Broken Ascension

The King's Story

Remember, remember!

The fith of November,

The Gunpowder treason and plot;

I know of no reason

Why the Gunpowder treason

Should ever be forgot!

Yes, never to forget, when with threescore barrels of powder did they plot England’s overthrow. That they failed was surely God’s protection of that most illustrious of ancestors, the great King James. Who gave the world its most beautiful book forevermore to color the words and thoughts of Christendom. Great King James, who raised the illumination of Divine Right, to emphasise once and forevermore the truth of the hallowed throne. Kings were not mere chieftains mired in the mud with their soldiers. Not were they mere diplomats using sophistry to carve out the borders of their regions. They were Lords of Men, given the right and doom to rule by God himself, and ever it was to England’s detriment that this was forgot. Over the centuries did the country’s blood run thin, all wrought by mockery of the throne and the dissolution of Divine Right. Parliament had triumphed, the rule of men by common firmly established. They cut off one head and even after restoration their appetites were deep whetted. And they would not suffer any King of great power. The true line they deposed and a new line of Kings, subservient to Parliament was begun. And so it had been, and so it was, the throne nothing but a bejeweled trinket, the Kings and Queens to follow mere puppets of state. When ever did heads of state rode to the forefront of battle, to raise the standard themselves? When ever did they inspire religious ecstasies and visions from the people? The French had their Maid but England built an empire on enterprise and commerce and the common coin. It was not England’s armies in great and pompous livery that made the world their playground, but the mercenary coats of companies given Royal seal; privateers, contractors, paid men – who plowed forward in the name of money and property and not in the name of the King or Queen or God.

And so it had been, how would the Empire last for a thousand years when it was build on such poor scaffolding? When God had been forgotten, when true Kingship had been set aside for the triumph of the common. England would fall, they knew then and it did. From the greatest country on God’s earth to the subservient vassal of a continent, led by its own old enemies. And England slept, to dream of a time when the line of Kings begun anew, touched by God’s hands, invoked with Divine Right. And it will wake, the lying dragon in the mists. A glorious awakening, to restore the broken ascension.

But fortune had changed in the last century. Even as the Royal line dwindled to nothing more than river water, the country had somehow thrived. Fair enough, much of England’s progress and triumphs rose on the defeated backs of other countries. Europe had imploded, its multifarious cultures and sensibilities had never meant for tranquility and partisanship flowered like the flaming blooms of ignited oil wells. The Union held on in name, but much like the Royal House of England, nothing more than an artifact of the times. And America the Land of the Free; like a serpent devouring itself – successions of leaders even more inept and ludicrous than the last had but turned the once great country into nothing more than the chaotic cauldron of endless secession. California had been the first to strike out and the spine of the United States of America had snapped like tinder in a storm. The ensuing years after the Californian breakaway had been the most chaotic the world had seen in a long time. But in its little corner of the world, Britain had slowly prospered. It had its own secession problems, but in the end, the United Kingdom had stood proudly. Once again, a beacon for all humanity – but it needed something greater than a House of elected officials. It needed a true King. But the House of Windsor had finally failed. King Charles the Eight, final of his line, leaving the throne without an heir. Oh they had cast their net wide, following even the most obscure bloodlines, but truly the Royal House had been spent.

So it had come to be, the Monarchial Succession crisis. Republicans had surged forward, claiming it was finally time for the Crown to be brought down but deep in the hearts of its people, England and the Kingdom would have a King. Parliament had beheaded one King and had enthroned another. It was no issue in bringing another to the throne. Continuation of the, throne was easily enshrined constitutionally, but the choosing of a King? That process had let almost to another civil war but in the end they had found the right candidate. One that would inspire, one that would unite. One that would go on to recreate the line of Kings. But a King chosen by Parliament from the blood of the common folk. The Monarchy is dead. Long live the King!

And there it was, on a glorious May Day, a new king was crowned. A King for our kingdom, defender of our faith, protector of the people, lackey of a united parliament. It would all have turned out different if the barrels of gunpowder had gone off and change the landscape of England’s politics. Remember, remember the fifth of November, for it was the day that the Royal seat began descending and allowed for the ascension of parliament. On that night, when Fawkes was discovered, it was the beginning of the end the age of the Divine King. On that May Day more than 500 years later, the end of the Royal was truly gone. Remember, remember the fifth of May for it was the day that the throne was blown up. The first elected King of the United Kingdom.

The Monarchy is dead. Long live the King!

