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Sometimes dealing with Achilleas' messes was fun. Othertimes, it was a royal pain in the ass. Just like Prince Achilleas himself. Level-headed and willing to do absolutely anything for the man anyway, taking care fo the conflict between the servant and the new princess had been simple. It hadn't had the necessary affect that he wanted, but it had worked out well enough.
So the Captain had settled where Princess Theodora had left him, her cup of wine still in hand as he surveyed the rest of the room for any signs of more trouble that he might be able to circumvent. This day needed to be perfect. It was everything that his friend deserved and these constant issues were irksome and irritating to a man that only wanted the best for the prince. His gaze slid casually toward Briseis, silently imploring her not to continue to pick at a festering wound. This was not what anyone needed today, especially not out in the public of a party.
"Do not continue your troubles here," he whispered to her and trailed past her once she was once more assigned to her tasks, "This is not the time, nor the place," Krysto murmured before he was fully out of earshot and working slow rounds about the room. His steps took him about the room just in time to see Princess Theodora lose her temper on Prince Emilios. Krysto paused for a single moment, observing the body language of the two of them, also trying to see what he could glean from the movement of their lips as they spoke.
His jaw set and he was just about to approach the two of them when Achilleas beat him to it. The Captain backed off from this fight, knowing that this war would have to be fought by the Prince himself and not his right hand. Pressing his hands to his sides, Krysto continued to circle the room, never taking his gaze off any one person for too long.
That was, until it came to the King collapsing. Turning sharply at the call for a physician, Krysto debated whether he should actually run for a physician or take over himself. The skills his own father had spent a lifetime impressing upon him wouldn't have to go to waste, and maybe he could actually help him. Despite his own frustrations for the way that King Mikaelidas had been treating his son since the senate meeting that sentenced Stephanos, Krysto couldn't just do nothing.
Even with the Princess Xene, Prince Achilleas, and Lord Leventi crowded around the King, Krysto was still able to take fast strides across the room and plant himself by King Irakles' head. He only caught the end of Xene's order, to tell her what she should be doing. "If he's not breathing, then you need to give him air. Mouth to mouth, air into his lungs. One of you, quickly," Krysto motioned, "Let me take over at his chest," he said very calmly to Achilleas, putting a hand on the man's shoulder. "You trust me, yes? I will do everything that I can."
Then he glanced to Lord Leventi, "If you will give me room, my lord. I learned from my father, a physician. Let me try to save him."
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This character is currently a work in progress.
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Sometimes dealing with Achilleas' messes was fun. Othertimes, it was a royal pain in the ass. Just like Prince Achilleas himself. Level-headed and willing to do absolutely anything for the man anyway, taking care fo the conflict between the servant and the new princess had been simple. It hadn't had the necessary affect that he wanted, but it had worked out well enough.
So the Captain had settled where Princess Theodora had left him, her cup of wine still in hand as he surveyed the rest of the room for any signs of more trouble that he might be able to circumvent. This day needed to be perfect. It was everything that his friend deserved and these constant issues were irksome and irritating to a man that only wanted the best for the prince. His gaze slid casually toward Briseis, silently imploring her not to continue to pick at a festering wound. This was not what anyone needed today, especially not out in the public of a party.
"Do not continue your troubles here," he whispered to her and trailed past her once she was once more assigned to her tasks, "This is not the time, nor the place," Krysto murmured before he was fully out of earshot and working slow rounds about the room. His steps took him about the room just in time to see Princess Theodora lose her temper on Prince Emilios. Krysto paused for a single moment, observing the body language of the two of them, also trying to see what he could glean from the movement of their lips as they spoke.
His jaw set and he was just about to approach the two of them when Achilleas beat him to it. The Captain backed off from this fight, knowing that this war would have to be fought by the Prince himself and not his right hand. Pressing his hands to his sides, Krysto continued to circle the room, never taking his gaze off any one person for too long.
That was, until it came to the King collapsing. Turning sharply at the call for a physician, Krysto debated whether he should actually run for a physician or take over himself. The skills his own father had spent a lifetime impressing upon him wouldn't have to go to waste, and maybe he could actually help him. Despite his own frustrations for the way that King Mikaelidas had been treating his son since the senate meeting that sentenced Stephanos, Krysto couldn't just do nothing.
Even with the Princess Xene, Prince Achilleas, and Lord Leventi crowded around the King, Krysto was still able to take fast strides across the room and plant himself by King Irakles' head. He only caught the end of Xene's order, to tell her what she should be doing. "If he's not breathing, then you need to give him air. Mouth to mouth, air into his lungs. One of you, quickly," Krysto motioned, "Let me take over at his chest," he said very calmly to Achilleas, putting a hand on the man's shoulder. "You trust me, yes? I will do everything that I can."
Then he glanced to Lord Leventi, "If you will give me room, my lord. I learned from my father, a physician. Let me try to save him."
Sometimes dealing with Achilleas' messes was fun. Othertimes, it was a royal pain in the ass. Just like Prince Achilleas himself. Level-headed and willing to do absolutely anything for the man anyway, taking care fo the conflict between the servant and the new princess had been simple. It hadn't had the necessary affect that he wanted, but it had worked out well enough.
So the Captain had settled where Princess Theodora had left him, her cup of wine still in hand as he surveyed the rest of the room for any signs of more trouble that he might be able to circumvent. This day needed to be perfect. It was everything that his friend deserved and these constant issues were irksome and irritating to a man that only wanted the best for the prince. His gaze slid casually toward Briseis, silently imploring her not to continue to pick at a festering wound. This was not what anyone needed today, especially not out in the public of a party.
"Do not continue your troubles here," he whispered to her and trailed past her once she was once more assigned to her tasks, "This is not the time, nor the place," Krysto murmured before he was fully out of earshot and working slow rounds about the room. His steps took him about the room just in time to see Princess Theodora lose her temper on Prince Emilios. Krysto paused for a single moment, observing the body language of the two of them, also trying to see what he could glean from the movement of their lips as they spoke.
His jaw set and he was just about to approach the two of them when Achilleas beat him to it. The Captain backed off from this fight, knowing that this war would have to be fought by the Prince himself and not his right hand. Pressing his hands to his sides, Krysto continued to circle the room, never taking his gaze off any one person for too long.
That was, until it came to the King collapsing. Turning sharply at the call for a physician, Krysto debated whether he should actually run for a physician or take over himself. The skills his own father had spent a lifetime impressing upon him wouldn't have to go to waste, and maybe he could actually help him. Despite his own frustrations for the way that King Mikaelidas had been treating his son since the senate meeting that sentenced Stephanos, Krysto couldn't just do nothing.
Even with the Princess Xene, Prince Achilleas, and Lord Leventi crowded around the King, Krysto was still able to take fast strides across the room and plant himself by King Irakles' head. He only caught the end of Xene's order, to tell her what she should be doing. "If he's not breathing, then you need to give him air. Mouth to mouth, air into his lungs. One of you, quickly," Krysto motioned, "Let me take over at his chest," he said very calmly to Achilleas, putting a hand on the man's shoulder. "You trust me, yes? I will do everything that I can."
Then he glanced to Lord Leventi, "If you will give me room, my lord. I learned from my father, a physician. Let me try to save him."
He felt the eyes on him as he walked back to the house, but it wasn't uncommon for people to start at him for something he’d done. Emilios was well known for being a playboy, attached to Stephanos at the hip more often than not and seemingly always in the wrong place at the wrong time. But it didn’t deter his actions, and he didn’t dare think about what had actually transpired until he was back in the safety of his quarters.
What the hell had he been thinking?
Her wedding was not the place or time to try and talk to her. He had been stone sober, yet drunk on the sight of her as a bride. She was blessed by the God of Love herself, and perhaps Aphrodite had made him do it, just to enjoy the pleasure of the fallout afterwards. He should have waited, he thought bitterly as he tossed the dirty chiton aside, moving to the basin of water to wash up the remnants of wine from his face.
Unable to deny the he needed something to bring him back into reality, he took the basin of water and dumped it over his head. It was cold, having sat out most of the morning from getting ready earlier, but it was a wakeup call. Emilios knew he needed to get his shit together. He was acting a fool and he knew it. And this was his brother’s day. Even with the threat hanging over his head from Fotios, he had to allow the man this day. Because who knew what tomorrow would bring.
As he was using a cloth to quickly dry his hair, a servant came in with a fresh chiton, similar in fashion to the one he’d been wearing earlier. Not nearly as fancy, but still presentable for the brother of the groom, he allowed the man to assist in dressing him. Just as they were belting the material in place, another servant (this one dressed for the party) came into the room. There was panic on his face, but Emilios wasn’t convinced that it wasn’t simply from the wrath of his father.
”Tell him I will be out in a moment.” He said, without even giving the man a chance to speak.
”No, your highness, Emilios winced a bit at the title— right, he was a prince now, ”Your father has collapsed.” Blinking, Emilios didn’t bother with the rest of his outfit, letting the belted chiton and sandals be enough to go back into the party. While he didn’t have his brother’s shoulders or height, he was not a small man either. Those who didn’t seem him pressing through the crowd were forcefully shoved aside to clear the path to where the King seemed to be lying on the ground.
He had seen death before, had caused plenty of his own. He had been willing and able to end the lives of anyone who threatened what was dear to him. And while some would call his choice of bow a coward’s weapon, he had trained to even use it in hand combat, if needed. Emilios had seen the light leave a man’s eyes. Staring into his father’s lifeless face, he was speechless for a moment.
Guilt washed over him. Was this is fault? He knew that the King had been stressed, could that he wasn’t feeling his best, but that didn’t stop Emilios from being the man he was. But he could hear his father’s voice in his head, berating him for not being able to keep it together for one, very public day. Emilios would have replied to him that he was never meant to be a prince, but since the man in front of him never actually said the words, it never passed his lips.
”What happened?” He asked, allowing the initial shock to wear off before the trained soldier took over. ”Was it something he drank?” His thought when to someone trying to kill him, maybe the Creed putting something in his glass or tainting the food. He stared at his brother, watching him try to move whatever life was left in their father. ”Let Krysto take over, brother.” He knew getting Achilleas to stop his actions on his own would be impossible. Without waiting for approval from Fotios, Emilios pulled Achilleas backwards, making enough room for Krysto to take over the action.
His eyes fell onto Xene’s, ’If you do not wish to do the breaths, cousin, I can. But make your choice quickly, else he will cross the river.” If she wished to help, then fine. But if she delayed, he would take over.
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 felt the eyes on him as he walked back to the house, but it wasn't uncommon for people to start at him for something he’d done. Emilios was well known for being a playboy, attached to Stephanos at the hip more often than not and seemingly always in the wrong place at the wrong time. But it didn’t deter his actions, and he didn’t dare think about what had actually transpired until he was back in the safety of his quarters.
What the hell had he been thinking?
Her wedding was not the place or time to try and talk to her. He had been stone sober, yet drunk on the sight of her as a bride. She was blessed by the God of Love herself, and perhaps Aphrodite had made him do it, just to enjoy the pleasure of the fallout afterwards. He should have waited, he thought bitterly as he tossed the dirty chiton aside, moving to the basin of water to wash up the remnants of wine from his face.
Unable to deny the he needed something to bring him back into reality, he took the basin of water and dumped it over his head. It was cold, having sat out most of the morning from getting ready earlier, but it was a wakeup call. Emilios knew he needed to get his shit together. He was acting a fool and he knew it. And this was his brother’s day. Even with the threat hanging over his head from Fotios, he had to allow the man this day. Because who knew what tomorrow would bring.
As he was using a cloth to quickly dry his hair, a servant came in with a fresh chiton, similar in fashion to the one he’d been wearing earlier. Not nearly as fancy, but still presentable for the brother of the groom, he allowed the man to assist in dressing him. Just as they were belting the material in place, another servant (this one dressed for the party) came into the room. There was panic on his face, but Emilios wasn’t convinced that it wasn’t simply from the wrath of his father.
”Tell him I will be out in a moment.” He said, without even giving the man a chance to speak.
”No, your highness, Emilios winced a bit at the title— right, he was a prince now, ”Your father has collapsed.” Blinking, Emilios didn’t bother with the rest of his outfit, letting the belted chiton and sandals be enough to go back into the party. While he didn’t have his brother’s shoulders or height, he was not a small man either. Those who didn’t seem him pressing through the crowd were forcefully shoved aside to clear the path to where the King seemed to be lying on the ground.
He had seen death before, had caused plenty of his own. He had been willing and able to end the lives of anyone who threatened what was dear to him. And while some would call his choice of bow a coward’s weapon, he had trained to even use it in hand combat, if needed. Emilios had seen the light leave a man’s eyes. Staring into his father’s lifeless face, he was speechless for a moment.
Guilt washed over him. Was this is fault? He knew that the King had been stressed, could that he wasn’t feeling his best, but that didn’t stop Emilios from being the man he was. But he could hear his father’s voice in his head, berating him for not being able to keep it together for one, very public day. Emilios would have replied to him that he was never meant to be a prince, but since the man in front of him never actually said the words, it never passed his lips.
”What happened?” He asked, allowing the initial shock to wear off before the trained soldier took over. ”Was it something he drank?” His thought when to someone trying to kill him, maybe the Creed putting something in his glass or tainting the food. He stared at his brother, watching him try to move whatever life was left in their father. ”Let Krysto take over, brother.” He knew getting Achilleas to stop his actions on his own would be impossible. Without waiting for approval from Fotios, Emilios pulled Achilleas backwards, making enough room for Krysto to take over the action.
His eyes fell onto Xene’s, ’If you do not wish to do the breaths, cousin, I can. But make your choice quickly, else he will cross the river.” If she wished to help, then fine. But if she delayed, he would take over.
He felt the eyes on him as he walked back to the house, but it wasn't uncommon for people to start at him for something he’d done. Emilios was well known for being a playboy, attached to Stephanos at the hip more often than not and seemingly always in the wrong place at the wrong time. But it didn’t deter his actions, and he didn’t dare think about what had actually transpired until he was back in the safety of his quarters.
What the hell had he been thinking?
Her wedding was not the place or time to try and talk to her. He had been stone sober, yet drunk on the sight of her as a bride. She was blessed by the God of Love herself, and perhaps Aphrodite had made him do it, just to enjoy the pleasure of the fallout afterwards. He should have waited, he thought bitterly as he tossed the dirty chiton aside, moving to the basin of water to wash up the remnants of wine from his face.
Unable to deny the he needed something to bring him back into reality, he took the basin of water and dumped it over his head. It was cold, having sat out most of the morning from getting ready earlier, but it was a wakeup call. Emilios knew he needed to get his shit together. He was acting a fool and he knew it. And this was his brother’s day. Even with the threat hanging over his head from Fotios, he had to allow the man this day. Because who knew what tomorrow would bring.
As he was using a cloth to quickly dry his hair, a servant came in with a fresh chiton, similar in fashion to the one he’d been wearing earlier. Not nearly as fancy, but still presentable for the brother of the groom, he allowed the man to assist in dressing him. Just as they were belting the material in place, another servant (this one dressed for the party) came into the room. There was panic on his face, but Emilios wasn’t convinced that it wasn’t simply from the wrath of his father.
”Tell him I will be out in a moment.” He said, without even giving the man a chance to speak.
”No, your highness, Emilios winced a bit at the title— right, he was a prince now, ”Your father has collapsed.” Blinking, Emilios didn’t bother with the rest of his outfit, letting the belted chiton and sandals be enough to go back into the party. While he didn’t have his brother’s shoulders or height, he was not a small man either. Those who didn’t seem him pressing through the crowd were forcefully shoved aside to clear the path to where the King seemed to be lying on the ground.
He had seen death before, had caused plenty of his own. He had been willing and able to end the lives of anyone who threatened what was dear to him. And while some would call his choice of bow a coward’s weapon, he had trained to even use it in hand combat, if needed. Emilios had seen the light leave a man’s eyes. Staring into his father’s lifeless face, he was speechless for a moment.
Guilt washed over him. Was this is fault? He knew that the King had been stressed, could that he wasn’t feeling his best, but that didn’t stop Emilios from being the man he was. But he could hear his father’s voice in his head, berating him for not being able to keep it together for one, very public day. Emilios would have replied to him that he was never meant to be a prince, but since the man in front of him never actually said the words, it never passed his lips.
”What happened?” He asked, allowing the initial shock to wear off before the trained soldier took over. ”Was it something he drank?” His thought when to someone trying to kill him, maybe the Creed putting something in his glass or tainting the food. He stared at his brother, watching him try to move whatever life was left in their father. ”Let Krysto take over, brother.” He knew getting Achilleas to stop his actions on his own would be impossible. Without waiting for approval from Fotios, Emilios pulled Achilleas backwards, making enough room for Krysto to take over the action.
His eyes fell onto Xene’s, ’If you do not wish to do the breaths, cousin, I can. But make your choice quickly, else he will cross the river.” If she wished to help, then fine. But if she delayed, he would take over.
Fotios had no idea of what to do. Whilst he had all the theory in the world, nothing of that ilk helped when he was confronted with needing to perform it in practice!
