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Two weeks after the Senate vote in the Dikastirio of Athenia and the results of such a vote have come to pass far sooner than the people could ever have expected. With only the smallest of support margins, the passing of the legislative change made Persephone of Xanthos heir apparent to the Athenian throne. Now, sixteen days later, her father has passed, annointing her, by legal and divine right as Queen of Athenia. The first official arrangement and ceremony that she is to precide over, wearing her father's crown, is that of his funeral.
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Two weeks after the Senate vote in the Dikastirio of Athenia and the results of such a vote have come to pass far sooner than the people could ever have expected. With only the smallest of support margins, the passing of the legislative change made Persephone of Xanthos heir apparent to the Athenian throne. Now, sixteen days later, her father has passed, annointing her, by legal and divine right as Queen of Athenia. The first official arrangement and ceremony that she is to precide over, wearing her father's crown, is that of his funeral.
The King Is Dead Event - Athenia
Two weeks after the Senate vote in the Dikastirio of Athenia and the results of such a vote have come to pass far sooner than the people could ever have expected. With only the smallest of support margins, the passing of the legislative change made Persephone of Xanthos heir apparent to the Athenian throne. Now, sixteen days later, her father has passed, annointing her, by legal and divine right as Queen of Athenia. The first official arrangement and ceremony that she is to precide over, wearing her father's crown, is that of his funeral.
The Senate meet had taken a toll on their father.
From what Persephone had told her, it was a stressful meeting which required Minas to stand and make decisions far more then he had done ever since he had fallen ill - and it showed upon his return. Physican after physician had been called, but Minas had taken a turn for the worst ever since that fateful Senate meet, and had been in his room for the past sixteen days.
Sixteen, long, days.
Emilia had been bouncing between handling the training of her new puppy and accompanying her ill father. Every morning, the young princess would go to the temple of the Gods accompanied by her retinue of guards and maids, and there she would make offerings to all the Gods and Goddesses available, praying for the health of her father and the safety of her sister. The passing of the legislative change meant that many were unhappy with the decision - especially when she was told that the margin of support was small.
And then that morning, Helen had woken her up before the crack of dawn, something that Emilia did not appreciate. As someone who enjoyed laying in bed, especially now that Labros would be curled up by her feet, Emilia disliked rude awakenings, and her maids knew that. Yet that morning, all it took was one look at Helen's sombre face for Emilia to start awake. Her heart had fallen to her feet the moment she was informed of the news, and with Labros running at her feet, Emilia had dashed to her sister's side without even pulling a night gown over her thin sleeping shift.
By her sister's side, Emilia had stayed (her maids had came to pull a thicker material over her later) as the servants prepared her father's cold, still body. And she had wept. Emilia had grown up her father's daughter, through and through. To lose him was like losing an essential part of her. Unlike Persephone, she barely remembered losing their mother - even if she was told that she cried as well at that ceremony, but it was a memory that was hazy at best, for she had been young.
But with Minas, Emilia had memories, laughter and joy, and could still feel her father's warm hand on hers every time she had came to tell him about some new suitor or other. She could still remember him telling her that it was always 'her choice', and that Minas wanted nothing more then her happiness in life. Even ill, he had smiled with warmth and love when Emilia introduced Labros to him on his sickbed, eager to see his youngest daughter laugh and smile. And Emilia had always been hopeful.
Now, that hope was dashed.
Eventually, her sister had told her to get changed. They would have to head for the proper funeral that would be held at the Naos of the patroness goddess of Athenia.
And Emilia had never dressed with such a heavy heart. Eschewing her usual bright colors of honeyed yellow and mauve, her maids had been instructed to bring out the black brocade she had, and bring one to Persephone. The other was draped across her body. The material was shimmery even despite the dull color, and held up with clasps and belts that was tied around Emilia's waist. Her hair was curled as they usually were, and it was the simplest silver circlet that she picked for her maids to place on her head, before the young princess finally slipped her feet into a pair of silver slippers, and headed down to await her sister.
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The Senate meet had taken a toll on their father.
From what Persephone had told her, it was a stressful meeting which required Minas to stand and make decisions far more then he had done ever since he had fallen ill - and it showed upon his return. Physican after physician had been called, but Minas had taken a turn for the worst ever since that fateful Senate meet, and had been in his room for the past sixteen days.
Sixteen, long, days.
Emilia had been bouncing between handling the training of her new puppy and accompanying her ill father. Every morning, the young princess would go to the temple of the Gods accompanied by her retinue of guards and maids, and there she would make offerings to all the Gods and Goddesses available, praying for the health of her father and the safety of her sister. The passing of the legislative change meant that many were unhappy with the decision - especially when she was told that the margin of support was small.
And then that morning, Helen had woken her up before the crack of dawn, something that Emilia did not appreciate. As someone who enjoyed laying in bed, especially now that Labros would be curled up by her feet, Emilia disliked rude awakenings, and her maids knew that. Yet that morning, all it took was one look at Helen's sombre face for Emilia to start awake. Her heart had fallen to her feet the moment she was informed of the news, and with Labros running at her feet, Emilia had dashed to her sister's side without even pulling a night gown over her thin sleeping shift.
By her sister's side, Emilia had stayed (her maids had came to pull a thicker material over her later) as the servants prepared her father's cold, still body. And she had wept. Emilia had grown up her father's daughter, through and through. To lose him was like losing an essential part of her. Unlike Persephone, she barely remembered losing their mother - even if she was told that she cried as well at that ceremony, but it was a memory that was hazy at best, for she had been young.
But with Minas, Emilia had memories, laughter and joy, and could still feel her father's warm hand on hers every time she had came to tell him about some new suitor or other. She could still remember him telling her that it was always 'her choice', and that Minas wanted nothing more then her happiness in life. Even ill, he had smiled with warmth and love when Emilia introduced Labros to him on his sickbed, eager to see his youngest daughter laugh and smile. And Emilia had always been hopeful.
Now, that hope was dashed.
Eventually, her sister had told her to get changed. They would have to head for the proper funeral that would be held at the Naos of the patroness goddess of Athenia.
And Emilia had never dressed with such a heavy heart. Eschewing her usual bright colors of honeyed yellow and mauve, her maids had been instructed to bring out the black brocade she had, and bring one to Persephone. The other was draped across her body. The material was shimmery even despite the dull color, and held up with clasps and belts that was tied around Emilia's waist. Her hair was curled as they usually were, and it was the simplest silver circlet that she picked for her maids to place on her head, before the young princess finally slipped her feet into a pair of silver slippers, and headed down to await her sister.
The Senate meet had taken a toll on their father.
From what Persephone had told her, it was a stressful meeting which required Minas to stand and make decisions far more then he had done ever since he had fallen ill - and it showed upon his return. Physican after physician had been called, but Minas had taken a turn for the worst ever since that fateful Senate meet, and had been in his room for the past sixteen days.
Sixteen, long, days.
Emilia had been bouncing between handling the training of her new puppy and accompanying her ill father. Every morning, the young princess would go to the temple of the Gods accompanied by her retinue of guards and maids, and there she would make offerings to all the Gods and Goddesses available, praying for the health of her father and the safety of her sister. The passing of the legislative change meant that many were unhappy with the decision - especially when she was told that the margin of support was small.
And then that morning, Helen had woken her up before the crack of dawn, something that Emilia did not appreciate. As someone who enjoyed laying in bed, especially now that Labros would be curled up by her feet, Emilia disliked rude awakenings, and her maids knew that. Yet that morning, all it took was one look at Helen's sombre face for Emilia to start awake. Her heart had fallen to her feet the moment she was informed of the news, and with Labros running at her feet, Emilia had dashed to her sister's side without even pulling a night gown over her thin sleeping shift.
By her sister's side, Emilia had stayed (her maids had came to pull a thicker material over her later) as the servants prepared her father's cold, still body. And she had wept. Emilia had grown up her father's daughter, through and through. To lose him was like losing an essential part of her. Unlike Persephone, she barely remembered losing their mother - even if she was told that she cried as well at that ceremony, but it was a memory that was hazy at best, for she had been young.
But with Minas, Emilia had memories, laughter and joy, and could still feel her father's warm hand on hers every time she had came to tell him about some new suitor or other. She could still remember him telling her that it was always 'her choice', and that Minas wanted nothing more then her happiness in life. Even ill, he had smiled with warmth and love when Emilia introduced Labros to him on his sickbed, eager to see his youngest daughter laugh and smile. And Emilia had always been hopeful.
Now, that hope was dashed.
Eventually, her sister had told her to get changed. They would have to head for the proper funeral that would be held at the Naos of the patroness goddess of Athenia.
And Emilia had never dressed with such a heavy heart. Eschewing her usual bright colors of honeyed yellow and mauve, her maids had been instructed to bring out the black brocade she had, and bring one to Persephone. The other was draped across her body. The material was shimmery even despite the dull color, and held up with clasps and belts that was tied around Emilia's waist. Her hair was curled as they usually were, and it was the simplest silver circlet that she picked for her maids to place on her head, before the young princess finally slipped her feet into a pair of silver slippers, and headed down to await her sister.
Persephone wasn't entirely in her right mind. She was numb, she was cold, she was entirely devoid of thought. Not because she was shocked; for the king's death had been pre-ordained for some time and, unlike her blissfully hopefully sister, Persephone had known loss before. She had known that particular look in the eyes of the physicians when they claimed that by some miracle, the parent in question might recover. She had held onto that "might" the last time - the same way Emilia had done to this one. She had not this time around.
With the loss of her second parent, Persephone's emotions were not tempered by surprise or loss. But by certainty. She knew what it felt to lose a loved one. She knew what it felt to be inconsolable. To cry every night, to scream for their return. To deny herself food, drink and slumber in the hopes of making her own body feel bad. A self-destructive reaction to guilt that she was permitted to continue with her life while her previously healthy parent had not. She knew what it was like to be angry at the Gods for their decisions where the lives of mortals were concerns. The Fates with their strands of life, weaved and woven to their own amusement had been a source of much rage and hostility in Persephone for many months after the death of her mother.
Less so, this time.
With age and experience came maturity. And while Persephone was only twenty-two years of age - hardly an age where one would be used to the feeling of loss - she was indeed familiar with the natural reactions one experienced as they went through denial, anger, hostility and all the other processes that were required for an individual to accept in the death of a parent - or any other loved one, for that matter.
Persephone had realised and accepted long ago that her father would die, never trusting in that "might" in the same way her sister did. Ergo, she had done most of her grieving before she had been alerted the previous evening.
Her father's lead servant had come to her door - one of the first times he had left the king’s bedside in months, unless to sleep. He had been anxious and encouraging of Persephone to move down the corridors at a pace unladylike for one of her breeding but which she had no care for. They had collided with Emilia on the way back to her father's rooms, fetched by another servant and Persephone had held her sister's hand as they had rushed to the monarch's chambers.
There, their father was clearly dying.
Unable to breathe properly, almost entirely unable to move, he had only turned his gaze when they had entered his bedroom and a twitch of one of his prone hands had indicated a desire to reach for them.
They had stayed with him for several hours that evening, the King had said his goodbyes to both of his daughters and then Emilia had been sent back to her bed on Persephone's orders. After witnessing the dying breaths of their father, there had been no need for her to be present during the prepping of the body. Such a memory was not a pleasant one to have for the rest of your life.
By morning, the King was dead and the younger princess told of the event that the girls had witnessed for herself.
It felt almost insulting just how fast funeral preparations came together in order to be enacted on the same day but such a thing was to be expected. Funerals were expected twenty-four hours after death and the King's would be a large affair. As such, with the understanding that he was going to pass sooner rather than later, all of the plans and arrangements had been made ahead of time. The merchants and suppliers they had sought out and kept hanging on their word for the event to occur simply hadn't been made aware that it was for the king's future funeral.
A ceremony that was occurring in just under an hour.
Persephone was already dressed when the brocade was brought through to her. she simply added it over the top of her own outfit. The gown chosen for her ensemble was the one she had worn at the first gladiator games she had opened. Jet black upon the top, startling white at the bottom and a faded change between the two from the knee downwards, it was made of multiple layers of gossamer and the softest thinnest silks. When she moved it was as if she were walking through clouds.
Over the top of this gown, Persephone wore an epiblema, fixed to one shoulder and the opposing hip, in a bright yellow. Her father had been born of both Xanthos and Marikas after all.
The brocade was fastened next, muting the yellow into an accent and displaying the black sombre feeling of the occasion. She fixed it in place with a golden fibulae, designed in the shape of four feathers, two swan flanked by two owl, the design reaching down over her shoulder as it held the brocade in place.
She wore other jewellery too - the decorativeness of her accessories a sign of respect to her father and his heritage rather than inappropriate for the event itself. Large golden earrings hung from her lobes and her father's wedding band - a silver band to match that of her mother's was worn on her right thumb. Her mother's was missing from her right ring finger but, after an initial panic attack that she had managed to calm, Persephone had sent several servants to find the item within her study or the rest of the chambers in the palace. She had not left the palace in the last sixteen days so it had to be in the building somewhere. Though she would not feel content at heart until she had it back on her hand, paired with her father's that she now wore.
The only other piece to accessory her, was the obvious. It had taken her ten minutes to prepare herself to wear it.
The crown of Athenia was significantly different to the ivy tiara she had worn to other events. While her own crown was - hand been - golden and heavy, it had always been feminine. the ivy leaves curled from the back of the head to meet above the brow in a rising, elegant triangle. It had been front heavy and delicately woven into her hair.
The crown of the monarch was of a very different style.
Worn more often by men than by women, the item was a complete circlet two inches in thickness and then offered arrow head-like spikes around its circumference. It was smaller than the coronation crown which was of the same design just far larger and more impressive - for it was designed for all to see it from afar at such a large ceremony - but the "every day" crown, so to speak, was still heavy enough as she had allowed her servants to settle it upon her head. The weight was different from her own crown, her neck and spine supporting more of it, and the gold was buffed to a solid gleam rather than the bright shine of her own tiara. This crown was designed to state the power someone already had. The tiara of a princess was to offer a young woman power where she had none otherwise. It was an entirely different diadem with an entirely different purpose.
And looking at herself in it made her feel sick.
Standing and turning away from the mirror, there was a quiet knock at the door and Persephone was informed that it was time to leave the palace.
As her ladies’ maids finished with the large, heavy and very ornate braid they had completely down her back, Persephone nodded her thanks to the messenger and then left the room with all the grace, poise and etiquette that was befitting her new rank but that she did not feel.
Emilia was already waiting in the grand foyer of the palace, and Persephone was unable to offer her customary smile to her sister. Her mind wasn't functioning all that well with emotion and offering a crack in her wall to give her sister the comfort she probably should have would be open to the door to far more that they did not have the time to handle. She would speak with her sister after the ceremony - when she would no longer need to be on show.
Their father's body had been moved into a covered cart - a vehicle, embossed in gold and black ebony, that offered a flatbed for the body and a square tent of black gossamer over it, so as not to have the man on full display to the public. Inside the tent, the king was dressed in his finest, with a golden mask over his face and his frame entirely surrounded by flowers and dried incense. A carriage with the royal seal had been prepared behind the cart, ready for the sisters to embark.
Persephone hesitated.
When their mother had died, this had been the exact same set up. The Queen's body elegantly transported, the two princesses in the closed carriage behind. Her father, however, as monarch, had ridden up front. He had worn his crown and his royal cloak and had taken to horseback, leading the procession himself.
A servant came forwards offering Persephone a large, black, silken cloak.
Her words firm and without much volume, Persephone spoke before she could change her mind.
"Prepare my horse." She told the servants, who seemed to pause and look to one another. Diomedes of Nikolaos, head of the Athenian Guard, was up front of the procession and seemed to have heard her despite the distance, looking back at her momentarily.
Persephone's eyes narrowed.
"You heard the Queen." The lord of Nikolaos commented in a bark of instruction.
There was a scurry of motion and a flurry of footsteps as Persephone's black gelding - the one with two front white socks - was saddled, bridled and moved to the steps of the palace where Persephone was supported in ascending to his back. The stable hands were careful to arrange the cloak - now fastened around Persephone's shoulders, so that it hung down and over the horse’s hindquarters, the fabric so long and wide that it hid most of the back end of the creature from view.
