Broken Ascension

The King's Story II

His majesty, Charles the Ninth walked out of his bedroom and entered his regal study. He had just had intimate relations with his Queen, something that he saw as his duty. His duty fulfilled, her tempers calmed. It had been mildly pleasant on his part, he allowed her to derive whatever satisfaction she needed if only to ensure the civility of their relationship. When they were first coupled together, there was a youthful hope between them that they would fall in love. But that was fools gold, this falling in love. Their path was not for the common pursuits of romance and child rearing. They tolerated each other well enough. Sometimes they even had s*x. But those pleasures of the flesh had long been sublimated, at least for him. What were a few tender moments in return for the Divine Right of ruling? There were those of his colleagues (ex colleagues– a King had no colleagues) who still indulged their sensuous side. Android, vid streams, even real people – there were plenty of distractions if you had the coin for it. But those paid ventures never quite could shake the unpalatable sheen of sleaziness. Even in an open and liberal society, that had some measure of disrepute. And he could not have even a hint of that. What paltry returns you could get for such risks.

But she would be satisfied with what she had, she had the children. They meant little to him only but for the blood in their veins. His own father regarded him as such. Why would it be any different? These familial joys, these romantic follies. These were for the common. They were free to love and f**k and procreate because their King would rule them. Even so, for them to have connection to the King, there were some things even he couldn’t escape. And marriage was one of them. Once, the institution of marriage had been predicted to its doom. It was an archaic institution many had argued, it meant nothing for love. And yet it persisted, the doom never farther away. Sometimes society changes more slowly than anyone can expect. Some things never grow old with time. The people had not shorn their need of marriage, they hadn’t shorn their need for a King. So he had dutifully married, a woman of faith selected for him . She was beautiful, sensuous, intelligent; any men would have been happy to been in his place. But he knew his own destiny; such trifles were for common man. He had done his duty because it would bring him to where he needed to be. The people needed their true King. He would give it to them. He would give them glory. Such that only one of true blood could give. And tomorrow would be another step in that direction. A step into the direction of Glorious Paths. Perhaps when his right had been fully established, he could be a little more adventurous. The Kings of old did sow their oats wide and far. And yet, it had no flavor for him. This was never something that appealed to him in his quest to the throne. He did not see Kingship as a means to a harem. There were those other pretenders who had saw it as such and those would never taste the heaviness of the Crown. Once upon a time when he was young perhaps there was some stirring of the loins but he felt himself growing asexual as he advanced in his years. To gain true ascension, he had to ascend himself as a person. Rise above. A King was more than a man. He had to become more than a man. And rooting was for animals and the dirty masses.

He walked to his desk and sat down into his plush chair. For many a century, the Royal Family had been based at Buckingham. But the true seat was here at St James. The official residence of the monarch was here at St James Place. This was his first order of conduct when he became King. Reestablishing the true seat. And honoring the name of his most illustrious ancestor. He activated the pad on his desk and flicked through the newstreams idly. He had three dedicated streams edited for him; one from the Royal Office, one from the Government of the day and one unknown to others from his faithful the Jacobites. In the Jacobite stream there was a marked item about some fanatics being caught down in Thatcher Square. He suspected the fanatics were his followers but why marked it out for him? What did it matter to him? There was always canon fodder aplenty. What difference did three make? He was supposed to be above and beyond such trivial matters. The King was to rule, not to govern. He became agitated and he poured himself a measure of whiskey. Drank it straight in one gulp. He looked at the bottle, a 50 year old draught. But it didn’t calm him. Perhaps he could get his Queen in here and have another go. That might just distract him. The power to compel her excited him more than the idea of the lovemaking itself. But he would just tire himself out. Damn Parliament. Damn the Queen. Damn the Jacobites too. Damn everything. He was chasing his Divine Right. So close that he could taste it. So close and yet far enough to warrant more patience from him. He had learned patience, had been patient. His strength had been his patience. He had stood by while others overplayed their hand and fell, and when the opportunity for the throne came up, he had been patient and watched as the others made moves that lost them the game. Patience. But the taste of it was on his tongue and nothing could mask it. Not the body of a beautiful woman, not the best of whiskies. Not for all the money in the world or the tea in China.

But patience, it had been his virtue. It had ensured his success. No reason not to trust it. One more day. The next step. And then the next. And then everything. He went back to the pad. The article on Thatcher Square was still onscreen. He took up a paperweight and started smashing the pad. He didn’t stop until the screen was completely macerated. He had cut himself in the process and blood was dripping from his hand. The Divine Blood. It dripped onto the table, a streak of crimson. That’s not water. He whispered to himself. That’s not water.