He knew that the heart was a muscle. He knew that it moved in order to pump blood around the body. It was why certain areas of the body spewed crimson when broken, for the blood itself was under pressure. Like squeezing a wine skin with the cork removed. Yet he also knew that the heart was encaged within the ribs of the body. Which made it seem impossible to ensure the muscle would continue to work when it failed within itself. The shield of the chest surely became its own restraint?
All victory he felt over succeeding in making the young princess blush and turn her victim to sexual sensations was lost in the next few moments as his closest friend lay dying before him, unable to be saved because he lacked the experience and skill.
When others joined the group, Fotios noted the concern and devout faith on the face of Irakles' oldest son and felt a twinge of envy for the man that he had such a male heir to follow on in his footsteps should all of this fall entirely south. Whilst Irakles had nothing but complaints over both of his children, Fotios had always considered the Mikaelidas family to be unfeasibly lucky in its birthing of male heirs.
Yet that luck appeared to have abandoned them of late...
As Xene moved to aid in lowering the king to the ground, she placed herself opposite Fotios, separated by the span of Irakles' shoulders. She was panicked and clearly anxious over the health of her uncle and Fotios reached out to place a solid hand upon her shoulder. When he had her gaze, he gave her a searing look of such profound determination that it seemed to dry up her words of anxiety.
Next, Achilleas was the one seeking help and answers in the confusion, before banging upon his father's chest in a manner that would have had lesser men wince. Fotios said and did nothing, for he saw the logic in Achilleas' actions and held out a glimmer of expectation that it would work. When it seemed to stir Irakles but offer no reprieve to his barely beating heart, Fotios swallowed and felt a dread uncurl in his belly at the notion that the man before him might actually die. Here and now, at his eldest son's wedding. The princess Xene offered to help how she could, only to be over-ridden when the military shadow of Achilleas - a man named Krysto - appeared like a beacon, announcing his own knowledge of medicine.
With a quick and flapping hand, Fotios encouraged Irakles' eldest son away from him. The crown prince's bulk was large and he held no use in kneeling beside the man, regardless of compassion. Fotios' gesture sent him closer to Irakles's feet, nearer to his brother.
"Move back, Your Highness." He insisted to him. "Allow your man to work."
Irakles second son was quick to join them, no longer gowned in finery but wearing a single chiton of red and a fresh pair of sandals, no longer stained scarlet. At the young man's question of whether the king lay barely able to breathe and staring up at them with wide eyes was something to do with a substance he had consumed, Fotios was quick to snatch at the cup the King had been holding upon his collapse.
The liquid within had streamed across the floor, leaving the container mostly empty but the shape of the chalice had secured a diminished, residual bit of wine.
It seemed unlikely that someone within the Mikaelidas household had murdered the king of Mikaelidas blood, but Fotios performed his duties well in ensuring it to not be the case.
Sniffing at the glass and then dipping his finger in and licking the digit, his eyes narrowed in concentration before he shook his head.
"It's not poison." He told the young militant in the hopes that this knowledge would aid him in treating the king in what could be his last few moments. "Anything that worked this quickly would have turned the wine." It wouldn't have been noticeable to the person drinking it - ignorant of what it might contain. But to a man who knew his way around wine and was deliberately trying to detect anything in the texture or taste... it would have been obvious.
So, if not poison... what else could give a grown and healthy man difficulties of the heart?
Swallowing back the idea that it could be some kind of disease, or simply the rigours of rule - neither of which could be treated fast enough to save the man dying before them all, Fotios turned to look at Xene upon Emilios' question. If the man needed air, that was a way of doing it, that was for certain...
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Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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Fotios had no idea of what to do. Whilst he had all the theory in the world, nothing of that ilk helped when he was confronted with needing to perform it in practice!
He knew that the heart was a muscle. He knew that it moved in order to pump blood around the body. It was why certain areas of the body spewed crimson when broken, for the blood itself was under pressure. Like squeezing a wine skin with the cork removed. Yet he also knew that the heart was encaged within the ribs of the body. Which made it seem impossible to ensure the muscle would continue to work when it failed within itself. The shield of the chest surely became its own restraint?
All victory he felt over succeeding in making the young princess blush and turn her victim to sexual sensations was lost in the next few moments as his closest friend lay dying before him, unable to be saved because he lacked the experience and skill.
When others joined the group, Fotios noted the concern and devout faith on the face of Irakles' oldest son and felt a twinge of envy for the man that he had such a male heir to follow on in his footsteps should all of this fall entirely south. Whilst Irakles had nothing but complaints over both of his children, Fotios had always considered the Mikaelidas family to be unfeasibly lucky in its birthing of male heirs.
Yet that luck appeared to have abandoned them of late...
As Xene moved to aid in lowering the king to the ground, she placed herself opposite Fotios, separated by the span of Irakles' shoulders. She was panicked and clearly anxious over the health of her uncle and Fotios reached out to place a solid hand upon her shoulder. When he had her gaze, he gave her a searing look of such profound determination that it seemed to dry up her words of anxiety.
Next, Achilleas was the one seeking help and answers in the confusion, before banging upon his father's chest in a manner that would have had lesser men wince. Fotios said and did nothing, for he saw the logic in Achilleas' actions and held out a glimmer of expectation that it would work. When it seemed to stir Irakles but offer no reprieve to his barely beating heart, Fotios swallowed and felt a dread uncurl in his belly at the notion that the man before him might actually die. Here and now, at his eldest son's wedding. The princess Xene offered to help how she could, only to be over-ridden when the military shadow of Achilleas - a man named Krysto - appeared like a beacon, announcing his own knowledge of medicine.
With a quick and flapping hand, Fotios encouraged Irakles' eldest son away from him. The crown prince's bulk was large and he held no use in kneeling beside the man, regardless of compassion. Fotios' gesture sent him closer to Irakles's feet, nearer to his brother.
"Move back, Your Highness." He insisted to him. "Allow your man to work."
Irakles second son was quick to join them, no longer gowned in finery but wearing a single chiton of red and a fresh pair of sandals, no longer stained scarlet. At the young man's question of whether the king lay barely able to breathe and staring up at them with wide eyes was something to do with a substance he had consumed, Fotios was quick to snatch at the cup the King had been holding upon his collapse.
The liquid within had streamed across the floor, leaving the container mostly empty but the shape of the chalice had secured a diminished, residual bit of wine.
It seemed unlikely that someone within the Mikaelidas household had murdered the king of Mikaelidas blood, but Fotios performed his duties well in ensuring it to not be the case.
Sniffing at the glass and then dipping his finger in and licking the digit, his eyes narrowed in concentration before he shook his head.
"It's not poison." He told the young militant in the hopes that this knowledge would aid him in treating the king in what could be his last few moments. "Anything that worked this quickly would have turned the wine." It wouldn't have been noticeable to the person drinking it - ignorant of what it might contain. But to a man who knew his way around wine and was deliberately trying to detect anything in the texture or taste... it would have been obvious.
So, if not poison... what else could give a grown and healthy man difficulties of the heart?
Swallowing back the idea that it could be some kind of disease, or simply the rigours of rule - neither of which could be treated fast enough to save the man dying before them all, Fotios turned to look at Xene upon Emilios' question. If the man needed air, that was a way of doing it, that was for certain...
Fotios had no idea of what to do. Whilst he had all the theory in the world, nothing of that ilk helped when he was confronted with needing to perform it in practice!
He knew that the heart was a muscle. He knew that it moved in order to pump blood around the body. It was why certain areas of the body spewed crimson when broken, for the blood itself was under pressure. Like squeezing a wine skin with the cork removed. Yet he also knew that the heart was encaged within the ribs of the body. Which made it seem impossible to ensure the muscle would continue to work when it failed within itself. The shield of the chest surely became its own restraint?
All victory he felt over succeeding in making the young princess blush and turn her victim to sexual sensations was lost in the next few moments as his closest friend lay dying before him, unable to be saved because he lacked the experience and skill.
When others joined the group, Fotios noted the concern and devout faith on the face of Irakles' oldest son and felt a twinge of envy for the man that he had such a male heir to follow on in his footsteps should all of this fall entirely south. Whilst Irakles had nothing but complaints over both of his children, Fotios had always considered the Mikaelidas family to be unfeasibly lucky in its birthing of male heirs.
Yet that luck appeared to have abandoned them of late...
As Xene moved to aid in lowering the king to the ground, she placed herself opposite Fotios, separated by the span of Irakles' shoulders. She was panicked and clearly anxious over the health of her uncle and Fotios reached out to place a solid hand upon her shoulder. When he had her gaze, he gave her a searing look of such profound determination that it seemed to dry up her words of anxiety.
Next, Achilleas was the one seeking help and answers in the confusion, before banging upon his father's chest in a manner that would have had lesser men wince. Fotios said and did nothing, for he saw the logic in Achilleas' actions and held out a glimmer of expectation that it would work. When it seemed to stir Irakles but offer no reprieve to his barely beating heart, Fotios swallowed and felt a dread uncurl in his belly at the notion that the man before him might actually die. Here and now, at his eldest son's wedding. The princess Xene offered to help how she could, only to be over-ridden when the military shadow of Achilleas - a man named Krysto - appeared like a beacon, announcing his own knowledge of medicine.
With a quick and flapping hand, Fotios encouraged Irakles' eldest son away from him. The crown prince's bulk was large and he held no use in kneeling beside the man, regardless of compassion. Fotios' gesture sent him closer to Irakles's feet, nearer to his brother.
"Move back, Your Highness." He insisted to him. "Allow your man to work."
Irakles second son was quick to join them, no longer gowned in finery but wearing a single chiton of red and a fresh pair of sandals, no longer stained scarlet. At the young man's question of whether the king lay barely able to breathe and staring up at them with wide eyes was something to do with a substance he had consumed, Fotios was quick to snatch at the cup the King had been holding upon his collapse.
The liquid within had streamed across the floor, leaving the container mostly empty but the shape of the chalice had secured a diminished, residual bit of wine.
It seemed unlikely that someone within the Mikaelidas household had murdered the king of Mikaelidas blood, but Fotios performed his duties well in ensuring it to not be the case.
Sniffing at the glass and then dipping his finger in and licking the digit, his eyes narrowed in concentration before he shook his head.
"It's not poison." He told the young militant in the hopes that this knowledge would aid him in treating the king in what could be his last few moments. "Anything that worked this quickly would have turned the wine." It wouldn't have been noticeable to the person drinking it - ignorant of what it might contain. But to a man who knew his way around wine and was deliberately trying to detect anything in the texture or taste... it would have been obvious.
So, if not poison... what else could give a grown and healthy man difficulties of the heart?
Swallowing back the idea that it could be some kind of disease, or simply the rigours of rule - neither of which could be treated fast enough to save the man dying before them all, Fotios turned to look at Xene upon Emilios' question. If the man needed air, that was a way of doing it, that was for certain...
Theo's heart turned poisonous with guilt when Achilleas only served to prove his generous nature and tender character by immediately offering her support over blame. Whether the motivations she was telling him were true or not, the fact that of the matter was that - regardless of stimulus - she had made a spectacle of herself at their wedding. This was not a negotiable state of fact. And instead of chastising her as he had every right to, or even being disappointed in her... he turned to comforting her that his brother would not hate her and that he would have nothing to be frustrated by. That the matter was over and done and deserved no further consideration on either of their parts.
She wanted to cry with thanks but also with the shame of knowing where all of that drama had really come from. And for the fact that she couldn't seem to remove the image of Emilios' retreating back from her mind. The way he had held his head... the set of his shoulders. They had been tensed. Not easy-going with the posture of a man who had played about with her feelings and was now enjoying the cathartic release of needling her. But a man who had much still to say and much still to be plagued by in his own head.
And all she could think upon was how guilty she felt that that image was in her mind more than the kindest of men who stood before her.
When Achilleas insisted that the matter was over and done and that he was willing to ignore its existence altogether - his character and words suggesting a complete ignorance on the topic and a continuation of their celebrations, Theodora smiled brightly - her eyes shining with those unshed tears but also a joyous acceptance of the suggestion - and rose onto her toes to offer her husband a kiss of approval and gratitude.
At the same time, Achilleas' lips parted to say something but neither of them managed to get there before a murmur and discord behind her husband's shoulders, disturbed the cocoon of affection that had settled around the two of them.
Both turned to witness Theo's uncle lowering himself to the ground and bending over a man whom Princess Xene helped to ease to the floor and it was an almost immediate reaction that had Theo left alone by the banquet table, when Achilleas sped to his father's side.
Not at all offended to be left by her husband so abruptly at her own wedding celebrations, Theo instead shot immediately after her husband, not heeding the people she jostled as she went or any damage that she might do to her raiment in order to follow in the man's broad-shouldered wake.
By the time she came upon the scene herself, Achilleas was knelt beside his father but being shooed towards the prone king's ankles so that others who knew what they were doing could step in and offer assistance.
Emilios was there too, and with a little movement, the two brothers ended up nestled towards beside their father's leg, waiting on those who were trained in medicine and physicianry to save his life.
Not sure what to do with herself, Theo hesitated only a moment before she came to crouch just behind the two brothers, her hand reached out to her husband's shoulder, her arm stretched across his shoulder-blades in a half embrace of support. It was clear to her that the man before them was dying and whether he finally crossed the Styx or not this day, this event would be a mar upon Achilleas' memory for years to come. Some loyal, spousal part of her mentality - not to mention her genuine affection for the man - would not allow that memory not to include herself, comforting him as he might need.
Her arm was firm across his back and neck and she squeezed her fingers around the bulge of his shoulder. Her chin came to rest upon the other, as she sought to give him someone to rely upon. She knew him to be a practical and determined man and she could practically feel the hum coming off of his body with his need to do something to save the life of a man who had never shown him the respect he deserved but clearly so desperately craved.
She didn't say anything. Only helped to hold her husband in place and give him that respect that the King had never felt the desire to bestow, and listened to the bard some yards away who offered tales and music to distract the majority of their guests. She was grateful to that man. For she did not have the time, position nor inclination to play hostess to those in the area who were not already aware of the dying man upon the lawns of their gardens.
It was in that position, cosied up to her husband's side, however, that her gaze fell in line with the side of Emilios' face. From her position, she could read his profile. See the way his hands tightened into fists of panic and fear. Whilst she had always known Achilleas to be the stoic and pragmatic of the two brothers, Emilios was the passionate one. The one with the vulnerable heart.
Unable to help herself, and taking advantage of the fact that Emilios sat just a few inches behind his brother, with his hands behind his view, Theodora reached out and with a gentle touch, peeled at Emilios's fist to unfurl his fingers.
She felt her lungs inflate with a sense of familiarity and calm, as her own slim fingers interlocked with Emilios', hoping to simultaneously give comfort to both the man she had married and the man she had always known herself to love...
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Theo's heart turned poisonous with guilt when Achilleas only served to prove his generous nature and tender character by immediately offering her support over blame. Whether the motivations she was telling him were true or not, the fact that of the matter was that - regardless of stimulus - she had made a spectacle of herself at their wedding. This was not a negotiable state of fact. And instead of chastising her as he had every right to, or even being disappointed in her... he turned to comforting her that his brother would not hate her and that he would have nothing to be frustrated by. That the matter was over and done and deserved no further consideration on either of their parts.
She wanted to cry with thanks but also with the shame of knowing where all of that drama had really come from. And for the fact that she couldn't seem to remove the image of Emilios' retreating back from her mind. The way he had held his head... the set of his shoulders. They had been tensed. Not easy-going with the posture of a man who had played about with her feelings and was now enjoying the cathartic release of needling her. But a man who had much still to say and much still to be plagued by in his own head.
And all she could think upon was how guilty she felt that that image was in her mind more than the kindest of men who stood before her.
When Achilleas insisted that the matter was over and done and that he was willing to ignore its existence altogether - his character and words suggesting a complete ignorance on the topic and a continuation of their celebrations, Theodora smiled brightly - her eyes shining with those unshed tears but also a joyous acceptance of the suggestion - and rose onto her toes to offer her husband a kiss of approval and gratitude.
At the same time, Achilleas' lips parted to say something but neither of them managed to get there before a murmur and discord behind her husband's shoulders, disturbed the cocoon of affection that had settled around the two of them.
Both turned to witness Theo's uncle lowering himself to the ground and bending over a man whom Princess Xene helped to ease to the floor and it was an almost immediate reaction that had Theo left alone by the banquet table, when Achilleas sped to his father's side.
Not at all offended to be left by her husband so abruptly at her own wedding celebrations, Theo instead shot immediately after her husband, not heeding the people she jostled as she went or any damage that she might do to her raiment in order to follow in the man's broad-shouldered wake.
By the time she came upon the scene herself, Achilleas was knelt beside his father but being shooed towards the prone king's ankles so that others who knew what they were doing could step in and offer assistance.
Emilios was there too, and with a little movement, the two brothers ended up nestled towards beside their father's leg, waiting on those who were trained in medicine and physicianry to save his life.
