a ningún hombre

        dilşah would not admit to mahidevran’s presence being a comforting one––perhaps, only as soothing as the sight of the axe is to an executioner, but familiar nonetheless––yet there was a certain ease, an irrefutable concord to their routine, that she felt in the company of the sultan’s mother and relatively nowhere else in her life. debt and responsibility to the valide deprived dilşah of moments otherwise engaged in self-reflection; her mistress’ preoccupation with her own fortune and a myriad of ambitions demanding that dilşah’s every waking moment be reserved for mahidevran’s benefaction. it was a but a trifling price to pay, dilşah wagered, for the prestige had been bestowed in spades in return; there were few among the sultan’s imperial entourage who did not either extol or deprecate the cariye’s name, proceeded by motifs of immense fealty and unrelenting service to the throne, and such was undoubtedly a result of her unequaled intimacy with the valide herself. still, she was not so audacious in her role as to voice an untoward thought to the valide ( monarchs valued individuality, so long as it did not eclipse their own ) and thus formed a deft habit of echoing mahidevran’s philosophies. when apt, she recommended counter-measures that would gratify her mistress’ motives, remaining heedful until mahidevran engaged her with an inquiry––dangled like a dusk-purpled jewel before her.

❛  i have seen his grace only fleetingly, and to ensure his well-being with my own eyes. i find him a most adroit conversationalist, though perhaps he remains apprehensive to speak his mind in the company of his büyükanne… ❜  discretion seemed to be an upwards trend amongst rulers, yet dilşah could remember a time when the bedfellows the sultan kept provided both table talk and political ammunition; universal in its interest across the length and breadth of the sultanate. even in the thick of dilşah’s admittedly ephemeral girlhood, she too could boast of a faculty to recall the names of each woman, both native and adventitious to edirne, who sported the boons of the sultan’s affections ( which she deemed equally ephemeral. ) ❛  after all, in the şehzade’s eyes, you are unrivaled in virtuous sentiments; not only a high-octane valide, but beloved blood relation. if it should please your grace, i will increase my contact with the prince, and inform you of our discussions. as for his raven-haired guest, ‘tis only a matter of time before pride and vanity lead pigs to squeal and she may soon grovel at your grace’s feet for a more… permanent position.  ❜

with a nod, the cariye sets aside her loom and silk and rose to prepare the valide another dish of tea; directing the eunuch who bid patiently at the door to fetch his mistress another fresh lemon to garnish her refreshment. retrieving a kettle from the hearth, her ears prickle to the valide’s thinly-veiled inquisitiveness. the iron is warm, even beneath her mitten.  ❛  the young ladies of court?  ❜  voice as light and as clear as a summer sky, preparing for the onslaught of a tempest, she feels a grin curl at her lips as the valide pins a gaze to her spine.  ❛  so few stand the test of time, valide, there is virtually no reason to trifle ourselves so––with the exception of şehzade kasim’s mother, of course. yet, with the haseki’s triumphant return to court, mayhap her reign will soon come to an end––‘tis a cycle each woman who enters and egresses the sultan’s harem must come to grips with, is it not?  ❜  in saying so, dilşah felt great content that her pride of place in constantinople was not won by virtue of the sultan’s carnal affections for her, volatile as the male gaze was; rather, she had grasped her position by way of cunning and skill, and was determined to maintain it in similar fashion. ❛  better that they learn quickly, than fatally.  ❜

dilşah returns to the valide with a dish of tea, lemon lapping gently against dark-brewed liquid. in it, she descries her own reflection: azure eyes standing sharply alert, softened––deceptively so––by the sooty lashes that encumber them. ❛  tsar ivan rurik’s entourage,  ❜ the cariye reiterates; this time, curiosity lands in her own net. mahidevran and she have begun a game of sleight-of-hand tricks, volleying secrets and ambitions between each other, with the ladies who encircled the valide none the wiser.  ❛  a scheme all too easily carried out, i surmise; what the russians possess in grit and mettle, they lack in wit… what will you have me do?  ❜

