From Chapter 7: Acceptance
The Jester King
In the glorious and occasionally functional realm of Tonnshire, it was said to be truly funny, you needed three very rare qualities. First, the ability to come up with a great idea. Second, the courage to show everyone your great idea. And lastly, enough humility to realise you were completely wrong about it being a great idea.
King Edwyn had many great ideas. He was also not shy about showing them. It was the third quality which he lacked. He was, in every sense of the word, an idiot. A cretin. A moron. By birthright, he had inherited the crown of Tonnshire—located within the dominion of Ye Old Brenchley Forest; it was a place where grand plans were always undermined by poor execution. Castles were majestic but structurally unstable and economic policies were decided after a few goblets of wine.
This year, however, had not been a good one.
First, King Edwyn had lost a sizeable chunk of the royal treasury in what historians would later call ‘The Great Conn’—which, in hindsight, should have been obvious. But at the time, investing in an inventor who promised exploration of the New World via a ‘sky-ship’ (never mind that the old world still ran on turnips and donkeys) seemed like a stroke of genius.
Then the famine hit, which—again—wasn’t entirely his fault, unless you count the part where the sky-ship endeavour turned out to be a major misallocation of resources causing the economy to collapse. And, of course, just as the people were adjusting to the joys of eating their own pets to survive, an unfortunate incident involving a diplomatic banquet, an undercooked dog, and a mass poisoning put half the royal advisors out of action and thoroughly tested the privies.
The ambassador of the neighbouring kingdom of Brackland, observing King Edwyn’s incompetence, saw an opportunity to strike, and by morning, the realm had lost its eastern province. On top of that, his favourite concubine had been kidnapped.
By year’s end, the war was settled, but half the kingdom lay in ruins.
The grand court of Tonnshire, once a place of opulent feasts and extravagant festivities, had become a hollowed-out shell of its former self. The once-polished floors were scuffed and dirt-streaked; the golden chandeliers had been taken down and sold. His advisors, those who had survived the banquet debacle, slumped in their seats, wearing the heavy expressions of men who had seen too much. The whole of Tonnshire had ground to a halt, completely without hope.
And just when it seemed the weight of it all would crush King Edwyn, he turned to someone he tended to avoid at all costs—a final, desperate roll of the dice.
“Call in the Jester.” King Edwyn declared.
He was a lanky, wiry man, draped in a patchwork of garish colours, the bells on his cap jingling with every step. His face, deadpan and lined with years of sarcastic smiles, twisted into an expression of mock sympathy.
"Oh, Your Majesty!" He sighed dramatically, "What a terrible year indeed! A famine, a war, and now the kingdom is close to broke. How ever will you outdo yourself next year?”
“Here we go,” said King Edwyn bracing himself.
“Fatten the treasury by selling us all into slavery?”
Edwyn didn’t laugh, but the jester’s quips were unrelenting.
“Keep us warm in the winter by setting the rest of the realm on fire?”
He still couldn’t see the funny side.
“Or perhaps a kindness, simply end our misery by handing out free executions for all?"
But then… a snort escaped Edwyn's lips. Then another. And before he knew it, laughter—real, unrestrained laughter—bubbled up from the depths of his grief. The court watched in stunned silence as he laughed himself hoarse, wiping tears from his eyes. And just like that, the weight on his chest loosened. He could breathe again.
At first, the court assumed King Edwyn had finally lost his mind, which, given his track record, was not an unreasonable assumption. But he hadn’t. He had simply realised something: if he could accept the tragedy, accept his shortcomings and see the funny side of it, he would be able to let it go and move on.
He apologised to the people and made fun of all his terrible decisions. The realm forgave him. Then he made a decree: from this day forward, nothing was too sacred to make fun of.
He picked up the clown shoes, donned the fool’s hat, and switched places with his jester, declaring the fool in charge of all government affairs (which, frankly, was someone slightly more competent than himself). Poets composed ballads about the famine that had people rolling. Playwrights turned the war into a comedy of errors. Torture was replaced with really bad stand-up routines—so bad that prisoners begged for the rack rather than endure them.
And miraculously, it worked. The people laughed through their suffering. They healed. They moved forward.
For the first time in his life, Edwyn was hailed as a genius.
And so began The Age of Merriment.
It started subtly. A joke here, a prank there. However, King Edwyn being the fool he was, didn't know when to stop.
Laughter had saved him once—why stop there? Why not keep the jokes coming?
Why not rule through humour alone?
Over time, after years of living in The Age of Merriment, something changed. The jokes grew ruthless. Edwyn, once a ruler who used humour to lift burdens, now used it to avoid them entirely. Serious matters were dismissed with sarcasm. Anyone who brought up real concerns was mocked for being “too serious.” Grief was ignored. Pain became a punchline.
A diplomat from Brackland arrived to discuss peace terms. Edwyn greeted him by farting in his face. The court erupted in laughter. The diplomat did not. By morning, war was officially back on.
A farmer spoke out about the food shortages. Edwyn rewarded him with the royal title of Chief Whiner, complete with a medallion embossed with a crude image of a penis and balls.
What once made him wise now made him blind. And one night, during The Festival of Fools—yet another evening of forced revelry—his ex-jester sighed and had a conversation with him by the fire.
“You remind me of my brother.”
Edwyn cocked his head. “Oh? He was funny too?”
“Oh yes,” he said, smiling. “He could make anyone laugh. Constantly cracking jokes and playing the fool.”
There was a pause.
“Unfortunately,” he continued, “he never knew when to stop. One day, he thought it would be hilarious to dress as the queen and imitate her at a banquet being held in her honour.”
King Edwyn winced. “And how was that received?”
“Not great. It turned out she had died that morning.”
A pause.
“Ouch! Where is your brother now?”
“Well,” the jester said, “it depends what part of him you mean.”
He stared at the fire.
“Like a fart that refuses to leave the room, what starts as a burst of liberation becomes something that lingers and suffocates. Something that overstays its welcome and stinks up the place. That is the dark side of humour. True happiness, the thing we are all really after, lies beyond it.”
“Do all you metaphors involve anal gas?”
“Yes,” he slowly rose. “I believe they do.”
He trailed off, then bowed. “Good night, Your Majesty.”
And with that, he left for bed, leaving Edwyn in the great hall. The king looked around at the forced laughter, the painted smiles, and the hollow echoes of his once-great kingdom of jest.
Now, he was beginning to see the truth.
For years, Edwyn had thought laughter was the final destination—that if he just kept laughing, he’d never have to feel pain again. But laughter had only been a bridge, a way to cross the chasm of despair. But what use is a bridge if, after crossing, you refuse to step off? Now, it was time to step off the bridge. To move beyond it, to the other side.
And for the first time in years, he stopped joking and laughing.
The next morning, his kingdom woke to something strange. The royal decree, once a spectacle of jokes and jests, was now short and simple:
“I am putting the clown shoes away," King Edwyn proclaimed to his confused subjects.
The court was silent. The people whispered. Was this just another jest?
"The Age of Merriment is over. A new age begins—The Age of Tranquillity."
And then, little by little, they understood.
Edwyn took off his jester’s hat. The bells jingled as he set it down.
Back in court he sat upon the throne, his jester by his side.
“Laughter is how we keep going. But it’s not where we’re meant to stay,” he said to the jester.
“May I have my crown?”
“Of course. Your Majesty.”
He took the golden crown and replaced it upon his head.