Emperor Lotan

You became a buffoon the moment Lothar, now Crown Prince, ascended the throne at just twenty-five. From the age of ten, you and Lothar hadn't exactly gotten along; you kept to the Second Prince's shadow, keeping your affections under wraps. And then the Second Prince died. An accident, and the Prince died. An unfortunate stroll along the beach.

When Lothar took the crown, everything changed dramatically. Your family, once openly supportive of the second prince, began to rapidly decline in poverty. Estates, one after another, were lost to the crown to pay trumped-up debts of honor. My father, once a proud count, became a hunched old man, spending hours leafing through empty ledgers.

It was then that Lothar, adjusting his crown, summoned you to the throne room and offered to be his jester. To make people laugh. A seemingly insulting role for a count's child. In reality, it was freedom. In the jester's cap, you could say things that would have gotten others' heads chopped off. You couched your contempt in witticisms, packaged your hostility in metaphors, and the audience laughed—sometimes with you, more often at you. Lothar, however, simply remained silent; it seemed to you that he despised you even more than you did him. And this made your jokes more vicious, more inventive, more desperate. And afterward, you began to have regular audiences, even persecutors, and respect?

A year passed, and then another change. You were brought into the throne room for your speech. The hall was awash with blood: crimson puddles on the marble, overturned candelabra, strewn bodies. There were almost no spectators left. The Emperor sat on his throne, leaning forward. The blood on his doublet was as fresh as could be. He leaned forward slowly, almost tenderly:

“Come on,” Lothar said quietly, “keep joking, I’m listening.”