HEAVENLY / BODIES * !

                     qui   ne   risque   rien   n’a   rien         :         𝐣𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐬   𝐝𝐞   𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐯𝐫𝐨𝐲      ,      court   of   champagne.

               a   𝗽𝗮𝗻𝗱𝗼𝗿𝗮'𝘀   𝗯𝗼𝘅   into   the   depths      +      darkness   of         :         a   venus   flytrap   closing   around   its   prey      .      golden   flame   flickering   in   a   crumbling   castle      .      becoming   the   ideal   and   losing   yourself   in   the   process      .      the   fire   driving   out   the   sparrows      .      till'   death   do   us   part   and   forever   more      .

.

Elizabeth has been weaned on tales of the French, their malice and trickery, the enmity between the nations running deep. But with a French consort in the Palace of Westminster, old prejudices needed to be hastily discarded, and Elizabeth has tried, she truly has. Most of the time, she succeeds. She is, mostly, convinced that King Francis has not taken offence to her, but it is different to appease one French man as it is to step into a hall filled with strangers, all of whom have cause to hate her for the crime of being born on the opposite side of the narrow channel.

She knows this. She knew it when she agreed to undertake the journey to Moscow, and knew it when she found herself drawn into conversation with one of their number, but now she is here, face to face and locked into dialogue, she has quite forgotten the truth of the matter. That has always been her issue - she is too trusting, too quick to believe that which is said to her, even when born less out of truth than a desire to humiliate.

“Oh…” a small sound comes from between parted lips. In truth, she didn’t think that the English fashion was so markedly different from the attire donned by French courtiers, but they have provided her with an easy out, and she grasps at it with both hands. “Of course. There are many difference between our countries, I should think.” It is an innocuous enough statement, but she lets her mind linger on it anyway, wondering if even the most benign of words could provoke an adverse reaction. Their demeanour seems to have shifted, though, into something a little more welcoming, a little less anxiety-inducing, and she allows herself to relax, just a fraction. “But we are in Rus, not England. It is not my eccentricities that is worth paying any mind to.” She smoothes her skirt, and wraps an arm across her middle, shielding as much of her bodice as she can from view. “Elizabeth of Lancaster.” She pauses for a moment, racking her brains to try and identify them. “I’m sorry, I’m not certain I caught yours, either.”

while   they   may   have   heard   much   about   the   queen      +      the   late   heads   of   the   english   crown,      they've   heard   little   to   none   about   the   princes      &&      princesses   beneath   it   all.      her   tone   was   kind,      surpisingly   much   gentler   than   the   symphony   of   poisoned   tongues   that   they   were   led   to   believe   is   carried   by   everyone   of   english   nobility.      perhaps   there   could   be   one   who   isn't   as   tainted   as   many   of   the   others   residing   on   rightful   french   land,      only   perhaps.      their   guard   stays   up      +      shielded   despite   their   smile,      features   visibly   softening   in   a   practiced   show   of   innocence   upon   a   prey   that's   waiting   to   be   had.      she   seems   young,      much   closer   to   their   age   than   many   who   have   settled   in   the   court.      rather   naive   in   the   way   she   carries   herself      ...      perhaps   it's   a   stem   bearing   fruit   from   that   kindness   again.      unfamiliar   in   the   world   that   they   reside   in,      a   certain   softness   that   can   only   be   held   by   someone   who   has   seen   little   of   the   world's   atrocities.      it's   almost   refreshing.      then   again,      it   could   also   be   an   underestimation   on   their   part.      one   who   carries   english   blood   is   not   to   be   trusted,      as   so   many   others   have   taught   them.      no   matter   how   unimpeachable   she   may   seem      ;      her   blood   is   still   an   unholy   testament   to   the   many   that   have   fallen   in   the   midst   of   territorial   disputes   for   claim   that's   rightfully   their   family's.      their   smile   stays   fixed   upon   sullied   brims,      smile   growing   only   a   fraction   wider   as   she   shares   her   name.