Without another glance at her sister, the carriage or the covered litter that held her father, Persephone nudged the creature forwards and headed quickly for the front of the procession. She was in line with the Guardsmen when she drew the animal to a stop, her hands more commanded by her instinctive feelings than her thoughts. She suddenly found that her breathing was erratic, and her chest painful.
"Your Majesty?" Diomedes of Nikolaos asked calmly and with limited concern so as not to draw attention to her hesitation.
Your Majesty. Not Your Royal Highness. Royal Highness, Persephone could handle. She had been called it since the day of her birth. Your Majesty was a title reserved solely for the monarch of a kingdom. The ultimate head and ruler.
The most important and powerful person in all of Athenia.
Persephone felt her heart start to hammer, but kept her face plain - she hoped.
"One moment." She grated out between her teeth and then immediately got down from her steed and walked with speed back into the palace. She strode quickly, walked around three different corners, her brain simply telling her that she needed to be far enough away to be out of earshot. After which she beelined for the first decorative vase within her view. She hurried over, dropped to her knees and immediately vomited into the ceramic.
Her gut twisted, her belly wretched, her throat was sore and her eyes started to water as she threw up everything she had eaten in the last twenty-four hours which was, in its entirety, a few slices of bread and half an apple.
Breathing heavily and her hands shaking, Persephone closed her eyes and took a moment to hug the vase she had just violated with her nerves and anxiety.
She couldn't do this.
She had been planning for it, for months. She had been expecting it, for months. But there was something very different about the theoretical concept of being Queen, and actually being the ruler of a kingdom in charge of the previous leader's funeral. All Persephone could see in her head was her father's smiling face, from when he had been younger and she just a small girl. All she could feel in her hands was the way his skin has slipped over his bones, loose and paper-like, last night. The two memories convulsed and blurred, the reality of what she was about to do getting jumbled up inside it all.
"Father, what do I do?" The words weren't spoken but mimed against the vase, only air between her lips instead of sound.
She closed her eyes, desperate to hear her father's voice.
"The Senate is a formal proceeding..." The words of a memory she had recalled just sixteen days ago at the Senate Meet came back to her again... "In it, you are not Persephone. You are the princess. And to show emotion in that way only highlights you as my daughter, not as a regal role."
It took several goes recalling the words around and around in her head, before Persephone was able to push herself back up to her feet. Her hands still shook, her heart still pounded, but her breathing was calming down...
A formal proceeding... She reminded herself. I am a regal role... Not his daughter...
Her mind naturally shied away from what regal role that was in particular, despite the heavy crown on her head being a constant reminder.
Brushing at her mouth and thankful to find that she had been most efficient in her sickness and hadn't gotten any on her mouth, Persephone simply swallowed to try and clear her palette, gagged and then stood up straight once more, checking her appearance and visage. She hadn't actually cried or let the watering of her eyes reach a point where it would smear her aesthetics and her gown and layers were all in place. the crown was too heavy and too fixed to her hair to have moved, though it had shifted slightly, pulling her hair from its follicles as it went, so she reached up to ensure it was accurately in place. Squaring her shoulders, Persephone then headed straight back down the corridor, thankful that she had recovered so quickly as she passed a servant coming in the opposite direction, who would have found her bent over a vase if she hadn't gotten her nonsense sorted out.
Once back outside, the afternoon sun burned her eyes, but Persephone didn't allow it to hinder her as she headed straight for her horse, got back on its back, ordered the train of her cloak to be reset and finally took her place at the head of the procession.
She would not think about why she was there. She would not think about the cart behind her, or the future ahead. She would not consider herself or think of herself as ruler. She was Princess Persephone, leading a procession in honour of a late king of Athenia.
Feeling her stomach settle at that idea, Persephone kicked her mount into a forward walk and led the procession that immediately followed her out of the royal palati gates and on the path towards the great Temple of Athenia, outside of which, the king would be cremated, his life honoured in blazing flame...
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Persephone wasn't entirely in her right mind. She was numb, she was cold, she was entirely devoid of thought. Not because she was shocked; for the king's death had been pre-ordained for some time and, unlike her blissfully hopefully sister, Persephone had known loss before. She had known that particular look in the eyes of the physicians when they claimed that by some miracle, the parent in question might recover. She had held onto that "might" the last time - the same way Emilia had done to this one. She had not this time around.
With the loss of her second parent, Persephone's emotions were not tempered by surprise or loss. But by certainty. She knew what it felt to lose a loved one. She knew what it felt to be inconsolable. To cry every night, to scream for their return. To deny herself food, drink and slumber in the hopes of making her own body feel bad. A self-destructive reaction to guilt that she was permitted to continue with her life while her previously healthy parent had not. She knew what it was like to be angry at the Gods for their decisions where the lives of mortals were concerns. The Fates with their strands of life, weaved and woven to their own amusement had been a source of much rage and hostility in Persephone for many months after the death of her mother.
Less so, this time.
With age and experience came maturity. And while Persephone was only twenty-two years of age - hardly an age where one would be used to the feeling of loss - she was indeed familiar with the natural reactions one experienced as they went through denial, anger, hostility and all the other processes that were required for an individual to accept in the death of a parent - or any other loved one, for that matter.
Persephone had realised and accepted long ago that her father would die, never trusting in that "might" in the same way her sister did. Ergo, she had done most of her grieving before she had been alerted the previous evening.
Her father's lead servant had come to her door - one of the first times he had left the king’s bedside in months, unless to sleep. He had been anxious and encouraging of Persephone to move down the corridors at a pace unladylike for one of her breeding but which she had no care for. They had collided with Emilia on the way back to her father's rooms, fetched by another servant and Persephone had held her sister's hand as they had rushed to the monarch's chambers.
There, their father was clearly dying.
Unable to breathe properly, almost entirely unable to move, he had only turned his gaze when they had entered his bedroom and a twitch of one of his prone hands had indicated a desire to reach for them.
They had stayed with him for several hours that evening, the King had said his goodbyes to both of his daughters and then Emilia had been sent back to her bed on Persephone's orders. After witnessing the dying breaths of their father, there had been no need for her to be present during the prepping of the body. Such a memory was not a pleasant one to have for the rest of your life.
By morning, the King was dead and the younger princess told of the event that the girls had witnessed for herself.
It felt almost insulting just how fast funeral preparations came together in order to be enacted on the same day but such a thing was to be expected. Funerals were expected twenty-four hours after death and the King's would be a large affair. As such, with the understanding that he was going to pass sooner rather than later, all of the plans and arrangements had been made ahead of time. The merchants and suppliers they had sought out and kept hanging on their word for the event to occur simply hadn't been made aware that it was for the king's future funeral.
A ceremony that was occurring in just under an hour.
Persephone was already dressed when the brocade was brought through to her. she simply added it over the top of her own outfit. The gown chosen for her ensemble was the one she had worn at the first gladiator games she had opened. Jet black upon the top, startling white at the bottom and a faded change between the two from the knee downwards, it was made of multiple layers of gossamer and the softest thinnest silks. When she moved it was as if she were walking through clouds.
Over the top of this gown, Persephone wore an epiblema, fixed to one shoulder and the opposing hip, in a bright yellow. Her father had been born of both Xanthos and Marikas after all.
The brocade was fastened next, muting the yellow into an accent and displaying the black sombre feeling of the occasion. She fixed it in place with a golden fibulae, designed in the shape of four feathers, two swan flanked by two owl, the design reaching down over her shoulder as it held the brocade in place.
She wore other jewellery too - the decorativeness of her accessories a sign of respect to her father and his heritage rather than inappropriate for the event itself. Large golden earrings hung from her lobes and her father's wedding band - a silver band to match that of her mother's was worn on her right thumb. Her mother's was missing from her right ring finger but, after an initial panic attack that she had managed to calm, Persephone had sent several servants to find the item within her study or the rest of the chambers in the palace. She had not left the palace in the last sixteen days so it had to be in the building somewhere. Though she would not feel content at heart until she had it back on her hand, paired with her father's that she now wore.
The only other piece to accessory her, was the obvious. It had taken her ten minutes to prepare herself to wear it.
The crown of Athenia was significantly different to the ivy tiara she had worn to other events. While her own crown was - hand been - golden and heavy, it had always been feminine. the ivy leaves curled from the back of the head to meet above the brow in a rising, elegant triangle. It had been front heavy and delicately woven into her hair.
The crown of the monarch was of a very different style.
Worn more often by men than by women, the item was a complete circlet two inches in thickness and then offered arrow head-like spikes around its circumference. It was smaller than the coronation crown which was of the same design just far larger and more impressive - for it was designed for all to see it from afar at such a large ceremony - but the "every day" crown, so to speak, was still heavy enough as she had allowed her servants to settle it upon her head. The weight was different from her own crown, her neck and spine supporting more of it, and the gold was buffed to a solid gleam rather than the bright shine of her own tiara. This crown was designed to state the power someone already had. The tiara of a princess was to offer a young woman power where she had none otherwise. It was an entirely different diadem with an entirely different purpose.
And looking at herself in it made her feel sick.
Standing and turning away from the mirror, there was a quiet knock at the door and Persephone was informed that it was time to leave the palace.
As her ladies’ maids finished with the large, heavy and very ornate braid they had completely down her back, Persephone nodded her thanks to the messenger and then left the room with all the grace, poise and etiquette that was befitting her new rank but that she did not feel.
Emilia was already waiting in the grand foyer of the palace, and Persephone was unable to offer her customary smile to her sister. Her mind wasn't functioning all that well with emotion and offering a crack in her wall to give her sister the comfort she probably should have would be open to the door to far more that they did not have the time to handle. She would speak with her sister after the ceremony - when she would no longer need to be on show.
Their father's body had been moved into a covered cart - a vehicle, embossed in gold and black ebony, that offered a flatbed for the body and a square tent of black gossamer over it, so as not to have the man on full display to the public. Inside the tent, the king was dressed in his finest, with a golden mask over his face and his frame entirely surrounded by flowers and dried incense. A carriage with the royal seal had been prepared behind the cart, ready for the sisters to embark.
Persephone hesitated.
When their mother had died, this had been the exact same set up. The Queen's body elegantly transported, the two princesses in the closed carriage behind. Her father, however, as monarch, had ridden up front. He had worn his crown and his royal cloak and had taken to horseback, leading the procession himself.
A servant came forwards offering Persephone a large, black, silken cloak.
Her words firm and without much volume, Persephone spoke before she could change her mind.
"Prepare my horse." She told the servants, who seemed to pause and look to one another. Diomedes of Nikolaos, head of the Athenian Guard, was up front of the procession and seemed to have heard her despite the distance, looking back at her momentarily.
Persephone's eyes narrowed.
"You heard the Queen." The lord of Nikolaos commented in a bark of instruction.
There was a scurry of motion and a flurry of footsteps as Persephone's black gelding - the one with two front white socks - was saddled, bridled and moved to the steps of the palace where Persephone was supported in ascending to his back. The stable hands were careful to arrange the cloak - now fastened around Persephone's shoulders, so that it hung down and over the horse’s hindquarters, the fabric so long and wide that it hid most of the back end of the creature from view.
Without another glance at her sister, the carriage or the covered litter that held her father, Persephone nudged the creature forwards and headed quickly for the front of the procession. She was in line with the Guardsmen when she drew the animal to a stop, her hands more commanded by her instinctive feelings than her thoughts. She suddenly found that her breathing was erratic, and her chest painful.
"Your Majesty?" Diomedes of Nikolaos asked calmly and with limited concern so as not to draw attention to her hesitation.
Your Majesty. Not Your Royal Highness. Royal Highness, Persephone could handle. She had been called it since the day of her birth. Your Majesty was a title reserved solely for the monarch of a kingdom. The ultimate head and ruler.
The most important and powerful person in all of Athenia.
Persephone felt her heart start to hammer, but kept her face plain - she hoped.
"One moment." She grated out between her teeth and then immediately got down from her steed and walked with speed back into the palace. She strode quickly, walked around three different corners, her brain simply telling her that she needed to be far enough away to be out of earshot. After which she beelined for the first decorative vase within her view. She hurried over, dropped to her knees and immediately vomited into the ceramic.
Her gut twisted, her belly wretched, her throat was sore and her eyes started to water as she threw up everything she had eaten in the last twenty-four hours which was, in its entirety, a few slices of bread and half an apple.
Breathing heavily and her hands shaking, Persephone closed her eyes and took a moment to hug the vase she had just violated with her nerves and anxiety.
She couldn't do this.
She had been planning for it, for months. She had been expecting it, for months. But there was something very different about the theoretical concept of being Queen, and actually being the ruler of a kingdom in charge of the previous leader's funeral. All Persephone could see in her head was her father's smiling face, from when he had been younger and she just a small girl. All she could feel in her hands was the way his skin has slipped over his bones, loose and paper-like, last night. The two memories convulsed and blurred, the reality of what she was about to do getting jumbled up inside it all.
"Father, what do I do?" The words weren't spoken but mimed against the vase, only air between her lips instead of sound.
She closed her eyes, desperate to hear her father's voice.
"The Senate is a formal proceeding..." The words of a memory she had recalled just sixteen days ago at the Senate Meet came back to her again... "In it, you are not Persephone. You are the princess. And to show emotion in that way only highlights you as my daughter, not as a regal role."
It took several goes recalling the words around and around in her head, before Persephone was able to push herself back up to her feet. Her hands still shook, her heart still pounded, but her breathing was calming down...
A formal proceeding... She reminded herself. I am a regal role... Not his daughter...
Her mind naturally shied away from what regal role that was in particular, despite the heavy crown on her head being a constant reminder.
Brushing at her mouth and thankful to find that she had been most efficient in her sickness and hadn't gotten any on her mouth, Persephone simply swallowed to try and clear her palette, gagged and then stood up straight once more, checking her appearance and visage. She hadn't actually cried or let the watering of her eyes reach a point where it would smear her aesthetics and her gown and layers were all in place. the crown was too heavy and too fixed to her hair to have moved, though it had shifted slightly, pulling her hair from its follicles as it went, so she reached up to ensure it was accurately in place. Squaring her shoulders, Persephone then headed straight back down the corridor, thankful that she had recovered so quickly as she passed a servant coming in the opposite direction, who would have found her bent over a vase if she hadn't gotten her nonsense sorted out.
Once back outside, the afternoon sun burned her eyes, but Persephone didn't allow it to hinder her as she headed straight for her horse, got back on its back, ordered the train of her cloak to be reset and finally took her place at the head of the procession.
She would not think about why she was there. She would not think about the cart behind her, or the future ahead. She would not consider herself or think of herself as ruler. She was Princess Persephone, leading a procession in honour of a late king of Athenia.
Feeling her stomach settle at that idea, Persephone kicked her mount into a forward walk and led the procession that immediately followed her out of the royal palati gates and on the path towards the great Temple of Athenia, outside of which, the king would be cremated, his life honoured in blazing flame...
Persephone wasn't entirely in her right mind. She was numb, she was cold, she was entirely devoid of thought. Not because she was shocked; for the king's death had been pre-ordained for some time and, unlike her blissfully hopefully sister, Persephone had known loss before. She had known that particular look in the eyes of the physicians when they claimed that by some miracle, the parent in question might recover. She had held onto that "might" the last time - the same way Emilia had done to this one. She had not this time around.
With the loss of her second parent, Persephone's emotions were not tempered by surprise or loss. But by certainty. She knew what it felt to lose a loved one. She knew what it felt to be inconsolable. To cry every night, to scream for their return. To deny herself food, drink and slumber in the hopes of making her own body feel bad. A self-destructive reaction to guilt that she was permitted to continue with her life while her previously healthy parent had not. She knew what it was like to be angry at the Gods for their decisions where the lives of mortals were concerns. The Fates with their strands of life, weaved and woven to their own amusement had been a source of much rage and hostility in Persephone for many months after the death of her mother.
Less so, this time.
