The night had been a restless one. On top of the cough that had seemed to catch on since the end of last month, and had steadfastly held on despite all the tonics and concoctions Meena had brewed and forcefed him with, it had not abated. Perhaps the added stress of the recent happenings in Taengea made it worst, but his body had not been what it once was. His body overheated easily even on cool nights, but Irakles had taken Meena's advice, and had rested more then he usually did.
What happened the night before however, had agitated him beyond belief, that the prince regeant had simply paced in his study, not even joining his lover in their shared bedchamber he would bring her to when she came to the palati, as he plotted and turned the plan in his head, over and over again. While the retired general was agitated and beyond incensed at the fact that his nephew had managed to give him the slip, and was now gone and untraceable judging by the reports given to him by his men, it did not mean he could not turn the tides in his favor.
So instead, he had written a missive to each of the three other royal houses of Taengea. The throne was without a king now, and with him having fled in the middle of the night, the assumption and accusation of treason could now easily be concluded.
Having requested them to meet by midday at his current residence in the palati, he had rose early and did his morning ablutions, waving off his manservant's concerned comments regarding his hairline. It was a matter of age, and Irakles simply did not bother. Let his hair fall, what mattered most was the task at hand.
Dressed in a simple blue chiton that fell to his knees, the material was held up over the shoulder with the golden fibulae in the shape of Mikaelidas lions. The man eschewed his crown and any jewelry, instead slipping his feet in regular leather slippers, and headed down to the sitting room to wait for the arrival of the other royal head of houses. Breakfast had not sat well with him, for food was the last thing on his mind. His stomach turned as much as his mind, stress not at all a conducive subject for digestion, it seems.
Taking a seat by the window that was shaded by a tall tree, the man blended in well to the homey sitting room had been furnished by Elise. The room was decorated plainly in colors of beige, gold and accented with the Mikaelidas colors of maroon. The accented maroon could be seen on the edges of the carpet, to the upholstery of the kline and cushion, of which were arranged in a circular manner. On the table was an amphora of wine and four chalices, meant for his guests along with a platter of figs and grapes. It usually served as a room for Elise to entertain guests, but the Queen Mother had been indisposed ever since her son had been on the teetering edges of being accused of treason, and with him gone, she was simply unable to face the general public.
They only had to arrive. And hopefully, by the end of the day, Irakles would get all he ever wanted.
Fotios was the first of the three guests in attendance at the Royal Palati. This was to no-one's surprise, including his own, for he had intended it that way and a prompt time-keeper when situations and meetings were not so serious as this. Today would be the day where Irakles would finally reach for what he had wanted for so long. And it would be down to three men whether he succeeded in wrapping his fingers around his ambitions and held them aloft for the world to see. And one of those men was Fotios.
Despite his obvious and well-known friendship with Irakles, Fotios disliked being openly biased or forced to make choices one way or the other in public. Whilst he himself was impressively opinionated and firm in just such choices, he liked the opportunity that public ambiguity offered him. Whilst all others thought it possible that he was on their side - regardless of what side that was - they were easier to sway and to encourage in a direction that he saw fit. By taking a stand and making your own personal agenda clear, you lost the potential future support of all those who would stand against you on such a matter as the one at hand.
Instead, Fotios preferred to keep the shadows. People knew of his friendship with Irakles, but few could define whether he was simply a weedy follower of the man, holding on to coattails. Or if Irakles considered him his equal. Some had claimed that Fotios and Irakles were not friends at all and that Irakles only kept the Head of the Leventi house around because he was useful in his schemes. The notion might have darkened Fotios' mind a few times in the early years of their friendship but the two had been confidants too long now for him to suspect such a thing. They each knew too much about the other to risk alienating each other. Anything they had to gain would be immediate destroyed. No, their friendship was fast and would last until dying breaths were drawn. Then there was his wife. Some say he was in love with her, some said they used one another. Some whispered of their acts of adultery and others were sure they were committed to one another. Fotios liked playing the ghost that no-one could pin down with fact.
Which meant this meeting was going to be frustrating at best and worrisome at its worst. He didn't like being put on the spot to commit to one side or the other, even if, internally, the choice was clear. Then again, there was no success without that final burst of courage it took to cease it. And if he aided Irakles in becoming King now... he would have the ear of the most powerful man in Taengea...
His arrival at the palati was greeted with far more servants than was necessary. Fotios had attended the meet with only two retainers, whom he commanded stayed with his horse in the grounds. He wasn't interested in having them press their ears to the doors to drop eaves on the intended meeting. Not when such a congregation of men were about to change the course of Taengean history.