Charles allowed the question to hang in the air as he looked, with an incisive stare, upon Jules. In the dim evening lighting of the banquet hall, the angular peaks of their face cast shadows to contrast against its smooth planes. Their expression exuded youthfulness—a kind of haughty expectation as Jules awaited agreement from their likeminded father—but their very form was itself a picture of youth. It was ever difficult to believe that Jules drew so near to three decades of life. Charles would reluctantly accept his own age, but his children remained in his imagination as precisely that: immature, adolescent, wobbling fledglings. Even as he considered them more obligated friends than offspring to be reared, his fondest memories were not adult conversations but a montage of quotidian childhood activities. These recollections were not tender, not rich with saccharine parental longing; they were playful and easy.

This is what furrowed his brow now as he stared. He owed Jules a snide concurring remark, but he instead thought of how strange it was that their eyes nearly met level—when, if Charles were to close his and picture someone called Jules, the top of this child’s head would scarcely reach his waist. Finally looking away, his eyes roamed the panorama of the banquet. On one side, the dais held Byzantine sisters, and to the far wall an international coterie of lesser nobles mingled. The masters of the world flecked the middle like bits of gold. Charles could acknowledge the reception was a decent affair and even impressive by some standards, but he would never utter the words where another might hear. Hubris, like any powerful and delicate beast, required painstaking maintenance. Jules had inherited this same pet. Even when they had been pocket-sized, Jules had been equal parts conceited and opinionated. They learned, swift and nimble, how slice an opponent with curt words. Charles participated in the teaching, sitting them upon his knee and murmuring reviews of the various courtiers, advisers, and passersby who came before them. Eager to emulate, Jules would nod with solemnity—and, when a disfavored man came around next, they proffer embellished versions of the insults Charles had devised.

So, this exchange felt as familiar as the memories it abruptly stirred.

“Never mind all of that,” he said, still surveying the space. “The true Lancasters are starving dogs, and this is a room of bleeding flesh.” It was not his desire to discuss the English. The sun had set upon their isle, as far as he was concerned. Still, the predicament of the slain king’s betrayed brother fascinated him; the late Edward’s death had been a gift, and in its wake came more delightful twists of fate’s knife. The English past was relevant, however, insofar as it laid the foundations of a brilliant French future.

Charles continued, “As for the others, you pose the wrong question. We do not care for their fashion or their manners—not here, when it suits us to outshine them and do so with grace.” His gaze lingered upon, one by one, the faces whose names he had begun to learn, as he turned from chastisement to direction. “Jules, you must be charming and beguiling and innocuous. We cannot find you a suitable marriage if you are known to be undesirable.”

Making eye contact once again, Charles prodded, “Are you shrewish, Jules?” It was a rhetorical question, and he paused only long enough to quirk a smile. “Even if you are not, the princess whom you insulted may now whisper to each new friend she makes that you are a villain who cannot charm a woman. And, to be sure, these may be our friends, too.” 

In another pause, the smile became a frown. “That would disappoint me. We must be known collectively to be as gracious as we are cruel.”

the   days   where   jules   could   simply   get   away   with   childish   belligerence   were   long   gone.      what   once   could   have   been   regarded   as   a   toddler   raised   out   of   obscene   wealth's   tick   for   brattiness   is   now   akin   to   something   closer   to   the   perils   of   a   childhood   devoid   of   repercussion.      raised   under   royal   protection   yet   without   the   weight   of   its   expectations   has   morphed   their   sense   of   undying   conviction   into   one   that's   rather   rotten.      eating   away,      decaying   at   whatever   dares   to   defy   it.      the   ease   in   which   a   snide   makes   a   way   up   their   lips      ;      a   clear   testament   to   how   a   stern   dictation   may   not   be   the   most   harmful   of   upbringings,      especially   when   raising   a   figure   to   be   worthy   of   any   crown.      despite   their   father's   correction,      a   sigh   lifts   without   so   much   of   a   worry.      hues   trace   across   the   space   as   charles'   did,      noting   nothing   of   particular   interest   to   be   worth   even   feigning   nicesities   for.      no   one   stood   out      ;      not   in   their   dress,      the   way   they   carry   themselves      ...      nothing   even   close   to   be   enough   for   jules   to   even   consider   geting   off   their   high   horse   for      —      especially   not   for   marriage,      of   all   things.      they   should   have   known   this   would   have   been   brought   up   eventually.      at   times   where   alliances   between   the   world's   most   powerful   empires   are   more   important   then   ever      ;      a   great   king   such   as   their   father   would   surely   not   miss   a   chance   at   paving   a   way   towards   one   of   the   simpler   paths   to   territorial   expansion.      much   to   their   blatant   dismay,      that   is.         "         &&      why,      pray      tell,      must      a      marriage      be      of      any      necessity      to      me      ?      are      we      not      beyond      such      ...      fundamentally      archaic      notions      ?         "         companions   can   serve   to   be   some   form   interest,      surely.      a   warm   body   may   not   be   the   worst   thing   in   the   world.      but   the   thought   of   being   with   another   person   till   death   knocks   upon   both   their   doors,      sharing   their   life   with   someone   other   than   themself      ?      that's   another   story   entirely.         "         as      i      am      not      your      ...      legitimate      heir,      father      ...      i      fail      to      see      how      marriage      serves      to      be      anything      of      importance      rather      than      simplistic      political      dalliances,         "