The man lifted his head from the sink to stare into the mirror at the face of the country’s new King. A King from the common people. There had been remnants of aristocracy who had some minute claim on the throne, but none of the survivors of these depleted houses would have been welcomed to the throne. The Monarchial Succession Bill had moved to ensure these claims would not be revived on account of the degrees of removal from the Royal line. Nothing beyond the ninth degree had any right of any claim. That had taken care of the aristocracy, what bedraggled remnants there were. Even the House of Lords had to be modified greatly through the dearth of qualified aristocrats. There had been many debates on the form of the choosing of the new monarch and he had in the end been installed via electoral college, borrowed from their American neighbors. Democracy at work, o glorious day. He regarded his face, handsome, urbane, intellectual and utterly Caucasian. Despite the advances in racial attitudes and the high miscegenation of society, the King could not be but utterly White. So much for progress. Might as well have a black Papacy. Oh, they did have one of those. But England, ah England always with its head in its hole, forever the days of yore. Here they had a new leader for new times, times when England will grow great again. He was a paragon of new attitudes, one of the world’s most respected diplomats, professor of the Chair for Political studies in LSE, a man without scandal. With a most photogenic family. It seemed to good to be true. Because it really was – too good to be true. The man formerly known as Richard Morton Marr and now known as His Royal Highness King Charles the Ninth – was a construct.

How had he, born little Richard to seemingly normal parents become a construct of which Divine Right was to be molded and lit anew? He had always been brought up to be King. As his father before him and many generations past. The line of Stuart had been kept since the days of Bonnie Prince Charlie and the scions of the family had always been brought up to be regal. Everything about his life had been carefully managed that if one day the opportunity presented itself, he would be an ideal choice for the throne. The family had been European once, hiding amongst the Germans. When the time had been ripe, they had returned to mother country ready to look towards reviving their rightful claims on the throne. The other branches in the diaspora had long wilted but his bloodline grew stronger over time, perhaps emboldened and enriched by their earth of their origination. And so it came to be, when it was time to choose a King, he was ready and able and willing. Who knows what destiny maketh for them? Who knows what was written in their Book of Life by God? Did he despite all of his upbringing know that one day he would be King? Monarch of the greatest nation on earth. Many would rail against him for saying that but bias he was not. They were the greatest nation on earth before and now and for ever. The empire was magnificent, the greatest the world would ever see. It stretched from coast to coast over half the earth. But they rode the wave like any other, and came so close to the abyss, chained by weak administrators and weaker rulers to collapsing nations. But they found their way again and they found it in time. To rise from the ashes, to be the greatest nation on earth evermore. A true phoenix for the ages.

It had not been easy. It had not been. Blood, sweat, tears and toil, before the pale faced beauracrats would admit to the castration of the Indomitable Lion. But a wounded animal is at its fiercest and the Lion regained all its pomp and glory when stronger people took charge. And to raise the nation back to its greatest required the return of a true monarch. All it took was the sacrifice of a nation. And an act of God.

It was executed by the hand of man, but something of such magnitude could only have been sanctioned by God. He looked into the mirror and a barely familiar face looks back. What was once the pale wan face of a career diplomat, bound by the strictures of legislation and nothing more than a mouthpiece. Now stares back the face of a King, blue blood simmering in his veins, the denouement of the greatest chapter in monarchic history. How he came to be a king, is an epic worth the weight of a bible, the authority of a Quran or the influence of a Sutra. How he came to be King on the spilled blood of so many, on the crushed hopes of even more, on the departing last dream of a falling King to be. O Bonnie Prince Charlie, would you see this day up above in your well earned rest; this day when your bloodline once more took the Throne?

Conspiracies abound. There are conspiracies wherever two or three put their head together and plan. And the Jacobites did put their heads together with the remnants of another proud body of men that had been greatly reduced. Thus a conspiracy was born, to return the Divine Blood to the throne. There were legends of the bloodline, said to descend from Jesus. But the Jacobites knew the truth. They knew the true bloodline of kings. You want to hear a story?

It begins like this.

A long time ago, in the age of frost, where the hardy Norseman wore the cold waves of winter and prayed to elder gods. Far in the North close to the artic line, where only the toughest could survive the depredations of the climate and its sparse resources. There they prayed to many gods, and there were many chieftains of men. But from these chieftains, who once were nothing more than sires of many sons rose one who stood tall above others; his blood of flame and heart of iron. When the pallor of bronze had started to give way to the riddle of iron and hearts hardened with the birth of these iron weapons, colder and harder than it had ever been. He had rose among lesser man, a new chief for a new age, iron his birthright and leadership his destiny. He had rose higher amongst all others of his village and to him now they called lord. Like his fellow men, he prayed to the many gods and enjoyed their blessing as all men may.

