Once upon a time, there was a grand warren of rabbits. It was spacious, well-fed, with fine burrows and plentiful carrots. Visitors would look in and marvel: “Surely this is the finest warren in the land!”
The rabbits themselves spoke carefully. They told stories about how fortunate they were, how their warren was the envy of all others. But if a rabbit asked too many questions, the conversation would shift to poetry or polite small talk. They had all learned not to mention the snares. Every so often, one of their number would vanish, and the others would look away, repeating to themselves: “This is the price of living in such a fine place.”
At the centre of the warren stood the Emperor. He strutted proudly, declaring he wore robes of wisdom and vision that only the most loyal could see. His attendants nodded, his courtiers clapped. The rabbits knew, deep down, the Emperor wore no robes at all — yet none dared say it. For those who spoke too plainly soon found themselves tangled in the farmer’s traps.
A few rabbits — outsiders, or those with sharper senses — felt uneasy. They saw the snares, they saw the naked Emperor, and they tried to speak. But instead of breaking the spell, their words only made the others withdraw, whispering in private but staying silent in public. The illusion held, because the warren was comfortable, the carrots plentiful, and the fear of the farmer’s snare too real.
And so the Warren of the Emperor’s Robes went on: wealthy, admired, and strangely hollow. On the surface, a paradise. Beneath, a bargain of silence and complicity.
- Board index
- All times are UTC-05:00
- Delete cookies