Written for Chuck Wendig's
flash fiction challenge. The prompt: the danger of undeserved power. A fairytale of sorts.
Accident of BirthThe messenger holds out the envelope, and the King accepts it with a nod. He offers it to his wife: “will you do the honours?”
She takes it from him, and opens it. Carefully, she slides out the sheet of paper that will confirm their daugther’s rights to the throne. Her eyes scan the lines, she frowns, goes white, and with a thump she faints. Two ladies in waiting rush to her side, with a handkerchief and some water to bring her back to consciousness. The princess grabs the letter and reads it.
“Oh thank god,” she says, “no wonder I’m terrible at this.”
“What does it say?” a courtier asks.
“I’m not the princess. Can’t be. It’s not in my DNA.” The Princess holds up the letter. “See that, dad? It’s not my fault. I literally wasn’t born for this. No wonder I’m shite at it.”
“Language,” her father says automatically. He sits down next to his wife, who is starting to regain consciousness. “Are you feeling alright dear?”
“Yes. I assume the fact that I’m lying on the floor means that actually just happened?” the Queen says.
“Yes!” the princess screams. “Yes it fucking does!”
“Language,” her mother says.
The princess has an epiphany: “Does that mean I can marry Rose now?” She scans the room: “Rose, if I don’t have to become the next Queen, does that mean you do want to date me?”
“It does mean we have to figure out who does become the next heir, though.” Rose points out.
“Oh crap, a quest.”
“Language!” at least four people chime in.
“You don’t understand – you have to come!” the Princess exclaims. “I diverted a dragon, bartered with dwarves for clothes warm enough to trek through these mountains, and exchanged riddles with the witch.”
The hospital director looks her over: “You don’t look like a princess.”
“Well, it’s a bit of a long story. Baby mix-up: you should’ve been raised at court to do… court-stuff. I was actually raised at court, but I’m terrible at it. I was never supposed to be a princess.” She considers what she knows of the director: clearly the same age, but running a complete hospital. So: ambitious, capable, mind for logistics, and likely good with people. Likely won’t respond to direct flattery, but indirect might work. “Look, what our country needs is someone who can make it run smoothly,” she says. “And clearly, you can run things.” She relaxes a bit when the director doesn’t challenge that. She realises they’ve gathered an audience of nurses, doctors, and patients in their pajamas. Some of them cautiously nod. “I have nothing to offer but the image of a party girl and some outdoorsmanship.”
“You slayed a dragon,” the director offers.
“Diverted it – I couldn’t kill it.”
“See: you’re a good person! You’re young, you can still learn.”
“No, I mean, I was physically incapable. That was one huge monster.” The Princess shudders at the memory. “You know what, come with me to the palace, meet my folks. They’re lovely people – in their own way – and get a feel for the position. If after a year or two, you decide it’s not for you, you can always go back to running your provincial hospital.”
The director frowns: “Two years is too long. Six months.”
“Eighteen.”
“Fifteen.”
“Twelve?”
“I don’t know why I’m agreeing to this.” The director says, but she shakes the princess’ hand. “Twelve months. And the palace provides funds to run the hospital in my absence.”
“Done,” the princess says amiably. “You’re making the right call here.”
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