Her eyes scanned the crowd, watching as some took to their seats and others danced in great celebration. It was cause for such a hurrah, after all, a wedding was to be a happy event yet — Marguerite felt torn in two. Her soul remained in Cyprus, with her children who were hopefully surviving without the need for a mother. Her body was there, in France, with her brother’s children in a hope to aid them in the eventuality of them ascending to the throne — if Charles ever tied the knot of marriage with a firm, expectant grasp. 

She had chosen to stand with her brother’s child for just a moment, to hear their thoughts on the evening that began to unfold, before they commented on the boldness of a doublet. Outraged at her brother’s heir sudden mockery of another, Marguerite lifted her hand to slap theirs, daring to knock whatever it was from within their grasp. 

“Be quiet, be respectful. Is this what Charles has raised you to become? One day you may be King, and in such a circumstance I would rather die than have a brat rule my father’s lands. Do you understand?” Marguerite snapped, before taking to her wine, as if she had said nothing at all. “Apologise, now.” 

it   would   be   nothing   short   of   deceit   for   jules   to   present   the   notion   of   innocence   in   front   of   their   aunt.      the   one   woman   whom   they   hold   the   most   regard      +      respect   towards,      especially   in   the   case   where   they   were   to   have   queries   their   father   wouldn't   answer.      they've   been   nothing   short   of   honest   in   their   correspondences      ;      brutally   so,      certain   times   even   much   too   candidly.      decorated   words   were   weaved   through   sullied   instances   where   they   paint   the   image   as   if   whoever   was   at   the   receving   end   of   their   slight   of   hand   was   actually   deserving.      while   they've   managed   to   at   least   provide   some   rhyme   behind   their   reasoning   when   ink   was   put   to   parchment,      now,      in   the   face   of   close   contact      :      plausible   deniability   isn't   a   luxury   that   they   can   afford.      especially   not   when   they're   caught   red-handed,      gaze   immediately   turning   to   the   voice   that   can   only   belong   to   the   woman   in   question.      a   slight   frown   settles   amidst   the   furrowing   of   their   brows,      akin   more   towards   a   petulant   child   being   put   under   a   scolding   rather   than   someone   who's   fit   to   lead   a   country.         "         ...      it      was      a      simple      observation,         "         voice   softening,      head   turned   as   their   eyes   turn   to   their   aunt   before   a   sigh   slips.      childish   defiance   is   no   match   in   the   face   of   authority   as   fearsome   as   she.

as yixing mingles, she catches snippets of conversation, honeyed niceties and concealed daggers said within the same breath. the stage may have changed, but court machinations still function the same, and she does not know if she finds comfort in it. she does, however, find it amusing, someone’s subtle derision of another’s attire reaching her ears. 

the subject of jules’ judgment is, indeed, dressed…boldly. though the fabric is of clear quality, a myriad of rich colors clash, and yixing does not have to be familiar with the fashion of the west to know the nobleman before them is dressed gaudily. if his goal was to stand out, he has achieved it—just perhaps not in the way he wanted to. 

flushing deeply, he is unable to form a response in the face of their mockery. he only glares and rushes away, his attempt to save face just as poor as his attire. ( not that yixing would admit so; why should she, when jules has already done just that? ) taking the place of the man who’d just fled, she turns to them. “i find honesty an enviable trait, too.” her voice lilts, her smile pleasant. “not many offer their opinion so readily. it is truly admirable to speak one’s mind, no?”

