What makes a ruler? Is it their crown? Their bloodline? Their birthright? Is it their strength, their power, their magic? Is it all of the above? None of the above? These things go through a young prince's mind, as they are told their older sibling has stepped down as heir, and they must take their sibling's place. -- Anon Guest
Centuries ago, a warlord had made a throne, and put a circlet of gold on his head. He made his friends into lords, and himself into a king. He clung to power with an iron fist. The resultant kingdom and the bloodline were named after him. Julalruhk.
The warlords sons and grandsons kept a throne with swords soaked in blood. Their great-grandsons kept a throne with tradition and taxes. There was a lot more fiscal responsibility associated with living in a palace. For one thing, a King was expected to keep the economy going. Which was why Julian was stepping down.
"I have no head for numbers," he explained. "Even with an abacus, I can't add two and two to get the same answer thrice. You were always better at this, Norry. You can look after it all better than I."
Norwich Ferdinand Garrison Julalruhk, next in line for the throne, said, "Wait. What? But we just had your coronation. Do you have any idea how much that ceremony costs?"
"None, and I fully expect my purse to be docked in reparations to the crown. You see, don't you? You already know this. I'm just a dim-bulb who looks pretty for the portraits."
Norwich couldn't fault him on that logic. "All right. Fine. I'm still holding that inquest about the financial department. I'm sure someone's getting away with murder somewhere in the supply line. And I'm going to insist on a low-budget ceremony. The people just can't support two coronations in two years."
"I knew you'd be good at this, Norry. Let me take over public relations, at least. I can tell people they're utter rubbish and they thank me."
They each had their strengths, it seemed. "Fine. You're going to smooth things over with Alberhast in the east. It's nice and far from any peasants with rotten fruit. Why did you have to have a coronation if you knew you were going to step down?"
"I thought if I went through with it, the kingliness would kind of... imbue in me?"
Norwich winced. "Make sure your wife goes with you. She never makes assumptions." In fact, of the four of them - ruling brothers, wife, and fiancee - the ex-Princess Consort had a remarkable amount of undiluted cunning. They were going to need that. In spades.
Jules grinned. "I am going to get listen to your wife tattooed across my wrist. So I don't ever forget."
"Good plan. I need to plan everything else. Down to the last pickle."
What made a King into a King? It wasn't the blood. The ancient Julalruhk had been common as mud before he carved out a place to reign supreme over. It wasn't intelligence. It wasn't skill, magical or otherwise.
In the end, it had to be luck.
Pure.
Dumb.
Luck.
Lucky the bloodline still had competent heirs in it. Otherwise Julalruhk would be yet another footnote in the greater tomes of history.
[Image (c) Can Stock Photo / cico]
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