Not sure what to do with herself, Theo hesitated only a moment before she came to crouch just behind the two brothers, her hand reached out to her husband's shoulder, her arm stretched across his shoulder-blades in a half embrace of support. It was clear to her that the man before them was dying and whether he finally crossed the Styx or not this day, this event would be a mar upon Achilleas' memory for years to come. Some loyal, spousal part of her mentality - not to mention her genuine affection for the man - would not allow that memory not to include herself, comforting him as he might need.
Her arm was firm across his back and neck and she squeezed her fingers around the bulge of his shoulder. Her chin came to rest upon the other, as she sought to give him someone to rely upon. She knew him to be a practical and determined man and she could practically feel the hum coming off of his body with his need to do something to save the life of a man who had never shown him the respect he deserved but clearly so desperately craved.
She didn't say anything. Only helped to hold her husband in place and give him that respect that the King had never felt the desire to bestow, and listened to the bard some yards away who offered tales and music to distract the majority of their guests. She was grateful to that man. For she did not have the time, position nor inclination to play hostess to those in the area who were not already aware of the dying man upon the lawns of their gardens.
It was in that position, cosied up to her husband's side, however, that her gaze fell in line with the side of Emilios' face. From her position, she could read his profile. See the way his hands tightened into fists of panic and fear. Whilst she had always known Achilleas to be the stoic and pragmatic of the two brothers, Emilios was the passionate one. The one with the vulnerable heart.
Unable to help herself, and taking advantage of the fact that Emilios sat just a few inches behind his brother, with his hands behind his view, Theodora reached out and with a gentle touch, peeled at Emilios's fist to unfurl his fingers.
She felt her lungs inflate with a sense of familiarity and calm, as her own slim fingers interlocked with Emilios', hoping to simultaneously give comfort to both the man she had married and the man she had always known herself to love...
Theo's heart turned poisonous with guilt when Achilleas only served to prove his generous nature and tender character by immediately offering her support over blame. Whether the motivations she was telling him were true or not, the fact that of the matter was that - regardless of stimulus - she had made a spectacle of herself at their wedding. This was not a negotiable state of fact. And instead of chastising her as he had every right to, or even being disappointed in her... he turned to comforting her that his brother would not hate her and that he would have nothing to be frustrated by. That the matter was over and done and deserved no further consideration on either of their parts.
She wanted to cry with thanks but also with the shame of knowing where all of that drama had really come from. And for the fact that she couldn't seem to remove the image of Emilios' retreating back from her mind. The way he had held his head... the set of his shoulders. They had been tensed. Not easy-going with the posture of a man who had played about with her feelings and was now enjoying the cathartic release of needling her. But a man who had much still to say and much still to be plagued by in his own head.
And all she could think upon was how guilty she felt that that image was in her mind more than the kindest of men who stood before her.
When Achilleas insisted that the matter was over and done and that he was willing to ignore its existence altogether - his character and words suggesting a complete ignorance on the topic and a continuation of their celebrations, Theodora smiled brightly - her eyes shining with those unshed tears but also a joyous acceptance of the suggestion - and rose onto her toes to offer her husband a kiss of approval and gratitude.
At the same time, Achilleas' lips parted to say something but neither of them managed to get there before a murmur and discord behind her husband's shoulders, disturbed the cocoon of affection that had settled around the two of them.
Both turned to witness Theo's uncle lowering himself to the ground and bending over a man whom Princess Xene helped to ease to the floor and it was an almost immediate reaction that had Theo left alone by the banquet table, when Achilleas sped to his father's side.
Not at all offended to be left by her husband so abruptly at her own wedding celebrations, Theo instead shot immediately after her husband, not heeding the people she jostled as she went or any damage that she might do to her raiment in order to follow in the man's broad-shouldered wake.
By the time she came upon the scene herself, Achilleas was knelt beside his father but being shooed towards the prone king's ankles so that others who knew what they were doing could step in and offer assistance.
Emilios was there too, and with a little movement, the two brothers ended up nestled towards beside their father's leg, waiting on those who were trained in medicine and physicianry to save his life.
Not sure what to do with herself, Theo hesitated only a moment before she came to crouch just behind the two brothers, her hand reached out to her husband's shoulder, her arm stretched across his shoulder-blades in a half embrace of support. It was clear to her that the man before them was dying and whether he finally crossed the Styx or not this day, this event would be a mar upon Achilleas' memory for years to come. Some loyal, spousal part of her mentality - not to mention her genuine affection for the man - would not allow that memory not to include herself, comforting him as he might need.
Her arm was firm across his back and neck and she squeezed her fingers around the bulge of his shoulder. Her chin came to rest upon the other, as she sought to give him someone to rely upon. She knew him to be a practical and determined man and she could practically feel the hum coming off of his body with his need to do something to save the life of a man who had never shown him the respect he deserved but clearly so desperately craved.
She didn't say anything. Only helped to hold her husband in place and give him that respect that the King had never felt the desire to bestow, and listened to the bard some yards away who offered tales and music to distract the majority of their guests. She was grateful to that man. For she did not have the time, position nor inclination to play hostess to those in the area who were not already aware of the dying man upon the lawns of their gardens.
It was in that position, cosied up to her husband's side, however, that her gaze fell in line with the side of Emilios' face. From her position, she could read his profile. See the way his hands tightened into fists of panic and fear. Whilst she had always known Achilleas to be the stoic and pragmatic of the two brothers, Emilios was the passionate one. The one with the vulnerable heart.
Unable to help herself, and taking advantage of the fact that Emilios sat just a few inches behind his brother, with his hands behind his view, Theodora reached out and with a gentle touch, peeled at Emilios's fist to unfurl his fingers.
She felt her lungs inflate with a sense of familiarity and calm, as her own slim fingers interlocked with Emilios', hoping to simultaneously give comfort to both the man she had married and the man she had always known herself to love...
Krysto found himself looking to Emilios and Fotios, grateful that they were so willing to give him the space he needed to make an attempt at saving the King. He paid absolutely no mind to his best friend or the people who continued to gather around. Instead, he focused on the words of his father. The instruction he received before he had become a soldier and in the years since he had returned to Euttica as the military's captain. The man had been insistent upon teaching Krysto everything he could just in case Krysto himself was the only one in a group to have any medical training at all.
Closing his eyes a moment, he breathed out sharply and then leaned over the King, pressing his hands against the man's chest, where he knew the heart to be. Starting to work at pumping the man's chest, working with hard strikes not unlike with Achilleas had been, though Krysto's were much shorter in distance and likely to cause less outright damage to the King should his heart have started again.
"Thank you, Lord Leventi," Krysto noted calmly as he worked, his voice sounding with the continued exertion of his movements. "This means that his heart has ceased to function," he muttered calmly under his breath, his gaze flicking up to the face of the terrified princess before him. She hadn't moved yet, even with Emilios' insistence. Krysto had to grit his teeth and keep himself from outright snapping at her. Instead, he spoke in a voice filled with calm and encouragement, glancing down at the King once or twice as he continued to work.
Taking one hand off the King's chest, he reached out and took Xene's wrist lightly in his own hand. "You need to do what Emilios says. Do the breaths, as I instruct, or move so that the prince may help his father. Do you understand me, my princess?" he questioned her firmly. Xene stared blankly at his hand on her wrist and then looked up to his face with those blue eyes that had often struck him silly when he was much younger.
Then the princess was pulling from his grasp and leaning over Irakles while Krysto quietly instructed her what to do. The two of them worked together in silence after that, trying in desperate to restart the King's heart and bring breath back into his lungs. Krysto could not let himself think what was already trailing through his mind. This was fruitless. He had already been without air for so long and if his heart had completely cramped and stopped pimping vital blood throughout the body, what more could they actually do to save the man? The answer was nothing, but Krysto couldn't find it in his heart to break the Mikaelidas family any further just yet.
He simply remembered what his father had instructed. At some point, he would need to cease his help and let the King pass on if such was the fate of King Irakles of Mikaelidas. Their efforts were fruitless thus far and Krysto soon found his pace of strikes faltering when he realized that it was time to stop. His gaze flicked to Xene, wondering how she was going to take this if the King did not wake. Krysto knew her to have taken the deaths of her father and brother with near-absolute silence.
But this was different. If the King died... she would bear witness. So would everyone in this room.
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Krysto found himself looking to Emilios and Fotios, grateful that they were so willing to give him the space he needed to make an attempt at saving the King. He paid absolutely no mind to his best friend or the people who continued to gather around. Instead, he focused on the words of his father. The instruction he received before he had become a soldier and in the years since he had returned to Euttica as the military's captain. The man had been insistent upon teaching Krysto everything he could just in case Krysto himself was the only one in a group to have any medical training at all.
Closing his eyes a moment, he breathed out sharply and then leaned over the King, pressing his hands against the man's chest, where he knew the heart to be. Starting to work at pumping the man's chest, working with hard strikes not unlike with Achilleas had been, though Krysto's were much shorter in distance and likely to cause less outright damage to the King should his heart have started again.
"Thank you, Lord Leventi," Krysto noted calmly as he worked, his voice sounding with the continued exertion of his movements. "This means that his heart has ceased to function," he muttered calmly under his breath, his gaze flicking up to the face of the terrified princess before him. She hadn't moved yet, even with Emilios' insistence. Krysto had to grit his teeth and keep himself from outright snapping at her. Instead, he spoke in a voice filled with calm and encouragement, glancing down at the King once or twice as he continued to work.
Taking one hand off the King's chest, he reached out and took Xene's wrist lightly in his own hand. "You need to do what Emilios says. Do the breaths, as I instruct, or move so that the prince may help his father. Do you understand me, my princess?" he questioned her firmly. Xene stared blankly at his hand on her wrist and then looked up to his face with those blue eyes that had often struck him silly when he was much younger.
Then the princess was pulling from his grasp and leaning over Irakles while Krysto quietly instructed her what to do. The two of them worked together in silence after that, trying in desperate to restart the King's heart and bring breath back into his lungs. Krysto could not let himself think what was already trailing through his mind. This was fruitless. He had already been without air for so long and if his heart had completely cramped and stopped pimping vital blood throughout the body, what more could they actually do to save the man? The answer was nothing, but Krysto couldn't find it in his heart to break the Mikaelidas family any further just yet.
He simply remembered what his father had instructed. At some point, he would need to cease his help and let the King pass on if such was the fate of King Irakles of Mikaelidas. Their efforts were fruitless thus far and Krysto soon found his pace of strikes faltering when he realized that it was time to stop. His gaze flicked to Xene, wondering how she was going to take this if the King did not wake. Krysto knew her to have taken the deaths of her father and brother with near-absolute silence.
But this was different. If the King died... she would bear witness. So would everyone in this room.
Krysto found himself looking to Emilios and Fotios, grateful that they were so willing to give him the space he needed to make an attempt at saving the King. He paid absolutely no mind to his best friend or the people who continued to gather around. Instead, he focused on the words of his father. The instruction he received before he had become a soldier and in the years since he had returned to Euttica as the military's captain. The man had been insistent upon teaching Krysto everything he could just in case Krysto himself was the only one in a group to have any medical training at all.
Closing his eyes a moment, he breathed out sharply and then leaned over the King, pressing his hands against the man's chest, where he knew the heart to be. Starting to work at pumping the man's chest, working with hard strikes not unlike with Achilleas had been, though Krysto's were much shorter in distance and likely to cause less outright damage to the King should his heart have started again.
"Thank you, Lord Leventi," Krysto noted calmly as he worked, his voice sounding with the continued exertion of his movements. "This means that his heart has ceased to function," he muttered calmly under his breath, his gaze flicking up to the face of the terrified princess before him. She hadn't moved yet, even with Emilios' insistence. Krysto had to grit his teeth and keep himself from outright snapping at her. Instead, he spoke in a voice filled with calm and encouragement, glancing down at the King once or twice as he continued to work.
Taking one hand off the King's chest, he reached out and took Xene's wrist lightly in his own hand. "You need to do what Emilios says. Do the breaths, as I instruct, or move so that the prince may help his father. Do you understand me, my princess?" he questioned her firmly. Xene stared blankly at his hand on her wrist and then looked up to his face with those blue eyes that had often struck him silly when he was much younger.
Then the princess was pulling from his grasp and leaning over Irakles while Krysto quietly instructed her what to do. The two of them worked together in silence after that, trying in desperate to restart the King's heart and bring breath back into his lungs. Krysto could not let himself think what was already trailing through his mind. This was fruitless. He had already been without air for so long and if his heart had completely cramped and stopped pimping vital blood throughout the body, what more could they actually do to save the man? The answer was nothing, but Krysto couldn't find it in his heart to break the Mikaelidas family any further just yet.
He simply remembered what his father had instructed. At some point, he would need to cease his help and let the King pass on if such was the fate of King Irakles of Mikaelidas. Their efforts were fruitless thus far and Krysto soon found his pace of strikes faltering when he realized that it was time to stop. His gaze flicked to Xene, wondering how she was going to take this if the King did not wake. Krysto knew her to have taken the deaths of her father and brother with near-absolute silence.
But this was different. If the King died... she would bear witness. So would everyone in this room.
Xene could hardly focus on anything going on around her. Her blue gaze was focused on the face of her dying uncle, specifically the horrifying blue of his lips. Having asserted the fact that she wanted to help, the princess pulled her gaze up from her uncle when Captain Krysto joined them. A familiar face, though one she had not entertained often, Xene swallowed and nodded at him. A silent order to save her Uncle. If only because she was unsure of how she could handle yet another death, another abandonment.
Even though Irakles had very clearly seemed to care nothing for his own nieces, Xene still couldn't level with the idea that the King might not leave this wedding alive. Her thoughts drifted to the bad omen of this. The death of an individual of a wedding was bad luck. But Xene did not look at the new prince or the princess that approached just moments after Prince Emilios made his presence known and pulled Achilleas from his father's side.
What she needed to do was so clear, but her mind was full of reservations and confusion. Stress and absolute grief and terror at the scene displayed before her. The princess had not been present at the time of her brother's and father's deaths. She had not seen the gruesome nature of her father's head on a pike or found the bloodied cloak of Zacharias'. Seeing people close to her die was not something that she was used to. Of course, she had seen men die in the healing tents from the last battle only weeks before, but this was far too close to home.
It was only when Krysto's hand clamped around her wrist that Xene jumped and looked up at his face again. This time he ordered her to help or move so that someone else could. Realizing that she did desperately need to do something other than stand on the sidelines, Xene shifted closer to her Uncles head and leaned over him. Here, she followed the instructions given to her by the Captain. Opening the man's mouth a little more, she pressed her mouth to his and tried to press air back into his lungs with a silent desperation just to see King Irakles breathe again.
Working silently with the Captain, Xene did not pause when Krysto finally stopped his efforts at the King's chest. He seemed to understand that little would help now, but Xene couldn't stop. She couldn't stop herself from making the effort, from trying against all the assertions of Krysto that fell on deaf ears.
"Princess, stop," Krysto was saying firmly, though Xene ignored him. "My princess, you need to stop. It's not working," he started to sit up from beside Irakles' chest, reaching over him to put both of his hands on Xene's shoulders. "You need to stop," Krysto repeated. "Please."
Xene wrenched herself away from his touch, the panic clear in her blue gaze as she looked Krysto right in the eye once before she looked down at Irakles again. Stupid old man. He'd never seemed to like either her or Gianna, but Xene had looked to him nevertheless. She had wanted that connection with her uncle, a member of her family that her father always spoke highly of behind closed doors.
She should have hated him for the part he had played in Stephanos being dethroned. The delight that Irakles had taken in it had been almost sickening, and now that didn't seem to matter. At least not right then. Because she had been told to stop and now she was angry, glaring at Krysto, "But he'll die," she said through clenched teeth. "He'll die if he doesn't breathe, Captain," she spit his title at him in her anger, reaching for her uncle again.
The princess couldn't take another death. Even if she and Irakles had never actually got on, the thought that her family was falling to Hades, one by one, one after the other, was terrifying. If they could stop just this one death, wouldn't things find normalcy again?
Krysto seemed willing to fight her but looked over her at anyone who might be willing to pull the princess away from King Irakles. "There is nothing else to do to help him, Princess," Krysto said without looking at her, "Whether he lives or dies is out of our control now." There was still that small twinge of hope that everything they had already done would be enough for his heart to uncramp and start beating again.
Stubborn, frustrated, and once more feeling like her world was spinning out from beneath her, out of her control and out of her grasp, her breathing started to come sharply. "No," Xene said slowly. "No. No. No. No. No. You can't just stop!" her tone was louder now, her jaw clenching as she resisted the urge to let tears fall down her cheeks.
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Xene could hardly focus on anything going on around her. Her blue gaze was focused on the face of her dying uncle, specifically the horrifying blue of his lips. Having asserted the fact that she wanted to help, the princess pulled her gaze up from her uncle when Captain Krysto joined them. A familiar face, though one she had not entertained often, Xene swallowed and nodded at him. A silent order to save her Uncle. If only because she was unsure of how she could handle yet another death, another abandonment.
Even though Irakles had very clearly seemed to care nothing for his own nieces, Xene still couldn't level with the idea that the King might not leave this wedding alive. Her thoughts drifted to the bad omen of this. The death of an individual of a wedding was bad luck. But Xene did not look at the new prince or the princess that approached just moments after Prince Emilios made his presence known and pulled Achilleas from his father's side.