With age and experience came maturity. And while Persephone was only twenty-two years of age - hardly an age where one would be used to the feeling of loss - she was indeed familiar with the natural reactions one experienced as they went through denial, anger, hostility and all the other processes that were required for an individual to accept in the death of a parent - or any other loved one, for that matter.
Persephone had realised and accepted long ago that her father would die, never trusting in that "might" in the same way her sister did. Ergo, she had done most of her grieving before she had been alerted the previous evening.
Her father's lead servant had come to her door - one of the first times he had left the king’s bedside in months, unless to sleep. He had been anxious and encouraging of Persephone to move down the corridors at a pace unladylike for one of her breeding but which she had no care for. They had collided with Emilia on the way back to her father's rooms, fetched by another servant and Persephone had held her sister's hand as they had rushed to the monarch's chambers.
There, their father was clearly dying.
Unable to breathe properly, almost entirely unable to move, he had only turned his gaze when they had entered his bedroom and a twitch of one of his prone hands had indicated a desire to reach for them.
They had stayed with him for several hours that evening, the King had said his goodbyes to both of his daughters and then Emilia had been sent back to her bed on Persephone's orders. After witnessing the dying breaths of their father, there had been no need for her to be present during the prepping of the body. Such a memory was not a pleasant one to have for the rest of your life.
By morning, the King was dead and the younger princess told of the event that the girls had witnessed for herself.
It felt almost insulting just how fast funeral preparations came together in order to be enacted on the same day but such a thing was to be expected. Funerals were expected twenty-four hours after death and the King's would be a large affair. As such, with the understanding that he was going to pass sooner rather than later, all of the plans and arrangements had been made ahead of time. The merchants and suppliers they had sought out and kept hanging on their word for the event to occur simply hadn't been made aware that it was for the king's future funeral.
A ceremony that was occurring in just under an hour.
Persephone was already dressed when the brocade was brought through to her. she simply added it over the top of her own outfit. The gown chosen for her ensemble was the one she had worn at the first gladiator games she had opened. Jet black upon the top, startling white at the bottom and a faded change between the two from the knee downwards, it was made of multiple layers of gossamer and the softest thinnest silks. When she moved it was as if she were walking through clouds.
Over the top of this gown, Persephone wore an epiblema, fixed to one shoulder and the opposing hip, in a bright yellow. Her father had been born of both Xanthos and Marikas after all.
The brocade was fastened next, muting the yellow into an accent and displaying the black sombre feeling of the occasion. She fixed it in place with a golden fibulae, designed in the shape of four feathers, two swan flanked by two owl, the design reaching down over her shoulder as it held the brocade in place.
She wore other jewellery too - the decorativeness of her accessories a sign of respect to her father and his heritage rather than inappropriate for the event itself. Large golden earrings hung from her lobes and her father's wedding band - a silver band to match that of her mother's was worn on her right thumb. Her mother's was missing from her right ring finger but, after an initial panic attack that she had managed to calm, Persephone had sent several servants to find the item within her study or the rest of the chambers in the palace. She had not left the palace in the last sixteen days so it had to be in the building somewhere. Though she would not feel content at heart until she had it back on her hand, paired with her father's that she now wore.
The only other piece to accessory her, was the obvious. It had taken her ten minutes to prepare herself to wear it.
The crown of Athenia was significantly different to the ivy tiara she had worn to other events. While her own crown was - hand been - golden and heavy, it had always been feminine. the ivy leaves curled from the back of the head to meet above the brow in a rising, elegant triangle. It had been front heavy and delicately woven into her hair.
The crown of the monarch was of a very different style.
Worn more often by men than by women, the item was a complete circlet two inches in thickness and then offered arrow head-like spikes around its circumference. It was smaller than the coronation crown which was of the same design just far larger and more impressive - for it was designed for all to see it from afar at such a large ceremony - but the "every day" crown, so to speak, was still heavy enough as she had allowed her servants to settle it upon her head. The weight was different from her own crown, her neck and spine supporting more of it, and the gold was buffed to a solid gleam rather than the bright shine of her own tiara. This crown was designed to state the power someone already had. The tiara of a princess was to offer a young woman power where she had none otherwise. It was an entirely different diadem with an entirely different purpose.
And looking at herself in it made her feel sick.
Standing and turning away from the mirror, there was a quiet knock at the door and Persephone was informed that it was time to leave the palace.
As her ladies’ maids finished with the large, heavy and very ornate braid they had completely down her back, Persephone nodded her thanks to the messenger and then left the room with all the grace, poise and etiquette that was befitting her new rank but that she did not feel.
Emilia was already waiting in the grand foyer of the palace, and Persephone was unable to offer her customary smile to her sister. Her mind wasn't functioning all that well with emotion and offering a crack in her wall to give her sister the comfort she probably should have would be open to the door to far more that they did not have the time to handle. She would speak with her sister after the ceremony - when she would no longer need to be on show.
Their father's body had been moved into a covered cart - a vehicle, embossed in gold and black ebony, that offered a flatbed for the body and a square tent of black gossamer over it, so as not to have the man on full display to the public. Inside the tent, the king was dressed in his finest, with a golden mask over his face and his frame entirely surrounded by flowers and dried incense. A carriage with the royal seal had been prepared behind the cart, ready for the sisters to embark.
Persephone hesitated.
When their mother had died, this had been the exact same set up. The Queen's body elegantly transported, the two princesses in the closed carriage behind. Her father, however, as monarch, had ridden up front. He had worn his crown and his royal cloak and had taken to horseback, leading the procession himself.
A servant came forwards offering Persephone a large, black, silken cloak.
Her words firm and without much volume, Persephone spoke before she could change her mind.
"Prepare my horse." She told the servants, who seemed to pause and look to one another. Diomedes of Nikolaos, head of the Athenian Guard, was up front of the procession and seemed to have heard her despite the distance, looking back at her momentarily.
Persephone's eyes narrowed.
"You heard the Queen." The lord of Nikolaos commented in a bark of instruction.
There was a scurry of motion and a flurry of footsteps as Persephone's black gelding - the one with two front white socks - was saddled, bridled and moved to the steps of the palace where Persephone was supported in ascending to his back. The stable hands were careful to arrange the cloak - now fastened around Persephone's shoulders, so that it hung down and over the horse’s hindquarters, the fabric so long and wide that it hid most of the back end of the creature from view.
Without another glance at her sister, the carriage or the covered litter that held her father, Persephone nudged the creature forwards and headed quickly for the front of the procession. She was in line with the Guardsmen when she drew the animal to a stop, her hands more commanded by her instinctive feelings than her thoughts. She suddenly found that her breathing was erratic, and her chest painful.
"Your Majesty?" Diomedes of Nikolaos asked calmly and with limited concern so as not to draw attention to her hesitation.
Your Majesty. Not Your Royal Highness. Royal Highness, Persephone could handle. She had been called it since the day of her birth. Your Majesty was a title reserved solely for the monarch of a kingdom. The ultimate head and ruler.
The most important and powerful person in all of Athenia.
Persephone felt her heart start to hammer, but kept her face plain - she hoped.
"One moment." She grated out between her teeth and then immediately got down from her steed and walked with speed back into the palace. She strode quickly, walked around three different corners, her brain simply telling her that she needed to be far enough away to be out of earshot. After which she beelined for the first decorative vase within her view. She hurried over, dropped to her knees and immediately vomited into the ceramic.
Her gut twisted, her belly wretched, her throat was sore and her eyes started to water as she threw up everything she had eaten in the last twenty-four hours which was, in its entirety, a few slices of bread and half an apple.
Breathing heavily and her hands shaking, Persephone closed her eyes and took a moment to hug the vase she had just violated with her nerves and anxiety.
She couldn't do this.
She had been planning for it, for months. She had been expecting it, for months. But there was something very different about the theoretical concept of being Queen, and actually being the ruler of a kingdom in charge of the previous leader's funeral. All Persephone could see in her head was her father's smiling face, from when he had been younger and she just a small girl. All she could feel in her hands was the way his skin has slipped over his bones, loose and paper-like, last night. The two memories convulsed and blurred, the reality of what she was about to do getting jumbled up inside it all.
"Father, what do I do?" The words weren't spoken but mimed against the vase, only air between her lips instead of sound.
She closed her eyes, desperate to hear her father's voice.
"The Senate is a formal proceeding..." The words of a memory she had recalled just sixteen days ago at the Senate Meet came back to her again... "In it, you are not Persephone. You are the princess. And to show emotion in that way only highlights you as my daughter, not as a regal role."
It took several goes recalling the words around and around in her head, before Persephone was able to push herself back up to her feet. Her hands still shook, her heart still pounded, but her breathing was calming down...
A formal proceeding... She reminded herself. I am a regal role... Not his daughter...
Her mind naturally shied away from what regal role that was in particular, despite the heavy crown on her head being a constant reminder.
Brushing at her mouth and thankful to find that she had been most efficient in her sickness and hadn't gotten any on her mouth, Persephone simply swallowed to try and clear her palette, gagged and then stood up straight once more, checking her appearance and visage. She hadn't actually cried or let the watering of her eyes reach a point where it would smear her aesthetics and her gown and layers were all in place. the crown was too heavy and too fixed to her hair to have moved, though it had shifted slightly, pulling her hair from its follicles as it went, so she reached up to ensure it was accurately in place. Squaring her shoulders, Persephone then headed straight back down the corridor, thankful that she had recovered so quickly as she passed a servant coming in the opposite direction, who would have found her bent over a vase if she hadn't gotten her nonsense sorted out.
Once back outside, the afternoon sun burned her eyes, but Persephone didn't allow it to hinder her as she headed straight for her horse, got back on its back, ordered the train of her cloak to be reset and finally took her place at the head of the procession.
She would not think about why she was there. She would not think about the cart behind her, or the future ahead. She would not consider herself or think of herself as ruler. She was Princess Persephone, leading a procession in honour of a late king of Athenia.
Feeling her stomach settle at that idea, Persephone kicked her mount into a forward walk and led the procession that immediately followed her out of the royal palati gates and on the path towards the great Temple of Athenia, outside of which, the king would be cremated, his life honoured in blazing flame...
The Senate meeting had happened over two weeks ago, and his plans had come near to completion. A plan that had been once more upended by the events entirely subsumed by the actions of the House of Xanthos. In this case, it was almost good news: the King was dead. But it was met with equal horror: per the passing of the law that had been made without his vote, they were also welcoming Queen Persephone.
And for this entire time, as they planned against him, stalled on enacting a trial that was planned to ruin his house, they let him suffer and wait, simpering in misery and growing obscurity while they parceled out the influence that they once held. And all he could do was wait, for sixteen days of absolute insufferable irritation.
Sixteen… long… days
But they had given him a pardon for the day, allowing him to go under armed guard to a sight that was of inarguable import to the young man, and the entirety of the Stravos clan. With the exception of his father, Minas was family. Minas was brother to their mother, and uncle to her children Elias, Danae and Chara. Of course, situations of late had made such a familial connection… considerably complex, but until very recently, Elias believed strongly that there was genuine love between himself and his uncle. Love that seemed he had poisoned in his plans to deny Elias the crown.
And it was that very object that he nearly first saw when he looked out from the grounds of this ornate ceremony’s staging, at the hushed whispering of the procession’s approach. There they came. The Crown of Athenia was abroad her temples, the golden circlet with its arrowhead prongs worn so proudly, and so confidently. She knew he would be there, and she exalted, resplendent, in her moment of glory and theft. The diadem held its purpose to insult and to claim her dominion over all her enemies - namely him.
And looking at her in it made him feel sick.
She made a solid effort at appearing distraught, at least, at the power she had claimed and the cost that she bore to have it. Seeing her stride towards the Temple of Athena where this, her throng, awaited, was uncomfortable to say the very least. When she neared, he joined all others in the proper actions, bowing and respectful to the ferrying of one of such importance to Athenia, and the welcoming of their new Queen to oversee this Kingdom in his stead. For the moment, he was the obedient servant, and passed only a thought for the clearly distraught young woman in its trail. Emilia seemed truly brokenhearted by this event, and he felt a pang of empathy for the young lady. Such raw, true pain was unable to be ignored.
And it gave him pause, to reflect in this moment of love and respect offered to the fallen Monarch, upon how his heart had weeped to feel so betrayed by the old King. He harnessed that feeling, that frozen moment in his soul, and thawed it free. Allowing himself to feel that anger rush through him also allowed him to know why it angered him. He allowed himself to feel deep pain at the knowledge of the loss of this man who meant so much to him for so long, who had guided and cherished him.
Tears found themselves at the edges of his eyes, emotions summoned from an ether he thought long lost.
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The Senate meeting had happened over two weeks ago, and his plans had come near to completion. A plan that had been once more upended by the events entirely subsumed by the actions of the House of Xanthos. In this case, it was almost good news: the King was dead. But it was met with equal horror: per the passing of the law that had been made without his vote, they were also welcoming Queen Persephone.
And for this entire time, as they planned against him, stalled on enacting a trial that was planned to ruin his house, they let him suffer and wait, simpering in misery and growing obscurity while they parceled out the influence that they once held. And all he could do was wait, for sixteen days of absolute insufferable irritation.
Sixteen… long… days
But they had given him a pardon for the day, allowing him to go under armed guard to a sight that was of inarguable import to the young man, and the entirety of the Stravos clan. With the exception of his father, Minas was family. Minas was brother to their mother, and uncle to her children Elias, Danae and Chara. Of course, situations of late had made such a familial connection… considerably complex, but until very recently, Elias believed strongly that there was genuine love between himself and his uncle. Love that seemed he had poisoned in his plans to deny Elias the crown.
And it was that very object that he nearly first saw when he looked out from the grounds of this ornate ceremony’s staging, at the hushed whispering of the procession’s approach. There they came. The Crown of Athenia was abroad her temples, the golden circlet with its arrowhead prongs worn so proudly, and so confidently. She knew he would be there, and she exalted, resplendent, in her moment of glory and theft. The diadem held its purpose to insult and to claim her dominion over all her enemies - namely him.
And looking at her in it made him feel sick.
She made a solid effort at appearing distraught, at least, at the power she had claimed and the cost that she bore to have it. Seeing her stride towards the Temple of Athena where this, her throng, awaited, was uncomfortable to say the very least. When she neared, he joined all others in the proper actions, bowing and respectful to the ferrying of one of such importance to Athenia, and the welcoming of their new Queen to oversee this Kingdom in his stead. For the moment, he was the obedient servant, and passed only a thought for the clearly distraught young woman in its trail. Emilia seemed truly brokenhearted by this event, and he felt a pang of empathy for the young lady. Such raw, true pain was unable to be ignored.
And it gave him pause, to reflect in this moment of love and respect offered to the fallen Monarch, upon how his heart had weeped to feel so betrayed by the old King. He harnessed that feeling, that frozen moment in his soul, and thawed it free. Allowing himself to feel that anger rush through him also allowed him to know why it angered him. He allowed himself to feel deep pain at the knowledge of the loss of this man who meant so much to him for so long, who had guided and cherished him.
Tears found themselves at the edges of his eyes, emotions summoned from an ether he thought long lost.
The Senate meeting had happened over two weeks ago, and his plans had come near to completion. A plan that had been once more upended by the events entirely subsumed by the actions of the House of Xanthos. In this case, it was almost good news: the King was dead. But it was met with equal horror: per the passing of the law that had been made without his vote, they were also welcoming Queen Persephone.
And for this entire time, as they planned against him, stalled on enacting a trial that was planned to ruin his house, they let him suffer and wait, simpering in misery and growing obscurity while they parceled out the influence that they once held. And all he could do was wait, for sixteen days of absolute insufferable irritation.
Sixteen… long… days
But they had given him a pardon for the day, allowing him to go under armed guard to a sight that was of inarguable import to the young man, and the entirety of the Stravos clan. With the exception of his father, Minas was family. Minas was brother to their mother, and uncle to her children Elias, Danae and Chara. Of course, situations of late had made such a familial connection… considerably complex, but until very recently, Elias believed strongly that there was genuine love between himself and his uncle. Love that seemed he had poisoned in his plans to deny Elias the crown.
