"You may rise, King Hans of the Southern Isles." He did so, his cloak heavy on his shoulders, the gold crown atop his flaming red head heavier still. He stood, expression blank, as he surveyed the attendance, each wearing a varied smile of the same caliber: joy, hope, pride. How fitting, for he was feeling the same. Though, he suspected, at an entirely different degree than they were.
The party soon started not long after the crown touched his head, exuberant music and merry laughter taking place of silent vows. He smiled at all of his guests, each congratulating their new king, admiring his poise and splendor. His new-found addendum seemed to please more than just himself in its shimmering gold pallor. He, like the gracious king he was to be, accepted their complements and stood stoically in front of the throne that had once seated millions before-- his father included. This was no night to lament, however. He was in need of celebration.
After pressing a silver cup of wine, he sipped its contents cautiously, although gaining an admiration for the taste, he wanted to remember the night he became king of the Southern Isles, making sure his brothers' pail discomfort becomes brandished at the back of his mind. His giddiness was so pure, he was sure it would.
His glass is refilled. The night is young, and his ambition ripe. He was certain his reign would be long and prosperous.