   In possession of a higher power, she ruled all; two children, a small army of grandchildren, servants, masters, vizier’s. Mahidevran moved without apparent effort; her complexion remained sanguine, her eye blue and serene, no symptom of fatigue plaguing her visage. She was occupied, always with a bevy of schemes and tasks -- rarely, was she ever truly busy. Her countenance of blended freshness and severity confused many; for her high, proud forehead, could host such umbrage yet brim with benevolence. And the Valide’s eye, peaceful yet vigilant, was keenly aware, of the fire which could kindle in the hearts of men, either terror or devotion. Power of a particular breed, lined itself in all her traits; a kind of power, she discerned, in her pupil, devotee, and confidante. “Such devoted speech, would earn you a gallant promotion, if you had not arisen to a glorious peak; my grandchildren favour me, devour my praise and cling to my side -- but you, brimming with you and honeyed phrases, enjoy advantages to his confidence. He will indulge in confession, for he covets your praise; men, even endowed with the strength of my blood, shall always cower in want of a good lady’s word. As for our raven-haired mistress, she shall join the growing number of barking hounds....perhaps you shall mark me a hypocrite, for such a sentiment, but as earnestly as I wish to see him matched, I cannot stand half the lot.” 

      Kasim -- Valide had never thought herself capable of pushing back scorn, as she thought of a dear grandchild; she blamed her, that woman, for her conflicted feelings. “The woman who stands to model herself as my rival, my equal; I buried my share of her lot, and shall shed no tear, when she sinks into the abyss, a useless husk. Her equal, shined brightly in my time, yet as for her, and her child? I would forgo her name with intention, if it had bothered to remain relevant enough to retain. You offer me reason, as always; we shall not dally with the trivial, as we turn to matters most urgent. My son speaks of her so sweetly, doesn’t he? So alike his father -- ambivalent, and blind, to the politics of our harem. I think of how my Hürrem rules her Cordoban ladies....how sweet, the two of you were, sitting side by side to listen to storytellers.”

 The Russians thundered into banquet halls, rows of eyes and brows, threatening stormy weather; full of insolence, unblushing as marble. It brought Mahidevran waves of joy, to flavour thoughts with contempt and bitterness -- sweet banter, honeyed sentiments, were for the weaker lot. Dilşah easily consumed her bitterness, parceling in return, retorts packed with temperance. She moved with the grace of a feline, hair like night, features decided in beauty; only the quiet hymn of clinking gold jewellery, betrayed Dilşah’s movements. The Valide had first noticed the girl for this -- the grace with which she conducted even the most menial of tasks. “I wish to discern every aspect of this prospective bride’s person -- the parts of herself she wishes to conceal from public viewing, the most vicious parts that linger in us all, I will know them all. We shall begin with servants -- insert one of our own, into the company of a Russian maid, with a gold piece or two, to hear the secrets of her mistress. And as for you, my fine jewel -- how is your Russian? You, an extension of my own hand, shall make a member of their court, your new bosom pal; what do you make, of the expendable sisters young brothers, and sisters? Certainly, they will be no match for your charms.” Something unseen, stole itself within her heart -- in an unguarded moment, she breached untempered maternal softness, turning to Dilşah, nearing a smile.

Ivan turned slowly to look directly at the Valide.  Despite his own mother’s urgings (she being a Byzantine princess with a particular vendetta against the Ottomans as a result), Ivan had sought an alliance with the Ottomans and felt comfortable within it.  He was not so foolish as to think theirs would be an eternal peace - they were so close together that, no doubt, some descendant of his and some descendant of hers would one day wage war, but Ivan hoped that day would not arrive within his lifetime.  He thought, instead, to build a steady, reliable trust as his fledgeling empire grew and learned to take wing - then it might think of wrangling with powers such as the Valide represented in her person.  But, first, there was much to do: much to build.

Ivan’s smile did not quite reach his lips at the sound of her words.  He could claim no such affinity for French shores - perhaps there was a time…but it was long gone, dead as whatever foolish passion they’d once buried for one another.  The Tsar gazed levelly at the Sultana, a crescent of goodwill softening the striations of his face.  “Rested,” he shook his head.  “Never.  I was last on French shores in the midst of travel: from England back to Russia.”  He paused, thoughtful.  “But we did not stay anywhere very long.  It was - as these things go - a quick procession for home.”

He did not think any royal travel could ever be speedy.  In his experience, the sheer volume of retinue simply did not allow for it, but within the confines of such restrictions, they’d made good time.  Ivan had been eager to see home - and eager to leave all that was French behind…all save his wife.