What she needed to do was so clear, but her mind was full of reservations and confusion. Stress and absolute grief and terror at the scene displayed before her. The princess had not been present at the time of her brother's and father's deaths. She had not seen the gruesome nature of her father's head on a pike or found the bloodied cloak of Zacharias'. Seeing people close to her die was not something that she was used to. Of course, she had seen men die in the healing tents from the last battle only weeks before, but this was far too close to home.
It was only when Krysto's hand clamped around her wrist that Xene jumped and looked up at his face again. This time he ordered her to help or move so that someone else could. Realizing that she did desperately need to do something other than stand on the sidelines, Xene shifted closer to her Uncles head and leaned over him. Here, she followed the instructions given to her by the Captain. Opening the man's mouth a little more, she pressed her mouth to his and tried to press air back into his lungs with a silent desperation just to see King Irakles breathe again.
Working silently with the Captain, Xene did not pause when Krysto finally stopped his efforts at the King's chest. He seemed to understand that little would help now, but Xene couldn't stop. She couldn't stop herself from making the effort, from trying against all the assertions of Krysto that fell on deaf ears.
"Princess, stop," Krysto was saying firmly, though Xene ignored him. "My princess, you need to stop. It's not working," he started to sit up from beside Irakles' chest, reaching over him to put both of his hands on Xene's shoulders. "You need to stop," Krysto repeated. "Please."
Xene wrenched herself away from his touch, the panic clear in her blue gaze as she looked Krysto right in the eye once before she looked down at Irakles again. Stupid old man. He'd never seemed to like either her or Gianna, but Xene had looked to him nevertheless. She had wanted that connection with her uncle, a member of her family that her father always spoke highly of behind closed doors.
She should have hated him for the part he had played in Stephanos being dethroned. The delight that Irakles had taken in it had been almost sickening, and now that didn't seem to matter. At least not right then. Because she had been told to stop and now she was angry, glaring at Krysto, "But he'll die," she said through clenched teeth. "He'll die if he doesn't breathe, Captain," she spit his title at him in her anger, reaching for her uncle again.
The princess couldn't take another death. Even if she and Irakles had never actually got on, the thought that her family was falling to Hades, one by one, one after the other, was terrifying. If they could stop just this one death, wouldn't things find normalcy again?
Krysto seemed willing to fight her but looked over her at anyone who might be willing to pull the princess away from King Irakles. "There is nothing else to do to help him, Princess," Krysto said without looking at her, "Whether he lives or dies is out of our control now." There was still that small twinge of hope that everything they had already done would be enough for his heart to uncramp and start beating again.
Stubborn, frustrated, and once more feeling like her world was spinning out from beneath her, out of her control and out of her grasp, her breathing started to come sharply. "No," Xene said slowly. "No. No. No. No. No. You can't just stop!" her tone was louder now, her jaw clenching as she resisted the urge to let tears fall down her cheeks.
Xene could hardly focus on anything going on around her. Her blue gaze was focused on the face of her dying uncle, specifically the horrifying blue of his lips. Having asserted the fact that she wanted to help, the princess pulled her gaze up from her uncle when Captain Krysto joined them. A familiar face, though one she had not entertained often, Xene swallowed and nodded at him. A silent order to save her Uncle. If only because she was unsure of how she could handle yet another death, another abandonment.
Even though Irakles had very clearly seemed to care nothing for his own nieces, Xene still couldn't level with the idea that the King might not leave this wedding alive. Her thoughts drifted to the bad omen of this. The death of an individual of a wedding was bad luck. But Xene did not look at the new prince or the princess that approached just moments after Prince Emilios made his presence known and pulled Achilleas from his father's side.
What she needed to do was so clear, but her mind was full of reservations and confusion. Stress and absolute grief and terror at the scene displayed before her. The princess had not been present at the time of her brother's and father's deaths. She had not seen the gruesome nature of her father's head on a pike or found the bloodied cloak of Zacharias'. Seeing people close to her die was not something that she was used to. Of course, she had seen men die in the healing tents from the last battle only weeks before, but this was far too close to home.
It was only when Krysto's hand clamped around her wrist that Xene jumped and looked up at his face again. This time he ordered her to help or move so that someone else could. Realizing that she did desperately need to do something other than stand on the sidelines, Xene shifted closer to her Uncles head and leaned over him. Here, she followed the instructions given to her by the Captain. Opening the man's mouth a little more, she pressed her mouth to his and tried to press air back into his lungs with a silent desperation just to see King Irakles breathe again.
Working silently with the Captain, Xene did not pause when Krysto finally stopped his efforts at the King's chest. He seemed to understand that little would help now, but Xene couldn't stop. She couldn't stop herself from making the effort, from trying against all the assertions of Krysto that fell on deaf ears.
"Princess, stop," Krysto was saying firmly, though Xene ignored him. "My princess, you need to stop. It's not working," he started to sit up from beside Irakles' chest, reaching over him to put both of his hands on Xene's shoulders. "You need to stop," Krysto repeated. "Please."
Xene wrenched herself away from his touch, the panic clear in her blue gaze as she looked Krysto right in the eye once before she looked down at Irakles again. Stupid old man. He'd never seemed to like either her or Gianna, but Xene had looked to him nevertheless. She had wanted that connection with her uncle, a member of her family that her father always spoke highly of behind closed doors.
She should have hated him for the part he had played in Stephanos being dethroned. The delight that Irakles had taken in it had been almost sickening, and now that didn't seem to matter. At least not right then. Because she had been told to stop and now she was angry, glaring at Krysto, "But he'll die," she said through clenched teeth. "He'll die if he doesn't breathe, Captain," she spit his title at him in her anger, reaching for her uncle again.
The princess couldn't take another death. Even if she and Irakles had never actually got on, the thought that her family was falling to Hades, one by one, one after the other, was terrifying. If they could stop just this one death, wouldn't things find normalcy again?
Krysto seemed willing to fight her but looked over her at anyone who might be willing to pull the princess away from King Irakles. "There is nothing else to do to help him, Princess," Krysto said without looking at her, "Whether he lives or dies is out of our control now." There was still that small twinge of hope that everything they had already done would be enough for his heart to uncramp and start beating again.
Stubborn, frustrated, and once more feeling like her world was spinning out from beneath her, out of her control and out of her grasp, her breathing started to come sharply. "No," Xene said slowly. "No. No. No. No. No. You can't just stop!" her tone was louder now, her jaw clenching as she resisted the urge to let tears fall down her cheeks.
With the sound of his own heartbeat drumming a mocking percussion in his ears, Achilleas lifted his gaze to his cousin Xene as she snapped at him, asking him for instructions that he did not know how to give. He looked at her blankly for a moment before the shadow of Krysto fell over his father’s still form and Achilleas felt a startle of relief: Krysto’s father was a physician. He would be able to help. Perhaps not processing as quickly as he would usually, it took him a moment to realise that he was in the way, and it wasn’t until he felt hands hauling him backward that the Crown Prince lurched away under his brother’s grip, only to resettle again further toward the King’s feet.
Achilleas did not do well at doing nothing, he never had.And now he was relegated to exactly that, his hands curled into fists where they lay atop his thighs, holding his breath as he watched those around him try and save his father. He looked again at the man’s face, the mottled colour of his skin and tried not to think of how many men he had seen look thus before their souls had been carried across the river. Death was no strange thing to a soldier after all, but it was still shocking to see it painted over the face of one that you loved, in a setting so far removed from the field of battle.
Here, there was no heat in the blood to shield him from it, no sword coming at him to draw his focus and to ensure that he did not look too long. There was nothing outside the moment, and all Achilleas could think was that his father was too still. Too still.
Dimly, he felt Theodora’s presence beside him, the weight of her arm as it lay across his back and the squeeze at the muscle of his shoulder that did not give. Every line of him was tension, cut hard and unyielding, gaze unblinking where it was fixed upon the sight of his best friend and his cousin trying to call some life back in to his father’s body. He watched his friend’s hands, more gentle than his own had been but with similar intent, and the somewhat belated response of his cousin in trying to breathe life into the fallen King.
At some point as they labored, his own heartbeat quietened enough that Achilleas became starkly aware of where they were, of how public this all was. He looked up and around them, the crowd thinned but enough still stood, gawping at the spectacle and it was a frustrated “Gods. Can we not even offer the man some dignity” that burst out of the Crown Prince as he suddenly grew tired of being impotent. He couldn’t bear it, and for a moment Achilleas hesitated between turning into Theodora’s embrace and shaking it off. He met her eyes for a moment, expression fierce, though he couldn't find words to break past the tightness that was in his throat as he looked at his bride on this, which should have been the most joyful of days.What was happening?
It was the need to do something that had him push to his feet and take a couple of steps away, searching the faces around them until he found a familiar one. If nothing else he could offer his father some privacy. Achilleas reached out, fingers folding around the upper arm of the tawny haired girl,his voice was low and urgent as he spoke.
“Briseis...clear the manor.Tell them the King is unwell.Have carriages readied for those who need and move everyone out of this space, please” The very act of issuing instruction seemed to settle a little of the tension in him, and Achilleas watched the maid go, trusting that she would see it done. This was good.
But the relief of feeling momentarily useful was fleeting, and it was the sharp cry of a feminine voice that had his blood freeze in his veins and his focus drawn unerringly back to where they still tended to the King.
Except they were not tending to the King. Krysto had ceased in his motions, and it was Xene who had cried out. Achilleas did not move. He was afraid, he realised, to move back to that small group and hear whatever it was his friend was muttering to his cousin, whatever would see his brother reach to physically draw the Princess Xene away from offering her own breaths up to the King. Either it had worked, or it had not, and he did not know that he was ready to find out which. So he stayed where he was, perhaps half a dozen paces away, looking on as one of those spectators who had so infuriated him before.
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With the sound of his own heartbeat drumming a mocking percussion in his ears, Achilleas lifted his gaze to his cousin Xene as she snapped at him, asking him for instructions that he did not know how to give. He looked at her blankly for a moment before the shadow of Krysto fell over his father’s still form and Achilleas felt a startle of relief: Krysto’s father was a physician. He would be able to help. Perhaps not processing as quickly as he would usually, it took him a moment to realise that he was in the way, and it wasn’t until he felt hands hauling him backward that the Crown Prince lurched away under his brother’s grip, only to resettle again further toward the King’s feet.
Achilleas did not do well at doing nothing, he never had.And now he was relegated to exactly that, his hands curled into fists where they lay atop his thighs, holding his breath as he watched those around him try and save his father. He looked again at the man’s face, the mottled colour of his skin and tried not to think of how many men he had seen look thus before their souls had been carried across the river. Death was no strange thing to a soldier after all, but it was still shocking to see it painted over the face of one that you loved, in a setting so far removed from the field of battle.
Here, there was no heat in the blood to shield him from it, no sword coming at him to draw his focus and to ensure that he did not look too long. There was nothing outside the moment, and all Achilleas could think was that his father was too still. Too still.
Dimly, he felt Theodora’s presence beside him, the weight of her arm as it lay across his back and the squeeze at the muscle of his shoulder that did not give. Every line of him was tension, cut hard and unyielding, gaze unblinking where it was fixed upon the sight of his best friend and his cousin trying to call some life back in to his father’s body. He watched his friend’s hands, more gentle than his own had been but with similar intent, and the somewhat belated response of his cousin in trying to breathe life into the fallen King.
At some point as they labored, his own heartbeat quietened enough that Achilleas became starkly aware of where they were, of how public this all was. He looked up and around them, the crowd thinned but enough still stood, gawping at the spectacle and it was a frustrated “Gods. Can we not even offer the man some dignity” that burst out of the Crown Prince as he suddenly grew tired of being impotent. He couldn’t bear it, and for a moment Achilleas hesitated between turning into Theodora’s embrace and shaking it off. He met her eyes for a moment, expression fierce, though he couldn't find words to break past the tightness that was in his throat as he looked at his bride on this, which should have been the most joyful of days.What was happening?
It was the need to do something that had him push to his feet and take a couple of steps away, searching the faces around them until he found a familiar one. If nothing else he could offer his father some privacy. Achilleas reached out, fingers folding around the upper arm of the tawny haired girl,his voice was low and urgent as he spoke.
“Briseis...clear the manor.Tell them the King is unwell.Have carriages readied for those who need and move everyone out of this space, please” The very act of issuing instruction seemed to settle a little of the tension in him, and Achilleas watched the maid go, trusting that she would see it done. This was good.
But the relief of feeling momentarily useful was fleeting, and it was the sharp cry of a feminine voice that had his blood freeze in his veins and his focus drawn unerringly back to where they still tended to the King.
Except they were not tending to the King. Krysto had ceased in his motions, and it was Xene who had cried out. Achilleas did not move. He was afraid, he realised, to move back to that small group and hear whatever it was his friend was muttering to his cousin, whatever would see his brother reach to physically draw the Princess Xene away from offering her own breaths up to the King. Either it had worked, or it had not, and he did not know that he was ready to find out which. So he stayed where he was, perhaps half a dozen paces away, looking on as one of those spectators who had so infuriated him before.
With the sound of his own heartbeat drumming a mocking percussion in his ears, Achilleas lifted his gaze to his cousin Xene as she snapped at him, asking him for instructions that he did not know how to give. He looked at her blankly for a moment before the shadow of Krysto fell over his father’s still form and Achilleas felt a startle of relief: Krysto’s father was a physician. He would be able to help. Perhaps not processing as quickly as he would usually, it took him a moment to realise that he was in the way, and it wasn’t until he felt hands hauling him backward that the Crown Prince lurched away under his brother’s grip, only to resettle again further toward the King’s feet.
Achilleas did not do well at doing nothing, he never had.And now he was relegated to exactly that, his hands curled into fists where they lay atop his thighs, holding his breath as he watched those around him try and save his father. He looked again at the man’s face, the mottled colour of his skin and tried not to think of how many men he had seen look thus before their souls had been carried across the river. Death was no strange thing to a soldier after all, but it was still shocking to see it painted over the face of one that you loved, in a setting so far removed from the field of battle.
Here, there was no heat in the blood to shield him from it, no sword coming at him to draw his focus and to ensure that he did not look too long. There was nothing outside the moment, and all Achilleas could think was that his father was too still. Too still.
Dimly, he felt Theodora’s presence beside him, the weight of her arm as it lay across his back and the squeeze at the muscle of his shoulder that did not give. Every line of him was tension, cut hard and unyielding, gaze unblinking where it was fixed upon the sight of his best friend and his cousin trying to call some life back in to his father’s body. He watched his friend’s hands, more gentle than his own had been but with similar intent, and the somewhat belated response of his cousin in trying to breathe life into the fallen King.
At some point as they labored, his own heartbeat quietened enough that Achilleas became starkly aware of where they were, of how public this all was. He looked up and around them, the crowd thinned but enough still stood, gawping at the spectacle and it was a frustrated “Gods. Can we not even offer the man some dignity” that burst out of the Crown Prince as he suddenly grew tired of being impotent. He couldn’t bear it, and for a moment Achilleas hesitated between turning into Theodora’s embrace and shaking it off. He met her eyes for a moment, expression fierce, though he couldn't find words to break past the tightness that was in his throat as he looked at his bride on this, which should have been the most joyful of days.What was happening?
It was the need to do something that had him push to his feet and take a couple of steps away, searching the faces around them until he found a familiar one. If nothing else he could offer his father some privacy. Achilleas reached out, fingers folding around the upper arm of the tawny haired girl,his voice was low and urgent as he spoke.
“Briseis...clear the manor.Tell them the King is unwell.Have carriages readied for those who need and move everyone out of this space, please” The very act of issuing instruction seemed to settle a little of the tension in him, and Achilleas watched the maid go, trusting that she would see it done. This was good.
But the relief of feeling momentarily useful was fleeting, and it was the sharp cry of a feminine voice that had his blood freeze in his veins and his focus drawn unerringly back to where they still tended to the King.
Except they were not tending to the King. Krysto had ceased in his motions, and it was Xene who had cried out. Achilleas did not move. He was afraid, he realised, to move back to that small group and hear whatever it was his friend was muttering to his cousin, whatever would see his brother reach to physically draw the Princess Xene away from offering her own breaths up to the King. Either it had worked, or it had not, and he did not know that he was ready to find out which. So he stayed where he was, perhaps half a dozen paces away, looking on as one of those spectators who had so infuriated him before.
It was chaos, destruction and a mess all around him, the very things Irakles had strived to make sure not happen at a wedding meant to be the event of the year for Taengea, for Vasiliadon, for Mikaelidas - and for his glory. Yet in the current moment, blood roared past his ears, the thrum of his eardrums so thick and heavy he could barely hear himself breathe, much less other people talk.
But was he even breathing?
Acutely feeling the lack of oxygen in his lungs, the painful throb in his chest growing like an expanding balloon that pushed all other things away from his senses, Irakles grasped at thin air, as if he was trying desperately to hold on to the life that was slowly slipping away from him. Trying, and failing as his lips turned blue, his fingers turned cold, his gasps turning louder, more audible, shallow and croaky. So numb he was, he could barely feel what his eldest was doing to him, only jerked in reaction, before falling back on the cold ground in the same gasping manner, like a fish out of the water.
