A Larger Crown by Daryna Yakovenko

A terrible plague had descended upon the United Elven Kingdom:

one by one, the king’s deputies and their deputies began to die. The news reached the king in a week or two. Quickly, considering the hellish bureaucratic circles through which it had to wind its way.

Yet, this was no ordinary illness. Those who died were later seen at twilight, wandering the streets as pale shadows, whispering: “Truth was not spoken.”

The king, who, with his ink-stained moustache, looked more like a devil than an elf, paced nervously through the luxurious chambers, where the nobility closest to him had already gathered in fearful anticipation.

- Issue a decree prohibiting death. Have half of the families of those who violate it shot, and send the rest to voluntary-compulsory labour camps!

- Most honoured of the most honoured, Your Majesty! - A trembling voice piped up from one of the courtiers: - We will take your comments into consideration. However, Your Highness, please be so kind as to answer the following question from your humble servant: what should be done with those who, by a most unfortunate turn of events, have no family?

“A valid question, Lord Elfachov,” - the king raised his dark eyebrows and, in a rare moment, paused to reflect (albeit only for a second) on the wisdom of his own actions and their possible consequences; yet the thought quickly vanished into his pitch-black hair, and he continued thoughtfully: “What, sir, is our responsibility?” the nobleman asked, squinting.

“Collectively, Your Majesty, the most honourable and most respectful of all honourable gentlemen!” - Elfachov raised his head even higher.

“And this, nobleman Elfachov, is what I mean: if a malicious violator of the directive has no family, his neighbours should be punished, or simply passersby on the same or neighbouring street where he lives,” - the king, pleased with himself, raised his index finger, as if he had uttered something exceedingly wise.

The elven nobility leapt headlong from their exquisite, pomegranate-velvet-upholstered chairs and began applauding until their palms ached. Some even shed a single elven tear at the wisdom and erudition of their ruler.

But the plague did not cease. Instead, the shadows multiplied.

In the villages, an old fairy - bent like a crooked branch - watched them gather at dusk. She alone dared to listen. Their whispers grew clearer:

“We praised lies.”

“We feared truth.”

“We crowned cruelty.”

During this time, the United Kingdom witnessed a range of events, including a war with the gnomes and the occupation of the Prifayrian kingdoms. In domestic policy, however, the king favored a course of “elfification.” In addition, the monarch paid special attention to measures aimed at eradicating the so-called Low-Elven dialect.

And so countless years passed (some thirty, perhaps). However, with the arrival of the first days of late spring, the king died prematurely (or perhaps not so prematurely).

On that day, the most dreadful for the kingdom, the retinue nervously scurried about the castle - it was too terrifying to enter the king’s chambers - to check whether he was even alive.

Eventually, the news did spread throughout the kingdom. Grief engulfed the cities, especially the most distinguished among them - the capital, where the funeral was held. However, it should be noted that not all the inhabitants of the Kingdom were in mourning.

“Ugh, good riddance!” scowled an elderly fairy, before whose eyes still lingered the horrors of the elven massacres and forced resettlements to other provinces.

And yet time passed, and a day and a half after the funeral - to be perfectly precise in one’s testimony - a day and a half, thirty-three minutes, and five and a half seconds later, a new king ascended the throne. And the very next day after the day following the funeral, the kingdom’s most esteemed leader delivered a speech.

Excerpts from the condemnatory speech circulated through the hall. The new, highly esteemed king condemned the excessive glorification of the previous king, the destruction of the righteous, honest, and hardworking elves, and, of course, the mistakes made in waging war against the gnomes.

No sooner had the last syllable left the bishop’s lips than the most ardent supporter of the former ruler - Elfachov - sprang dashingly from the front row, nearly knocking his greenish hat off, and fell almost at the feet of the new ruler.

“Most honoured of the most honoured, my lord the king, as always, you are right in everything!” - Elfachov exclaimed with childlike enthusiasm.

“And take down that portrait. Hang mine up, but add gold trim and depict a larger crown.”

That very evening, the shadows returned. They gathered thicker than before, filling the streets, pressing against the palace walls. And among them stood one newly formed shade, its outline unmistakable: a crown, just slightly too large.

The old fairy chuckled, closing her eyes.

“No crown,” - she whispered, - “Can outgrow the truth it tries to hide.”