His smile was a wan thing as she said so and he wondered, pointedly, what it would mean for Russia.  Would his new empire survive him?  Or would it crumble upon his death?  Different advisers and soothsayers seemed content to claim alternate truths but Ivan, himself, could only move forward and build a foundation upon which to rest.  It had to be enough: there was nothing more that mortal man could do.

“And what do you envision, in that time, for yourself?  For Constantinople?”

x

    Mahidevran moved beside him, to gently follow in his stride; flourishing as the dedicated pupil to his observations, she allotted ample time for his self-love have its feast; curious to see how much it could swallow, if it could manifest a satisfying gorge, or if it was indeed dependant on the whispers of others. It had been not her intention, to approach or address him in this manner; but their manner of acquaintance warranted such a step. And, the Valide relished, conversation with those who titles outranked her own, but whose years, rendered them a delinquent, by her side. “Indeed, a resting place as it were -- well, let us rejoice, for you may now commune with your dear wife’s relatives, at such a triumphant time for their house. You are but a handful of years, younger than my son, yes? I trust, you retain a memory of his late majesty, now bestowed the highest of honours, by the Pope.” 

Mihrimah’s laugh was soft and gentle, the noise itself caressing her grandmother’s ears before her head rested upon Mahidevran’s knee. She knew that she had inherited beauty from her parents — parents who were celebrated for such good looks, but it seemed all the sweeter coming from grandmother’s lips, leaving Mihrimah to coo and purr like a sedated kitten. “I have met the Shah of Persia, nene! He spoke so elegantly, and entertained your granddaughter with refinement and common tongue over our cultures that seem so different compared to the French — Paris, it is lovely, but they do not hold a brick against our dear palaces… Everything is so enclosed here, as if fire is due to run out,” Mhrimah mused, laughing dearly, before nudging herself closer, as if she were more babe than woman.

With her question answered, Mihrimah laughed and tossed her hand into her own dress, shifting the material around her knuckles to play with, as if nervous to broach the subject. “Have you been there, nene? Have you seen their land with your own eyes?” With widened hues, Mihrimah dared to sit back, to look up to her grandmother with every inch of respect worthy of her position. And though her cheeks blushed to a gentle pink,  Mihrimah tried to remain placid to the subject, instead wavering before her. “They have… I met Prince Thomas in Lisbon, nene. I met him again a few days ago… He has captured my imagination, and I have a few pressing questions to ease my mind… Do you think I could conquer England as my own?“

x

  “Your heart lends you to sweetness -- whilst I do not wish to disavow the tendencies which make me adore you....I must draw you, towards caution, for I cast a dark eye, towards the Shah. I have no faith that his intentions towards the Empire, are less than villainous; but if he were to fall beneath your spell, I would find the prospect, most useful. Paris is indeed, a dulled city when placed beside our glittering triumphs -- Europe lacks our brilliance, my love. If you were to marry one of its men, you must promise me, you shall not let your light, be snuffed out. The Princess of England is a product of its very best, and trembles beneath the weight of its growing dissent.” In pleasing tones, Mihrimah spoke in the highest spirit, unperturbed by bashfulness and delighted at the prospect of shinning off before her grandmother; for her part, the reflex’s of her granddaughter’s spirit, dazzled the Valide.  Scenes of devotion and praise were her triumphs; for the Sultana, was a child of pleasure. “The Parisian proclivity towards celebration, shall bode well, for an exhibition of your beauties - a garden affair, perhaps.” 

for: @lskender

      Approaching midnight, when the light of day blackened to its death scene, the Valide gathered her son, wrapped him in her attentions, and deposited him, before a crackling fire. In Mahidevran’s soul festered a chronic suspicion, that Iskender moved against her wishes -- yet to accusations and venomous assertions, he would be unmoved to disclose confession. She believed her worst apprehensions now merited, upon confirmation her son had broken bread with the Shah; a figure whom Mahidevran ascribed, only the bitterest intentions. Her heart had no chord for peace; for what belonged to the aspects of trust and light, what was good and quiet, she had no sympathy and offered it no communion. 