The next thing he felt was warmth on his lips and cheeks, which were rapidly turning cold. But even if he wanted to push whoever it was away (for Irakles couldn't identify through his hazy gaze anymore), his arms and limbs felt like lead, heavy and weighing a tonne, no longer his own to control. It suddenly felt as if his body could not sustain its own weight, his skeletal system weighing far more then he ever remembered.
When the shadow over him eventually moved away, Irakles's lips were purple now, his breath shallow as his chest heaved uselessly, its movements slowly now, as if it was fading away. Oxygen was seemingly entering his lungs, yet it wasn't being transported, remaining uselessly in the cavity of his lungs that the rest of his body was no longer getting the oxygen it needed to function. The sound he made now to breathe was akin nails scratching upon the ground, a sound that would surely haunt the dreams of many for months to come.
All he could manage was a scratchy voice saying "King-" before his voice stopped abruptly, and as if gravitational force worked quickly on the man, any life one could see in the well-worked, well-muscled body of Irakles, newly crowned King of Taengea and former General of the Taengean armies, laid lifelessly upon the halls of his own home, at his own son's wedding. Whatever gold, finery, titles or birth he had could not detract one from the very real, very genuine fact that Irakles of Mikaelidas was now dead.
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It was chaos, destruction and a mess all around him, the very things Irakles had strived to make sure not happen at a wedding meant to be the event of the year for Taengea, for Vasiliadon, for Mikaelidas - and for his glory. Yet in the current moment, blood roared past his ears, the thrum of his eardrums so thick and heavy he could barely hear himself breathe, much less other people talk.
But was he even breathing?
Acutely feeling the lack of oxygen in his lungs, the painful throb in his chest growing like an expanding balloon that pushed all other things away from his senses, Irakles grasped at thin air, as if he was trying desperately to hold on to the life that was slowly slipping away from him. Trying, and failing as his lips turned blue, his fingers turned cold, his gasps turning louder, more audible, shallow and croaky. So numb he was, he could barely feel what his eldest was doing to him, only jerked in reaction, before falling back on the cold ground in the same gasping manner, like a fish out of the water.
The next thing he felt was warmth on his lips and cheeks, which were rapidly turning cold. But even if he wanted to push whoever it was away (for Irakles couldn't identify through his hazy gaze anymore), his arms and limbs felt like lead, heavy and weighing a tonne, no longer his own to control. It suddenly felt as if his body could not sustain its own weight, his skeletal system weighing far more then he ever remembered.
When the shadow over him eventually moved away, Irakles's lips were purple now, his breath shallow as his chest heaved uselessly, its movements slowly now, as if it was fading away. Oxygen was seemingly entering his lungs, yet it wasn't being transported, remaining uselessly in the cavity of his lungs that the rest of his body was no longer getting the oxygen it needed to function. The sound he made now to breathe was akin nails scratching upon the ground, a sound that would surely haunt the dreams of many for months to come.
All he could manage was a scratchy voice saying "King-" before his voice stopped abruptly, and as if gravitational force worked quickly on the man, any life one could see in the well-worked, well-muscled body of Irakles, newly crowned King of Taengea and former General of the Taengean armies, laid lifelessly upon the halls of his own home, at his own son's wedding. Whatever gold, finery, titles or birth he had could not detract one from the very real, very genuine fact that Irakles of Mikaelidas was now dead.
It was chaos, destruction and a mess all around him, the very things Irakles had strived to make sure not happen at a wedding meant to be the event of the year for Taengea, for Vasiliadon, for Mikaelidas - and for his glory. Yet in the current moment, blood roared past his ears, the thrum of his eardrums so thick and heavy he could barely hear himself breathe, much less other people talk.
But was he even breathing?
Acutely feeling the lack of oxygen in his lungs, the painful throb in his chest growing like an expanding balloon that pushed all other things away from his senses, Irakles grasped at thin air, as if he was trying desperately to hold on to the life that was slowly slipping away from him. Trying, and failing as his lips turned blue, his fingers turned cold, his gasps turning louder, more audible, shallow and croaky. So numb he was, he could barely feel what his eldest was doing to him, only jerked in reaction, before falling back on the cold ground in the same gasping manner, like a fish out of the water.
The next thing he felt was warmth on his lips and cheeks, which were rapidly turning cold. But even if he wanted to push whoever it was away (for Irakles couldn't identify through his hazy gaze anymore), his arms and limbs felt like lead, heavy and weighing a tonne, no longer his own to control. It suddenly felt as if his body could not sustain its own weight, his skeletal system weighing far more then he ever remembered.
When the shadow over him eventually moved away, Irakles's lips were purple now, his breath shallow as his chest heaved uselessly, its movements slowly now, as if it was fading away. Oxygen was seemingly entering his lungs, yet it wasn't being transported, remaining uselessly in the cavity of his lungs that the rest of his body was no longer getting the oxygen it needed to function. The sound he made now to breathe was akin nails scratching upon the ground, a sound that would surely haunt the dreams of many for months to come.
All he could manage was a scratchy voice saying "King-" before his voice stopped abruptly, and as if gravitational force worked quickly on the man, any life one could see in the well-worked, well-muscled body of Irakles, newly crowned King of Taengea and former General of the Taengean armies, laid lifelessly upon the halls of his own home, at his own son's wedding. Whatever gold, finery, titles or birth he had could not detract one from the very real, very genuine fact that Irakles of Mikaelidas was now dead.
He had seen this type of action work once in his lifetime. But the man who had been saved was young, took a blow to his chest that stopped his heart. It didn’t take long for them to get it started back up again. Youth was in his favorite, he’d been told, as he watched. But the King was older, and the signs of his failing health had been apparent to anyone who noticed.
Emilios watched with sick fascination, knowing the old man was going to sit right up and glare at those who had dared to stop the festivities. But with each breath, and each deep compression of his chest, the chances moved further and further from reality. It wasn’t until he felt a familiar, warm hand that he dared to even look away from his father to those at his side. The anxiety on his brother’s face must have mirrored his own. But it wasn’t his father’s face that drew him in, but the face of his wife. Their eyes met, and there was a look of helplessness.
She knew all his aches. Every woe he had about his father, she was aware of and had heard in detail. He thought back to the rides, the time spent deep in the woods shooting arrows and learning about the other. Emilios had told him about his father’s obvious disappointment in him, his nervousness that he would never be what was expected of him and the quiet desire to be more that just the playboy. This woman knew more about him than anyone else in the world. She knew exactly how he felt about his father, torn between hate and affection. Not even Achilleas knew just how deeply he longed for more.
Theo knew him, better than anyone, and there was little she could do about it now, married to his brother.
As Achilleas stood, shrugging off his new wife’s hug to do something, Emilios stayed by her side. ”He does not like to be an outsider, looking in.” He said quietly to her, giving her hand a gentle squeeze before letting go. ”He is a born leader.” Looking back at his father, he could tell that the soldier was losing faith that his actions were doing anything.
It was confirmed by the way he stopped, eyes meeting the royal family with sadness and regret.
He was dead then.
Emilios nodded to the man, eyes silently thanking him for everything he’d done. It was then that Xene seemed to realize what was happening, and was unable to accept the fact that Irakles had died. Stepping forward, his arms wrapped tightly around her, physically pulling her from her position next to the King. ”He is dead, cousin. There is nothing more to be done than to let him cross the river.” His voice sounded cold to his ears, but he couldn’t think about that now, ”This is not the time. Gather yourself. You can break down when everyone leaves. But not before.” They needed a show of strength in this moment. He knew he was coming off as cold and calculated, but he glanced at his brother, knowing that he was going to have to break the news to him. She fought against him for a moment, but his hold didn’t loosen. ”Find my mother, tell her to come quickly.” He didn’t care if Meena knew, at the moment. Or if his half sisters were watching.
”Lady Theodora, if you would stay with him?” He asked, hoping that she would stay at the King’s side while he broke the news to his brother. Without waiting for her response, he moved to his father’s side. Not taking any time to really look at him, he simply moved his hand to his face, closing his lifeless, open eyes. ”Father.” He said softly, in case he was still close enough to hear. But with nothing else to say, he gently pulled the crown from its place on his father’s head. It felt far heavier than it looked as he walked it over to his brother.
He stopped a few feet from his brother, palms up with crown in hand, offering it to him. ”He’s dead, Achilleas. Looks like this belongs to you now.” He said, loud enough that anyone around them would hear the words and know as well. The King was dead.
The crown belonged to his brother now.
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He had seen this type of action work once in his lifetime. But the man who had been saved was young, took a blow to his chest that stopped his heart. It didn’t take long for them to get it started back up again. Youth was in his favorite, he’d been told, as he watched. But the King was older, and the signs of his failing health had been apparent to anyone who noticed.
Emilios watched with sick fascination, knowing the old man was going to sit right up and glare at those who had dared to stop the festivities. But with each breath, and each deep compression of his chest, the chances moved further and further from reality. It wasn’t until he felt a familiar, warm hand that he dared to even look away from his father to those at his side. The anxiety on his brother’s face must have mirrored his own. But it wasn’t his father’s face that drew him in, but the face of his wife. Their eyes met, and there was a look of helplessness.
She knew all his aches. Every woe he had about his father, she was aware of and had heard in detail. He thought back to the rides, the time spent deep in the woods shooting arrows and learning about the other. Emilios had told him about his father’s obvious disappointment in him, his nervousness that he would never be what was expected of him and the quiet desire to be more that just the playboy. This woman knew more about him than anyone else in the world. She knew exactly how he felt about his father, torn between hate and affection. Not even Achilleas knew just how deeply he longed for more.
Theo knew him, better than anyone, and there was little she could do about it now, married to his brother.
As Achilleas stood, shrugging off his new wife’s hug to do something, Emilios stayed by her side. ”He does not like to be an outsider, looking in.” He said quietly to her, giving her hand a gentle squeeze before letting go. ”He is a born leader.” Looking back at his father, he could tell that the soldier was losing faith that his actions were doing anything.
It was confirmed by the way he stopped, eyes meeting the royal family with sadness and regret.
He was dead then.
Emilios nodded to the man, eyes silently thanking him for everything he’d done. It was then that Xene seemed to realize what was happening, and was unable to accept the fact that Irakles had died. Stepping forward, his arms wrapped tightly around her, physically pulling her from her position next to the King. ”He is dead, cousin. There is nothing more to be done than to let him cross the river.” His voice sounded cold to his ears, but he couldn’t think about that now, ”This is not the time. Gather yourself. You can break down when everyone leaves. But not before.” They needed a show of strength in this moment. He knew he was coming off as cold and calculated, but he glanced at his brother, knowing that he was going to have to break the news to him. She fought against him for a moment, but his hold didn’t loosen. ”Find my mother, tell her to come quickly.” He didn’t care if Meena knew, at the moment. Or if his half sisters were watching.
”Lady Theodora, if you would stay with him?” He asked, hoping that she would stay at the King’s side while he broke the news to his brother. Without waiting for her response, he moved to his father’s side. Not taking any time to really look at him, he simply moved his hand to his face, closing his lifeless, open eyes. ”Father.” He said softly, in case he was still close enough to hear. But with nothing else to say, he gently pulled the crown from its place on his father’s head. It felt far heavier than it looked as he walked it over to his brother.
He stopped a few feet from his brother, palms up with crown in hand, offering it to him. ”He’s dead, Achilleas. Looks like this belongs to you now.” He said, loud enough that anyone around them would hear the words and know as well. The King was dead.
The crown belonged to his brother now.
He had seen this type of action work once in his lifetime. But the man who had been saved was young, took a blow to his chest that stopped his heart. It didn’t take long for them to get it started back up again. Youth was in his favorite, he’d been told, as he watched. But the King was older, and the signs of his failing health had been apparent to anyone who noticed.
Emilios watched with sick fascination, knowing the old man was going to sit right up and glare at those who had dared to stop the festivities. But with each breath, and each deep compression of his chest, the chances moved further and further from reality. It wasn’t until he felt a familiar, warm hand that he dared to even look away from his father to those at his side. The anxiety on his brother’s face must have mirrored his own. But it wasn’t his father’s face that drew him in, but the face of his wife. Their eyes met, and there was a look of helplessness.
She knew all his aches. Every woe he had about his father, she was aware of and had heard in detail. He thought back to the rides, the time spent deep in the woods shooting arrows and learning about the other. Emilios had told him about his father’s obvious disappointment in him, his nervousness that he would never be what was expected of him and the quiet desire to be more that just the playboy. This woman knew more about him than anyone else in the world. She knew exactly how he felt about his father, torn between hate and affection. Not even Achilleas knew just how deeply he longed for more.
Theo knew him, better than anyone, and there was little she could do about it now, married to his brother.
As Achilleas stood, shrugging off his new wife’s hug to do something, Emilios stayed by her side. ”He does not like to be an outsider, looking in.” He said quietly to her, giving her hand a gentle squeeze before letting go. ”He is a born leader.” Looking back at his father, he could tell that the soldier was losing faith that his actions were doing anything.
It was confirmed by the way he stopped, eyes meeting the royal family with sadness and regret.
He was dead then.
Emilios nodded to the man, eyes silently thanking him for everything he’d done. It was then that Xene seemed to realize what was happening, and was unable to accept the fact that Irakles had died. Stepping forward, his arms wrapped tightly around her, physically pulling her from her position next to the King. ”He is dead, cousin. There is nothing more to be done than to let him cross the river.” His voice sounded cold to his ears, but he couldn’t think about that now, ”This is not the time. Gather yourself. You can break down when everyone leaves. But not before.” They needed a show of strength in this moment. He knew he was coming off as cold and calculated, but he glanced at his brother, knowing that he was going to have to break the news to him. She fought against him for a moment, but his hold didn’t loosen. ”Find my mother, tell her to come quickly.” He didn’t care if Meena knew, at the moment. Or if his half sisters were watching.
”Lady Theodora, if you would stay with him?” He asked, hoping that she would stay at the King’s side while he broke the news to his brother. Without waiting for her response, he moved to his father’s side. Not taking any time to really look at him, he simply moved his hand to his face, closing his lifeless, open eyes. ”Father.” He said softly, in case he was still close enough to hear. But with nothing else to say, he gently pulled the crown from its place on his father’s head. It felt far heavier than it looked as he walked it over to his brother.
He stopped a few feet from his brother, palms up with crown in hand, offering it to him. ”He’s dead, Achilleas. Looks like this belongs to you now.” He said, loud enough that anyone around them would hear the words and know as well. The King was dead.
The crown belonged to his brother now.
He’d turned, like everyone else, to see the commotion of what was going on, but as soon as he saw that Lord Emilios was covered in wine, the now Princess Theodora’s face pale and angry, and Prince Achilleas looking confused and irritated, he’d seen enough. Did anyone from the Mikaelidas family have the ability not to make some kind of scene? Even Achilleas, for whom he had a great deal more respect than he’d had previously, was tangentially involved, though Gavriil suspected that Achilleas was not the cause, but the younger of Irakles’s sons. Lions indeed. Turning away, he’d found Evangelina and it was upon her that he decided attention would be more productively placed.
Evangelina rewarded his finding her by beaming up at him and admitting that, no, she hadn’t found her brother. He wondered if she’d ever been looking for the boy. Though, it would be a bit of a feat to find someone in this giant crowd of ever moving bodies. Thankfully the two of them were fairly far out from the thick of the crowd and thus, at liberty to speak. Not giving her the same sunny expression, he did fold his arms across his chest and watch her with something that might have been a smile if one squinted a little bit and tilted one’s head just so. But he wouldn’t admit it.
“Do you ever get that feeling you are forgetting something?”
“In my season of life, that is a dangerous thing to say ‘yes’ to,” he went so far as to lift one heavy brow at her. “Why do you ask?” She was worrying with her lip and he guessed that she was actually wondering something else, rather than asking and comparing memory failings.
“I’ve been feeling like that all day. As if I am missing something and I couldn’t quite put my finger on exactly what it was that I was missing. I was just standing here thinking about it and realized what it was I was missing.”
Gavriil waited for her to continue and did not interrupt, but he was curious as to where this was heading. The timber of her voice and the way she kept flitting her eyes away and then back to him suggested nervous energy. She was still shy-ish, he realized, and did not trust that she would not be beaten down in some way. His gaze wandered the crowd as she spoke and landed on her father and mother, who were standing together far across the lawn, quite indifferent and unaware of where their eldest child was and who she was with. As for him, he knew precisely where all of his offspring were and he sought them now, taking note of his brother, and both daughters as they mingled. Then his gaze returned to Evangelina and caught her giving him a side glance again.
“I remembered I was in such a hurry this morning to get dressed… I didn’t put a thing on under this gown.” The way she said it forced his memories back to the beach and then he actually smiled, but it turned into a sort of grimace that he hid behind his hand.
“And you tell me this here,” he said, refusing to give her what she was looking for. Embarrassment. He was not embarrassed but he did wonder why she was trying to rile him in this crowd, of all places. Thankfully the conversation moved on to the wedding, how she wasn’t overly loving it, and how did he like it?
