#tudors.start

          a strange sort of homesickness had set in, one out of place amongst the festivities. one that called not for portugal, but for punjab. despite all her small, stolen european traits, despite the distance in time and years between nalini and the house of her birth, she still remembered much— so very much. some parts she craved to see again. she remembered being very small, watching a temple dancer in all her finery dance at a festival she had long forgotten the name and time of. if she asked sneha, she would most likely remember.

          but for now, that lively temple dancer still danced in her memory. she was graceful, to be sure, but there was no chance that nalini could emulate her grace... 

          “up, cross down— good, like that— parry, then thrust— no, keep your elbow in, you’re off balance like that,” phillipa coached. it was not an unusual sight to see phillipa grey practicing swordplay, but her partner was remarkable, different from all her usual companions. her young son, thomas, stood across from her, eyes wide and brow furrowed as phillipa taught him how to fence. her twins sat with their nurse, nibbling away at honeycakes, watching their brother. they’d learn too, someday, perhaps when they could stand still and stop wiggling around like worms. both mother and child held wooden practice swords with ease, a sight phillipa was quite proud of. thomas was certainly her son— the speed of his limbs and his learning certainly came from her.

          elisabeth was perplexed— and hated the feeling. she had become a strange paradox in the recent months. she had wealth, a title, lands and loyalty. security in both her past and her future, from noble ancestors to her three sons, healthy and strong. and yet...

However, she allowed herself a rare moment of silence and drew away from people today, seeking out the library. No story was ever as good as her father’s, and no education would match the one she’d had, but she still ran her finger over the spines of books. Hearing the door creak open, the smile that was always expected on her face settled into place as she turned around and bowed her head. “It is alright that I am in here, is it not?” Her accent lended more to her native home, although her father’s influence and time in Portugal did impact her skills in English. No matter how hard she tried, her voice and skin always marked her as different, so she had learned to embrace it and dare men to judge her. 

With her brother still as yet unmarried, Mary had been tasked with the role of playing the hostess at Hampton Court, greeting and dealing with all manner of dignitaries and guests in the palace which was, as ever, filled to the brim. It was a role she had been born into, very nearly, and one she would need to perfect when the crown of Spain fell to her husband’s hands. In Henry’s absence, it was all the more important that she stood in, almost in his stead - though she would never claim as much herself.

She looked up when yet another courtier was brought before her, her head held high to disguise the anxieties that had churned in her belly during the past weeks. “What news is it your bring to us?” She queried, voice authoritative and soft at once, formalities all carefully observed.

The sound of footsteps caused her to turn, a relaxed expression painted on her petite features as she offered an apology, “ I had the misfortune of dropping a pastry I was gifted,” she explained, glancing down at the stone floor. She ought not to owe an explanation, but people had a terrible habit of judging, something which she herself was not opposed to doing. “ I do believe it may have been a sample for one of the wedding desserts, ”  she added, hoping to divert attention back to the most riveting gossip at court, her cousin’s marriage.