𝒄𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒂𝒏 𝒈𝒐𝒍𝒅.

𝑾𝑯𝑨𝑻 𝑰𝑭 𝑴𝑬𝑴𝑬   \    accepting   !

this is an interesting thought! alfonso’s relationship with magda was tentative at the start, so it is a wonder they were married at all, as it could’ve easily gone awry. it’s likely that alfonso would’ve again looked to continental europe for a match, seeking to ally himself with a crown that would pull castile into the quagmire of european politics and alleviate the strain of the recent iberian cataclysms. had adalsinda not married ivan, it is likely––and was even rumoured––they would’ve wed as teenagers. barring that, alfonso could’ve brokered an alliance with marius, then prince regent, to marry one of france’s princesses, such as the dowager queen of sweden or, perhaps even, antoinette herself (though they would’ve been married by proxy, as antoinette would’ve been too young.) and then, there is also the chimerical possibility that alfonso could’ve married beatrice, or struck an earlier form of the alliance currently existing between himself and lorenzo by wedding caterina, instead. 

𝑻𝑯𝑹𝑬𝑬 (3) 𝑪𝑯𝑶𝑰𝑪𝑬𝑺   \    accepting   !

🔪 : protect, attack, fight side-by-side with.

IT’S TIME TO GO, featuring luzia. 

CYANIDE : DANIEL CEASARE. 

lsd got me feelin’ empathy; warfare out to mind chemically, ‘cause we suffer endlessly. could be kamikaze, only time will tell; even though i’m godly, might end up in hell. 

FERNANDO  :  ABBA.

they were closer now fernando; every hour every minute seemed to last eternally. i was so afraid fernando, we were young and full of life and none of us prepared to die, and i’m not ashamed to say the roar of guns and cannons almost made me cry. + the stars were bright, fernando, they were shining there for you and me, for liberty, fernando; though i never thought that we could lose, there’s no regret. if i had to do the same again i would. 

THE GREATEST :  LANA DEL REY.

Although all sets of eyes around her were familiar to her, as was the feeling linked to it, this predatory feeling of being watched, analyzed and preyed upon, Luzia had to admit it wasn’t as scary as it used to be. Her loss of position to the king had changed the dynamic, as did her new title of Marchioness. Others in this very room had spent years, decades, to get a similar treatment, however the king’s gift wasn’t without loss and heartbreak. One could even describe her as a bird locked in a sun-gilded cage. To be this close to diplomats, soldiers, men with the capability of murder – yet no one quite intimidated her like the man she’d once pressed so tightly against her body, whose prayers and words she worshiped like no other. 

This being said it was time to shake off the remainder of her past self and establish a better version of herself at court. One that’s yet to be perfected, of course, but has significantly improved, compared to the naive, stubborn and heady mistress she’d once been. Luzia’s smiled at his words unable to let her fear win in any way. “I cannot thank your majesty enough for your benevolence and pray daily for your majesty’s good health and fortune.” Luzia averted her eyes for just a moment. She looked towards the ground before her eyes slowly focused on him again. Mistress. “I’ve grown quite fond of my new surroundings, your majesty, yet nothing compares to court.” How different everything felt now – so foreign, yet unchanged in its value and in her desire to be a part of it. A few men were whispering now, eagerly exchanging their thoughts while they talked. Nothing of real substance, Luzia thought, men playing their little games. “I’ve been fortunate enough to represent your majesty’s realm in foreign kingdoms and develop a fondness for other cultures. I’ve been taught various dances and had a chance to converse with some of the most brilliant minds in and outside of your majesty’s kingdom.” Luzia’s slightly lifted her head, “I shall forever honor and cherish your generosity.”

          she fed him with humility and fidelity, for which alfonso was uncertain if he was rendered appreciative or, perhaps, dissatisfied: craving that she should whirl into his purview as she had done before, causing––no, forcing––him to desire her, to thirst for her as though christ in the desert. the reception had already exceeded its time constraints, such was apparent in the foul glower deepening the creases on his advisers’ foreheads, and yet he conceded to having longed for her sharp wit in her absence, for which her present courteousness only provided a measly alternative; as, unlike his wife, luzia had seldom whet her tongue against him with malicious intent. from a youthful maiden, inducted into his court under the forbidding watch of her father and uncles, to the woman he entrusted with his utmost privacy, luzia was now something of a stranger, professing her loyalty in the years that separated them. her apparition before him brought him acutely to the past, unbidden as it seeped throughout his conscious. 