“I don’t enjoy crowds,” he gestured vaguely around, taking that moment to sip from his cup that he’d had to hold fairly carefully when he’d had his arms crossed. “But this is as nice a wedding as I’ve been to in some time.” Worlds nicer than his own had been, but then, he’d enjoyed his infinitely more. It had been small and only people he cared about were there. There was family here, to be sure, but also every single noble that was anyone. This was a place to see and be seen, rather than a true celebration of a union. The wedding was a cover. Not that he was going to give that most unromantic observation to his companion. He had that much sense, at least. She wasn’t a romantic person, he didn’t think, but he doubted she wanted all notions of it sucked out of a conversation.
Then, Gavriil frowned. “Listen,” he held up his hand to stay whatever Evangelina was answering him with as he watched the crowd with a sharper gaze than before. People had been laughing and talking but like ripples on a pond, they’d quieted and were all looking in one direction, before the ripples began again and the murmurs started back up. Only now they were speaking in hushed tones. Gavriil put his hand on Evangelina’s back and guided her with him to the edge of the crowd. That was when he caught the murmurs and understood the sudden issue: The king had collapsed.
Gavriil’s immediate concern probably should have been the thought of ‘is he alright?’ but it wasn’t. His new concern was had someone done something to the king. If King Irakles was entirely innocent of any wrong doing where the previous king was concerned, then of course he’d be a target. Gavriil shouldered his way through the crowd and got to the edge just in time to hear Prince Emilios proclaiming that Irakles was dead, and handing the Crown Prince his father’s ill-gotten crown.
Relief flooded Gavriil’s system. At last they would have a king worthy and fit to rule after King Zenon. He dropped down to one knee and loudly proclaimed, “Long live the king!” His eyes lingered on the dead body in front of him and he wondered if the Fates had taken Irakles’s life as recompense for misdeeds. At least his poor aunt would be free, now.
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He’d turned, like everyone else, to see the commotion of what was going on, but as soon as he saw that Lord Emilios was covered in wine, the now Princess Theodora’s face pale and angry, and Prince Achilleas looking confused and irritated, he’d seen enough. Did anyone from the Mikaelidas family have the ability not to make some kind of scene? Even Achilleas, for whom he had a great deal more respect than he’d had previously, was tangentially involved, though Gavriil suspected that Achilleas was not the cause, but the younger of Irakles’s sons. Lions indeed. Turning away, he’d found Evangelina and it was upon her that he decided attention would be more productively placed.
Evangelina rewarded his finding her by beaming up at him and admitting that, no, she hadn’t found her brother. He wondered if she’d ever been looking for the boy. Though, it would be a bit of a feat to find someone in this giant crowd of ever moving bodies. Thankfully the two of them were fairly far out from the thick of the crowd and thus, at liberty to speak. Not giving her the same sunny expression, he did fold his arms across his chest and watch her with something that might have been a smile if one squinted a little bit and tilted one’s head just so. But he wouldn’t admit it.
“Do you ever get that feeling you are forgetting something?”
“In my season of life, that is a dangerous thing to say ‘yes’ to,” he went so far as to lift one heavy brow at her. “Why do you ask?” She was worrying with her lip and he guessed that she was actually wondering something else, rather than asking and comparing memory failings.
“I’ve been feeling like that all day. As if I am missing something and I couldn’t quite put my finger on exactly what it was that I was missing. I was just standing here thinking about it and realized what it was I was missing.”
Gavriil waited for her to continue and did not interrupt, but he was curious as to where this was heading. The timber of her voice and the way she kept flitting her eyes away and then back to him suggested nervous energy. She was still shy-ish, he realized, and did not trust that she would not be beaten down in some way. His gaze wandered the crowd as she spoke and landed on her father and mother, who were standing together far across the lawn, quite indifferent and unaware of where their eldest child was and who she was with. As for him, he knew precisely where all of his offspring were and he sought them now, taking note of his brother, and both daughters as they mingled. Then his gaze returned to Evangelina and caught her giving him a side glance again.
“I remembered I was in such a hurry this morning to get dressed… I didn’t put a thing on under this gown.” The way she said it forced his memories back to the beach and then he actually smiled, but it turned into a sort of grimace that he hid behind his hand.
“And you tell me this here,” he said, refusing to give her what she was looking for. Embarrassment. He was not embarrassed but he did wonder why she was trying to rile him in this crowd, of all places. Thankfully the conversation moved on to the wedding, how she wasn’t overly loving it, and how did he like it?
“I don’t enjoy crowds,” he gestured vaguely around, taking that moment to sip from his cup that he’d had to hold fairly carefully when he’d had his arms crossed. “But this is as nice a wedding as I’ve been to in some time.” Worlds nicer than his own had been, but then, he’d enjoyed his infinitely more. It had been small and only people he cared about were there. There was family here, to be sure, but also every single noble that was anyone. This was a place to see and be seen, rather than a true celebration of a union. The wedding was a cover. Not that he was going to give that most unromantic observation to his companion. He had that much sense, at least. She wasn’t a romantic person, he didn’t think, but he doubted she wanted all notions of it sucked out of a conversation.
Then, Gavriil frowned. “Listen,” he held up his hand to stay whatever Evangelina was answering him with as he watched the crowd with a sharper gaze than before. People had been laughing and talking but like ripples on a pond, they’d quieted and were all looking in one direction, before the ripples began again and the murmurs started back up. Only now they were speaking in hushed tones. Gavriil put his hand on Evangelina’s back and guided her with him to the edge of the crowd. That was when he caught the murmurs and understood the sudden issue: The king had collapsed.
Gavriil’s immediate concern probably should have been the thought of ‘is he alright?’ but it wasn’t. His new concern was had someone done something to the king. If King Irakles was entirely innocent of any wrong doing where the previous king was concerned, then of course he’d be a target. Gavriil shouldered his way through the crowd and got to the edge just in time to hear Prince Emilios proclaiming that Irakles was dead, and handing the Crown Prince his father’s ill-gotten crown.
Relief flooded Gavriil’s system. At last they would have a king worthy and fit to rule after King Zenon. He dropped down to one knee and loudly proclaimed, “Long live the king!” His eyes lingered on the dead body in front of him and he wondered if the Fates had taken Irakles’s life as recompense for misdeeds. At least his poor aunt would be free, now.
He’d turned, like everyone else, to see the commotion of what was going on, but as soon as he saw that Lord Emilios was covered in wine, the now Princess Theodora’s face pale and angry, and Prince Achilleas looking confused and irritated, he’d seen enough. Did anyone from the Mikaelidas family have the ability not to make some kind of scene? Even Achilleas, for whom he had a great deal more respect than he’d had previously, was tangentially involved, though Gavriil suspected that Achilleas was not the cause, but the younger of Irakles’s sons. Lions indeed. Turning away, he’d found Evangelina and it was upon her that he decided attention would be more productively placed.
Evangelina rewarded his finding her by beaming up at him and admitting that, no, she hadn’t found her brother. He wondered if she’d ever been looking for the boy. Though, it would be a bit of a feat to find someone in this giant crowd of ever moving bodies. Thankfully the two of them were fairly far out from the thick of the crowd and thus, at liberty to speak. Not giving her the same sunny expression, he did fold his arms across his chest and watch her with something that might have been a smile if one squinted a little bit and tilted one’s head just so. But he wouldn’t admit it.
“Do you ever get that feeling you are forgetting something?”
“In my season of life, that is a dangerous thing to say ‘yes’ to,” he went so far as to lift one heavy brow at her. “Why do you ask?” She was worrying with her lip and he guessed that she was actually wondering something else, rather than asking and comparing memory failings.
“I’ve been feeling like that all day. As if I am missing something and I couldn’t quite put my finger on exactly what it was that I was missing. I was just standing here thinking about it and realized what it was I was missing.”
Gavriil waited for her to continue and did not interrupt, but he was curious as to where this was heading. The timber of her voice and the way she kept flitting her eyes away and then back to him suggested nervous energy. She was still shy-ish, he realized, and did not trust that she would not be beaten down in some way. His gaze wandered the crowd as she spoke and landed on her father and mother, who were standing together far across the lawn, quite indifferent and unaware of where their eldest child was and who she was with. As for him, he knew precisely where all of his offspring were and he sought them now, taking note of his brother, and both daughters as they mingled. Then his gaze returned to Evangelina and caught her giving him a side glance again.
“I remembered I was in such a hurry this morning to get dressed… I didn’t put a thing on under this gown.” The way she said it forced his memories back to the beach and then he actually smiled, but it turned into a sort of grimace that he hid behind his hand.
“And you tell me this here,” he said, refusing to give her what she was looking for. Embarrassment. He was not embarrassed but he did wonder why she was trying to rile him in this crowd, of all places. Thankfully the conversation moved on to the wedding, how she wasn’t overly loving it, and how did he like it?
“I don’t enjoy crowds,” he gestured vaguely around, taking that moment to sip from his cup that he’d had to hold fairly carefully when he’d had his arms crossed. “But this is as nice a wedding as I’ve been to in some time.” Worlds nicer than his own had been, but then, he’d enjoyed his infinitely more. It had been small and only people he cared about were there. There was family here, to be sure, but also every single noble that was anyone. This was a place to see and be seen, rather than a true celebration of a union. The wedding was a cover. Not that he was going to give that most unromantic observation to his companion. He had that much sense, at least. She wasn’t a romantic person, he didn’t think, but he doubted she wanted all notions of it sucked out of a conversation.
Then, Gavriil frowned. “Listen,” he held up his hand to stay whatever Evangelina was answering him with as he watched the crowd with a sharper gaze than before. People had been laughing and talking but like ripples on a pond, they’d quieted and were all looking in one direction, before the ripples began again and the murmurs started back up. Only now they were speaking in hushed tones. Gavriil put his hand on Evangelina’s back and guided her with him to the edge of the crowd. That was when he caught the murmurs and understood the sudden issue: The king had collapsed.
Gavriil’s immediate concern probably should have been the thought of ‘is he alright?’ but it wasn’t. His new concern was had someone done something to the king. If King Irakles was entirely innocent of any wrong doing where the previous king was concerned, then of course he’d be a target. Gavriil shouldered his way through the crowd and got to the edge just in time to hear Prince Emilios proclaiming that Irakles was dead, and handing the Crown Prince his father’s ill-gotten crown.
Relief flooded Gavriil’s system. At last they would have a king worthy and fit to rule after King Zenon. He dropped down to one knee and loudly proclaimed, “Long live the king!” His eyes lingered on the dead body in front of him and he wondered if the Fates had taken Irakles’s life as recompense for misdeeds. At least his poor aunt would be free, now.
Her father showed her no affection whatsoever and barely spoke to her at all, more interested in the drama unfolding before them than in his own daughter. Fuming, Tasia turned away and went into the courtyard and tried to forget his indifference by flirting with a handsome young man she had never seen before. His flattery soothed her wounded pride but didn't cause it to fade away completely.
When he said he was hungry, she told a servant to bring a plate filled with the finest delicacies. Instead of giving it to him, she held it and fed him the morsels herself, which he seemed to enjoy. She was holding up a piece of fruit when she heard a commotion from inside the manor and someone ran out, claiming the King had collapsed.
Tasia dropped the plate and rushed back into the room. There were too many people gathered around for her to see what was going on, and she wasn't able to elbow her way through. She heard the voices of her brothers and her cousin and gathered that Krysto was trying to save him. He was probably just tired and had passed out. She remembered how weary he had looked last night at dinner. He would be fine and wake up in a couple of minutes.
It seemed as if an eternity passed as she waited for news. When it came, it was what she had always feared most, what had often given her nightmares and kept her awake in the dead of night. Her father was dead! He was gone forever and now she, her mother, and her sister were ruined. Achilleas would listen to his mother's advice and throw them out of the manor and into the street, probably not allowing them anything to their names but the clothes on their backs.
Tasia was worried most for her mother, who had just lost the love of her life and now had two daughters to support. Nobody in their right mind would help the despised mistress of the King's father, an unmarried woman with bastard children. How would they live now? What would they do? Where would they go? Would they even be able to survive?
Shocked, scared, and angry at her father for leaving them to fend for themselves, she turned and pushed through the crowd, heading up to her room. Throwing herself onto her bed, she buried her face in her pillow to muffle her screams of outrage. Finally spent, she turned over and stared up at the ceiling, wondering if she would even get to spend one more night here, enjoying comforts she might never experience again.
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Her father showed her no affection whatsoever and barely spoke to her at all, more interested in the drama unfolding before them than in his own daughter. Fuming, Tasia turned away and went into the courtyard and tried to forget his indifference by flirting with a handsome young man she had never seen before. His flattery soothed her wounded pride but didn't cause it to fade away completely.
When he said he was hungry, she told a servant to bring a plate filled with the finest delicacies. Instead of giving it to him, she held it and fed him the morsels herself, which he seemed to enjoy. She was holding up a piece of fruit when she heard a commotion from inside the manor and someone ran out, claiming the King had collapsed.
Tasia dropped the plate and rushed back into the room. There were too many people gathered around for her to see what was going on, and she wasn't able to elbow her way through. She heard the voices of her brothers and her cousin and gathered that Krysto was trying to save him. He was probably just tired and had passed out. She remembered how weary he had looked last night at dinner. He would be fine and wake up in a couple of minutes.
It seemed as if an eternity passed as she waited for news. When it came, it was what she had always feared most, what had often given her nightmares and kept her awake in the dead of night. Her father was dead! He was gone forever and now she, her mother, and her sister were ruined. Achilleas would listen to his mother's advice and throw them out of the manor and into the street, probably not allowing them anything to their names but the clothes on their backs.
Tasia was worried most for her mother, who had just lost the love of her life and now had two daughters to support. Nobody in their right mind would help the despised mistress of the King's father, an unmarried woman with bastard children. How would they live now? What would they do? Where would they go? Would they even be able to survive?
Shocked, scared, and angry at her father for leaving them to fend for themselves, she turned and pushed through the crowd, heading up to her room. Throwing herself onto her bed, she buried her face in her pillow to muffle her screams of outrage. Finally spent, she turned over and stared up at the ceiling, wondering if she would even get to spend one more night here, enjoying comforts she might never experience again.
Her father showed her no affection whatsoever and barely spoke to her at all, more interested in the drama unfolding before them than in his own daughter. Fuming, Tasia turned away and went into the courtyard and tried to forget his indifference by flirting with a handsome young man she had never seen before. His flattery soothed her wounded pride but didn't cause it to fade away completely.
When he said he was hungry, she told a servant to bring a plate filled with the finest delicacies. Instead of giving it to him, she held it and fed him the morsels herself, which he seemed to enjoy. She was holding up a piece of fruit when she heard a commotion from inside the manor and someone ran out, claiming the King had collapsed.
Tasia dropped the plate and rushed back into the room. There were too many people gathered around for her to see what was going on, and she wasn't able to elbow her way through. She heard the voices of her brothers and her cousin and gathered that Krysto was trying to save him. He was probably just tired and had passed out. She remembered how weary he had looked last night at dinner. He would be fine and wake up in a couple of minutes.
It seemed as if an eternity passed as she waited for news. When it came, it was what she had always feared most, what had often given her nightmares and kept her awake in the dead of night. Her father was dead! He was gone forever and now she, her mother, and her sister were ruined. Achilleas would listen to his mother's advice and throw them out of the manor and into the street, probably not allowing them anything to their names but the clothes on their backs.
Tasia was worried most for her mother, who had just lost the love of her life and now had two daughters to support. Nobody in their right mind would help the despised mistress of the King's father, an unmarried woman with bastard children. How would they live now? What would they do? Where would they go? Would they even be able to survive?
Shocked, scared, and angry at her father for leaving them to fend for themselves, she turned and pushed through the crowd, heading up to her room. Throwing herself onto her bed, she buried her face in her pillow to muffle her screams of outrage. Finally spent, she turned over and stared up at the ceiling, wondering if she would even get to spend one more night here, enjoying comforts she might never experience again.
Evangelina lifted a delicate eyebrow at Lord Gavriil’s put out tone directed at her. Did he really not have any sense of humor at all? Taking a deep breath, she pulled her eyes away and smiled a little sadly at him, “What? I don’t even get a smile from you on that?” She let the breath out softly. Was everything always going to be so serious between them? Her dark eyes found themselves back on him watching him. Determining that not dwelling on whether or not he felt anything at all for her or not, she changed the direction of the conversation.
Her eyes followed his gesture at the crowd and his admittance he didn’t overly enjoy crowds, her head nodded softly in understanding. She felt much the same way though she suspected for very different reasons. There was a moment of surprise on her face as he stated how nice the wedding was. Did that mean he foresaw his next wedding to be similar to this? Oh,my! What if he wanted a wedding like this? Her wide, dark eyes flited almost nervously around all the guests. She’d never imagined her own wedding festivities but it hit her than at that moment she wanted something small and quiet.