And it was that very object that he nearly first saw when he looked out from the grounds of this ornate ceremony’s staging, at the hushed whispering of the procession’s approach. There they came. The Crown of Athenia was abroad her temples, the golden circlet with its arrowhead prongs worn so proudly, and so confidently. She knew he would be there, and she exalted, resplendent, in her moment of glory and theft. The diadem held its purpose to insult and to claim her dominion over all her enemies - namely him.
And looking at her in it made him feel sick.
She made a solid effort at appearing distraught, at least, at the power she had claimed and the cost that she bore to have it. Seeing her stride towards the Temple of Athena where this, her throng, awaited, was uncomfortable to say the very least. When she neared, he joined all others in the proper actions, bowing and respectful to the ferrying of one of such importance to Athenia, and the welcoming of their new Queen to oversee this Kingdom in his stead. For the moment, he was the obedient servant, and passed only a thought for the clearly distraught young woman in its trail. Emilia seemed truly brokenhearted by this event, and he felt a pang of empathy for the young lady. Such raw, true pain was unable to be ignored.
And it gave him pause, to reflect in this moment of love and respect offered to the fallen Monarch, upon how his heart had weeped to feel so betrayed by the old King. He harnessed that feeling, that frozen moment in his soul, and thawed it free. Allowing himself to feel that anger rush through him also allowed him to know why it angered him. He allowed himself to feel deep pain at the knowledge of the loss of this man who meant so much to him for so long, who had guided and cherished him.
Tears found themselves at the edges of his eyes, emotions summoned from an ether he thought long lost.
The youngest advisor had been torn over his loyalties.
His first responsibility was to the king, to the man who had supported him through his youth and who had given him a family. The man who had forced him out of his shell to be the man he was today. His daughters had become like sisters to him, having grown up with them. They came to him for advice, came to him for support and an understanding ear. After the Senate meeting, when the king had taken to his bed, Aimias was hesitant to leave his side. There was still he wished to learn, still things he wanted to make himself available for him, should he need something. And he didn’t wish the man to be alone.
But a new responsibility had arisen. Shortly after the Senate meeting, another set of needs arose to his attention. But, with the King’s blessing, he left to assist Iris and her father, who was too worried about her lands and her father to sort out her mind. Aimias didn’t stay long, just over a week to see to matters that needed attending. But a missive with the worsening condition of the King was just as urgent. So he left to head directly back to the monarch’s side.
He made it two days prior to his death.
The man had hardly left his side, save to give him moments alone when he wished it. But when Persephone stepped into the room for what would be the last moments with her father, Aimias simply exited the room. Standing outside the door, he did as he felt the need to do. Not intruding, but wanting to be there for her should she need it, all the man could do was pray for the new monarch. To pray for a King who was moving from one life into eternity. While he believed in the Gods, he had never been an overly religious man. His focus had always been in education, in the search for understanding through knowledge and books. There had only been one other instance in which he turned to the higher powers for answers, and the other had been when his wife died.
Death seems to make you realize just how short life really was.
He knew the moment the princess left the room that she was now the Queen. But he did not offer her comfort, nor did he give her a chance to seek him out. She would have her moment to grieve later. For now, she needed to focus on her duties, on the task at hand-- burying the king and ascending to the throne. Her mind would be numb, remembering the feeling himself, and she would need him and Votis to keep her on track. Most of the preparations could be handled without her, but there were decisions she needed to make.
And he tried to help her make them as matter of factly as possible.
Before she left to dress, Aimias allowed one moment of quiet support. There was hug of support, a kiss pressed to the top of her head and a kindly whispered word before they went their separate ways.
There was no alternative attire for the event, as mourning dictated. He had always had a preference for the darker tones, which seemed more professional than those others in court decided to wear. But now, they felt heavy against his skin. His tunic was plain, as he had never had money to accent his outfits in anything finer than plain linen. He had no fine jewels to add, and he left Aetaea without any indicators that his status had changed. Iris would have followed behind him, to mourn with the rest of Athenia. He didn’t even have anything to show his new status.
But perhaps that was for the best. They were not there to speak of him, for today would be about the dead king and the new Queen.
He left his chambers, his daughter kept with her governess. He would not be able to keep her at his side for the proceeding, and certainly wouldn’t want to expose her at such a young age to death. She would be safer, more content, in the palace with someone she cared for. And it wasn’t a lesson he wished to share with her today.
The palati was fairly empty, which wasn’t surprising to him. There was much to be done, but everyone would wish to mourn the death of a beloved king. So it was surprising to hear the sound of someone retching around the corner. He would have gone to aid the woman, but the moment he realized it was Persephone, he let her be. This was not a moment in wish she wanted support. She would not wish for him to see her like this, to acknowledge the moment, nor would she want him to offer comfort to her as she obviously was trying to find the strength to go on.
He remembered this feeling, of complete and utter devastation, at the loss of something that was so crucial to survival. The death of his wife may have been sudden and expected, it didn’t make the prolonged and eventual death of her father any different. The man she loved, who had raised her, was now dead. It didn’t matter that she would be Queen. The only thing that mattered was the man who had been the center of her life was now gone. She was alone, her main support system swept out from under her feet. Eventually, she would seek a soft place to fall. Whether that was with her fiance, or with her close familial circle wouldn’t matter. Strength at this moment was the most important thing she could find.
And by the way she finally stood, he assumed that she had reach deep within her soul to pull it to the surface.
He smiled softly to himself, knowing that she would make an amazing Queen.
As she took her leave to do what she must, Aimias gave her a moment before following out to the courtyard. He would not be on horseback. No, he would walk behind the carriage like the rest of the advisors. His place was towards the back of the group, as he had no formal title within the palati and mostly worked under Votis. It didn’t matter that the King had been a father figure to him. It didn’t matter that he, too, was grieving in his own way. It was not his place.
So he did as was expected of him. He followed his king till the end.
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The youngest advisor had been torn over his loyalties.
His first responsibility was to the king, to the man who had supported him through his youth and who had given him a family. The man who had forced him out of his shell to be the man he was today. His daughters had become like sisters to him, having grown up with them. They came to him for advice, came to him for support and an understanding ear. After the Senate meeting, when the king had taken to his bed, Aimias was hesitant to leave his side. There was still he wished to learn, still things he wanted to make himself available for him, should he need something. And he didn’t wish the man to be alone.
But a new responsibility had arisen. Shortly after the Senate meeting, another set of needs arose to his attention. But, with the King’s blessing, he left to assist Iris and her father, who was too worried about her lands and her father to sort out her mind. Aimias didn’t stay long, just over a week to see to matters that needed attending. But a missive with the worsening condition of the King was just as urgent. So he left to head directly back to the monarch’s side.
He made it two days prior to his death.
The man had hardly left his side, save to give him moments alone when he wished it. But when Persephone stepped into the room for what would be the last moments with her father, Aimias simply exited the room. Standing outside the door, he did as he felt the need to do. Not intruding, but wanting to be there for her should she need it, all the man could do was pray for the new monarch. To pray for a King who was moving from one life into eternity. While he believed in the Gods, he had never been an overly religious man. His focus had always been in education, in the search for understanding through knowledge and books. There had only been one other instance in which he turned to the higher powers for answers, and the other had been when his wife died.
Death seems to make you realize just how short life really was.
He knew the moment the princess left the room that she was now the Queen. But he did not offer her comfort, nor did he give her a chance to seek him out. She would have her moment to grieve later. For now, she needed to focus on her duties, on the task at hand-- burying the king and ascending to the throne. Her mind would be numb, remembering the feeling himself, and she would need him and Votis to keep her on track. Most of the preparations could be handled without her, but there were decisions she needed to make.
And he tried to help her make them as matter of factly as possible.
Before she left to dress, Aimias allowed one moment of quiet support. There was hug of support, a kiss pressed to the top of her head and a kindly whispered word before they went their separate ways.
There was no alternative attire for the event, as mourning dictated. He had always had a preference for the darker tones, which seemed more professional than those others in court decided to wear. But now, they felt heavy against his skin. His tunic was plain, as he had never had money to accent his outfits in anything finer than plain linen. He had no fine jewels to add, and he left Aetaea without any indicators that his status had changed. Iris would have followed behind him, to mourn with the rest of Athenia. He didn’t even have anything to show his new status.
But perhaps that was for the best. They were not there to speak of him, for today would be about the dead king and the new Queen.
He left his chambers, his daughter kept with her governess. He would not be able to keep her at his side for the proceeding, and certainly wouldn’t want to expose her at such a young age to death. She would be safer, more content, in the palace with someone she cared for. And it wasn’t a lesson he wished to share with her today.
The palati was fairly empty, which wasn’t surprising to him. There was much to be done, but everyone would wish to mourn the death of a beloved king. So it was surprising to hear the sound of someone retching around the corner. He would have gone to aid the woman, but the moment he realized it was Persephone, he let her be. This was not a moment in wish she wanted support. She would not wish for him to see her like this, to acknowledge the moment, nor would she want him to offer comfort to her as she obviously was trying to find the strength to go on.
He remembered this feeling, of complete and utter devastation, at the loss of something that was so crucial to survival. The death of his wife may have been sudden and expected, it didn’t make the prolonged and eventual death of her father any different. The man she loved, who had raised her, was now dead. It didn’t matter that she would be Queen. The only thing that mattered was the man who had been the center of her life was now gone. She was alone, her main support system swept out from under her feet. Eventually, she would seek a soft place to fall. Whether that was with her fiance, or with her close familial circle wouldn’t matter. Strength at this moment was the most important thing she could find.
And by the way she finally stood, he assumed that she had reach deep within her soul to pull it to the surface.
He smiled softly to himself, knowing that she would make an amazing Queen.
As she took her leave to do what she must, Aimias gave her a moment before following out to the courtyard. He would not be on horseback. No, he would walk behind the carriage like the rest of the advisors. His place was towards the back of the group, as he had no formal title within the palati and mostly worked under Votis. It didn’t matter that the King had been a father figure to him. It didn’t matter that he, too, was grieving in his own way. It was not his place.
So he did as was expected of him. He followed his king till the end.
The youngest advisor had been torn over his loyalties.
His first responsibility was to the king, to the man who had supported him through his youth and who had given him a family. The man who had forced him out of his shell to be the man he was today. His daughters had become like sisters to him, having grown up with them. They came to him for advice, came to him for support and an understanding ear. After the Senate meeting, when the king had taken to his bed, Aimias was hesitant to leave his side. There was still he wished to learn, still things he wanted to make himself available for him, should he need something. And he didn’t wish the man to be alone.
But a new responsibility had arisen. Shortly after the Senate meeting, another set of needs arose to his attention. But, with the King’s blessing, he left to assist Iris and her father, who was too worried about her lands and her father to sort out her mind. Aimias didn’t stay long, just over a week to see to matters that needed attending. But a missive with the worsening condition of the King was just as urgent. So he left to head directly back to the monarch’s side.
He made it two days prior to his death.
The man had hardly left his side, save to give him moments alone when he wished it. But when Persephone stepped into the room for what would be the last moments with her father, Aimias simply exited the room. Standing outside the door, he did as he felt the need to do. Not intruding, but wanting to be there for her should she need it, all the man could do was pray for the new monarch. To pray for a King who was moving from one life into eternity. While he believed in the Gods, he had never been an overly religious man. His focus had always been in education, in the search for understanding through knowledge and books. There had only been one other instance in which he turned to the higher powers for answers, and the other had been when his wife died.
Death seems to make you realize just how short life really was.
He knew the moment the princess left the room that she was now the Queen. But he did not offer her comfort, nor did he give her a chance to seek him out. She would have her moment to grieve later. For now, she needed to focus on her duties, on the task at hand-- burying the king and ascending to the throne. Her mind would be numb, remembering the feeling himself, and she would need him and Votis to keep her on track. Most of the preparations could be handled without her, but there were decisions she needed to make.
And he tried to help her make them as matter of factly as possible.
Before she left to dress, Aimias allowed one moment of quiet support. There was hug of support, a kiss pressed to the top of her head and a kindly whispered word before they went their separate ways.
There was no alternative attire for the event, as mourning dictated. He had always had a preference for the darker tones, which seemed more professional than those others in court decided to wear. But now, they felt heavy against his skin. His tunic was plain, as he had never had money to accent his outfits in anything finer than plain linen. He had no fine jewels to add, and he left Aetaea without any indicators that his status had changed. Iris would have followed behind him, to mourn with the rest of Athenia. He didn’t even have anything to show his new status.
But perhaps that was for the best. They were not there to speak of him, for today would be about the dead king and the new Queen.
He left his chambers, his daughter kept with her governess. He would not be able to keep her at his side for the proceeding, and certainly wouldn’t want to expose her at such a young age to death. She would be safer, more content, in the palace with someone she cared for. And it wasn’t a lesson he wished to share with her today.
The palati was fairly empty, which wasn’t surprising to him. There was much to be done, but everyone would wish to mourn the death of a beloved king. So it was surprising to hear the sound of someone retching around the corner. He would have gone to aid the woman, but the moment he realized it was Persephone, he let her be. This was not a moment in wish she wanted support. She would not wish for him to see her like this, to acknowledge the moment, nor would she want him to offer comfort to her as she obviously was trying to find the strength to go on.
He remembered this feeling, of complete and utter devastation, at the loss of something that was so crucial to survival. The death of his wife may have been sudden and expected, it didn’t make the prolonged and eventual death of her father any different. The man she loved, who had raised her, was now dead. It didn’t matter that she would be Queen. The only thing that mattered was the man who had been the center of her life was now gone. She was alone, her main support system swept out from under her feet. Eventually, she would seek a soft place to fall. Whether that was with her fiance, or with her close familial circle wouldn’t matter. Strength at this moment was the most important thing she could find.
And by the way she finally stood, he assumed that she had reach deep within her soul to pull it to the surface.
He smiled softly to himself, knowing that she would make an amazing Queen.
As she took her leave to do what she must, Aimias gave her a moment before following out to the courtyard. He would not be on horseback. No, he would walk behind the carriage like the rest of the advisors. His place was towards the back of the group, as he had no formal title within the palati and mostly worked under Votis. It didn’t matter that the King had been a father figure to him. It didn’t matter that he, too, was grieving in his own way. It was not his place.
So he did as was expected of him. He followed his king till the end.
Persephone didn't remember the procession from the palace to the temple of Athena. She noticed but didn't really recall the way the people bowed and then knelt before the passing carriage to show their respect. What she had memorised in great detail instead was the skyline of the buildings and the exact colour of the azure sky and wispy clouds that she had been focusing her gaze on the entire way. For if she saw the look of sympathy in anyone's eye, she felt she would crack. Instead, she surrendered herself over to being a no-person. A mindless, thoughtless and hard as stone in body and expression, leader. She would not be expected to make any great speeches, or lead in any discussion or militant attack. She did not need to be some great king or ruler this day. Instead, she just needed to get through it without shaming herself, her family or the name of her belated father.
When they arrived at the temple a particular person - entirely surprisingly - helped in this endeavour.
As the procession moved into the open space before the great temple, and the cart and carriage was settled over a bed for wood and kindling already in place, the servants and advisors and guardsmen who had made up the procession split in opposing directions and moved to form a crowd on either side of the courtyard. Persephone remained on horseback, her position one of central attention until she was certain that everyone else had moved and that the horses had been detached from her father's cart and led away.
In those few minutes of protocol, Persephone's gaze was drawn to a man who stood flanked by Athenian guards. He watched her closely, his stare one of determination and hostility. He showed it not externally. Elias of Stravos was too skilled a courtier to allow his personal feeling to be so clearly etched on his face when he had had time to anticipate her arrival and the reaction he would have to it. She simply felt it in his gaze; a supreme hatred and genuine anger. She couldn't blame the man. And Persephone knew that, were she aware of any of her feelings at present, she would have returned the sentiments. But for now, she just allowed the hostility to be shot her way like arrows and returned it with no such malice.