POINT  DIVIDER  FOR  𝑨𝑳𝑭𝑶𝑵𝑺𝑶 𝑨𝑵𝑺𝑪𝑨𝑹𝑰𝑫𝑺

closed to @bloodwrittcn

         castile’s relationship with the italian duchies and kingdoms was in a formative state, aided by diplomats and emissaries representing the two realms who led alfonso into a delicately developing pact with the de medici bank ––– they would fund his militaries, and the castilian crown would defend their sovereign legitimacy, should the neapolitan king attempt to invalidate the medici’s claim to autonomy. in theory, the italian concordat was simple enough to follow, its rules and regulations strictly mandated by the medici’s personnel: in practice, however, agreements inscribed by monks in illustrious manuscripts proved difficult to abide by when the ties of european nations became intercrossed, interlinked at every section, befuddled by individual agenda and close relations –– such as his own with the young king ferdinand. all this and more rolled like a stone in the back of the king’s mind, concerns turning and tossing until they became smooth and as glossy as sea-glass. alfonso’s ruminating was abetted by idleness as he awaited in the foyer of the sumptuous palais-cardinal, marking time as he anticipated another’s arrival. 

closed to @lorenzs​

(  tw: blood, execution.  )

         the french were keen to make a spectacle of everything –– including their executions. the courtyard reeked of ale and blood, dousing the straw that lay beneath a well-used scaffold. on it, the remains of a merchant thief sprawled limply, a head severed slovenly from its shoulders. alfonso did not flinch from the spray, the omens and the obscene revelries, nor did he avert his eyes from the gruesome moment the convict’s eyes rolled into the back of his head, and his head into a muslin-lined basket; he soaked in the chants from the townsfolk and the musician’s melodies as their playing grew an octave, combatting the winter’s sharp howls. fortunately, the sun had steeped past his pelts and linens, bathing the back of his head in a pleasurable heat; though it also brought with it a stench, whether of death or of drunken tomfoolery, that proved pervasive across the length and breadth of the courtyard square.

as king, he’d commanded the executions of militaries thousands strong within his own famed tower-green, but rarely so sumptuously –– with a sword, not an axe, forged of fine steel, wielded by an executioner who sported velvet gloves on both hands, which, with open-palms, accepted lavish tokens of gratitude by those who observed and who chanted as he effortlessly clipped through another’s throat, the body dragged by liveried yeomen. alfonso’s lip curled, a hand brought to his cheek to wipe away a speckle of ichor bubbled on his skin. he turned to the grand duke beside him, arms crossed over his chest.  ❛  nothing curbs one’s appetite so much as the spectacle of death. shall we, your grace, progress to the river’s side? unless, of course, you wish to continue observing king philip’s noble sacrifices.  ❜ 

closed to @mariusdanjou​

         wherever the empress was, there was marius d’anjou: nipping at her ankles, gnashing his teeth at her guests, yapping insurgently. yet, the grand hall is silent as the king swings his racket forward and the thudding, springy pop of a tennis ball falling into marius’ gloved palm echos around the court –– making the score deliberately even. as courtiers tore their eyes from the game, returning to their fare and their chatter, it proved an opportune time for alfonso to snap his fingers and call the game to a halt; gesturing to the attendants waiting upon him to bestow the pair with refreshments and silken face-cloths.  ❛  you’ve a decent aim, my lord.  ❜  one might wonder where that aim went when his target was the throne?  with a genial cant of his head, the king concedes, reservedly: ❛  and your attendance is much appreciated, all things considered.  ❜ the weight of henrietta von eggenberg’s death looms over alfonso’s words like a leaden cloud, extrapolated in the momentary glance he pins to marius. 

closed to @imeldaofcastile​

          the shelves of the master’s study within the château de la tournelle proved begrimed with soot, littered with friable texts, folios and ancient translations, unfit to rest a bauble or a hand, let alone manuscripts of exceptional importance to the king of castile. the evening’s honoring and celebrations had not yet ended –– rarely, if ever, did the french draw to a close their intense pageantry before dawn –– and yet the matter of the austrian princess’ conjugal eligibility had occupied the king’s activities since twilight had settled over the château. rumours, like the wind, blew this way, bent that way ; he confirmed in his correspondence with the empress’ that no such mention of an impending betrothal for her daughters had been made, and yet his advisers urged him to revisit the matter, to awaken sleeping dogs, for the present summit offered an unprecedented opportunity to forge alliances where, previously, relations lay barren or frayed. 

alfonso was behooved to strike whilst the iron was hot ––– and whilst the balance of european power was at its most malleable. yet, the groan of floorboards draws him, with its brass hook in his subconscious, from his perusal. there is a rasp at the door, and in his usual clipped baritone, the king utters:  ❛  enter.  ❜ 