“Um,” She murmured, as she shifted her weight to her other leg. Dark eyes blinking as she tried to find the right words, “It’s um… it’s not… this isn’t exactly my thing.” Licking her lips, she glanced at him, “It doesn’t feel very intimate. How many people are here for the bride and groom… and how many are here to be seen?” Dropping her gaze, she cleared her throat, “But I suppose it’s nice enough…”
‘Listen.’ He interrupted her train of thought and she instantly grew silent as she listened.
The pint-sized Leventi didn’t immediately catch the difference in the atmosphere but it seemed Lord Gavriil did. She was glancing around curiously when she felt the softness of his hand on the small of her back guiding and directing her towards the edge of the crowd. By the time she’d arrived on the edge of the crowd, the hairs on the back of her neck were standing up. Something was wrong…
At the edge of the crowd, Gavriil shouldered his way through the guests… The King collapsed. What? Her feet begin moving and she was a step behind him as he cleared the way, what she found in the center of attention was the furthest thing from what she’d imagined. King Irakles body on the floor of the hall. She couldn’t immediately tear her eyes away from him. He’d been there at their home. He’d been alive earlier. And now… now…
A slow-burning sort of panic started in the pit of her stomach, it was the sort of panic that wouldn’t truly be felt in wholeness for a few days. Snap out of it… She dragged her eyes off the figure on the floor to seek out the faces of those closest to him. Her uncle. His sons. His daughters. This was supposed to distract the country of the last tragedy… and now… and now this. Finding her gaze seeking out her newest friend, His Highness, Prince Achilleas… his brother was passing the crown to him. Oh, Sweet Gods! He wasn’t a Prince any longer he was a King.That was quite a lot to take in… Wide-eyed, she flicked her gaze over those closest to her again.
Lord Gavriil dropped to one knee and proclaimed, ‘Long live the King.’
Instinctively, Evangelina dropped into the lowest of curtsies towards the new King and Queen.
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Evangelina lifted a delicate eyebrow at Lord Gavriil’s put out tone directed at her. Did he really not have any sense of humor at all? Taking a deep breath, she pulled her eyes away and smiled a little sadly at him, “What? I don’t even get a smile from you on that?” She let the breath out softly. Was everything always going to be so serious between them? Her dark eyes found themselves back on him watching him. Determining that not dwelling on whether or not he felt anything at all for her or not, she changed the direction of the conversation.
Her eyes followed his gesture at the crowd and his admittance he didn’t overly enjoy crowds, her head nodded softly in understanding. She felt much the same way though she suspected for very different reasons. There was a moment of surprise on her face as he stated how nice the wedding was. Did that mean he foresaw his next wedding to be similar to this? Oh,my! What if he wanted a wedding like this? Her wide, dark eyes flited almost nervously around all the guests. She’d never imagined her own wedding festivities but it hit her than at that moment she wanted something small and quiet.
“Um,” She murmured, as she shifted her weight to her other leg. Dark eyes blinking as she tried to find the right words, “It’s um… it’s not… this isn’t exactly my thing.” Licking her lips, she glanced at him, “It doesn’t feel very intimate. How many people are here for the bride and groom… and how many are here to be seen?” Dropping her gaze, she cleared her throat, “But I suppose it’s nice enough…”
‘Listen.’ He interrupted her train of thought and she instantly grew silent as she listened.
The pint-sized Leventi didn’t immediately catch the difference in the atmosphere but it seemed Lord Gavriil did. She was glancing around curiously when she felt the softness of his hand on the small of her back guiding and directing her towards the edge of the crowd. By the time she’d arrived on the edge of the crowd, the hairs on the back of her neck were standing up. Something was wrong…
At the edge of the crowd, Gavriil shouldered his way through the guests… The King collapsed. What? Her feet begin moving and she was a step behind him as he cleared the way, what she found in the center of attention was the furthest thing from what she’d imagined. King Irakles body on the floor of the hall. She couldn’t immediately tear her eyes away from him. He’d been there at their home. He’d been alive earlier. And now… now…
A slow-burning sort of panic started in the pit of her stomach, it was the sort of panic that wouldn’t truly be felt in wholeness for a few days. Snap out of it… She dragged her eyes off the figure on the floor to seek out the faces of those closest to him. Her uncle. His sons. His daughters. This was supposed to distract the country of the last tragedy… and now… and now this. Finding her gaze seeking out her newest friend, His Highness, Prince Achilleas… his brother was passing the crown to him. Oh, Sweet Gods! He wasn’t a Prince any longer he was a King.That was quite a lot to take in… Wide-eyed, she flicked her gaze over those closest to her again.
Lord Gavriil dropped to one knee and proclaimed, ‘Long live the King.’
Instinctively, Evangelina dropped into the lowest of curtsies towards the new King and Queen.
Evangelina lifted a delicate eyebrow at Lord Gavriil’s put out tone directed at her. Did he really not have any sense of humor at all? Taking a deep breath, she pulled her eyes away and smiled a little sadly at him, “What? I don’t even get a smile from you on that?” She let the breath out softly. Was everything always going to be so serious between them? Her dark eyes found themselves back on him watching him. Determining that not dwelling on whether or not he felt anything at all for her or not, she changed the direction of the conversation.
Her eyes followed his gesture at the crowd and his admittance he didn’t overly enjoy crowds, her head nodded softly in understanding. She felt much the same way though she suspected for very different reasons. There was a moment of surprise on her face as he stated how nice the wedding was. Did that mean he foresaw his next wedding to be similar to this? Oh,my! What if he wanted a wedding like this? Her wide, dark eyes flited almost nervously around all the guests. She’d never imagined her own wedding festivities but it hit her than at that moment she wanted something small and quiet.
“Um,” She murmured, as she shifted her weight to her other leg. Dark eyes blinking as she tried to find the right words, “It’s um… it’s not… this isn’t exactly my thing.” Licking her lips, she glanced at him, “It doesn’t feel very intimate. How many people are here for the bride and groom… and how many are here to be seen?” Dropping her gaze, she cleared her throat, “But I suppose it’s nice enough…”
‘Listen.’ He interrupted her train of thought and she instantly grew silent as she listened.
The pint-sized Leventi didn’t immediately catch the difference in the atmosphere but it seemed Lord Gavriil did. She was glancing around curiously when she felt the softness of his hand on the small of her back guiding and directing her towards the edge of the crowd. By the time she’d arrived on the edge of the crowd, the hairs on the back of her neck were standing up. Something was wrong…
At the edge of the crowd, Gavriil shouldered his way through the guests… The King collapsed. What? Her feet begin moving and she was a step behind him as he cleared the way, what she found in the center of attention was the furthest thing from what she’d imagined. King Irakles body on the floor of the hall. She couldn’t immediately tear her eyes away from him. He’d been there at their home. He’d been alive earlier. And now… now…
A slow-burning sort of panic started in the pit of her stomach, it was the sort of panic that wouldn’t truly be felt in wholeness for a few days. Snap out of it… She dragged her eyes off the figure on the floor to seek out the faces of those closest to him. Her uncle. His sons. His daughters. This was supposed to distract the country of the last tragedy… and now… and now this. Finding her gaze seeking out her newest friend, His Highness, Prince Achilleas… his brother was passing the crown to him. Oh, Sweet Gods! He wasn’t a Prince any longer he was a King.That was quite a lot to take in… Wide-eyed, she flicked her gaze over those closest to her again.
Lord Gavriil dropped to one knee and proclaimed, ‘Long live the King.’
Instinctively, Evangelina dropped into the lowest of curtsies towards the new King and Queen.
The entire event should have been more dramatic. Looking back on it later, Fotios would consider to be almost insulting how momentary and anticlimactic the death of a king could be. Standing and talking one moment and then dead the next. He didn't fall in some great collapse or hit the floor with a resounding thud that shook the kingdom. He practically crumbled where he stood; his joints losing their strength and his frame diminishing inch per inch as he pooled on the ground like a broken marionette. A king of such potential, such power and standing... his fall from health should have been felt by all. Instead, it was the death of a man. Not a monarch.
And Fotios could do nothing but stand and watch.
There was nothing to be done as Irakles fell to the grass, besides the natural desire to reach out and ensure he did not fall in a manner that could break bones. But with his size and Fotios' slimness, there was no contest between himself and gravity. The man fell regardless and was on the floor still as could be, irrelevant of Fotios' intention or want.
As soon as Fotios called for a physician, people were surrounding them. Irakles' sons were there, his new daughter-in-law, his niece... The space around the body was limited and Fotios was careful not to get in the way of those who had a stronger claim than friendship with the man who could - for all Fotios knew in that moment - be dying then and there.
When Achilleas' Captain became part of the group, Fotios deliberately stood and took a step back, allowing the man to do what he would to try and save the king. But despite the efforts of he and the Princess Xene, Irakles's life faded away.
In the moments before his death, Fotios watched from on high, witnessed his friend's final gaze and final word. He knew of Irakles' will. He knew of what the man had left behind him. He knew what it would all mean and what the man was trying to communicate.
In the hopes that the man would witness it and be a little more at peace as he passed into Hades, Fotios nodded to his friend with a look that spoke of determined loyalty and a vow to follow the plans the two best friends had laid out months before. Irakles' death would be far from a vain event of happenstance.
In an attempt to make every action and aid for the king and to save him from his eventual end, the Crown Prince rushed to the manor, made orders, Fotios was sure, for every consideration to be made and plan prepared. By the time he was on his way back to see to the movement of the unwell king, however, he was met by his brother, handing him the crown.
When the Lord Gavriil kneeled, it was natural for many more of the nobility to follow suit, beginning with his niece Evangelina and then himself. Rather than move to kneel before the new king, Fotios did so where he stood, still beside what was now the body of his friend. He took the chance to surreptitiously reach out and place a hand upon Irakles' shoulder. A gesture of friendship and acceptance, as the adrenaline of the man's death and the surprise of its timing faded from Fotios' bloodstream.
Whilst Achilleas was busy attending to the rocking realisation that he was now king, Fotios snapped orders at the servants who milled nearby ready to aid an ailing king. Now they would attend to his body.
With a series of quick orders, Fotios had a silken blanket fetched from the manor and Irakles' body transferred onto it. With deft movements and a thinned mouth, tightened with tension, Fotios flicked both sides of the blanket over the man within and had the late king bundled quickly, away from the sight of other guests and the indignity of being left, dead and cold upon the grasslands of the royal palace.
After that, Fotios faded a little in the background, as was his place. He was not the person to order where the body should be taken and he simply witnessed as arrangements were made by one person or another. His eyes were a little glassy - looking at practically nothing, as Irakles' body was moved into the manor and out of site and all the guests of the party turned to their business of either ignorantly continuing to celebrate, or leaving the manor and its family to their grief.
Falling into the latter category, Fotios headed slowly towards his wife, stopping only momentarily to murmur to Emilios, Xene and then Theodora and Achilleas that if there was anything that he could do in the next few weeks, to not hesitate in contacting him. The whole while, his voice was dead and defeatist over the tragedy that had struck the party.
By the time he reached Eirini and turned her to leave the festivities, his features were entirely expressionless, regardless of his internal thoughts. Thoughts that were focused on calming his moment of panic when the king had dropped to his knees.
For while he had been assured of a timing after Theodora's marriage to Achilleas... a few hours after was cutting it a little fine. If he was a man foolish enough to use the same sources twice, he would have given that Kreios some fairly unfavourable feedback for the momentary heart attack he'd suffered. Then again, a few hours or a few weeks it made no difference and Fotios left the party with his wife and a clear conscience.
In the end... no harm done.
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The entire event should have been more dramatic. Looking back on it later, Fotios would consider to be almost insulting how momentary and anticlimactic the death of a king could be. Standing and talking one moment and then dead the next. He didn't fall in some great collapse or hit the floor with a resounding thud that shook the kingdom. He practically crumbled where he stood; his joints losing their strength and his frame diminishing inch per inch as he pooled on the ground like a broken marionette. A king of such potential, such power and standing... his fall from health should have been felt by all. Instead, it was the death of a man. Not a monarch.
And Fotios could do nothing but stand and watch.
There was nothing to be done as Irakles fell to the grass, besides the natural desire to reach out and ensure he did not fall in a manner that could break bones. But with his size and Fotios' slimness, there was no contest between himself and gravity. The man fell regardless and was on the floor still as could be, irrelevant of Fotios' intention or want.
As soon as Fotios called for a physician, people were surrounding them. Irakles' sons were there, his new daughter-in-law, his niece... The space around the body was limited and Fotios was careful not to get in the way of those who had a stronger claim than friendship with the man who could - for all Fotios knew in that moment - be dying then and there.
When Achilleas' Captain became part of the group, Fotios deliberately stood and took a step back, allowing the man to do what he would to try and save the king. But despite the efforts of he and the Princess Xene, Irakles's life faded away.
In the moments before his death, Fotios watched from on high, witnessed his friend's final gaze and final word. He knew of Irakles' will. He knew of what the man had left behind him. He knew what it would all mean and what the man was trying to communicate.
In the hopes that the man would witness it and be a little more at peace as he passed into Hades, Fotios nodded to his friend with a look that spoke of determined loyalty and a vow to follow the plans the two best friends had laid out months before. Irakles' death would be far from a vain event of happenstance.
In an attempt to make every action and aid for the king and to save him from his eventual end, the Crown Prince rushed to the manor, made orders, Fotios was sure, for every consideration to be made and plan prepared. By the time he was on his way back to see to the movement of the unwell king, however, he was met by his brother, handing him the crown.
When the Lord Gavriil kneeled, it was natural for many more of the nobility to follow suit, beginning with his niece Evangelina and then himself. Rather than move to kneel before the new king, Fotios did so where he stood, still beside what was now the body of his friend. He took the chance to surreptitiously reach out and place a hand upon Irakles' shoulder. A gesture of friendship and acceptance, as the adrenaline of the man's death and the surprise of its timing faded from Fotios' bloodstream.
Whilst Achilleas was busy attending to the rocking realisation that he was now king, Fotios snapped orders at the servants who milled nearby ready to aid an ailing king. Now they would attend to his body.
With a series of quick orders, Fotios had a silken blanket fetched from the manor and Irakles' body transferred onto it. With deft movements and a thinned mouth, tightened with tension, Fotios flicked both sides of the blanket over the man within and had the late king bundled quickly, away from the sight of other guests and the indignity of being left, dead and cold upon the grasslands of the royal palace.
After that, Fotios faded a little in the background, as was his place. He was not the person to order where the body should be taken and he simply witnessed as arrangements were made by one person or another. His eyes were a little glassy - looking at practically nothing, as Irakles' body was moved into the manor and out of site and all the guests of the party turned to their business of either ignorantly continuing to celebrate, or leaving the manor and its family to their grief.
Falling into the latter category, Fotios headed slowly towards his wife, stopping only momentarily to murmur to Emilios, Xene and then Theodora and Achilleas that if there was anything that he could do in the next few weeks, to not hesitate in contacting him. The whole while, his voice was dead and defeatist over the tragedy that had struck the party.
By the time he reached Eirini and turned her to leave the festivities, his features were entirely expressionless, regardless of his internal thoughts. Thoughts that were focused on calming his moment of panic when the king had dropped to his knees.
For while he had been assured of a timing after Theodora's marriage to Achilleas... a few hours after was cutting it a little fine. If he was a man foolish enough to use the same sources twice, he would have given that Kreios some fairly unfavourable feedback for the momentary heart attack he'd suffered. Then again, a few hours or a few weeks it made no difference and Fotios left the party with his wife and a clear conscience.
In the end... no harm done.
The entire event should have been more dramatic. Looking back on it later, Fotios would consider to be almost insulting how momentary and anticlimactic the death of a king could be. Standing and talking one moment and then dead the next. He didn't fall in some great collapse or hit the floor with a resounding thud that shook the kingdom. He practically crumbled where he stood; his joints losing their strength and his frame diminishing inch per inch as he pooled on the ground like a broken marionette. A king of such potential, such power and standing... his fall from health should have been felt by all. Instead, it was the death of a man. Not a monarch.
And Fotios could do nothing but stand and watch.
There was nothing to be done as Irakles fell to the grass, besides the natural desire to reach out and ensure he did not fall in a manner that could break bones. But with his size and Fotios' slimness, there was no contest between himself and gravity. The man fell regardless and was on the floor still as could be, irrelevant of Fotios' intention or want.
As soon as Fotios called for a physician, people were surrounding them. Irakles' sons were there, his new daughter-in-law, his niece... The space around the body was limited and Fotios was careful not to get in the way of those who had a stronger claim than friendship with the man who could - for all Fotios knew in that moment - be dying then and there.
When Achilleas' Captain became part of the group, Fotios deliberately stood and took a step back, allowing the man to do what he would to try and save the king. But despite the efforts of he and the Princess Xene, Irakles's life faded away.
In the moments before his death, Fotios watched from on high, witnessed his friend's final gaze and final word. He knew of Irakles' will. He knew of what the man had left behind him. He knew what it would all mean and what the man was trying to communicate.
In the hopes that the man would witness it and be a little more at peace as he passed into Hades, Fotios nodded to his friend with a look that spoke of determined loyalty and a vow to follow the plans the two best friends had laid out months before. Irakles' death would be far from a vain event of happenstance.