       Pure granite, cold and curdled, Mahidevran was not broiled by such proximity to the fire; bearing a breast as cool as the face of a tomb, she would not grow feverish beneath mortal influences. Taking a plate from fruit from her handmaiden, the Valide divided herself a modest portion -- demanding thus, for Iskender to eat the rest of his share. Settled into Parisian silks and plush settees, the pair were to commence in battle; the confused noises of demand, exaction and will, paired to the long-trembling song of the wind, outside their door. Nature served as proxy, for the emotions cast aside by the Valide’s shrunken heart, and the Sultan’s maddening mastery, of his mother’s perilous art. “Under certain persuasions, I find myself informed of your benevolent endeavours, concerning courtship of the fabled Shah. Do you wish to make of yourself, a simpleton and a warning, to your children? So eagerly you ascribe yourself, to the English example of bootlicking. I pray your friendships, do not soften your reserve. ” The liberation of speech, set Mahidevran much at ease; she set herself closer to the fire, wrapped beneath a handsome shall, bestowed by her grandchild, as a cherished token of affection. 

points last week: 140

this weeks total: 40

“Perhaps you are right, mother. The West seems to be conspiring against itself with every step it takes and, still, its leaders are either too foolish or too prideful to realize it.” It was a common thing, for Nehir and Mahidevran to coincide on many matters. Back when she had been just a girl, many thought it to be no more than a facade, a sycophant’s game meaning to win the Valide’s favor. Now, their similar opinions made for a secure alliance between Valide and Haseki. “Let us pray, then, that whichever god they shall answer to gives them no mercy in their heavenly trials.” Nehir would, for sure.

“Responsibility has done him well, certainly. He was born to rule, my son. Just like your own before him. It was finally time for my beloved Iskender to see what an exceptional son he fathered, and for Murad himself to prove it with his deeds.” Leaving Constantinople to aid her son in his governorship had been one of Nehir’s greatest challenges, but it paid well by each day, with the sight of him growing into himself and achieving all what she knew she could achieve. But, of course, the matter of his marriage was still pending. “Both the Harem and the Empire are no strangers to foreign women, even young Branimira was received with certain ease, despite the conditions of her marriage. I truly believe there is no reason to fear such an atrocity to ocurr. Nevertheless it is only wise to find a woman who poses no threat to us while still mantaining enough strenght as to command respect.” She paused, recalling her meeting with the Russian. “The Grand Duchess is but a girl. Pretty of face and with gentle eyes, though I’m sure there’s more to her. She has a spark inside, if I may say and, while I do not think she’s ready to face the Harem at it’s most hostile, she can be taught.”

x 

  “The fate of the Aragonese, is fitting enough example - but the matter, I admit bias in, for the riches and splendour of my Hürrem, are the opposite coin, of its ruin.” She laid compliments at her own feet, as she regarded Nehir as possessing a nature outlined with vigour and acute sensibility, acting as perfect compliment, to the fine mould of clay, which Mahidevran contrived herself, to be crafted from. It was not kindness, that drew the Valide to the exclaim and harbour sentiments of exquisite perfection, which she attributed to her daughter in-law - expression, was never by-product of sweetness, but instead, sterile veracity. “I grant the gods their wealth of prowess, to display their own displeasure - and posit, that the great, sweeping hand of judgement, shall belong to your child. His heart is magnificent, but we must make the weight of his acumen so impressive, that it shall overrule, his lighter senses.”

––

         dilşah would concede that the valide had been like a mother to her ––– in the absence of her own mother at the palace, she looked to mahidevran for guidance of both a spiritual and secular nature, and yet like allah himself, she would also concede that the valide was a parent who demanded obedience and humility. only when entreated did dilşah rise to the occasion, her voice presiding a summit over ladies who tended to the valide, satisfying the vacuous machinations of their mind with needlework and chronicling in the footnotes of their horologion. albeit appearing largely disinterested, she did not suspect them of deafness, knowing full-well they would turn an attentive ear to whatever secrecy absconded from the senior cariye’s lips –– yet, it would not be absorbed half so sagaciously, nor even a quarter as conscientiously, as the valide herself. mahidevran’s mind was as receptive as a sponge, and in many ways, age only enhanced the steel-trap of her conscious. 