Instead, she simply focused on it. Holding Elias's eyeline without blinking or judgement, her dark eyes firm and unyielding, before she turned away and dismounted from her horse. She took Elias' anger. Took his resentment. She let it hit and attack her in ways she would never have if she was in her right mind. Felt it maul at her heart and claw at her mind. In later hours she would realise that what she was doing was exactly as she had done after Lucille's death. Allowing herself harm in guilt for her survival. For now, though, allowing herself to feel miserable over his judgement, somehow made her right to wear the crown and lead this ceremony that much easier.
Bizarre where such support could come from at times...
Walking up an open space of steps so that she stood on the same level as Elias but dead centre before the temple, some several yards from the miserable excuse of a Stravos, Persephone simply turned in the way her governess had taught. Operating a quick flick of the wrist so that her cloak with fan out to land central instead, of off to one side. And there she stood waiting for all other attendees, as her sister was escorted from the carriage and then moves to join Persephone, standing by her side as she looked out over the crowds of nobility before turning her attention to the carriages and horses still arriving. She refused to allow her gaze to drop low enough to glance even the top of the covered cart that contained the late king.
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Persephone didn't remember the procession from the palace to the temple of Athena. She noticed but didn't really recall the way the people bowed and then knelt before the passing carriage to show their respect. What she had memorised in great detail instead was the skyline of the buildings and the exact colour of the azure sky and wispy clouds that she had been focusing her gaze on the entire way. For if she saw the look of sympathy in anyone's eye, she felt she would crack. Instead, she surrendered herself over to being a no-person. A mindless, thoughtless and hard as stone in body and expression, leader. She would not be expected to make any great speeches, or lead in any discussion or militant attack. She did not need to be some great king or ruler this day. Instead, she just needed to get through it without shaming herself, her family or the name of her belated father.
When they arrived at the temple a particular person - entirely surprisingly - helped in this endeavour.
As the procession moved into the open space before the great temple, and the cart and carriage was settled over a bed for wood and kindling already in place, the servants and advisors and guardsmen who had made up the procession split in opposing directions and moved to form a crowd on either side of the courtyard. Persephone remained on horseback, her position one of central attention until she was certain that everyone else had moved and that the horses had been detached from her father's cart and led away.
In those few minutes of protocol, Persephone's gaze was drawn to a man who stood flanked by Athenian guards. He watched her closely, his stare one of determination and hostility. He showed it not externally. Elias of Stravos was too skilled a courtier to allow his personal feeling to be so clearly etched on his face when he had had time to anticipate her arrival and the reaction he would have to it. She simply felt it in his gaze; a supreme hatred and genuine anger. She couldn't blame the man. And Persephone knew that, were she aware of any of her feelings at present, she would have returned the sentiments. But for now, she just allowed the hostility to be shot her way like arrows and returned it with no such malice.
Instead, she simply focused on it. Holding Elias's eyeline without blinking or judgement, her dark eyes firm and unyielding, before she turned away and dismounted from her horse. She took Elias' anger. Took his resentment. She let it hit and attack her in ways she would never have if she was in her right mind. Felt it maul at her heart and claw at her mind. In later hours she would realise that what she was doing was exactly as she had done after Lucille's death. Allowing herself harm in guilt for her survival. For now, though, allowing herself to feel miserable over his judgement, somehow made her right to wear the crown and lead this ceremony that much easier.
Bizarre where such support could come from at times...
Walking up an open space of steps so that she stood on the same level as Elias but dead centre before the temple, some several yards from the miserable excuse of a Stravos, Persephone simply turned in the way her governess had taught. Operating a quick flick of the wrist so that her cloak with fan out to land central instead, of off to one side. And there she stood waiting for all other attendees, as her sister was escorted from the carriage and then moves to join Persephone, standing by her side as she looked out over the crowds of nobility before turning her attention to the carriages and horses still arriving. She refused to allow her gaze to drop low enough to glance even the top of the covered cart that contained the late king.
Persephone didn't remember the procession from the palace to the temple of Athena. She noticed but didn't really recall the way the people bowed and then knelt before the passing carriage to show their respect. What she had memorised in great detail instead was the skyline of the buildings and the exact colour of the azure sky and wispy clouds that she had been focusing her gaze on the entire way. For if she saw the look of sympathy in anyone's eye, she felt she would crack. Instead, she surrendered herself over to being a no-person. A mindless, thoughtless and hard as stone in body and expression, leader. She would not be expected to make any great speeches, or lead in any discussion or militant attack. She did not need to be some great king or ruler this day. Instead, she just needed to get through it without shaming herself, her family or the name of her belated father.
When they arrived at the temple a particular person - entirely surprisingly - helped in this endeavour.
As the procession moved into the open space before the great temple, and the cart and carriage was settled over a bed for wood and kindling already in place, the servants and advisors and guardsmen who had made up the procession split in opposing directions and moved to form a crowd on either side of the courtyard. Persephone remained on horseback, her position one of central attention until she was certain that everyone else had moved and that the horses had been detached from her father's cart and led away.
In those few minutes of protocol, Persephone's gaze was drawn to a man who stood flanked by Athenian guards. He watched her closely, his stare one of determination and hostility. He showed it not externally. Elias of Stravos was too skilled a courtier to allow his personal feeling to be so clearly etched on his face when he had had time to anticipate her arrival and the reaction he would have to it. She simply felt it in his gaze; a supreme hatred and genuine anger. She couldn't blame the man. And Persephone knew that, were she aware of any of her feelings at present, she would have returned the sentiments. But for now, she just allowed the hostility to be shot her way like arrows and returned it with no such malice.
Instead, she simply focused on it. Holding Elias's eyeline without blinking or judgement, her dark eyes firm and unyielding, before she turned away and dismounted from her horse. She took Elias' anger. Took his resentment. She let it hit and attack her in ways she would never have if she was in her right mind. Felt it maul at her heart and claw at her mind. In later hours she would realise that what she was doing was exactly as she had done after Lucille's death. Allowing herself harm in guilt for her survival. For now, though, allowing herself to feel miserable over his judgement, somehow made her right to wear the crown and lead this ceremony that much easier.
Bizarre where such support could come from at times...
Walking up an open space of steps so that she stood on the same level as Elias but dead centre before the temple, some several yards from the miserable excuse of a Stravos, Persephone simply turned in the way her governess had taught. Operating a quick flick of the wrist so that her cloak with fan out to land central instead, of off to one side. And there she stood waiting for all other attendees, as her sister was escorted from the carriage and then moves to join Persephone, standing by her side as she looked out over the crowds of nobility before turning her attention to the carriages and horses still arriving. She refused to allow her gaze to drop low enough to glance even the top of the covered cart that contained the late king.
She didn't expect a smile, but even watching her eldest sister come down with the crown was a stark surprise for Emilia. All her life, she and Persephone had worn similar headpieces - delicate diadems, small tiara's embedded with precious gems, nothig ornate, nothing big, and nothing grand. But now when Persephone had descended with the royal Athenian crown, she felt her chest lurched - the future was, for the first time, a murky unknown. She knew that not all of the Senate had been happy with the decision, least of all the royal houses. What would happen to them? Just two girls now, with no more Dad to protect them.
Silently, Emilia fell in step behind Persephone, more meek and quiet then she's ever showed herself. The brunette had always been a source of joy, her smile infectious and her laughter even more so. But now with her hands folded delicately in front of her, her rounded cheeks and bright eyes were dimmed and serious as she stepped forward.
The youngest princess did not question, nor did she show any outward reaction. As the head of the Athenian guard prepared the horse as instructed, Emilia was dutifully escorted to her carriage by her handmaidens. Helen would ride up back, the rest would follow on the procession behind the carriage. The windows would be drawn - and for that, she was thankful. To see the covered cart she knew carried her father's body was another wrench to her heart. Emilia did not want to acknowledge the fact that her once gregarious and bright father was now reduced to a lifeless body manhandled by others. It just didn't seem right.
What seemed like a short time - but was fairly long, passed as she fidgeted in her seat within the carriage until it finally lurched into motion, towards the temple of Athena. She heard the people outside gather, watching the procession as a solemn air seem to settle over the kingdom, the knowledge of the death spreading like wildfire.
It wasn't until her sister was assisted in dismounting, was Emilia finally fetched from the carriage. The opening of the door brought with it a blast of the warm air, slightly cooled as the months turned. Taking the offered hand of her guard, the brunette stepped down, careful not to let her step land on the edges of her skirt, before she landed on the dirt ground of the temple courtyard. There, her guards seem to shuffle around her in close protection, bringing her to her sister's side where Persephone stood in the middle of the courtyard before the temple. Emilia turned once she arrived there, standing just behind in the shadows of her sister facing the rest of the nobility as they arrived to pay the final respects to her father - and like Persephone, Emilia made a hard attempt to not glance at the covered cart carrying her father.
She just couldn't.
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She didn't expect a smile, but even watching her eldest sister come down with the crown was a stark surprise for Emilia. All her life, she and Persephone had worn similar headpieces - delicate diadems, small tiara's embedded with precious gems, nothig ornate, nothing big, and nothing grand. But now when Persephone had descended with the royal Athenian crown, she felt her chest lurched - the future was, for the first time, a murky unknown. She knew that not all of the Senate had been happy with the decision, least of all the royal houses. What would happen to them? Just two girls now, with no more Dad to protect them.
Silently, Emilia fell in step behind Persephone, more meek and quiet then she's ever showed herself. The brunette had always been a source of joy, her smile infectious and her laughter even more so. But now with her hands folded delicately in front of her, her rounded cheeks and bright eyes were dimmed and serious as she stepped forward.
The youngest princess did not question, nor did she show any outward reaction. As the head of the Athenian guard prepared the horse as instructed, Emilia was dutifully escorted to her carriage by her handmaidens. Helen would ride up back, the rest would follow on the procession behind the carriage. The windows would be drawn - and for that, she was thankful. To see the covered cart she knew carried her father's body was another wrench to her heart. Emilia did not want to acknowledge the fact that her once gregarious and bright father was now reduced to a lifeless body manhandled by others. It just didn't seem right.
What seemed like a short time - but was fairly long, passed as she fidgeted in her seat within the carriage until it finally lurched into motion, towards the temple of Athena. She heard the people outside gather, watching the procession as a solemn air seem to settle over the kingdom, the knowledge of the death spreading like wildfire.
It wasn't until her sister was assisted in dismounting, was Emilia finally fetched from the carriage. The opening of the door brought with it a blast of the warm air, slightly cooled as the months turned. Taking the offered hand of her guard, the brunette stepped down, careful not to let her step land on the edges of her skirt, before she landed on the dirt ground of the temple courtyard. There, her guards seem to shuffle around her in close protection, bringing her to her sister's side where Persephone stood in the middle of the courtyard before the temple. Emilia turned once she arrived there, standing just behind in the shadows of her sister facing the rest of the nobility as they arrived to pay the final respects to her father - and like Persephone, Emilia made a hard attempt to not glance at the covered cart carrying her father.
She just couldn't.
She didn't expect a smile, but even watching her eldest sister come down with the crown was a stark surprise for Emilia. All her life, she and Persephone had worn similar headpieces - delicate diadems, small tiara's embedded with precious gems, nothig ornate, nothing big, and nothing grand. But now when Persephone had descended with the royal Athenian crown, she felt her chest lurched - the future was, for the first time, a murky unknown. She knew that not all of the Senate had been happy with the decision, least of all the royal houses. What would happen to them? Just two girls now, with no more Dad to protect them.
Silently, Emilia fell in step behind Persephone, more meek and quiet then she's ever showed herself. The brunette had always been a source of joy, her smile infectious and her laughter even more so. But now with her hands folded delicately in front of her, her rounded cheeks and bright eyes were dimmed and serious as she stepped forward.
The youngest princess did not question, nor did she show any outward reaction. As the head of the Athenian guard prepared the horse as instructed, Emilia was dutifully escorted to her carriage by her handmaidens. Helen would ride up back, the rest would follow on the procession behind the carriage. The windows would be drawn - and for that, she was thankful. To see the covered cart she knew carried her father's body was another wrench to her heart. Emilia did not want to acknowledge the fact that her once gregarious and bright father was now reduced to a lifeless body manhandled by others. It just didn't seem right.
What seemed like a short time - but was fairly long, passed as she fidgeted in her seat within the carriage until it finally lurched into motion, towards the temple of Athena. She heard the people outside gather, watching the procession as a solemn air seem to settle over the kingdom, the knowledge of the death spreading like wildfire.
It wasn't until her sister was assisted in dismounting, was Emilia finally fetched from the carriage. The opening of the door brought with it a blast of the warm air, slightly cooled as the months turned. Taking the offered hand of her guard, the brunette stepped down, careful not to let her step land on the edges of her skirt, before she landed on the dirt ground of the temple courtyard. There, her guards seem to shuffle around her in close protection, bringing her to her sister's side where Persephone stood in the middle of the courtyard before the temple. Emilia turned once she arrived there, standing just behind in the shadows of her sister facing the rest of the nobility as they arrived to pay the final respects to her father - and like Persephone, Emilia made a hard attempt to not glance at the covered cart carrying her father.
She just couldn't.
”I’m not going!” The voice echoed through the home when she had first received the message about her brother. Circenia had left everything up in the air. She had kept herself locked away at home unwilling to face anyone. Not to mention, they were all afraid what she might do or say if she was allowed to go to the palati. The consequence of this being that her last words to her brother were not in kindness. She never thought they’d be the last, even if he had been ill.
Circenia kept up the childish tantrum for a few hours as she stared at the chitons she had to choose from. Only a couple were even appropriate for mourning. Her fingertips paused at one as she started to get ready. It wasn’t a complete commitment that she would make the ceremony. It was just a start to the crack in her strong stance against everything Minas had done to her and her family. Elias was wrong and he did a bad thing, but uprooting any and all tradition over it was still wrong in her opinion.
The house seemed vacant without the excess of servants and slaves buzzing around her. This new lifestyle was not something she wanted to get used to. And she knew that with Persephone now being called Queen, it didn’t bode well for anything to get better in the future. Circenia’s gaze darkened as she stared at her own reflection in the looking glass as her own fingers had to do her own hair. Her own hair. It was almost something of a tragedy as they intertwined the gold ribbons. Ribbons that matched the jeweled princess tiara from her younger years to top off the do. If she was going to be in public with that charlatan, she was going to prove a point. Circenia of Stravos was still a princess of the people, no matter what Persephone wanted to do.
While her husband and children were going to keep to the sidelines and watch as the procession would go down. The princess had other plans. She found herself at the procession just behind her nieces and next to her sister Sera. Circenia masked her emotions to put forth a strong face. Eyes like daggers against the back of Persephone who had been her enemy now. It wasn’t what Minas would have wanted, not at all for his baby sister he had always doted on for many years. He had been her keeper until handed off to Keikelius. Even then, she kept a close relationship even then. One that only ended up being complicated in the end. One that caused her more tears than his actual death had. He joined his one true love in the afterlife, who would be sad about what her brother always wanted?
She accepted the help dismounting just as the other had been. Minas had left all of them behind to figure out how to move on without him and his idiotic decisions. His eldest daughter being the biggest of them. Her jaw tightened as she gave one last glance at her majesty. Circenia could have killed her right now, if she would have thought it would have fixed everything. Just another funeral for the sake of what was right for Athenia. Half the country must have been thinking it too. A woman on the throne and such a young one. Her head shook, but still silent it no one would be able to read her thoughts as her attention was on the ground before joining her own family.
A hand petted against Elias’s arm as she stood next to him. One of those moves that was meant to support him. They had a plan that was going to work. This was all going to be theirs in a matter of time, even if Minas was dead and Persephone got to wear that gaudy crown for now. That silly girl would fall.
JD
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JD
Staff Team
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”I’m not going!” The voice echoed through the home when she had first received the message about her brother. Circenia had left everything up in the air. She had kept herself locked away at home unwilling to face anyone. Not to mention, they were all afraid what she might do or say if she was allowed to go to the palati. The consequence of this being that her last words to her brother were not in kindness. She never thought they’d be the last, even if he had been ill.