just   as   they   thought   that   everyone   in   the   ballroom   surely   must   not   possess   even   a   lick   of   discernable   precocity,      a   voice   pipes   up   from   their   side.      her   words   pleasant   but   honest,      accompanied   by   a   charming   lilt   that   can   only   come   from   someone   poised.      finally.      it   felt   like   a   thousand   years   have   passed   since   they've   heard   from   someone   sane.      they   find   themself   being   rather   agreeable      —      a   surprise   in   regards   to   their   character.         "         i      have      to      agree,         "         their   tone   visibly   shifts,      the   mocking   smile   curls   into   something   rather   genuine.      their   words   were   followed   by   a   laugh,      later   a   quirk   of   their   brow   to   her   direction,      now   growing   rather   curious.         "         i      find      feigned      cordiality      to      be      a      rather      meaningless      endeavour.      if      it      has      no      visible      gain      to      its      name,      that      is,         "         in   their   words      ;      no   one   is   deserving   of   any   sort   of   nicety   if   there's   nothing   to   benefit   from   it.      when   it   comes   to   advancing   in   this   world,      surely   anyone   would   rather   reward   cunning   intelligence   than   being   just      +      fair.      especially   when   concerning   delicate   matters   such   as   who   gets   to   be   the   nation   that   wins   over   all   the   others.

❧   @reknes

𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: palace of facets, moscow

𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞: 23 july 1319, evening

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: referencing some version of this thread ! 

❛ Must I find you taunting little girls? ❜

The English princess had since peeled away by the time Charles appeared at his child’s shoulder. Suspecting Jules may notice his approach but indifferent to startling them, he spared no greeting. He had sat nearby while the exchange proceeded, able to observe through body language as Jules succumbed to serpentine cruelty. It was more of an embrace than a capitulation, however. Jules ( like their detestable Agnes ) at times and without provocation raised their head with a blackening stare and spoke with a forked tongue. Charles liked their meanness—usually. This incident struck him as something else. Was it pettiness unbefitting the setting or, better yet, directed at the wrong variety of recipient? The issue of suitability would have little to do with questions of delicacy or fairness. She was an unassuming princess, but how benign could an English rose be? It was a remarkable choice, still, to catch field rabbits while wolves stalked the village.

❛ Could you not find her brother, that creature Richard, when you desired to hurl insults? ❜ he asked, turning so their eyes could meet. Charles’ disdain was, in truth, paper-thin; amusement at his own words ripped through it with ease. ❛ Tell me your thoughts, and leave them naked: do you find this an impressive evening, or is it so lackluster as to necessitate you entertain yourself? ❜

while   timing   is   rather   fickle,      charles   always   seems   to   pop   in   at   the   most   opportune   of   moments.      catching   their   child   red-handed   in   their   means   to   belittle   anyone   that   has   the   misfortune   to   have   crossed   paths   with   the   serpentine   kin   of   the   french   king.      at   least   this   particular   one   was   lucky   enough   to   be   interrupted   by   the   man   in   question   before   more   cutting   exchanges   would   be   met   with   more   cruel   gestures   of   feigned   cordiality.      "         that      creature      you      speak      of      embarrasses      himself      without      me      having      to      lift      a      finger.      there      lacks      a      certain      ...      challenge,         "         their   father's   words   are   met   with   a   smile,      one   which   holds   a   surprising   authenticity   as   it's   aimed   at   one   of   the   handful   of   people   that   is   met   with   jules'   respects.      gaze   meeting   the   other's   as   their   thoughts   were   asked   upon,      they   manage   a   shrug   as   their   expression   falls   flat      —      devoid   of   any   interest   in   the   festivities.

Elizabeth is anxious. Certainly, she has been living in such a state for longer than she would care to admit, for the last few years have been far from easy. She knows that there likely is not a soul in attendance who is not away of the precarious position she finds herself in, and navigating that here, in an unfamiliar land, is much akin to being on a ship in the depths of the night, without a star in the sky to guide her. 

But there is one arena in which she excels - she has always found herself more at home in the company of others, never shying away from a display of sociability. It is this she clings to here, and it helps to keep her mind from the troubles she faces, and for a little while, it works. 

Until.

