation,” he stepped with the tip of his morocco slipper onto the parquet. No one sprang from an ambush; no drums beat an alarm. The King approached the door, pulled it toward himself, and stepped out into the corridor.

Sitting on the castle staircase, his legs dangling between the stone balusters, was the Bellringer. In his hands he held the greasy rope of the main castle bell, busily chewing sunflower seeds and spitting the husks down onto the armorial parquet of the monarchy.

“Why aren’t you ringing for luncheon?” the King asked softly, stopping on the top step. “Devils know what is happening in the castle. The staff are declaring autonomy, the stables are joining the Northern County… Why is the bell silent?”

The Bellringer paused his jaws, looked up at the King, and carefully wiped his fingers on his trousers.

“And precisely which bell would you have me ring, sir?” he asked reasonably. “The Main Corridor demands a chime to signal the start of their briefing, while the Stables demand one to celebrate their accession to the Northern County. Should I ring for one side, the other will construe it as an act of information warfare. And should I ring for you, they will claim I am broadcasting an obsolete agenda.”

“And what are you doing instead?” asked the King, feeling a faint throb beginning at his temples.

“Maintaining balance, Your Majesty,” the Bellringer raised a finger. “The belfry is now an independent broadcasting institution. To ensure no party takes offense, I simply strike three tolls every half hour. Neutral tolls. Entirely devoid of editorial content.”

“And what do those three tolls signify?” asked the King.

“They signify, sir, that the belfry still exists and that the rope remains in my hands. As for how those tolls are interpreted in the Corridor or in the Northern County, the editorial board accepts no responsibility.”

Chapter 5. The Great Wall and Overseas Best Practice

The King turned slowly and walked back into the hall. The stone staircase felt unfamiliar, and the well-known parquet of the Main Corridor no longer responded with its customary, comforting creak—now one had to tread carefully, as though walking upon the thin ice of an alien pond.

His Majesty crossed the threshold, reached his armchair, and sank heavily into it.

The situation was extraordinary. The castle stood firmly in its place, the sun shone through the dusty Gothic windows as before, yet the state was no more. It had shattered into tiny fragments, each now jealously guarding its sovereignty, its borders, and its right to silence.

“Weighty thoughts, sir, require grandiose solutions,” a dry, slightly rattling voice observed directly beside his ear.

The King started and leaned forward.

From behind the tall back of the chair, the Jester emerged noiselessly. He was not wearing his customary motley cap with bells—the Jester had tucked the cap into his pocket first thing that morning “so as not to provoke the neighbours.”

“Where did you spring from?” the King asked quietly, catching his breath.

“Observing the parade of sovereignties, Your Majesty,” the Jester squatted on his heels by the armrest and folded his arms over his knees. “You sit there wondering how to recover the Groom and bring Bertrand to reason? Forget it. You cannot save an empire with petty concessions. What we require is a Grand Project.”

“What sort of project?” the King asked suspiciously.

“A Wall, sir!” The Jester raised a triumphant index finger. “A tall, continuous stone wall around the entire perimeter of our realm. From the northern greenhouses to the southern kitchen porch.”

The King frowned in confusion:

“A wall? Around the entire castle? What on earth for?”

“To crush any lingering appetite for secession!” The Jester gestured fervently. “Have you seen how such matters are handled in the great overseas powers? The moment a threat to the borders arises—boom, they erect a high wall. And there you have it: order restored! Should the Groom wish to abscond to the Northern County with the carriage yard, he finds an insurmountable barrier before his nose. Should Bertrand decide to expand his autonomy, he finds our rampart right at his doorstep.”

The King looked at the Jester, then toward the open door.

“Jester… But if we enclose everything within a wall, how are we to govern the castle? What earthly good is it if we remain trapped inside?”

The Jester had no time to answer.

From the corridor came the sound of swift, measured, impeccably firm footsteps. Heels clicked against the parquet—the stride of someone who asks for no autonomies, signs no transit agreements, and never doubts her absolute right to command this house.

The Jester instantly shrank back into the shadow behind the armchair.

The Queen appeared in the doorway.

Chapter 6. The Transatlantic Pivot and Personal Sovereignty

The Queen halted in the center of the hall. She wore an impeccable travelling suit, and in her hand she carried a modest yet visibly heavy morocco leather bag. In her eyes there was neither anger nor confusion—only the cold, definitive superiority of a person who had calculated everything long ago.

“You arrive at an auspicious moment, my dear,” the King rose slightly in his chair, looking at his spouse with a ray of hope. “Something quite unimaginable is taking place in the castle. Bertrand has blockaded the decoction, the Groom has taken the greenhouses off to the Northern County, and the Jester is proposing we encircle the whole lot with a wall…”

“I am aware,” the Queen interrupted smoothly, adjusting her glove with precision. “And it no longer concerns me.”

The King froze. Behind the chair, the Jester peeked out, his eyes wide.

