Life is going strangely.

The trumpets blared their fanfare, a song of triumph and celebration. As the nobles ceased their polite conversations and turned to look at the door, the heralds finished their piece with a flourish.

Elstridge wanted to kill them, or at the very least inflict some amount of pain so that they could suffer along with him. Instead he kept silence.

Slowly the doors began to ease open, swinging inwards to reveal the Palace’s Grand Ballroom where the coronations of the past had been held. Elstridge could only tremble as he witnessed the seeming thousands of people who had come out to watch his final judgment, the end of all that was good in his life… the ultimate loss of freedom.

Resignation began to set in, as he realized that despite his best efforts and months of planning, he would still have to walk down the length of that hall and face the music, quite literally even. It was a sad awakening, and his shoulders slumped forward miserably.

“Let’s get this over with.” He mumbled and began to walk through the doors.

The trumpeters took up their fanfare again as the Prince walked by, their horns aimed right at the ears of Elstridge and his Honor Guard. In other circumstances he might have complained about the noise, but at this point, deep in the depths of his despair, he barely noticed. The guard did though, and there were several faces with gritted teeth if he had bothered to look.

On the other end of the Ballroom, flowing down like a stone wave, a massive staircase rose, leading up to the second story, and the doorway through which the reigning King would normally enter to sit on the Thrones at the foot of the stairs. Behind that door were the royal family’s personal chambers. It was sometimes joked that the feature should be called the “stairway to heaven” but the general consent was that the name lacked the dignity normal expected of royalty.

All these random facts flew through Elstridge’s mind as he trudged down the red carpet, absently acknowledging the waves and nods that he received along the way. Looking up, he noted several Wind Weavers, each having decided that standing on the floor was for other people, seated on nothing but air and enjoy the great view that their elevation provided. Idly the Prince wondered if the ladies among the Weavers know that anyone who felt like it could look up their dresses. Perhaps that was why some of the younger nobles weren’t paying much attention to him. The thought brought a sad smile to his face

The Throne approached him, even as he drew near to the throne. Today it was all over. His dreams would be shattered. Inwardly he knew that with great power came equally great responsibilities and as such those in positions like his often had a lot less say on their choices then might be thought. However since the time he had understood the role he would play, the young man had spent all his resources in trying to avoid it. However in the end, it was all for naught… this was his destiny… this was his fate.

The trumpets fell silent as he stepped onto the dais and turned to face the crowd before him. The Honor Guard drew up in formation behind and before him, standing at strict attention.

The court waited.

And waited…

Even though his gloom and hopelessness, Elstridge realized that something was wrong. Looking around quickly he wondered if he was meant to say something.

Suddenly a voice piped up, cultured, urbane and slightly embarrassed. “Oh that’s right! It’s my turn!”

Out of the first few rows of on-lookers burst the familiar sight of Tricolum Cornelius. Elstridge had know Tricolum since birth as the man who had been Prime Minister under his grandfather and one of the senior advisors to Elliam, the recently departed King. As the oldest and most respected of all the City’s nobles, it was his right and duty to preside over the coronation ceremony, even if he was 92 and very very forgetful in the short term.

“Sorry there lad, forgot I was up!” Whispered Tricolum as he bustled up to Elstridge.

The young Prince could help but smile at his oldest friend’s words and nodded. “That’s alright, I’m not in a rush anyway.”

“Splendid!” declared Tricolum, totally missing the meaning behind Elstridge’s words, “I’ll begin the ceremony now.”

Tricolum turned to face the gathered peoples. He spoke in a booming voice that belied his frail exterior and dopey face.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, nobles, citizens, Wind Weavers, Hydromancers and anyone else who I’ve missed, welcome to the Palace on this wonderful and special evening.”

He paused to take a breath before continuing, the cadences and sounds of his voice masterfully played to make his words come alive.

“It is my pleasure to introduce Prince Elstridge Liam Royale, chosen successor and nephew to our former King, Elliam Newton Royalle. In the absence of a direct descendant from King Elliam, it had been decreed by both the Council of the Keep and Court of Nobles that Prince Elstridge will be next in line for the throne and would ascend during his 18th year. That year has come, and now I would like to present your Crown Prince, Elstridge Ton Royale!”

A wave of applause exploded from the gathered people as nobles, citizens, Wind Weavers and Hydromancers alike applauded their soon to be King.

Elstridge tried to look Crown Prince like, but in his mind he failed miserably. Even so, he stood straight, just like his mother had told him, and stared out at the crowd with neither smile nor frown.

The ceremony was still going however and Tricolum continued.

“Now, if there is anyone present, be they male or female, of power or of none, noble or citizen… or anyone else who I’ve missed but don’t want to offend who has a GOOD reason why this Crown Prince should NOT be made King, speak now, or forever, as in until you die, hold your peace.”

Now it was mandatory in the ceremony, having been written in big bold letters in the manual, that a silence of two minutes be enforced here. However in the three thousand years of Wilderia’s heritage, never once had anyone spoken up. As such, over the millennia the pause had become less a wait to see what people had to say, and more an opportunity for the, invariably old, Master of Ceremony’s to take a short breath. Normally that took 10 seconds, or at most 20.

“So if there…”

A quiet voice cut the air, carrying far. “Actually, I have something to say,” interjected Elstridge, committing to his final and desperate plan; he had hoped that this wouldn’t be necessary. “Something I think you should all know, something that my Uncle never told you.”

***