Once upon a time, there used to be a king. A king whose folklores were bigger than his statues, and his riches. Now, the problem with folklore is, they are great stories, but stories, nevertheless. Unless, taken to be gospel truth! But then, that’s the thing with literal people; they will take anything and everything literally! In the 21st century, they’d go on to be called mystics and journalists!
So, this king had folklore about him, about how he came from humble ways and rose to power to become a king. How he sacrificed his wife for the sake of the kingdom and its greater good, how he went from rags to royalty with the determination to serve people. Now, all of these were folktales, or as people in the 21st century would call it, PR strategies. Now, most of the commoners were happy believing these folklores to be gospel truth. Because it gave them hope. But then, like always, people of reason turned up and tried spoiling the fun. The people of reason were then tried for treason; while the stubborn ones were executed, the ones who knew to suit their conveniences, turned ministers at the court of the very same king.
But then, folklores are only as good as fuckups allow them to be. And thus, began the tale of the king’s fuckups. There were droughts, and there were deaths. There were plagues, and there was pandemonium. Soon, more and more people began siding with the men of reason. And the king did what he had to do, to ensure he stayed in power. He overruled reason with religion. And, if history has taught us anything, it is this, that religion always takes over reason. While the masses perished to dwindling fortunes, the messiah feasted on gold armchairs. Religion had found its latest ambassador. Newer folklore replaced the older ones in no time; people were happy with their clay gods and brick temples.
On an ominous afternoon, a court musician drowned himself to death, in country liquor. Some lamented the death, some, the demise of talent, while the rest just watched. Hours after his funeral, a rumour hit the surface for the first time: he did not drown himself in alcohol, he was probably tricked and forced into it. But then, back in those days, rumours were only as good as rumours; in short, just another passing folklore. But then, the king saw an opportunity that could turn him immortal. He indulged the rumour to be passed on, until it turned a wildfire. With every mouth it passed, it turned from a folklore to a legend, and before people knew, they were an integral part of this revolution. The revolution, they didn’t know, existed! Their revolution was for the crime to be punished, but then no one quite fitted the descriptions. Over time, the list of suspects grew longer and longer, and the chances of a conclusion got bleaker and bleaker. But the people, the people were too intoxicated to get over it, so they continued the revolution, this time calling it justice for the dead. And that right there, was history being scripted, by people who believed they were fighting for a cause. No one knows what happened to the revolution afterwards, but it sure did not have an outcome to remember. So, folklore taught the generations to come, that, it was the fight that mattered, not the outcome.
In a parallel world of logic and reason, it was just another death in space. That ended in a death. No king, no folklore, no revolution, no history. Just another death.
Justice can be served to the living. The dead can only be remembered. Death is too final and impenetrable; justice for the dead is like a birthday for the unborn. It’s not a concept, not even an abstract; it’s irrelevant.
The kingdoms prevailed though. They just came to be known as governments.