But it was to that one god, the Allfather that this first possible king had given his devotion. No more than a leader of a dozen families but he had made his pledge with the Elder god and had been given his Divine Right. The Right from the Allfather, some who know as Odin, he of midweek persuasion. This was the true line. Though the first of them all but led a small tribe in a small village, he had been given the pledge of a god. Allred he was called and in the name of his god, he will smite the path of divinity amongst men. His descendants after him continued his kingship and increased the circle of their power. Over time, his people had followed their king south to the western shores of Gaul and here it was that they had entrenched further their destiny. Allred’s line continued here, the kingship had grown until onward to the pinnacle of Empire. And how apt it was when he, Charles the Ninth had been crowned on a Wednesday, honoring the Allfather. Over time, Divine Right had been associated with the Christian God, more so when Henry the Eight had wrestled the yoke of spiritual power from the Papal office. But to be a true King, one needed to know the true origins. How the Norsemen had brought their heritage south to the beaches of Normandy where centuries later the descendants of those had broken the Germanic might. And how he of true origin, William the Bastard had strode across the narrow body of water and stamped his mark on the Isles forever. And that blood had held, not always direct but it had held until the Dutch usurper in cahoots with Parliament had broken the chain. They had thought all had been lost but the true fraternity grasped the last links and over time had forged them back to what they truly were. The Divine Chain. The line of true Kings. He leaned forward, history buffeting like the strong waves against the cliffs of Dover and a song seeps into his head. An old one.

There'll be bluebirds over

The white cliffs of Dover,

Tomorrow, just you wait and see,

Did William sight the cliffs of Dover when came towards England, bringing with him the pledge of Odin? He would have, waiting for the winds to favor him to battle the pretenders and set Divine Right upon this nation. Historians would claim that the line of Normandy had long broken in the accession of the country’s monarchs. But the Jacobites knew better. William himself was a bastard and though the official family tree showed differently, the Jacobites knew better. They knew the true history. Why had they fought so hard for a cause so doomed to failure when the Stuarts had been broken? Why else had they supported those that would put a King of Scotland to reign as monarch of England? Because they knew the true lineage, they of the faithful. Once they had been called something else, walked by other names. And when the line had been broken by the loss of the Stuarts, they had embraced the Jacobite cause and become one and the same. For centuries, they had stayed true; ensuring the line of kings was not broken. Biding the time and waiting for an opportunity to renew the ascension that was broken. Attempts at destabilization, even revolution had been thought and planned but the Jacobites had long realized that for a true event, the nation had to go to its knees on its own. And at its weakest, only was it time to move. Over the last century, the country had been down to the floor, almost defeated and then the Jacobites moved. Strong would be leaders started coming forward to wrest the chains of ruling from the old and tired government. Using their enemy’s strength – democracy, they were successful in seeding government with their own people. And as their stature and influence grew, and a firm hand on parliament was in place, the attacks on the monarch had began. Subtle; leveraging from the country’s frustration with an institution that seemed outdated and archaic. Never to suggest that a monarchy was not needed, only that the present caretakers lacked the prestige to keep it. And when the frail King had passed on without heirs, Parliament had moved into swift action. The Bill of Monarchial Succession had been passed, orchestrated by the Jacobite faithful. And it had passed and it had been accepted by the people. And when it came to choosing the King, the Jacobites had instigated their most promised candidate.

He had it all, looks, charisma – the ability to connect with the common. It didn’t matter who he really was or what he was inside. What was important was what other people saw. There had been a few other candidates, but in the end he had been chosen. Marked by God. There was internal conflicts of course – the river never did run smooth. Some in the organization had proposed their own candidates – and refused to support him. In the end, the ends justified the means – after centuries of waiting to allow petty politics to ruin the moment? A purge had been carried out, the Jacobites losing a half portion of their ranks. But it was no great loss when they were not true believers nor faithful enough. And all that remained, remained true to him. There was no truer way to be king, to rise through blood and ashes on the corpses of enemies. It somehow made it all seem prophesized. It would have been. How could you not believe in Divine Right, the power of Kings vested by God and not believe in prophecy? So it had come to pass and a line of Kings was reborn. Despite that the rightful King had been restored, ascension was only partially gained. For despite being King, he was nothing more than a prop, a word of bare significance, an office of impotent prestige. He had scant powers only duties of ceremony required of him. But that would change come the fifth of November. That would change when Divine Right would be asserted again. Nothing as dramatic as the fiery destruction of the houses of parliament. Nothing as powerfully visual as flames engulfing Westminster. It will be a move unseen by most of the world but the consequences would be paramount. It will be the day the Bill of Emergency Powers be put to vote, and of course the vote will go through. Powers that will give the King the true true powers of a Monarch, albeit only to be effected by special situations. And if they had the perseverance and diligence over all these centuries to first return a true Jacobite to the throne; the ability through means fair and foul to have the bill introduced and guarantee its passing; surely a special situation could be engineered. And then, the true King will emerge. He of Divine Right.

The King over the water had returned. Odin’s pledge had been renewed. The sword to tame the will of men was still being forged, but the embers were glowing and the steel was showing. From over the cliffs of Dover to the darks moors of the West. From the highlands with their Jacobite faithful to the wild winds of Cornwall. The sword will rule them all. The riddle of steel, first discovered by Allred all those wintry years ago in the land of frost. Who will stop this irreversible path to ultimate victory? The path blessed by an Elder God? Surely mere mortals could not withstand the swing of such a mighty sword. Surely only a god could be an obstacle, or a man like Allred invested with the pledge of a god. Surely no such man existed with which to turn the tides of history remaking. Surely.