“The king’s not alone, Marquise Las Salinas. It’s best, if–” Luzia twirled around in front of a mirror, further examined her burgundy gown and her hair and jewelry just to check if everything looked adequate enough for the king. “If I attend instead of my husband, I agree,” she turned around to look at one of Alfonso’s men before replying with a web of lies that would, hopefully, allow her closer to the king, “he’s been feeling unwell as of late, mostly bedridden and in pain due to a high fever and gout keeping him awake at night. I shall represent my husband to the best of my abilities.” The Marchioness felt her heart pounding strongly against her rib cage. Her heart had always been the strongest muscle of hers, but today it seemed to work harder than ever before. She remembered her father’s warning words to not see the king without him or her husband, to not deceive or approach the king as this might anger him. Wasn’t any emotion worth seeing from the king? A genuine emotion, that she’d created through her actions? Good or bad, she longed to evoke something inside of him, to remind the man she once gave herself to about her existence, about their son’s existence. Besides, she had nothing more to lose. With innocence and naivete lost Luzia went straight towards the chamber she knew he’d be in, carefully plotting out the various possible outcomes and answers she could give to the king. Too much had changed and she wondered if they’d meet anew, changed by time, motherhood and separation.

Luzia brushed her hands over her gown before the door swung open, revealing the king in his grandeur, surrounded by influential men of all sorts, surrounded by glory and pairs of eyes analyzing and judging her. Her eyes, however, didn’t wander around to check for possible allies or enemies. The king, as per usual, left no room for other people to be seen and she frankly didn’t want to stare into the eyes of the men who had no interest in a naive, young woman. “Your Majesty,” Luzia curtsied, even slightly bowing her head to hide a short-lived smile. Once his question echoed through the chamber, Luzia felt comfortable enough to finally look at him again. “Your Majesty I beg you to excuse my unintentional deceit. The Marquess of Las Salinas feels unwell. With your Majesty’s position I shall represent my husband for the day.” The last bit caught her by surprise, but her facial expression didn’t change. “He’s eager to meet His Majesty, as am I, of course.” Her words left no room for interpretation. Her son, everything she had next to her old husband and titles – titles she’d rather abandon for something bigger. Alas, she was too late now.

          filed to a sharp edge by maturity or mayhap marriage, luzia de las salinas appeared the same, and yet, at once, markedly different. she had been inducted into a virtually universal institution of young mothers, and had squandered the rosy glow, the childish plumpness to her cheeks, in exchange for her slanted smirk, eyes that seemed to plunge like talons into his flesh. the maiden who’d flushed in response to the caress of his fingertips against her throat, who’d batted sooty lashes and spun tall tales to maintain his affections had vanished, and there was now an impression of angles everywhere; in the crest of her cupid’s bow, along the edge of her jawline, across the whetted blade of her shoulders squared most assuredly. composed of horizontal lines and neat vertexes,  she was now a mathematician’s perfect fantasy,  as she had once been his ideal escape –– robed in opulent silks and jewels that glinted like quicksilver in fire.  she fell as languidly as the evening sun, drenched in rich scarlets and hues of blood-orange, into a bow before him.  alfonso caressed his mouth, pads of his fingertips brushing against the blond bristles above his top-lip,  concealing a wry tug of his cheek.

POINT  DIVIDER  FOR  𝑨𝑳𝑭𝑶𝑵𝑺𝑶 𝑨𝑵𝑺𝑪𝑨𝑹𝑰𝑫𝑺

location.  palais-cardinal  date.        february 1459 . status.     open to all . 

𝔄 full goblet & a witty tongue was all the lady of santorini needed to keep the dining table entertained . on the journey to paris , the barozzi made it a goal to dine with at least one stranger . she had met plenty , had danced with some - even engaged in talks of trade & fortune . tonight was one of those nights & the palais-cardinal wouldn’t see a candle blown out until the wee-hours of the early morning . the task of finding new trade alliances was no easy feat for the seasoned negotiator . not impossible , but definitely not easy . 

the conversation she was holding with an older duke , although was producing subtle laughter , was becoming quite droll . so in lucia fashion , she locked her venom green eyes onto another - perhaps more interesting guest . pale digits wrap around the handle of a golden spoon ; scooping a generous amount of pottage stew - her eyes locked on the other seated before her . 

“ tis a wonderful spell tonight , is’t not ? “  

–– 

         the grandiose banquet spread before the king and the assembled guests reminded him of the ever transforming nature of the world; this was an age of both persuasion and pacification. divorcing brute-force from politics and superseding it with gentle coaxes of business and wine both heightened and lightened it ––––– resulting in mutual merriment on all sides. by breaking bread with foreign rulers, rather than unleashing warfare, cooperation became not only viable, but imminent. such was witnessed in castile’s vastly different relationship with the italian duchies than in epochs past, and soon, he hoped, with the woman who sat across from him, beckoning alfonso with both her voice and the ferocity of the gaze she nailed upon him. alfonso lifted a goblet in response to her words, aired with a diplomatic mirth that was felt keenly by the guests seated around the table.