for the valide to comment on so personal a matter as the şehzade’s governorship spoke volumes; implying a deep and abiding pride for the boy that welled in her bosom, bubbling to the surface like the jeweled pendant that took pride of place upon her chest. it was a pride that dilşah shared in, yolked between the women who had reared murad from infancy to boyhood and now, to the exordium of his rule. she absorbed each word that trickled from the valide’s mouth, spoken of though with diplomatic restraint, she could not absolve mahidevran of sentimentality for her grandson. “ very well, valide. i have never seen his complexion so hearty, nor disposition so lively, as when he is consumed by his providence. his disciplines have served their course, and i believe, with time, he will come to boast of the finest mind in all of mecca. i only lament that his time at the palace is now so fleeting; he is so alike his father in the presence he commands, vanishing when he retreats. ” 

authority was inextricably linked to foresight ––– to anticipating one’s opponent’s moves, and without indication of comprehension, devising counter measures. those with royal flushes lingering in their sleeves treaded one step ahead of the opposition, so that the element of surprise remained firmly in their wayside. in this sense, dilşah contends that mahidevran would make for a brilliant ruler, perhaps even more splendid than her son. she anticipates the subject matter resting on the tip of dilşah’s tongue, situated like a shining pearl, before her thoughts –– fledgling, fragmentary scraps of grapevine gossip –– form into words, into persuasion. “ word is that a woman has been seen entering and leaving the şehzade’s apartments. she is not fair, as his previous consorts, but dark as a raven. ” instinctively, dilşah’s hands travel to her hair; interlocking, tangling in dark tresses like fingertips under a rivulet of water. “ one cannot presume that this is more than mindless chatter, but, perhaps governorship has emboldened our young prince. taking power and taking a wife… is, ultimately, remarkably similar. ” 

the cariye’s tune instantaneously lightened, brightened, sweetened like a plum tart at the heart of a winter’s banquet, “ another dish of tea, valide? ”

x

  As all exceptional ladies ruled by espionage, Mahidevran prided herself on a well-established staff of spies; she perfectly knew the power of a well tailored soldier; the cultivation of a  perfectly fashioned hammer, to wield within her fist. Dilsah had risen above the rest; gaining knowledge by methods appearing facile, without painful exertion or waste of spirit. Better yet, lay the wisdom to adhere to the Valide’s plans, altering little, and requesting none. May fierce warning be granted, to wretched figure who relied on her a fraction beyond the point where it was in her interest to consulted; interest was the master key of Mahidevran’s nature - birthing point of allother  motives. “The Şehzade favours his father’s discreet modus operandi indeed, a habit I should seek to stamp out him, before his ascension - have you yet taken an interview, with him? I shall arrange one, if you regretfully inform me, you have not. If he should be receptive, do not hesitate to lend your wisdom to his wanton ear - the men of our Empire, are dependant on the might of its women.” She traced in this gesture, every ounce of favour and delight, she took in Dilsah’s companionship; the rays of good favour, shone partial over her head. “Dark-haired, akin to a raven? He has long refused to disclose his preference, but we have secured an inkling at last - I am most eager, to capitalise on this gain. I bid you to keep further tabs, on the entanglement .... if she pleases him, I shall grant it my blessing. On the front of securing a desirable partner, amidst our allies, I confess a growing lack of confidence. Have you much acquaintance, with the young ladies of the court?” 

Few were those who could claim to truly know the Haseki Sultan in all her faces, and even less the ones to whom Nehir would ever willingly show her meeker side. Her Mother Sultan, though, in spite of her cold demeanor, had inspired the Sultana’s trust since she was just another maid in the Harem. “ I hardly believe we should even bestow the man with the title of king, mother. But, if I may be frank, I have yet to meet an European who could wield the name with the grace it deserves.” Her voice was soft as it ever was while with Mahidevran, yet the reproval and condemn of her words was still clearly audible. “ He cloaks his hipocrisy and sin with an impression of holiness and humility, all while claiming to be an Apostle. The mere fact that he calls himself a man of God is despicable.” The devout muslim that she was, Nehir often saw the catholic leaders with a certain disdain and wariness, the sentiment had not changed in her most recent interactions with them.