In an attempt to make every action and aid for the king and to save him from his eventual end, the Crown Prince rushed to the manor, made orders, Fotios was sure, for every consideration to be made and plan prepared. By the time he was on his way back to see to the movement of the unwell king, however, he was met by his brother, handing him the crown.
When the Lord Gavriil kneeled, it was natural for many more of the nobility to follow suit, beginning with his niece Evangelina and then himself. Rather than move to kneel before the new king, Fotios did so where he stood, still beside what was now the body of his friend. He took the chance to surreptitiously reach out and place a hand upon Irakles' shoulder. A gesture of friendship and acceptance, as the adrenaline of the man's death and the surprise of its timing faded from Fotios' bloodstream.
Whilst Achilleas was busy attending to the rocking realisation that he was now king, Fotios snapped orders at the servants who milled nearby ready to aid an ailing king. Now they would attend to his body.
With a series of quick orders, Fotios had a silken blanket fetched from the manor and Irakles' body transferred onto it. With deft movements and a thinned mouth, tightened with tension, Fotios flicked both sides of the blanket over the man within and had the late king bundled quickly, away from the sight of other guests and the indignity of being left, dead and cold upon the grasslands of the royal palace.
After that, Fotios faded a little in the background, as was his place. He was not the person to order where the body should be taken and he simply witnessed as arrangements were made by one person or another. His eyes were a little glassy - looking at practically nothing, as Irakles' body was moved into the manor and out of site and all the guests of the party turned to their business of either ignorantly continuing to celebrate, or leaving the manor and its family to their grief.
Falling into the latter category, Fotios headed slowly towards his wife, stopping only momentarily to murmur to Emilios, Xene and then Theodora and Achilleas that if there was anything that he could do in the next few weeks, to not hesitate in contacting him. The whole while, his voice was dead and defeatist over the tragedy that had struck the party.
By the time he reached Eirini and turned her to leave the festivities, his features were entirely expressionless, regardless of his internal thoughts. Thoughts that were focused on calming his moment of panic when the king had dropped to his knees.
For while he had been assured of a timing after Theodora's marriage to Achilleas... a few hours after was cutting it a little fine. If he was a man foolish enough to use the same sources twice, he would have given that Kreios some fairly unfavourable feedback for the momentary heart attack he'd suffered. Then again, a few hours or a few weeks it made no difference and Fotios left the party with his wife and a clear conscience.
In the end... no harm done.
Theo didn't know what to do.
She knew that she needed to support Achilleas. Needed to support Emilios. The whole of the Mikaelidas family who was now suffering. The question was how.
Holding onto her husband until he shrugged away and set about practical solutions to help his father seemed appropriate. As did holding onto Emilios' hand and returning the soft squeeze when he muttered an understanding explanation in her ear for Achilleas' removal of himself from the situation. She knew the sort of character he meant. Olympia was never one to sit and do nothing either. Always eager to solve and fix the problem.... Or make it worse depending on her personal leanings.
Selene was the calm one. The organiser. The handler of any emergency or situation that could not be managed by normal mortals. And Theo fell somewhere in the middle. With all the desire to help and none of the expertise or practice.
So, when Emilios asked her to stay with his father after he had passed, Theo latched onto the instruction. She gave him a nod and a confirmation that she would do just that and then helped her uncle organise the body. It was something to do, at least, that didn't involve hanging around with awkward witness to observe others' hearts breaking.
In a moment of what she hoped would come across as familial comfort, Theo reached out and took hold of Xene's hand as she knelt down beside the king, her eyes liquid and glossy but still harbouring some inner strength that only came from the fact that she herself was not personally close to the late king. She squeezed the princess' fingers in a gesture of support. That it wasn't her fault that the breaths she had tried to give the king had not worked.
The fact that she was now Queen and that Xene's home now belonged to her and her husband, hadn't even entered Theodora's mind at that point but, if it had, the gesture would have been to offer strength and security as well; that Xene and her sister could rely upon her and Achilleas, not worry as to their future home.
Once Irakles was wrapped in the silken sheet that had been fetched from the palace, Theodora made tentative instructions to the servants, not wanting to step upon Xene's toes but also not wanting the other woman to be settled with the burden of handling the circumstances when she herself would be grieving for her uncle.
"Come, let us see to him being taken inside and out of view." She told Xene in a calm and quiet voice, rising slowly to her feet and reaching out a hand to nudge at Xene's arm encouragingly.
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Theo didn't know what to do.
She knew that she needed to support Achilleas. Needed to support Emilios. The whole of the Mikaelidas family who was now suffering. The question was how.
Holding onto her husband until he shrugged away and set about practical solutions to help his father seemed appropriate. As did holding onto Emilios' hand and returning the soft squeeze when he muttered an understanding explanation in her ear for Achilleas' removal of himself from the situation. She knew the sort of character he meant. Olympia was never one to sit and do nothing either. Always eager to solve and fix the problem.... Or make it worse depending on her personal leanings.
Selene was the calm one. The organiser. The handler of any emergency or situation that could not be managed by normal mortals. And Theo fell somewhere in the middle. With all the desire to help and none of the expertise or practice.
So, when Emilios asked her to stay with his father after he had passed, Theo latched onto the instruction. She gave him a nod and a confirmation that she would do just that and then helped her uncle organise the body. It was something to do, at least, that didn't involve hanging around with awkward witness to observe others' hearts breaking.
In a moment of what she hoped would come across as familial comfort, Theo reached out and took hold of Xene's hand as she knelt down beside the king, her eyes liquid and glossy but still harbouring some inner strength that only came from the fact that she herself was not personally close to the late king. She squeezed the princess' fingers in a gesture of support. That it wasn't her fault that the breaths she had tried to give the king had not worked.
The fact that she was now Queen and that Xene's home now belonged to her and her husband, hadn't even entered Theodora's mind at that point but, if it had, the gesture would have been to offer strength and security as well; that Xene and her sister could rely upon her and Achilleas, not worry as to their future home.
Once Irakles was wrapped in the silken sheet that had been fetched from the palace, Theodora made tentative instructions to the servants, not wanting to step upon Xene's toes but also not wanting the other woman to be settled with the burden of handling the circumstances when she herself would be grieving for her uncle.
"Come, let us see to him being taken inside and out of view." She told Xene in a calm and quiet voice, rising slowly to her feet and reaching out a hand to nudge at Xene's arm encouragingly.
Theo didn't know what to do.
She knew that she needed to support Achilleas. Needed to support Emilios. The whole of the Mikaelidas family who was now suffering. The question was how.
Holding onto her husband until he shrugged away and set about practical solutions to help his father seemed appropriate. As did holding onto Emilios' hand and returning the soft squeeze when he muttered an understanding explanation in her ear for Achilleas' removal of himself from the situation. She knew the sort of character he meant. Olympia was never one to sit and do nothing either. Always eager to solve and fix the problem.... Or make it worse depending on her personal leanings.
Selene was the calm one. The organiser. The handler of any emergency or situation that could not be managed by normal mortals. And Theo fell somewhere in the middle. With all the desire to help and none of the expertise or practice.
So, when Emilios asked her to stay with his father after he had passed, Theo latched onto the instruction. She gave him a nod and a confirmation that she would do just that and then helped her uncle organise the body. It was something to do, at least, that didn't involve hanging around with awkward witness to observe others' hearts breaking.
In a moment of what she hoped would come across as familial comfort, Theo reached out and took hold of Xene's hand as she knelt down beside the king, her eyes liquid and glossy but still harbouring some inner strength that only came from the fact that she herself was not personally close to the late king. She squeezed the princess' fingers in a gesture of support. That it wasn't her fault that the breaths she had tried to give the king had not worked.
The fact that she was now Queen and that Xene's home now belonged to her and her husband, hadn't even entered Theodora's mind at that point but, if it had, the gesture would have been to offer strength and security as well; that Xene and her sister could rely upon her and Achilleas, not worry as to their future home.
Once Irakles was wrapped in the silken sheet that had been fetched from the palace, Theodora made tentative instructions to the servants, not wanting to step upon Xene's toes but also not wanting the other woman to be settled with the burden of handling the circumstances when she herself would be grieving for her uncle.
"Come, let us see to him being taken inside and out of view." She told Xene in a calm and quiet voice, rising slowly to her feet and reaching out a hand to nudge at Xene's arm encouragingly.
Time seemed to slow then, as if Kronos toyed with them, made everything stutter to a halt except this, only this. The guests that had not yet been ushered away, the music that had struck up once more, they all seemed distant and immaterial, an irritating smudge on the crystal-clear clarity of the scene that was playing out before him. Like a trickle of cold water down Achilleas’ neck, realisation stole in. Xene’s tears, the grave look upon Krysto’s face as he sat back away from the motionless form of the King.
The elder son watched, face slack and emotionless, as his brother bent over the body of their father and lifted the crown from his head. And though he knew it was coming, when Emilios drew near enough to speak and actually said the words, there was a petulant “No” that wanted to claw its way out of his throat. His little brother relaying what he already knew and did not want to hear making it real. Achilleas could feel it struggling to escape, as if the denial would be enough to change things, as if the word alone would halt the motions of the Gods that even now pulled the strings of mortality to suit their own ends.
This wasn’t supposed to happen, he hadn’t…he wasn’t ready.
For the briefest flicker, he looked lost, his gaze shifting from Emilios’ sombre expression to the crown that he held out and then back again.. But it was only a moment, and then something shifted. Achilleas’ face changed, he straightened his shoulders and he swallowed, becoming that which was expected of him, shutting down anything that did not fit and shoving it ruthlessly away to be dealt with later, when the eyes of Taengea did not rest so unerringly on him.
The crown somehow found its way to him, and it was the Lord Gavriil who announced to all and sundry what had happened, the man’s voice carrying clearly. ‘Long Live the King’
It was followed by a collective echo and the rustle of silk as so many others followed his lead and Achilleas was left to look out over a sea of bowed heads. There had been no rehearsal for this, and the tall Mikaelidas lord, the new King stared at them for a moment, his expression set and sombre. His father’s body lay just feet from him, still warm with the last murmurs of life, and yet the eyes of the people had moved on already.
“Rise” He was glad his voice came out steady, collected. Achilleas looked around at those that were gathered to celebrate his wedding, and who had somehow found themselves instead witness to the death of one King and the crowning of another.
“You are here today as friends of House Mikaelidas and House Leventi, each and every one of you” He caught Krysto’s eye at that moment: he wanted record of those in attendance, for though he knew his father had been in poor health, it would be stupid to entirely dismiss the notion of anything awry. Not with the run of ill-favour that seemed to beset the Mikaelidas family of late. Whether they had angered the Gods, or if something more earthly worked against them, it was hard to be blindly trusting in appearances. Hoping that his friend would understand, Achilleas went on.
“We had come together to celebrate, and yet, the fates have made other plans. My father lies dead, and now we must see to it that his soul is sent to rest with the respect it deserves. I thank you all for your attendance here, and for your well wishes, but ask you now to disperse as you will so that our former King may be afforded some dignity in death.”
The words were a dismissal, and with them, Achilleas both asserted himself as authority and gave his instruction to the servants as to his wishes. They would see to it that the noble families of Taengea found their way from the Mikaelidas manor without trouble or delay.
The feast was over, and the royal family were closing ranks.
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Time seemed to slow then, as if Kronos toyed with them, made everything stutter to a halt except this, only this. The guests that had not yet been ushered away, the music that had struck up once more, they all seemed distant and immaterial, an irritating smudge on the crystal-clear clarity of the scene that was playing out before him. Like a trickle of cold water down Achilleas’ neck, realisation stole in. Xene’s tears, the grave look upon Krysto’s face as he sat back away from the motionless form of the King.
The elder son watched, face slack and emotionless, as his brother bent over the body of their father and lifted the crown from his head. And though he knew it was coming, when Emilios drew near enough to speak and actually said the words, there was a petulant “No” that wanted to claw its way out of his throat. His little brother relaying what he already knew and did not want to hear making it real. Achilleas could feel it struggling to escape, as if the denial would be enough to change things, as if the word alone would halt the motions of the Gods that even now pulled the strings of mortality to suit their own ends.
This wasn’t supposed to happen, he hadn’t…he wasn’t ready.
For the briefest flicker, he looked lost, his gaze shifting from Emilios’ sombre expression to the crown that he held out and then back again.. But it was only a moment, and then something shifted. Achilleas’ face changed, he straightened his shoulders and he swallowed, becoming that which was expected of him, shutting down anything that did not fit and shoving it ruthlessly away to be dealt with later, when the eyes of Taengea did not rest so unerringly on him.
The crown somehow found its way to him, and it was the Lord Gavriil who announced to all and sundry what had happened, the man’s voice carrying clearly. ‘Long Live the King’
It was followed by a collective echo and the rustle of silk as so many others followed his lead and Achilleas was left to look out over a sea of bowed heads. There had been no rehearsal for this, and the tall Mikaelidas lord, the new King stared at them for a moment, his expression set and sombre. His father’s body lay just feet from him, still warm with the last murmurs of life, and yet the eyes of the people had moved on already.
“Rise” He was glad his voice came out steady, collected. Achilleas looked around at those that were gathered to celebrate his wedding, and who had somehow found themselves instead witness to the death of one King and the crowning of another.
“You are here today as friends of House Mikaelidas and House Leventi, each and every one of you” He caught Krysto’s eye at that moment: he wanted record of those in attendance, for though he knew his father had been in poor health, it would be stupid to entirely dismiss the notion of anything awry. Not with the run of ill-favour that seemed to beset the Mikaelidas family of late. Whether they had angered the Gods, or if something more earthly worked against them, it was hard to be blindly trusting in appearances. Hoping that his friend would understand, Achilleas went on.
“We had come together to celebrate, and yet, the fates have made other plans. My father lies dead, and now we must see to it that his soul is sent to rest with the respect it deserves. I thank you all for your attendance here, and for your well wishes, but ask you now to disperse as you will so that our former King may be afforded some dignity in death.”
The words were a dismissal, and with them, Achilleas both asserted himself as authority and gave his instruction to the servants as to his wishes. They would see to it that the noble families of Taengea found their way from the Mikaelidas manor without trouble or delay.
The feast was over, and the royal family were closing ranks.
Time seemed to slow then, as if Kronos toyed with them, made everything stutter to a halt except this, only this. The guests that had not yet been ushered away, the music that had struck up once more, they all seemed distant and immaterial, an irritating smudge on the crystal-clear clarity of the scene that was playing out before him. Like a trickle of cold water down Achilleas’ neck, realisation stole in. Xene’s tears, the grave look upon Krysto’s face as he sat back away from the motionless form of the King.
The elder son watched, face slack and emotionless, as his brother bent over the body of their father and lifted the crown from his head. And though he knew it was coming, when Emilios drew near enough to speak and actually said the words, there was a petulant “No” that wanted to claw its way out of his throat. His little brother relaying what he already knew and did not want to hear making it real. Achilleas could feel it struggling to escape, as if the denial would be enough to change things, as if the word alone would halt the motions of the Gods that even now pulled the strings of mortality to suit their own ends.
This wasn’t supposed to happen, he hadn’t…he wasn’t ready.
For the briefest flicker, he looked lost, his gaze shifting from Emilios’ sombre expression to the crown that he held out and then back again.. But it was only a moment, and then something shifted. Achilleas’ face changed, he straightened his shoulders and he swallowed, becoming that which was expected of him, shutting down anything that did not fit and shoving it ruthlessly away to be dealt with later, when the eyes of Taengea did not rest so unerringly on him.
The crown somehow found its way to him, and it was the Lord Gavriil who announced to all and sundry what had happened, the man’s voice carrying clearly. ‘Long Live the King’
It was followed by a collective echo and the rustle of silk as so many others followed his lead and Achilleas was left to look out over a sea of bowed heads. There had been no rehearsal for this, and the tall Mikaelidas lord, the new King stared at them for a moment, his expression set and sombre. His father’s body lay just feet from him, still warm with the last murmurs of life, and yet the eyes of the people had moved on already.
“Rise” He was glad his voice came out steady, collected. Achilleas looked around at those that were gathered to celebrate his wedding, and who had somehow found themselves instead witness to the death of one King and the crowning of another.
“You are here today as friends of House Mikaelidas and House Leventi, each and every one of you” He caught Krysto’s eye at that moment: he wanted record of those in attendance, for though he knew his father had been in poor health, it would be stupid to entirely dismiss the notion of anything awry. Not with the run of ill-favour that seemed to beset the Mikaelidas family of late. Whether they had angered the Gods, or if something more earthly worked against them, it was hard to be blindly trusting in appearances. Hoping that his friend would understand, Achilleas went on.
“We had come together to celebrate, and yet, the fates have made other plans. My father lies dead, and now we must see to it that his soul is sent to rest with the respect it deserves. I thank you all for your attendance here, and for your well wishes, but ask you now to disperse as you will so that our former King may be afforded some dignity in death.”
The words were a dismissal, and with them, Achilleas both asserted himself as authority and gave his instruction to the servants as to his wishes. They would see to it that the noble families of Taengea found their way from the Mikaelidas manor without trouble or delay.
The feast was over, and the royal family were closing ranks.