Circenia kept up the childish tantrum for a few hours as she stared at the chitons she had to choose from. Only a couple were even appropriate for mourning. Her fingertips paused at one as she started to get ready. It wasn’t a complete commitment that she would make the ceremony. It was just a start to the crack in her strong stance against everything Minas had done to her and her family. Elias was wrong and he did a bad thing, but uprooting any and all tradition over it was still wrong in her opinion.
The house seemed vacant without the excess of servants and slaves buzzing around her. This new lifestyle was not something she wanted to get used to. And she knew that with Persephone now being called Queen, it didn’t bode well for anything to get better in the future. Circenia’s gaze darkened as she stared at her own reflection in the looking glass as her own fingers had to do her own hair. Her own hair. It was almost something of a tragedy as they intertwined the gold ribbons. Ribbons that matched the jeweled princess tiara from her younger years to top off the do. If she was going to be in public with that charlatan, she was going to prove a point. Circenia of Stravos was still a princess of the people, no matter what Persephone wanted to do.
While her husband and children were going to keep to the sidelines and watch as the procession would go down. The princess had other plans. She found herself at the procession just behind her nieces and next to her sister Sera. Circenia masked her emotions to put forth a strong face. Eyes like daggers against the back of Persephone who had been her enemy now. It wasn’t what Minas would have wanted, not at all for his baby sister he had always doted on for many years. He had been her keeper until handed off to Keikelius. Even then, she kept a close relationship even then. One that only ended up being complicated in the end. One that caused her more tears than his actual death had. He joined his one true love in the afterlife, who would be sad about what her brother always wanted?
She accepted the help dismounting just as the other had been. Minas had left all of them behind to figure out how to move on without him and his idiotic decisions. His eldest daughter being the biggest of them. Her jaw tightened as she gave one last glance at her majesty. Circenia could have killed her right now, if she would have thought it would have fixed everything. Just another funeral for the sake of what was right for Athenia. Half the country must have been thinking it too. A woman on the throne and such a young one. Her head shook, but still silent it no one would be able to read her thoughts as her attention was on the ground before joining her own family.
A hand petted against Elias’s arm as she stood next to him. One of those moves that was meant to support him. They had a plan that was going to work. This was all going to be theirs in a matter of time, even if Minas was dead and Persephone got to wear that gaudy crown for now. That silly girl would fall.
”I’m not going!” The voice echoed through the home when she had first received the message about her brother. Circenia had left everything up in the air. She had kept herself locked away at home unwilling to face anyone. Not to mention, they were all afraid what she might do or say if she was allowed to go to the palati. The consequence of this being that her last words to her brother were not in kindness. She never thought they’d be the last, even if he had been ill.
Circenia kept up the childish tantrum for a few hours as she stared at the chitons she had to choose from. Only a couple were even appropriate for mourning. Her fingertips paused at one as she started to get ready. It wasn’t a complete commitment that she would make the ceremony. It was just a start to the crack in her strong stance against everything Minas had done to her and her family. Elias was wrong and he did a bad thing, but uprooting any and all tradition over it was still wrong in her opinion.
The house seemed vacant without the excess of servants and slaves buzzing around her. This new lifestyle was not something she wanted to get used to. And she knew that with Persephone now being called Queen, it didn’t bode well for anything to get better in the future. Circenia’s gaze darkened as she stared at her own reflection in the looking glass as her own fingers had to do her own hair. Her own hair. It was almost something of a tragedy as they intertwined the gold ribbons. Ribbons that matched the jeweled princess tiara from her younger years to top off the do. If she was going to be in public with that charlatan, she was going to prove a point. Circenia of Stravos was still a princess of the people, no matter what Persephone wanted to do.
While her husband and children were going to keep to the sidelines and watch as the procession would go down. The princess had other plans. She found herself at the procession just behind her nieces and next to her sister Sera. Circenia masked her emotions to put forth a strong face. Eyes like daggers against the back of Persephone who had been her enemy now. It wasn’t what Minas would have wanted, not at all for his baby sister he had always doted on for many years. He had been her keeper until handed off to Keikelius. Even then, she kept a close relationship even then. One that only ended up being complicated in the end. One that caused her more tears than his actual death had. He joined his one true love in the afterlife, who would be sad about what her brother always wanted?
She accepted the help dismounting just as the other had been. Minas had left all of them behind to figure out how to move on without him and his idiotic decisions. His eldest daughter being the biggest of them. Her jaw tightened as she gave one last glance at her majesty. Circenia could have killed her right now, if she would have thought it would have fixed everything. Just another funeral for the sake of what was right for Athenia. Half the country must have been thinking it too. A woman on the throne and such a young one. Her head shook, but still silent it no one would be able to read her thoughts as her attention was on the ground before joining her own family.
A hand petted against Elias’s arm as she stood next to him. One of those moves that was meant to support him. They had a plan that was going to work. This was all going to be theirs in a matter of time, even if Minas was dead and Persephone got to wear that gaudy crown for now. That silly girl would fall.
The air carried a somber aura as it brushed passed Stelios’ cheek, faces filled with sorrow and sympathy for the Xanthos family starred up at him as he rode past them on his way to the temple of Athena. The King had passed, and the Kingdom was in mourn. Stelios, however, was not. He was loyal to King Minas and he had respect for his family and their ideals and honesty, but that loyalty was betrayed weeks before the King’s last breath and suddenly their word meant little to the Athenian Commander. Antonis was a respected House and had one of the longest running royal bloodlines in Athenia. The House may have been military focused for many generations, but Alehandros had been groomed to become the next King of Athenia ever since birth and even more so since the Queen passed and failed to produce a male heir. He had been a political force within the Senate as soon as he was old enough to step within its bounds and was the rightful King and the rightful heir. Despite the fact that Alehandros did not want the crown upon his head, he was more than willing to bare its burdens for his Kingdom and its people because that was his duty. Power in duty. Do your duty. Serve your Kingdom. These were the ideals of the Antonis house. Ideals Xanthos betrayed and insulted the moment they placed the crown on Persephone’s head.
Still, Minas was his King, and he would go pay his respect for the good that was done in the Kingdom whilst his reign. The crowd grew thicker as he neared the temple and so he slowed his horse down to a steady pace as people parted way for the Lord and the rest of his party. The late King had yet to arrive along with the procession and several noble and royal families. He dismounted his horse and handed the white mare off to a slave who took her out of the way while he made his way to stand amongst the rest. The air smelled faintly of incense which only got stronger when a breeze blew by and it was oddly quiet aside from the murmurs amongst the crowd. It was dull and dreary, and it was strange.
As a warrior death was no stranger to the man. He witnessed it almost daily and had come to pay little mind to it. Many times death was left unrecognized in war. Bodies could not always be recovered, could not always be burned. It was loud and it was messy more often than not. Even those who were lucky enough to be granted a funeral died without many knowing their name. Death was meaningless; it was your legacy that held meaning. King Minas’ passing into the afterlife was not what he came to witness today, but the legacy that would be born as his vessel was set aflame. After all, one should not fear death, but fear a lack of legacy.
Perhaps King Minas feared he would not leave a legacy behind as his days neared its end and thus, he began his campaign to overrule the law which stated a crown may only pass to a male heir. It was foolish and if anything it only tainted his legacy. She had no right to wear the crown upon her head and neither did Elias who so wrongfully believed the crown belonged to him. Neither was fit, neither was ready and neither was even meant to be considered for such responsibility. Athenia was not a playpen for children to run amok in. It was a Kingdom, one he continuously put his life on the line for. He was disappointed and ashamed, and it probably showed in his features as the new monarch entered upon her horse.
Bowing his head in falsehood, his eyes turned to one of the Queen’s ladies in waiting and for a moment he forgot about the whole ordeal. Kleio of Laconis, a beautiful distraction he could always turn to. He allowed his eyes to linger for a moment on her dark hair dancing over her caramel skin which glistened in the sunlight as she moved. Her hazel eyes met his for a moment and he reacted with a faint, barely noticeable smile. It was a funeral after all. In this moment his desire for her was stronger than his desire to stand there amongst some of those responsible for the humiliation his House had gone through the last few weeks. Though he may have to refrain himself from having his way with Kleio for the time being he would make sure to make up for it very soon.
Politics aside; he felt some sympathy for two daughters who just lost their father. Though to say such emotion lasted long with the Antonis Lord would be wishful thinking. Unfortunately, as all royal and noble families knew all too well, things would always be more political than it would be anything else. Especially the funeral of a King.
JD
Staff Team
JD
Staff Team
This post was created by our staff team.
Please contact us with your queries and questions.
The air carried a somber aura as it brushed passed Stelios’ cheek, faces filled with sorrow and sympathy for the Xanthos family starred up at him as he rode past them on his way to the temple of Athena. The King had passed, and the Kingdom was in mourn. Stelios, however, was not. He was loyal to King Minas and he had respect for his family and their ideals and honesty, but that loyalty was betrayed weeks before the King’s last breath and suddenly their word meant little to the Athenian Commander. Antonis was a respected House and had one of the longest running royal bloodlines in Athenia. The House may have been military focused for many generations, but Alehandros had been groomed to become the next King of Athenia ever since birth and even more so since the Queen passed and failed to produce a male heir. He had been a political force within the Senate as soon as he was old enough to step within its bounds and was the rightful King and the rightful heir. Despite the fact that Alehandros did not want the crown upon his head, he was more than willing to bare its burdens for his Kingdom and its people because that was his duty. Power in duty. Do your duty. Serve your Kingdom. These were the ideals of the Antonis house. Ideals Xanthos betrayed and insulted the moment they placed the crown on Persephone’s head.
Still, Minas was his King, and he would go pay his respect for the good that was done in the Kingdom whilst his reign. The crowd grew thicker as he neared the temple and so he slowed his horse down to a steady pace as people parted way for the Lord and the rest of his party. The late King had yet to arrive along with the procession and several noble and royal families. He dismounted his horse and handed the white mare off to a slave who took her out of the way while he made his way to stand amongst the rest. The air smelled faintly of incense which only got stronger when a breeze blew by and it was oddly quiet aside from the murmurs amongst the crowd. It was dull and dreary, and it was strange.
As a warrior death was no stranger to the man. He witnessed it almost daily and had come to pay little mind to it. Many times death was left unrecognized in war. Bodies could not always be recovered, could not always be burned. It was loud and it was messy more often than not. Even those who were lucky enough to be granted a funeral died without many knowing their name. Death was meaningless; it was your legacy that held meaning. King Minas’ passing into the afterlife was not what he came to witness today, but the legacy that would be born as his vessel was set aflame. After all, one should not fear death, but fear a lack of legacy.
Perhaps King Minas feared he would not leave a legacy behind as his days neared its end and thus, he began his campaign to overrule the law which stated a crown may only pass to a male heir. It was foolish and if anything it only tainted his legacy. She had no right to wear the crown upon her head and neither did Elias who so wrongfully believed the crown belonged to him. Neither was fit, neither was ready and neither was even meant to be considered for such responsibility. Athenia was not a playpen for children to run amok in. It was a Kingdom, one he continuously put his life on the line for. He was disappointed and ashamed, and it probably showed in his features as the new monarch entered upon her horse.
Bowing his head in falsehood, his eyes turned to one of the Queen’s ladies in waiting and for a moment he forgot about the whole ordeal. Kleio of Laconis, a beautiful distraction he could always turn to. He allowed his eyes to linger for a moment on her dark hair dancing over her caramel skin which glistened in the sunlight as she moved. Her hazel eyes met his for a moment and he reacted with a faint, barely noticeable smile. It was a funeral after all. In this moment his desire for her was stronger than his desire to stand there amongst some of those responsible for the humiliation his House had gone through the last few weeks. Though he may have to refrain himself from having his way with Kleio for the time being he would make sure to make up for it very soon.
Politics aside; he felt some sympathy for two daughters who just lost their father. Though to say such emotion lasted long with the Antonis Lord would be wishful thinking. Unfortunately, as all royal and noble families knew all too well, things would always be more political than it would be anything else. Especially the funeral of a King.
The air carried a somber aura as it brushed passed Stelios’ cheek, faces filled with sorrow and sympathy for the Xanthos family starred up at him as he rode past them on his way to the temple of Athena. The King had passed, and the Kingdom was in mourn. Stelios, however, was not. He was loyal to King Minas and he had respect for his family and their ideals and honesty, but that loyalty was betrayed weeks before the King’s last breath and suddenly their word meant little to the Athenian Commander. Antonis was a respected House and had one of the longest running royal bloodlines in Athenia. The House may have been military focused for many generations, but Alehandros had been groomed to become the next King of Athenia ever since birth and even more so since the Queen passed and failed to produce a male heir. He had been a political force within the Senate as soon as he was old enough to step within its bounds and was the rightful King and the rightful heir. Despite the fact that Alehandros did not want the crown upon his head, he was more than willing to bare its burdens for his Kingdom and its people because that was his duty. Power in duty. Do your duty. Serve your Kingdom. These were the ideals of the Antonis house. Ideals Xanthos betrayed and insulted the moment they placed the crown on Persephone’s head.
Still, Minas was his King, and he would go pay his respect for the good that was done in the Kingdom whilst his reign. The crowd grew thicker as he neared the temple and so he slowed his horse down to a steady pace as people parted way for the Lord and the rest of his party. The late King had yet to arrive along with the procession and several noble and royal families. He dismounted his horse and handed the white mare off to a slave who took her out of the way while he made his way to stand amongst the rest. The air smelled faintly of incense which only got stronger when a breeze blew by and it was oddly quiet aside from the murmurs amongst the crowd. It was dull and dreary, and it was strange.
As a warrior death was no stranger to the man. He witnessed it almost daily and had come to pay little mind to it. Many times death was left unrecognized in war. Bodies could not always be recovered, could not always be burned. It was loud and it was messy more often than not. Even those who were lucky enough to be granted a funeral died without many knowing their name. Death was meaningless; it was your legacy that held meaning. King Minas’ passing into the afterlife was not what he came to witness today, but the legacy that would be born as his vessel was set aflame. After all, one should not fear death, but fear a lack of legacy.
Perhaps King Minas feared he would not leave a legacy behind as his days neared its end and thus, he began his campaign to overrule the law which stated a crown may only pass to a male heir. It was foolish and if anything it only tainted his legacy. She had no right to wear the crown upon her head and neither did Elias who so wrongfully believed the crown belonged to him. Neither was fit, neither was ready and neither was even meant to be considered for such responsibility. Athenia was not a playpen for children to run amok in. It was a Kingdom, one he continuously put his life on the line for. He was disappointed and ashamed, and it probably showed in his features as the new monarch entered upon her horse.
Bowing his head in falsehood, his eyes turned to one of the Queen’s ladies in waiting and for a moment he forgot about the whole ordeal. Kleio of Laconis, a beautiful distraction he could always turn to. He allowed his eyes to linger for a moment on her dark hair dancing over her caramel skin which glistened in the sunlight as she moved. Her hazel eyes met his for a moment and he reacted with a faint, barely noticeable smile. It was a funeral after all. In this moment his desire for her was stronger than his desire to stand there amongst some of those responsible for the humiliation his House had gone through the last few weeks. Though he may have to refrain himself from having his way with Kleio for the time being he would make sure to make up for it very soon.
Politics aside; he felt some sympathy for two daughters who just lost their father. Though to say such emotion lasted long with the Antonis Lord would be wishful thinking. Unfortunately, as all royal and noble families knew all too well, things would always be more political than it would be anything else. Especially the funeral of a King.
The letter that had brought Aimias back from Aetaea had been enough to pull the entire Argyris house back from their province home. Once again, her father had been adamant about not staying put, leaving Iris in a silent rage of tears and frustration that she hid the entire way back into Athenia. Her father had slept the entire way, once more settled with Aimias' daughter, her daughter now, she supposed, pressed against his side, also dozing after being woken so early in the morning.
But they had landed back in Athenia two days before the King's death. Iris had seen very little of her husband since. Takis hadn't stopped pacing for hours, days, until the news finally came. The King was dead. All at once, things had devolved. Her father had sunk into a chair and wept for his friend that morning. Iris had swallowed back her own tears as Phillipa wandered out of her bedroom, rubbing tiny eyes and asking for breakfast.