“I believe we can say much of his deeds as governor. His achievements in the Eyalet would be outstanding for even the Sultan himself. For them to be done by a man so young and challenged as our Sehzade speaks wonders of Murad’s quality as a man and heir.” Then there was the other matter, the one that worried Nehir the most. Finding her son a wife wasn’t difficult by itself, she was sure many of the western royals would throw their daughters and sisters at the Harem for an opportunity of an alliance with the Empire. But, for the Sultana, there was much more to it. The girl they chose would not be marrying the Empire, they would be marrying Murad. “ I pray for you to be right, mother, but I hear only one of the Chinese princesses is unmarried and I would prefer to speak to her Emperor father before planning on anything. As for the Ruriks, they are good allies to the Empire and, as far as I know, the youngest of the Grand Duchesses is eager to marry. Perhaps if we can arrange a meeting between her and my son and, if he takes a liking for her, she could become an eligible prospect.”

  x

    “The hot and hurried extinction of Europe’s patrilineal dynasties will be played out soon enough - it suits me well, to be granted the pleasures of observation. The Tsar lingered at but my peripherals, but we have since spoken - with distinguished acquaintance, I may now remark him, in a singular word : short.” Reclined in her element, Mahidevran came down upon Europe with the full weight of her power. Nehir bore the revelations and responded so well, as to earn the Valide’s good will and admiration. Closer acquaintance rarely afforded her merits to think better of one’s character - it often provoked a now dismal, reappraisal of her sentiments - yet Mahidevran would always pronounce, to be gladdened to know Nehir, and a desire, to know her better. “No man, shall ever be valiant when he harbours such engorged estimations of himself; hypocrisy, indeed. It is quite in fashion, it seems. Whether it be our god, or theirs, a lightning bolt of judgement, I gather, will be swiftly delivered.” It would be done, in the language of fidelity. 

STATUS: closed to @validemahidevran​ LOCATION: Couvent des Celestins, Mahidevran’s chambers TIMESTAMP: February 1459

Honey drips from berry-coloured lips, as Mihrimah laughs for all to hear — attracting the eyes of watchful guards or scornful ladies among the harem’s inner sanctum. She ran, light footsteps bouncing from stone to stone before calling for all to hear. “Nene!” she announced, a hand tugging on her skirts to halt them from dragging her to a slower pace. Though refined from bone to skin, Mihrimah often allowed her composure to slip when in the presence of her most admired family — they were the only audience who were to view the side of her once nurtured by father and mother. Entering her father’s mother’s chambers, Mihrimah threw two loving arms around her, kissing each cheek with love before pulling back to allow the utmost respected woman of the Ottoman Empire to admire her granddaughter

She knew, despite her childish glow within the harem, that Mahidevran would hold an important and listened voice in favour of marriage and successor. Would she support Murad beyond their younger son? Would she see Mihrimah to an ambitious marriage or something closer to home? Either way, she knew that Mihrimah wanted to be Mahidevran — her successor, her student. Going to her knees, Mihrimah rested her chin upon her grandmother’s knee and gazed up with adoration — large, deep coloured eyes watching her. “How do you find Paris? Is there anything I can do to lavish my dear büyükanne?” Mihrimah cooed, placing a hand gently upon her grandmother’s, holding it with care beneath her warmth. “What is your opinion on the English?”

x

   “My love, my light.” With tender approach, did Mahidevran tuck her sweet one into  embrace. Time would always flow smoothly for Mahidevran by her grand-children’s side; not with the feverish swiftness of a pressured day, but sweetly, like the gliding of a full river through a tranquil forrest. A semblance of childlike resplendour marked Mihrimah’s humour, yet three years had long passed, since she had relinquished’s a child’s face, for a womanly visage and tempered airs. For in truth, it felt but a hairs length away, times in which Mahidevran had nuzzled her face to her grand-daughters; the sweet girl seated upon her grandmother’s lap. Mihrimah had looked but a doll, the kind of which she had clutched beneath lithe fingers; her head of silken curls, and neck, delicate and smooth, as a swans. 

𝔬𝔭𝔢𝔫 𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔯𝔱𝔢𝔯

The sun slanted from on high, wafting between slate clouds to glisten upon the brimming Seine.  Ivan stood still, ice-blue eyes scanning the course of the river, the thrum of everyday activity, the hum of a city alive with people.  He tried to picture his wife as a child, her governess taking her by one hand to walk her along these very bridges, roads, pathways, but the vision faded before the radiance of streaming daylight.  It seemed strange to him that any child raised here should find their fate amidst the snow-choked lands of Russia.  No doubt, it seemed strange to her, as well, and perhaps that had been the problem, all along.

