Once more

okay, another story I suppose. The Inca. I don't remember the names involved, so bear with me.

The Kings and Queens of the Inca have always been brothers and sisters. Required. Here's how that started. A brother and a sister, in the vicinity of the lake that makes everyone laugh, decided to take over. They saved up their money, coin by coin, job by job. When they had enough, the brother put on his best clothes, a tunic and pantaloons, and swell boots. The sister took all the money and sewed it, coin by coin, onto her brother's clothes. The next morning, early, the brother snuck up to the top of a bluff near the market and hid. The sister started calling out to the people in the area, the farmers and tired mothers and guards, gathering them around.

When the people were gathered, when the sun was just rising, the brother stood up. The sun caught him, standing on the bluff in his gold coin coat. It was brilliant, broken sunlight. Glittering. The son of the sun! the sister called. Look. He is among us. Behold. The people fell, the crowds swooned. The brother ruled, and he elevated his sister to his wife. And so it always was.

And here's the point. The fucking point, to keep with my motif. The myth, the story they told their children and their people and their history books, was not that they were the children of the sun, the only true descendents of a holy god. No, the story that they passed along, that they told around the campfire and in the halls of their kings, was that they were not gods. But that they were smart enough to make people think they were.