Takis had promptly staved off his tears and carried Phillipa to the dining room, sitting quietly with the girl as they ate a sombre meal, the toddler chatting wildly with her new grandfather. Iris had settled on the other side of the girl, hoping to shield the child of sadness of the day. It was a complete relief when Acantha breezed into the manor, taking over readying the child for the day before leaving her with the girl's governess. Takis' own retainer guided the man to his own chambers to wash and dress for the funeral.
They had walked with the procession, toward the back, Takis' arm in Iris', his other hand occupied with the cane that helped him make each painful step. Takis had hardly contained himself, the loss of his closest friend settling like a stone in his chest. Iris could see that every step her father took was painful, his own body failing him as it had been for years. It was a relief when the procession halted, allowing Iris to guide her father off to the side.
Iris' gaze drifted briefly to Aimias, her expression completely unreadable. She knew he would do his grieving in private, just as she would. She only hoped her new husband would know to lean on her if he needed the help, the comfort. Tearing her gaze away from her husband's back, she pressed her hand over top of her father's, vaguely aware of her cousins standing close by. She paid little attention to anyone besides her father, her husband, her new queen, and the late King that she had admired so deeply over the years.
Takis squeezed her arm slightly and Iris breathed in sharply, taking his hand with her free one and lacing her finger's with his. She was here. She would stay here as long as he needed. A long as all of them needed.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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The letter that had brought Aimias back from Aetaea had been enough to pull the entire Argyris house back from their province home. Once again, her father had been adamant about not staying put, leaving Iris in a silent rage of tears and frustration that she hid the entire way back into Athenia. Her father had slept the entire way, once more settled with Aimias' daughter, her daughter now, she supposed, pressed against his side, also dozing after being woken so early in the morning.
But they had landed back in Athenia two days before the King's death. Iris had seen very little of her husband since. Takis hadn't stopped pacing for hours, days, until the news finally came. The King was dead. All at once, things had devolved. Her father had sunk into a chair and wept for his friend that morning. Iris had swallowed back her own tears as Phillipa wandered out of her bedroom, rubbing tiny eyes and asking for breakfast.
Takis had promptly staved off his tears and carried Phillipa to the dining room, sitting quietly with the girl as they ate a sombre meal, the toddler chatting wildly with her new grandfather. Iris had settled on the other side of the girl, hoping to shield the child of sadness of the day. It was a complete relief when Acantha breezed into the manor, taking over readying the child for the day before leaving her with the girl's governess. Takis' own retainer guided the man to his own chambers to wash and dress for the funeral.
They had walked with the procession, toward the back, Takis' arm in Iris', his other hand occupied with the cane that helped him make each painful step. Takis had hardly contained himself, the loss of his closest friend settling like a stone in his chest. Iris could see that every step her father took was painful, his own body failing him as it had been for years. It was a relief when the procession halted, allowing Iris to guide her father off to the side.
Iris' gaze drifted briefly to Aimias, her expression completely unreadable. She knew he would do his grieving in private, just as she would. She only hoped her new husband would know to lean on her if he needed the help, the comfort. Tearing her gaze away from her husband's back, she pressed her hand over top of her father's, vaguely aware of her cousins standing close by. She paid little attention to anyone besides her father, her husband, her new queen, and the late King that she had admired so deeply over the years.
Takis squeezed her arm slightly and Iris breathed in sharply, taking his hand with her free one and lacing her finger's with his. She was here. She would stay here as long as he needed. A long as all of them needed.
The letter that had brought Aimias back from Aetaea had been enough to pull the entire Argyris house back from their province home. Once again, her father had been adamant about not staying put, leaving Iris in a silent rage of tears and frustration that she hid the entire way back into Athenia. Her father had slept the entire way, once more settled with Aimias' daughter, her daughter now, she supposed, pressed against his side, also dozing after being woken so early in the morning.
But they had landed back in Athenia two days before the King's death. Iris had seen very little of her husband since. Takis hadn't stopped pacing for hours, days, until the news finally came. The King was dead. All at once, things had devolved. Her father had sunk into a chair and wept for his friend that morning. Iris had swallowed back her own tears as Phillipa wandered out of her bedroom, rubbing tiny eyes and asking for breakfast.
Takis had promptly staved off his tears and carried Phillipa to the dining room, sitting quietly with the girl as they ate a sombre meal, the toddler chatting wildly with her new grandfather. Iris had settled on the other side of the girl, hoping to shield the child of sadness of the day. It was a complete relief when Acantha breezed into the manor, taking over readying the child for the day before leaving her with the girl's governess. Takis' own retainer guided the man to his own chambers to wash and dress for the funeral.
They had walked with the procession, toward the back, Takis' arm in Iris', his other hand occupied with the cane that helped him make each painful step. Takis had hardly contained himself, the loss of his closest friend settling like a stone in his chest. Iris could see that every step her father took was painful, his own body failing him as it had been for years. It was a relief when the procession halted, allowing Iris to guide her father off to the side.
Iris' gaze drifted briefly to Aimias, her expression completely unreadable. She knew he would do his grieving in private, just as she would. She only hoped her new husband would know to lean on her if he needed the help, the comfort. Tearing her gaze away from her husband's back, she pressed her hand over top of her father's, vaguely aware of her cousins standing close by. She paid little attention to anyone besides her father, her husband, her new queen, and the late King that she had admired so deeply over the years.
Takis squeezed her arm slightly and Iris breathed in sharply, taking his hand with her free one and lacing her finger's with his. She was here. She would stay here as long as he needed. A long as all of them needed.
He had been just about to leave Athenia upon concluding his business, having spent way too long then he'd like in one place already. A man who roamed the seas in his ship, Kreios did not enjoy remaining in the same Kingdom for long, and with his supplies depleting, the dark-haired male had been geared for an extra long 3 week trip upon the Azazel to head to the Egyptian shores to stock up on some of the more wanted herbs that people usually found hard to procure, and grew easier in the sandy deserts of the other realm.
But the news filtered and travelled fast.
The morning he was supposed to set sail, Captain Garvey of the Azazel and Descat found to their surprise, that the owner of the black ship had instructed them to wait till he returned, despite it being only daybreak when they had came on deck.
Truth was, Kreios had already left the ship at the first town crier who arrived in the middle of Athenia. He was amongst the first who knew of the news, and by the time the procession arrived at the Temple of Athena, Kreios was amongst the people of Athenia who had crowded the sides of the streets in order to watch the royal procession. As royals and nobles alike all dressed in mourning made it past them, Kreios remained just behind the first few lines of the commoners, his eyes ever watchful. He was no Athenian, and as such had no vested interest in the death or rise of a new royal monarch. What he did have an interest in however, was the attendance of the royal families and noble houses. His clientele consisted of them, and he was curious.... if anyone had bought his wares to culminate in this funeral procession? He never questioned the usage on the purchases his clients made... but he was curious to a certain extent.
Garbed in his usual leather black pants and dark gray tunic, his boots made the heavy gravel crunch as the procession entered and people of lower birth stood respectfully on the entrance of the temple once the ones of higher ranks had taken their place. At the entrance was where Kreios remained, ever watchful, but not conversing. He was curious, that was all.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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He had been just about to leave Athenia upon concluding his business, having spent way too long then he'd like in one place already. A man who roamed the seas in his ship, Kreios did not enjoy remaining in the same Kingdom for long, and with his supplies depleting, the dark-haired male had been geared for an extra long 3 week trip upon the Azazel to head to the Egyptian shores to stock up on some of the more wanted herbs that people usually found hard to procure, and grew easier in the sandy deserts of the other realm.
But the news filtered and travelled fast.
The morning he was supposed to set sail, Captain Garvey of the Azazel and Descat found to their surprise, that the owner of the black ship had instructed them to wait till he returned, despite it being only daybreak when they had came on deck.
Truth was, Kreios had already left the ship at the first town crier who arrived in the middle of Athenia. He was amongst the first who knew of the news, and by the time the procession arrived at the Temple of Athena, Kreios was amongst the people of Athenia who had crowded the sides of the streets in order to watch the royal procession. As royals and nobles alike all dressed in mourning made it past them, Kreios remained just behind the first few lines of the commoners, his eyes ever watchful. He was no Athenian, and as such had no vested interest in the death or rise of a new royal monarch. What he did have an interest in however, was the attendance of the royal families and noble houses. His clientele consisted of them, and he was curious.... if anyone had bought his wares to culminate in this funeral procession? He never questioned the usage on the purchases his clients made... but he was curious to a certain extent.
Garbed in his usual leather black pants and dark gray tunic, his boots made the heavy gravel crunch as the procession entered and people of lower birth stood respectfully on the entrance of the temple once the ones of higher ranks had taken their place. At the entrance was where Kreios remained, ever watchful, but not conversing. He was curious, that was all.
He had been just about to leave Athenia upon concluding his business, having spent way too long then he'd like in one place already. A man who roamed the seas in his ship, Kreios did not enjoy remaining in the same Kingdom for long, and with his supplies depleting, the dark-haired male had been geared for an extra long 3 week trip upon the Azazel to head to the Egyptian shores to stock up on some of the more wanted herbs that people usually found hard to procure, and grew easier in the sandy deserts of the other realm.
But the news filtered and travelled fast.
The morning he was supposed to set sail, Captain Garvey of the Azazel and Descat found to their surprise, that the owner of the black ship had instructed them to wait till he returned, despite it being only daybreak when they had came on deck.
Truth was, Kreios had already left the ship at the first town crier who arrived in the middle of Athenia. He was amongst the first who knew of the news, and by the time the procession arrived at the Temple of Athena, Kreios was amongst the people of Athenia who had crowded the sides of the streets in order to watch the royal procession. As royals and nobles alike all dressed in mourning made it past them, Kreios remained just behind the first few lines of the commoners, his eyes ever watchful. He was no Athenian, and as such had no vested interest in the death or rise of a new royal monarch. What he did have an interest in however, was the attendance of the royal families and noble houses. His clientele consisted of them, and he was curious.... if anyone had bought his wares to culminate in this funeral procession? He never questioned the usage on the purchases his clients made... but he was curious to a certain extent.
Garbed in his usual leather black pants and dark gray tunic, his boots made the heavy gravel crunch as the procession entered and people of lower birth stood respectfully on the entrance of the temple once the ones of higher ranks had taken their place. At the entrance was where Kreios remained, ever watchful, but not conversing. He was curious, that was all.
Rafail had never cared for the King.
It may have seemed cruel to say of a man just passed, but the man cared not if he was regarded as harsh. He was not so stupid that he would reveal such a fact before others, but he entertained the private thought. It was a Marikas arrogance, a deep-rooted belief that they should have kept the throne - that Papa should have had it - and the man's opinion did not change just because another had died. The notion of a woman now seated on the throne did little to reassure him either.
Quite honestly, he may not have considered attending were it not for the honour he owed his family, and an understanding that, despite his perhaps biased opinions, the princesses - or the princess and the queen, as the case now was - had lost a parent who loved them. The Marikas name would not be shamed because Rafail was feeling stubborn or did not like funerals.
Less than amicable feelings was no excuse not to dress to the best of his ability, especially for someone who so favoured excess and extravagance. The Xanthos black was not a colour he minded, the dark shade contrasting nicely with the silver thread which trimmed the seams of the chiton. Papa would likely make a point of it not being appropriate to decorate himself extravagantly as this was no day for him to force himself into the centre of attention, and Rafail had decided not to give him an opportunity to complain, only selecting his standard signet ring and a pretty pin which somewhat resembled the Xanthos sigil with which to hold up his chiton. He appeared both as handsome as he preferred and as courteous as he was expected.
With less time spent on his appearance than the usual, it had not taken long for Rafail to greet his family in the entrance of the Marikas home and, as a result, they had been well on schedule. It was the sort of speediness he would usually have expected praise for but, for once, no words on the matter had left his mouth as he'd mounted his handsome prized stallion. It was a sombre occasion, and an equally melancholy procession to the temple.
He would have been loath to admit it, but a part of his mind could not help but feel sympathy for the new Queen and her sister. He did not like funerals because they reminded him so dearly of Mama's death, and those were not memories he ever wished to dredge up. Rafail had been distraught at his young age, and his loss had been of only one parent, regardless of her being his dominant guiding force in the first seven years of his life - he could not fathom the horror and the grief of losing both, no matter the gap of so many years between their deaths. It may not have appeared it by the sheer number of people come to see the King off, but the two of them had been left alone in the world.
He had not cried for Mama's funeral, and he had not thought he would ever feel for another's loss, but his face was clouded with sorrow, and he could not help but dip his head in respect.
Death, so often, was a much more unifying force within family than love and, though Rafail might not have cared all too much for either woman, he was thankful that, at this moment, they at the very least had each other, and that was more than he could say he had had.
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Rafail had never cared for the King.
It may have seemed cruel to say of a man just passed, but the man cared not if he was regarded as harsh. He was not so stupid that he would reveal such a fact before others, but he entertained the private thought. It was a Marikas arrogance, a deep-rooted belief that they should have kept the throne - that Papa should have had it - and the man's opinion did not change just because another had died. The notion of a woman now seated on the throne did little to reassure him either.
Quite honestly, he may not have considered attending were it not for the honour he owed his family, and an understanding that, despite his perhaps biased opinions, the princesses - or the princess and the queen, as the case now was - had lost a parent who loved them. The Marikas name would not be shamed because Rafail was feeling stubborn or did not like funerals.
Less than amicable feelings was no excuse not to dress to the best of his ability, especially for someone who so favoured excess and extravagance. The Xanthos black was not a colour he minded, the dark shade contrasting nicely with the silver thread which trimmed the seams of the chiton. Papa would likely make a point of it not being appropriate to decorate himself extravagantly as this was no day for him to force himself into the centre of attention, and Rafail had decided not to give him an opportunity to complain, only selecting his standard signet ring and a pretty pin which somewhat resembled the Xanthos sigil with which to hold up his chiton. He appeared both as handsome as he preferred and as courteous as he was expected.
With less time spent on his appearance than the usual, it had not taken long for Rafail to greet his family in the entrance of the Marikas home and, as a result, they had been well on schedule. It was the sort of speediness he would usually have expected praise for but, for once, no words on the matter had left his mouth as he'd mounted his handsome prized stallion. It was a sombre occasion, and an equally melancholy procession to the temple.
He would have been loath to admit it, but a part of his mind could not help but feel sympathy for the new Queen and her sister. He did not like funerals because they reminded him so dearly of Mama's death, and those were not memories he ever wished to dredge up. Rafail had been distraught at his young age, and his loss had been of only one parent, regardless of her being his dominant guiding force in the first seven years of his life - he could not fathom the horror and the grief of losing both, no matter the gap of so many years between their deaths. It may not have appeared it by the sheer number of people come to see the King off, but the two of them had been left alone in the world.
He had not cried for Mama's funeral, and he had not thought he would ever feel for another's loss, but his face was clouded with sorrow, and he could not help but dip his head in respect.
Death, so often, was a much more unifying force within family than love and, though Rafail might not have cared all too much for either woman, he was thankful that, at this moment, they at the very least had each other, and that was more than he could say he had had.
Rafail had never cared for the King.
It may have seemed cruel to say of a man just passed, but the man cared not if he was regarded as harsh. He was not so stupid that he would reveal such a fact before others, but he entertained the private thought. It was a Marikas arrogance, a deep-rooted belief that they should have kept the throne - that Papa should have had it - and the man's opinion did not change just because another had died. The notion of a woman now seated on the throne did little to reassure him either.
Quite honestly, he may not have considered attending were it not for the honour he owed his family, and an understanding that, despite his perhaps biased opinions, the princesses - or the princess and the queen, as the case now was - had lost a parent who loved them. The Marikas name would not be shamed because Rafail was feeling stubborn or did not like funerals.
