Chapter II: Long Live the King

The time for grieving had come and gone, the monarch’s body along with his wife and child were displayed under the large marble roof of the Great Temple of Zeus. For five days and five nights, men and women, nobles and commoners alike from all corners of New Hellas had made pilgrimage to the capital to pay their final respects to their king. The entirety of Alexandria wept for their dead king: markets became unmanned, fields untilled, trade halted, harbours put to disuse and many of the common folk took to scattering garlic in the streets to appease an ancient superstition of warding off evil. The city reeked of garlic for a week.
            The coffins had been carried off by men clad in robes of jet black with trims of ruby thread. They wore porcelain masks of stark white, a face of perpetual sorrow like the ones used in ancient Hellene plays. It was meant to be an homage to the perennial state of sadness that overtook the realm but in reality they only served to unsettle Alastor. Their trek from Alexandria to Macedonia would take a little over two months, a journey made more arduous due to it being made by foot rather than horses to honour tradition.
            But all that had nearly been a month ago and today Alastor stood beside the other four members of the grand council at the apex of the steps of the Great Temple to await the prince’s coronation. The prince had knelt down at the bottom of the temple, some sixty or so steps away, accompanied by the high priest who held in his wrinkled old hands an ebony crown.
            The design of the crown had been personally issued by the prince himself, an exact replica of his father’s, a crown of unruly fire heralding the sixteen pointed star in the center; however, unlike his father’s it was made of black iron and lacked the extravagant gem stones that its predecessor had favoured so much. It was an interesting choice to say the least, the utilization of black iron in royal crowns had fallen out of favour for nearly seven generations, many believing it to be too crude looking.
            The prince had set aside his war armaments and had slipped into something more befit of his royal body, a purple silk robe with patterns too intricate to exactly interpret what they were. Vergina stars, sewn in with threads of beautiful gold, ran down the length of his gown. A black sash with beautiful embroidery draped over his chest and was fastened atop his shoulders by a starry gilded brooch. His left arm had still been clad in a thick golden plating that ran up to his shoulders, the hideous face of the gorgon still pale as fresh snow and the snakes that encompassed her an enamel of bright emerald.
            Alastor himself was dressed in his uniform of office, a navy blue surcoat made of wool that reached down to his knees, a thin white tunic that peaked out in certain parts of his outfit and a shoulder piece made of polished steel atop his left shoulder bearing his symbol of office, a clenched fist with the royal star burned onto the back of the hand. His ashen hair had grown long as of late and had been kept in a ponytail to be more presentable in an event as prestigious as this. No foreseeable threat was on the horizon but nonetheless he kept his steel longsword at his side, another gift besides his position in office that his passing father had bestowed upon him. It was fastened at his side by a black leather sheath.
            The ceremony had begun, the rabble of the crowd had died down at the request of the old man. “Silence!” he screamed, “Silence for the coronation!” his voice was thin but crowd had plainly heard and obeyed. “All of New Hellas watches on to see the coronation of their new king!” the high priest had said when the crowd went completely dead. “Under the watchful eyes of the gods, I hereby call upon Philip, the twelfth progeny of his name.” he preached to the forty thousand or so residents of Alexandria that the crowded atrium could afford to fit. “Son of King Alexander XV, may he find peace and solace in the Elysian Fields.”
            “May he find peace and solace in the Elysian Fields.” The populated crowd replied in near unison.
            “And of Adrastea II, may she find peace and solace in the Elysian Fields.”
            “May she find peace and solace in the Elysian Fields.”
            “Blood of Alexander the Great, the great founder and patriarch of our glorious New Hellas, may he have found peace and solace in the Elysian Fields.”
            “May he have found peace and solace in the Elysian Fields.” This time it had been in perfect unison.
            “To kneel as Prince Philip XII, the rightful heir to the throne and all its lands. Rightful protector of Alexandria, ancestral ruler of Macedonia and sovereign leader of New Hellas and of the New Hellenistic Kingdom!” The balding man gingerly placed the ebony crown atop the prince’s messy hair. The descending crown pressed tightly against his head, forcing his curly hair to escape and tangle through all the facets of the jagged crown. “Before the presence of Zeus the all-father and all the good gods, rise as King Philip XII, rise and claim your rightful kingdom!”
            The crowd had gone absolutely mad, cheers and weeps of joy had filled the atrium. Colorful confetti arose from every inch of the immense crowd as Philip rose from one knee, now a king. He climbed the marble steps of the temple, each step a slow and calculated march, before ultimately reaching the top, giving the members of his council a crooked smile as he passed. He had turned to face the crowd, raising his left hand as a fist, pandering to the crowd’s cheering and flaunting his new position of sovereignty.
            The members of the king’s council had broken out into a boisterous clap. “Long live the King!” Belwick the Younger, a member of the grand council exclaimed as he furiously banged his hands together.
            “Long live the king!” the rest of the council repeated in great cheer.
            “Long live the king.” Alastor repeated.