The mirth on his face is unmistakable, pointedly aimed at the gown she finds herself clad in, and immediately, the comment sends her into a spiral of insecurity. Dark brows furrow, little white teeth coming out to close over her lower lip. “Perhaps it is a little… different,” she agrees, for she is nothing if not agreeable. “I was told it would be appropriate for Moscow, but maybe I’ve been… misinformed.”

they've   mostly   only   heard   harrowing   tales   about   the   english      —      ghastly   ones,      drilled   into   their   head   from   the   church      &&      every   body   that   was   tasked   to   bring   up   the   king's   children   as   if   it's   one   of   the   nation's   pillars.      even   before   they   could   barely   utter   their   first   few   words,      there   has   been   only   one   association   that   is   met   with   france's   neighbouring   rival      ;      an   enemy.      noting   how   the   ones   who   run   their   ship   are   supposedly   as   ignorant   as   they   are   privileged,      vastly   unaware   of   the   world   that   surrounds   their   shrinking   territory.      in   an   assembly   of   great   empires,      even   jules   wasn't   surprised   that   england   were   one   of   the   ones   that   were   called   upon.      what   rather   served   to   be   a   rather   cruel   trick   of   fate,      however,      is   having   to   meet   one   of   them   so   quickly.

Jewels seemed to drip from the walls themselves. Though the palace that the Tsar and his ilk made their home was wood, primarily, they seemed to have little trouble gilding it whole when the need to do so was felt. And tonight they had felt the need: for each tray of wealth that Theodore’s men presented the Tsar, the return was a pillar seemingly wrought of the same. Even marking the strangeness of the place, Romanos could not but be awed by the sheer indifferent of this display. This kingdom was a young one yet, redolent with its early glories. They ought savour them while age and loss had not yet dulled their shine.

Even as Romanos made a broad circle around the ends of the room, an unknown voice made itself known. In a room of unknown voices, this was no strange thing — but the words that followed perhaps were.

Amusement found Romanos lip even as he cast his gaze towards the figure whom had spoken. From appearance, they seemed not so very different from the royalty that had gathered here — youthful, and with little to distinguish or set them apart from the rest of the gathered, but for the callous tease that had made its way past their lips. Romanos was familiar enough with the vagaries of court and fashion to take insult: he rarely dressed to the height of fashion, with no taste for the sumptuous displays that his elder brother and mother so adored.

“I do indeed hold little regard for what others think of me,” he said, smiling at the pitiful attempt at mockery. “My attire, at least, is my own; were I to spend my time dressing to please an ever-fluctuating court, I would find myself quite… pitiable. Do you not find that to be so?”

while   they   were   not   a   direct   descendant   to   the   throne   their   father   ruled   upon,      the   conduct   in   which   they   regard   themself   is   nothing   short   befitting   of   someone   who   views   themself   as   much   closer   to   a   god   than   anything   else.      even   at   the   face   of   a   soirée   as   ostentatiously   grand   such   as   this   one      ;      their   regards   to   the   gold      +      glimmers   fall   dry,   rather   unimpressed   by   the   fashionings.      loyalty,      in   every   sense   of   the   word,      runs   deep   in   the   veins   of   those   who   have   spent   their   most   of   their   life   at   their   father's   worship.      hues   scanning   through   the   room   to   take   in   every   single   detail,      finding   themself   more      +      more   agitated   as   they   take   in   the   voices,   peruse   through   every   minute   detail   to   mock   at   even   the   slightest   show   of   inconsistency.      crumpled   curtains,      off-coloured   walls,      flagulations   in   the   choir's   polyphonies      —      all   of   it   could   only   attribute   to   one   conclusion      ;      a   kingdom   with   cracks   is   the   one   that   will   fall.

lips   pursed   in   a   snide   curl,      pursed   to   one   side   as   emerald   hues   roll   in   accordance   to   the   dissatisfaction   etched   upon   their   features.      their   expression   shifting   between   disinterest      +      feigned   niceties,      arming   themself   with   a   fake   smile   to   hide   from   the   knife   they   have   at   the   ready   to   press   into   anyone's   back.      their   gaze   travels   throughout   the   room      ;      grandiosity   by   means   of   podiums   etched   in   gold      +      diplomatic   small   talk   serving   to   be   nothing   short   of   a   disappointment.      nothing   has   changed   even   as   the   brigade   had   travelled   far   into   unknown   territories      —      the   same   mundanity   in   polite   exchanges   under   the   premise   of   allyship.