“What do you mean, it no longer concerns you?” His Majesty asked softly.

“It means, sir, that I am declaring my personal sovereignty,” the Queen surveyed the hall with an indifferent gaze. “Your empire has withered, the parquet has rotted, and your men spend their days squabbling over doorsteps and bell-clappers. It is tedious, dreary, and utterly devoid of a future.”

From the open doorway of the corridor came a light, flirtatious cough. Julie, the court hairdresser, stepped into view. In her hands she held a second travelling portmanteau, smiling with a mixture of apology and quiet self-possession.

The King looked from the Queen to the hairdresser, then back again.

“Julie?” he stammered in bewilderment. “But she… she merely dressed your hair on Tuesdays.”

“Julie is the sole person in this castle who comprehends the delicate subtlety of my nature,” the Queen stepped toward Julie and gently, with quiet pride, took her hand, interlacing their fingers. “Between us there has blossomed a genuine, authentic love between two women—a deep, sensitive, and progressive bond entirely beyond the reach of your patriarchal mind. We have chosen one another, and we choose freedom. We are leaving.”

“Where to?” gasped the King.

“Overseas,” the Queen offered a faint smile at the corners of her lips, squeezing Julie’s hand softly. “Our vessel sails in an hour. Over there lies a new democracy, true equality, the freedom to love whomever one wishes, and none of this dusty tradition. You, meanwhile, may continue building walls and executing transit agreements for oat decoctions.”

“But what of the kingdom? What of our union?” The King raised his hands helplessly.

“Our union has exhausted its mandate,” the Queen cut in. She adjusted Julie’s collar, touched her shoulder affectionately, and without looking back, strode down the corridor with a measured, resolute step, hand in hand with her beloved. “Farewell, sir. I have taken the teapot, by the way. Tea is subtler across the ocean.”

The door closed behind them with a crisp, elegant click.

Chapter 7. The Great Quarantine and Medical Privilege

Silence settled over the hall once more. This time, it was final—the sort of silence that falls only after the departure of mail coaches or the closing of major historical epochs.

His Majesty attempted to draw a somewhat deeper breath than usual, but it registered in his chest as a dry, unpleasant ache. The castle still stood in its place, the sun continued to illuminate the dust motes in the air, yet there was decisively no one left in this house to govern.

“Jester,” the King called softly, without opening his eyes. “Fetch the Physician, if you would be so good. Tell him I am unwell.”

The Jester slipped silently from behind the chair and vanished through the door.

Ample time elapsed—enough for the King to count every crack in the molded ceiling—before the heavy door swung open once again.

The Court Physician strolled leisurely into the hall. He carried neither a lancet, nor leeches, nor his customary copper brazier. He closed the door neatly behind him, adjusted his pristine white collar, and approached the armchair with the light step of a man bringing a fresh morning paper rather than medicine.

“You summoned me, sir?” The Physician inclined his head slightly. “Do not clutch at your left side. Your heart is in absolute order. Unlike the state apparatus.”

“I am in no mood for irony, Doctor,” the King said quietly. “Bertrand has impounded the decoction, the Groom has departed with his greenhouses, and the Queen has seen fit to sail across the ocean. If you possess a draught for despair, now would be an exceedingly good time to administer it.”

The Physician leaned down to the monarch’s ear and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper:

“Draughts will not avail us, Your Majesty. What we require are the technologies of those who truly govern this world. When subjects can no longer be contained by laws and thrones, they are put to sleep. We require a universal sedative for the masses. A measure of last resort.”

“And what might that be?” The King raised an eyebrow slightly.

“An old overseas trick, sir,” the Physician explained with a quiet, knowing squint. “An invisible and entirely inescapable threat. We shall simply announce that the atmosphere within the castle has become acutely precarious.”

“But everyone here is perfectly healthy,” the King observed.

“Therein lies the precise beauty of the method,” the Physician smiled slyly. “There are no healthy people, sir—there are merely the under-examined. We shall declare a total quarantine. A strict prohibition against leaving one’s room, peering into adjacent corridors, or indeed breathing more than necessary, for the salvation of the nation.”

The King looked vacantly at the closed door:

“And Bertrand? And the Groom?”

“Every single one of them, sir,” the Physician confirmed. “Bertrand will be quietly marooned in the Cellar without transit rights, the Groom locked inside his stables, and the Bellringer left to sound emergency warnings. No autonomies, no referendums. Anyone who crosses the threshold of their bedchamber shall be branded a threat to the public good.”

The King straightened up slowly in his chair. Upon his lips, for the first time all morning, appeared a faint, thoroughly aristocratic smile. He looked at the Physician, then at the empty cup that had held no decoction, and murmured with quiet, heartfelt warmth:

“And why on earth did I not enter the medical profession in my youth, instead of entangling myself so uselessly in politics… Here, at last, is true, unlimited power.”