He moved along the bulwark of the bridge, absent gaze drifting across a thousand rooftops.  He hardly noted anyone else as he walked, mind lost upon a reverie that had long ago turned in on itself.  Ivan found himself wondering, as every single member of the summit did, what fate might await them here, and would it end in prosperity as Lisbon - or ruin, as in Florence?

Moving along the river bank, he noted the imperious flying buttresses of Notre Dame, her great claim to fame, and the immense suspension of glass beneath which stood in solemn testiment to years of craftsmanship.  So different, he thought, from the onion-topped cathedrals of home.

Noting someone else who had stopped to gaze upon the architectural wonder, Ivan looked curiously towards them.  “Amazing, isn’t it?  Built three hundred years ago.  What wonders will this world know, three centuries from now?”

    x

 This head Mahidevran knew; the blackness and closeness of hair to the cranium, the amplitude and paleness of brow, the blueness and fire of glance. Details of the Tsar’s visage were so domesticated in memory, that his sudden apparition, nearly tickled her fancy to laugh. He spoke to the air with the same pointed, choleric earnestness, with which she fashioned he was inclined to harangue the courters of his court. Long were the times of the East; short it seemed, was the legacy of the West. Three hundred years time was a flittering ripple in the history of the Ottomans - a minute evolution in the expanse, of it glorious legacy. The Valide’s judgement was perhaps warped; that she was indifferent, when she ought to be awed, forever as cool as her name. Yet she commenced her reply with measured temerity, relying on no indulgence, but formalities. “Indeed, the Tsarina’s motherland lacks neither triumph nor monuments to inspire passions - you are gladdened, I must gather, to visit the court in which her gifts were cultivated. When last did you have the pleasure, of resting on French shores?” 

Starter for: @validemahidevran​

Location: Couvent des Celestins

There was no denying that Mahidevran had been omnipresent in Murad’s life since his birth. She had always been there, alongside his mother, in the standing of those who he considered with the most esteem. He knew, of course, that his grandmother would have nothing less, but his admiration was freely given for how she had always treated him - one of his greatest champions. 

Here in her receiving rooms, he almost felt like a child again, seated beside her over a favorite game as he studied her expression for a moment. “You seem as though you have something on your mind,” he ventured. “I promise you I am well. The travel was tiring, but now that we have settled, I feel quite comfortable. Though my bones do not like the cold.” He huffed a chuckle, then looked at her. “Or….. is there another matter with plagues you?”

x

  It was a day of bitter winter east wind; the cold owned a terrific influence, making all February pains more poignant, all sorrow beneath the burden of thunder-clouds, sadder. The keen, still cold of the morning, was succeeded that afternoon, by a sharp breath, no doubt brought by Russian airs. A heavy firmament, blowing thick with snow, was expectant to settle over Paris. Retiring to her sitting room, where a bright fire had been lit - between the candles, and tall wax-lights, appeared a tender scene between the Valide and her grandchild. Tempting as it was to scold Murad for having become thinner than when last she saw him, she professed little, but niceties. “Do you accuse me of appearing plagued, my dear Sehzade? My Hatun Dilşah remarked my colour, most pleasant this morning. Perhaps she only sought to flatter me; her proficiency in warming my senses, nearly rival yours.” 

   an incredibly short and rather free-form (making little to no sense) vignette on the valide’s journey west

  The spring which moved her energies lay far away beyond the seas, in a Western isle. The rapture of invitation was clutched by Mahidevran; she was to be carried abroad, with the lure of vivid minds to be bestowed upon, her fiery influence. At parting, what first mounted the ship was legacy; such a thought for the present, such a hope for the future, such a motive for persevering.  

    The skies hang full and dark now - a fleet of ships sail to the West; the clouds evermore cast themselves into strange forms - sweeping arches and broad radiations. Then rise, these resplendent mornings - glorious, as deeply purple as a Roman monarch on his throne. So wild are the heavens, that they would shame a herald of victory in her pride. Mahidevran knew some signs of the sky; she had noted them, since her childhood.