Less than amicable feelings was no excuse not to dress to the best of his ability, especially for someone who so favoured excess and extravagance. The Xanthos black was not a colour he minded, the dark shade contrasting nicely with the silver thread which trimmed the seams of the chiton. Papa would likely make a point of it not being appropriate to decorate himself extravagantly as this was no day for him to force himself into the centre of attention, and Rafail had decided not to give him an opportunity to complain, only selecting his standard signet ring and a pretty pin which somewhat resembled the Xanthos sigil with which to hold up his chiton. He appeared both as handsome as he preferred and as courteous as he was expected.
With less time spent on his appearance than the usual, it had not taken long for Rafail to greet his family in the entrance of the Marikas home and, as a result, they had been well on schedule. It was the sort of speediness he would usually have expected praise for but, for once, no words on the matter had left his mouth as he'd mounted his handsome prized stallion. It was a sombre occasion, and an equally melancholy procession to the temple.
He would have been loath to admit it, but a part of his mind could not help but feel sympathy for the new Queen and her sister. He did not like funerals because they reminded him so dearly of Mama's death, and those were not memories he ever wished to dredge up. Rafail had been distraught at his young age, and his loss had been of only one parent, regardless of her being his dominant guiding force in the first seven years of his life - he could not fathom the horror and the grief of losing both, no matter the gap of so many years between their deaths. It may not have appeared it by the sheer number of people come to see the King off, but the two of them had been left alone in the world.
He had not cried for Mama's funeral, and he had not thought he would ever feel for another's loss, but his face was clouded with sorrow, and he could not help but dip his head in respect.
Death, so often, was a much more unifying force within family than love and, though Rafail might not have cared all too much for either woman, he was thankful that, at this moment, they at the very least had each other, and that was more than he could say he had had.
When the news reached Daniil's ears, she was not sure if she should laugh or cry, so she chose to laugh, but it was not necessarily out of joy.
The sides were not necessarily trusting of each other. Daniil kept her cousins at arm's length, though she may fake it and make it seem elsewise when she needed to, each side knew how and which side the butter landed on the pita bread, in accordance to each House.
And now, Cousin, your backside warms a throne that is supposed to belong to House Marikas. A throne that would have been mine had the Gods not had other ideas. And to add insult to injury, the next ruler is a woman, when it should have gone to Alehandros! So tell me, how is it okay for her to warm that throne and not me or my sisters, or our brother? she thought as she looked over her clothes.
She chose a chiton that was an appropriate smokey grey and piped around the edges with the light gold that was indicative of the houses colors.
Her hair was nicely braided and her adornment was sedate as fitted the occasion, no matter how she felt on the inside. She tapped her lip in thought and reached for her dagger and tucked it into her gown where no one would see. Reaching for her sword, she tucked it with her dagger. She'd leave that tucked under her saddle when she was not astride Muse, her horse.
If she could have skipped this whole affair, she would have, but she was Marikas, and a princess in her own right, and her rage, though possibly justified, was best kept under tight control in public.
This was the first death that Daniil had to face. She knew that others in the family had faced the specter before, with the loss of her great aunt, and she imagined that it had been a hellish time, especially for Rafi. And in that moment her heart went out to her uncle.
She sent instructions to a few of the servants to make sure the horses were readied for the journey, something that she actually enjoyed doing. She was one of the few allowed to handle her uncle's beloved stable of horses, and she relished in that.
When that was done the horses would be hooked up to the family carriages if her father wished, or they would each ride their own steeds, so they could get this business out of the way, and life could go back to normal.
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When the news reached Daniil's ears, she was not sure if she should laugh or cry, so she chose to laugh, but it was not necessarily out of joy.
The sides were not necessarily trusting of each other. Daniil kept her cousins at arm's length, though she may fake it and make it seem elsewise when she needed to, each side knew how and which side the butter landed on the pita bread, in accordance to each House.
And now, Cousin, your backside warms a throne that is supposed to belong to House Marikas. A throne that would have been mine had the Gods not had other ideas. And to add insult to injury, the next ruler is a woman, when it should have gone to Alehandros! So tell me, how is it okay for her to warm that throne and not me or my sisters, or our brother? she thought as she looked over her clothes.
She chose a chiton that was an appropriate smokey grey and piped around the edges with the light gold that was indicative of the houses colors.
Her hair was nicely braided and her adornment was sedate as fitted the occasion, no matter how she felt on the inside. She tapped her lip in thought and reached for her dagger and tucked it into her gown where no one would see. Reaching for her sword, she tucked it with her dagger. She'd leave that tucked under her saddle when she was not astride Muse, her horse.
If she could have skipped this whole affair, she would have, but she was Marikas, and a princess in her own right, and her rage, though possibly justified, was best kept under tight control in public.
This was the first death that Daniil had to face. She knew that others in the family had faced the specter before, with the loss of her great aunt, and she imagined that it had been a hellish time, especially for Rafi. And in that moment her heart went out to her uncle.
She sent instructions to a few of the servants to make sure the horses were readied for the journey, something that she actually enjoyed doing. She was one of the few allowed to handle her uncle's beloved stable of horses, and she relished in that.
When that was done the horses would be hooked up to the family carriages if her father wished, or they would each ride their own steeds, so they could get this business out of the way, and life could go back to normal.
When the news reached Daniil's ears, she was not sure if she should laugh or cry, so she chose to laugh, but it was not necessarily out of joy.
The sides were not necessarily trusting of each other. Daniil kept her cousins at arm's length, though she may fake it and make it seem elsewise when she needed to, each side knew how and which side the butter landed on the pita bread, in accordance to each House.
And now, Cousin, your backside warms a throne that is supposed to belong to House Marikas. A throne that would have been mine had the Gods not had other ideas. And to add insult to injury, the next ruler is a woman, when it should have gone to Alehandros! So tell me, how is it okay for her to warm that throne and not me or my sisters, or our brother? she thought as she looked over her clothes.
She chose a chiton that was an appropriate smokey grey and piped around the edges with the light gold that was indicative of the houses colors.
Her hair was nicely braided and her adornment was sedate as fitted the occasion, no matter how she felt on the inside. She tapped her lip in thought and reached for her dagger and tucked it into her gown where no one would see. Reaching for her sword, she tucked it with her dagger. She'd leave that tucked under her saddle when she was not astride Muse, her horse.
If she could have skipped this whole affair, she would have, but she was Marikas, and a princess in her own right, and her rage, though possibly justified, was best kept under tight control in public.
This was the first death that Daniil had to face. She knew that others in the family had faced the specter before, with the loss of her great aunt, and she imagined that it had been a hellish time, especially for Rafi. And in that moment her heart went out to her uncle.
She sent instructions to a few of the servants to make sure the horses were readied for the journey, something that she actually enjoyed doing. She was one of the few allowed to handle her uncle's beloved stable of horses, and she relished in that.
When that was done the horses would be hooked up to the family carriages if her father wished, or they would each ride their own steeds, so they could get this business out of the way, and life could go back to normal.
The news of the King’s death was met with a hollow indifference from Agathe of Marikas. His passing was far from surprising, the man had been ill for some time and Sera had been spending an increasing amount of time at the paláti as of late. While Agathe had no bad memories of the man, the Marikas had intentionally held the Xanthos at arm’s length, despite their close familial ties. Agathe’s mind traced their respective family trees and their intertwining branches as her fingers absently traced the signet pendant at the hollow of her throat.
Sera had gifted the necklace to Agathe when she made her debut in court, telling her it had belonged to Sera’s—and Minas and Circenia’s—mother, the late Queen Nepheli of Marikas. Her fingers closed around the seal as she met her own gaze. Agathe hardly recognized her own reflection. While she was disciplined and intentional with every exchange, the woman who stared back at her was severe with vacant, olive eyes as servants flitted about behind her. It was Eudocia who was barking out orders to the other women while Agathe just sat and stared.
She felt as though she were in a waking dream, hyper aware of every movement, but feeling like she was moving through the sea against the current at the same time. Her hair was curled and silver ribbon was laced with the intricate braids, almost resembling a circlet. Eudocia was gentle as she urged Agathe to stand in order to dress the woman in a deep grey chiton, attaching the garment at the shoulder with a pair of ebony and silver fibulae resembling owl feathers. Once her sandals were slipped on her feet, Agathe was shepherded from her chambers to join her family under the portico.
The procession was equally as solemn as Agathe felt. Astride her beloved mare, she rode just behind her mother and aunt as the procession made its way to the temple. The winding trip was a blur for the eldest Marikas who was far too caught in her own thoughts. She had been too young to remember Justana’s funeral and while she had cared for her aunt, her relationship with Lucille had been much more superficial. Minas had been connected to her twice over and she felt his death despite the distance that had been forced between their families.
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Check out their information page here.
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The news of the King’s death was met with a hollow indifference from Agathe of Marikas. His passing was far from surprising, the man had been ill for some time and Sera had been spending an increasing amount of time at the paláti as of late. While Agathe had no bad memories of the man, the Marikas had intentionally held the Xanthos at arm’s length, despite their close familial ties. Agathe’s mind traced their respective family trees and their intertwining branches as her fingers absently traced the signet pendant at the hollow of her throat.
Sera had gifted the necklace to Agathe when she made her debut in court, telling her it had belonged to Sera’s—and Minas and Circenia’s—mother, the late Queen Nepheli of Marikas. Her fingers closed around the seal as she met her own gaze. Agathe hardly recognized her own reflection. While she was disciplined and intentional with every exchange, the woman who stared back at her was severe with vacant, olive eyes as servants flitted about behind her. It was Eudocia who was barking out orders to the other women while Agathe just sat and stared.
She felt as though she were in a waking dream, hyper aware of every movement, but feeling like she was moving through the sea against the current at the same time. Her hair was curled and silver ribbon was laced with the intricate braids, almost resembling a circlet. Eudocia was gentle as she urged Agathe to stand in order to dress the woman in a deep grey chiton, attaching the garment at the shoulder with a pair of ebony and silver fibulae resembling owl feathers. Once her sandals were slipped on her feet, Agathe was shepherded from her chambers to join her family under the portico.
The procession was equally as solemn as Agathe felt. Astride her beloved mare, she rode just behind her mother and aunt as the procession made its way to the temple. The winding trip was a blur for the eldest Marikas who was far too caught in her own thoughts. She had been too young to remember Justana’s funeral and while she had cared for her aunt, her relationship with Lucille had been much more superficial. Minas had been connected to her twice over and she felt his death despite the distance that had been forced between their families.
The news of the King’s death was met with a hollow indifference from Agathe of Marikas. His passing was far from surprising, the man had been ill for some time and Sera had been spending an increasing amount of time at the paláti as of late. While Agathe had no bad memories of the man, the Marikas had intentionally held the Xanthos at arm’s length, despite their close familial ties. Agathe’s mind traced their respective family trees and their intertwining branches as her fingers absently traced the signet pendant at the hollow of her throat.
Sera had gifted the necklace to Agathe when she made her debut in court, telling her it had belonged to Sera’s—and Minas and Circenia’s—mother, the late Queen Nepheli of Marikas. Her fingers closed around the seal as she met her own gaze. Agathe hardly recognized her own reflection. While she was disciplined and intentional with every exchange, the woman who stared back at her was severe with vacant, olive eyes as servants flitted about behind her. It was Eudocia who was barking out orders to the other women while Agathe just sat and stared.
She felt as though she were in a waking dream, hyper aware of every movement, but feeling like she was moving through the sea against the current at the same time. Her hair was curled and silver ribbon was laced with the intricate braids, almost resembling a circlet. Eudocia was gentle as she urged Agathe to stand in order to dress the woman in a deep grey chiton, attaching the garment at the shoulder with a pair of ebony and silver fibulae resembling owl feathers. Once her sandals were slipped on her feet, Agathe was shepherded from her chambers to join her family under the portico.
The procession was equally as solemn as Agathe felt. Astride her beloved mare, she rode just behind her mother and aunt as the procession made its way to the temple. The winding trip was a blur for the eldest Marikas who was far too caught in her own thoughts. She had been too young to remember Justana’s funeral and while she had cared for her aunt, her relationship with Lucille had been much more superficial. Minas had been connected to her twice over and she felt his death despite the distance that had been forced between their families.
No sadness plagued the elder Marikas the morning of the Late King Minas' funeral.
He had respected the man, for all he had accomplished in his life, and his rule, but the legislation vote had passed, and with that, so had his tolerance for the man. While his death had come sooner, much sooner, than anyone had expected or hoped, it seemed almost poetic that it should happen this way, after he single-handedly destroyed the sacred and long standing traditions of his country - for the sake of his childish daughters.
Love was the problem, love mixed with such incredible power, the flame to ignite the oil spill that had become Athenia. Now, Persephone, the insufferable eldest of the Xanthos line, was now, as per the new legislation, Queen. That was the sad part. That was what brought a deep frown to Panos' features.
It was as if the Gods had chosen to be silent on such a day, but if that were the case, then Panos could not place why there was no drama as of yet in the event of organizing his family to attend the proceedings. Even Rafail, the most difficult during such events, was less inclined to act out today, for reasons Panos refused to question. It was about time the boy checked his emotions at the door.
Pavlos and his family were the last to be organized, as, after all, Sera was distraught. She was maybe the only one baring the Marikas name who was, given she was the King's sister. All on horse back, Panos, Ivra, Rafail, Pavlos and his family, and Sofia all solemnly, though unlikely genuine save for Sera, played their part in the King's funeral procession to the Temple. Panos kept the deep frown of his discontent with the new Monarch to feign his own sadness for the King's passing.
It would was going to be a long morning. , , ,
JD
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JD
Staff Team
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No sadness plagued the elder Marikas the morning of the Late King Minas' funeral.
He had respected the man, for all he had accomplished in his life, and his rule, but the legislation vote had passed, and with that, so had his tolerance for the man. While his death had come sooner, much sooner, than anyone had expected or hoped, it seemed almost poetic that it should happen this way, after he single-handedly destroyed the sacred and long standing traditions of his country - for the sake of his childish daughters.
Love was the problem, love mixed with such incredible power, the flame to ignite the oil spill that had become Athenia. Now, Persephone, the insufferable eldest of the Xanthos line, was now, as per the new legislation, Queen. That was the sad part. That was what brought a deep frown to Panos' features.
It was as if the Gods had chosen to be silent on such a day, but if that were the case, then Panos could not place why there was no drama as of yet in the event of organizing his family to attend the proceedings. Even Rafail, the most difficult during such events, was less inclined to act out today, for reasons Panos refused to question. It was about time the boy checked his emotions at the door.
Pavlos and his family were the last to be organized, as, after all, Sera was distraught. She was maybe the only one baring the Marikas name who was, given she was the King's sister. All on horse back, Panos, Ivra, Rafail, Pavlos and his family, and Sofia all solemnly, though unlikely genuine save for Sera, played their part in the King's funeral procession to the Temple. Panos kept the deep frown of his discontent with the new Monarch to feign his own sadness for the King's passing.
It would was going to be a long morning. , , ,
No sadness plagued the elder Marikas the morning of the Late King Minas' funeral.
He had respected the man, for all he had accomplished in his life, and his rule, but the legislation vote had passed, and with that, so had his tolerance for the man. While his death had come sooner, much sooner, than anyone had expected or hoped, it seemed almost poetic that it should happen this way, after he single-handedly destroyed the sacred and long standing traditions of his country - for the sake of his childish daughters.
Love was the problem, love mixed with such incredible power, the flame to ignite the oil spill that had become Athenia. Now, Persephone, the insufferable eldest of the Xanthos line, was now, as per the new legislation, Queen. That was the sad part. That was what brought a deep frown to Panos' features.
It was as if the Gods had chosen to be silent on such a day, but if that were the case, then Panos could not place why there was no drama as of yet in the event of organizing his family to attend the proceedings. Even Rafail, the most difficult during such events, was less inclined to act out today, for reasons Panos refused to question. It was about time the boy checked his emotions at the door.
Pavlos and his family were the last to be organized, as, after all, Sera was distraught. She was maybe the only one baring the Marikas name who was, given she was the King's sister. All on horse back, Panos, Ivra, Rafail, Pavlos and his family, and Sofia all solemnly, though unlikely genuine save for Sera, played their part in the King's funeral procession to the Temple. Panos kept the deep frown of his discontent with the new Monarch to feign his own sadness for the King's passing.
