Written as a response to the Muse on Monday prompt: Write a story based around a death or funeral

History is in the Eye of the Beholder

The king was dead, finally.

The blessedly-late Kale XXVIII had white-knuckled onto life for 116 years until he had finally meandered away from his mortal coil. Now the lone, half-senile curmudgeon who actually remembered how to run a coronation was summoned to teach the rest of the palace staff what to do.

The curmudgeon in question was the Honorable Kohlrabi the Illustrious. At 103, his seconds-in-command had long ago given up on hopes of his retirement and had retired themselves without teaching the next generation their knowledge. A large part of the ceremonial knowledge of the kingdom now lay solely between the bat-like, slightly translucent ears of Kohlrabi the Illustrious.

Kohlrabi stood in the hallway facing the large doors of the Coronation Chamber. Ceremonial law dictated that the king was not legitimate unless he was crowned inside that chamber. The texts—written in a script only Kohlrabi could now read—were very clear on this point.

The door had stayed closed and locked for 99 years. Kohlrabi had never seen the inside himself, having been 4 years old when it was opened for the previous coronation. For all he knew, rats had invaded the chamber decades ago and the skeletons of ten generations of rodents filled the chamber in drifts.

“Try it, go on,” Kohlrabi said to his assistant, a relatively spry 74-year-old named Cabbage. Cabbage hefted a foot-long key and slid it laboriously into the keyhole of the door. Kohlrabi held his breath.

“It won’t turn,” Cabbage said at last.

“Put your back into it!” Kohlrabi said, then put out a hand as he saw the man’s sweating face. He didn’t need another assistant dropping dead from light physical activity.

“Get your grandson in here!”

“I only have granddaughters, Your Illustricity.”

“Then get them in here,” Kohlrabi snapped. The new king was 93 years old and was anxious to get the coronation over with before dementia took over and he forgot to enjoy the one thing he’d waited nine decades for.

Cabbage’s granddaughters were masons and could probably have pulled the door open with their bare hands with the proper leverage. They took turns straining to turn the key until Kohlrabi was afraid it would snap in two.

“The lock’s seized up,” the oldest granddaughter, Perilla, said at last. “There’s no way in without a battering ram. What’s behind this door anyway?”

Kohlrabi started to answer, then stopped. He was tired and cranky and normally would be well into his second nap of the day by this time. He suddenly realized that he was the only one in the kingdom who knew the purpose of this door.

“A storage closet,” he said. “It’s not necessary. As I was saying, the coronation traditionally takes place right here, in this hallway. It symbolizes, uh, change and a period of transition. Let’s brick up this door.”

Since there happened to be three masons right there, this did not take long to accomplish.

“Let it be known from now on that this is the Coronation Wall,” Kohlrabi said, in a loud and authoritative croak, “built especially to honor our new king, Kale XXIX.” He pointed at the key hanging loosely in Cabbage’s hand. “You can throw that away.”