Expecting a far larger ensemble or entourage for a Head of House, the half dozen slaves and servants who came to greet the Lord of Leventi, appeared surprised at their lack of tasks but rallied quickly, half moving to help the groomsmen care for the steed he had ridden between the manors and the other encouraging him into the palace and leading him down a handful of corridors to where the Prince was waiting for his guests.
Fotios attempted to assess the walls, the doors and the objects on display as he moved down the hallway, curious if any marks or clues had been left behind to form evidence of King Stephanos' escape. It didn't take a genius to work out that the crown prince of Colchis had left on the same day that His Majesty and his wife had disappeared from Taengea. With his niece Selene in toe no less. But the man was Colchian royalty - more than that: the future monarch of his realm. Which meant, pure coincidence (however obvious it might be) was not enough to condemn. Evidence would have to be found somewhere to prove his involvement. An eventuality of which Fotios wondered would ever pass. The man was a military tactician - as was the King. It would be curious to see whether militant or political assessment would win out in the end...
But for now, the escape was of little import. What was to be focused on was the opportunity it presented. Hence Prince Irakles insisting on the Heads of the Royal Houses attending upon him by noon that day. He was about to capitalise on the giant opportunity Stephanos had left behind by running. Not that the man had had any choice in the matter. But still... such chances couldn't be wasted.
This was the thought most prominent in Fotios' mind as he entered the sitting room the servants guided him into and moved across the heavily woven rug to greet the regent of the kingdom.
"My friend..." he said, simply, offering Irakles a one-armed embrace. "I come with everything you might need this day, regardless of consequence." His tone was light but his eyes serious as he reassured the man that he had his back in either case.
To wake up and immediately find that he had a missive from the palati for noon, after having spoken with Irakles so recently was a bit of a surprise. That the Prince Regent had ‘shocking news’ and wanted ‘advice moving forward’ was even more worrisome. Irakles was not known to seek advice. In fact, their dinner together, where he’d so delicately attempted to place Dimitrou Dynesteria on its guard had been under the same guise of ‘advice’ and yet Gavriil had given very little and almost none of it had been solicited. It was with these dark thoughts that Gavriil dressed that morning.
The care he took was far more than the prince had. Because he was being summoned to the palati, he wore the deep green colors of his house and fine leather sandals. His hair was combed back and held in place with a braid while the rest of it sat at his shoulders. The belt at his waist and the dark, nearly black himation over him gave him an austere, regal appearance. One he did not often don, but with recent events being what they were, he did not want to appear weak or uncertain to someone like Prince Irakles, who respected nothing but strength. While Irakles did not desire or need Irakles’s good opinion, there was nothing to gain by intentionally goading the man.
He mounted his blood mare and road toward the palati. Unlike Fotios, Gavriil was prompt, but not early. If the letter said noon, then by noon was when they could expect to see his face. Not before. Not after.
The same gaggle of servants that met Lord Fotios were less confused by the single retainer that Gavriil had brought with him, though no less annoyed. Why weren’t these barons ever doing what they were supposed to be doing? Of course Lord Dimitrou might value his privacy but couldn’t he at least put on the proper show? For shame. And Lord Fotios? What was his issue? Usually he was so proper, so precise and yet, he’d managed to get them all in a dither earlier as well. It was not to be borne. Whispers passed through the servant halls, but of course, the lords carried on how they would.
This was not Lord Gavriil’s house. Let the servants whisper. He did not care.
Without looking to the left or to the right, he moved through the halls, following along easily behind the man who led him to where Prince Irakles waited. He was announced into the room and moved into it far less enthusiastically than Lord Fotios had. His gaze swept over both men, and then he offered a bow to the prince, a nod to Lord Fotios, and a monosyllabic greeting to both. Standing at the edge of the conversation between the two men, he kept his hands folded in front of him and his face a mask.
Yes he was curious, but he also did not like being here either. For some reason, Irakles’s horrid morals aside, he’d never, ever, been comfortable around him. Not from a sense of danger to his person, but rather, to him, Prince Irakles invoked an aura of unrest and ill-ease, even if the man exuded nothing but confidence. Now, however, he was dressed and acting in a way that Gavriil had never seen. Irakles was dressed simply, almost as though his appearance was an afterthought - something terribly out of character.
Though he wanted to know, Gavriil did not ask what the matter was or why it was urgent. He did begin running through scenarios - perhaps the royal heir had been born in the night? Or perhaps, even worse, had not lived. Or maybe Irakles had suffered some loss of his own? But that did not explain his need for the heads of house.