DEUS VULT.

—i rise and strain towards eternity ————— giulio cardinal de medici. thirty-three. archbishop of milan and cardinal of the one holy, catholic, and apostolic church

[antiquatus]

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[antiquatus]

with @isabeaudevalois

it’s terrible, really, how absence has become such a familiar feeling. ever since the start, their presence here seems to have attracted such miserable portents: the disaster that was the fireworks show ought to have been enough to stir hesitation in them, and the events that capped off the spring fair were signs most foul and symptoms of a burgeoning conspiracy that threatened to eat them all alive should they stay here longer. 

(  giulio had heard tell that the recent eclipse is only further proof of God’s wrath—and even if he himself lays no claim to any superstitious tendency, he recognises its strategic usefulness in the present situation.  )

yet the swiss king gathered them all here for the purpose of establishing a peace, however ludicrous that idea seems now, and giulio might have differing ambitions but he is still condemned to play in a board that he has not set up. therefore, there is the matter of following up with past matters, of solidifying links he has set up and channels he tried to pursue outside of the purloin of the Pope and the established Church line.

he comes to isabeau with a bejeweled book of hours, one of the many he has in his possession though one that is precious all the same. medici money has granted him privilege aplenty and has ensured his coffers remain full, and he has used such funds for cultivating the artistic heritage of the Church. it seems to him frivolous now, but it has given him stock for gifts aplenty—and that, perhaps, should be something he is grateful for.

❛  votre altesse royale,  ❜  he says, bowing as his hands put forward the book of hours, wrapped up in black linen, though in such a way that it is still painstakingly obvious what it was that he was giving her.  ❛  i am sorry for the loss of your nephew,  ❜  he says, tone serious,  ❛  especially considering that it is to my understanding that his parents were unable to consecrate him properly to God.  ❜  perhaps it is tossing salt in an open wound, blurting that statement out like that in such a manner; but to giulio, it only underscores the importance of getting to her earlier request. perhaps she will be reminded of it now, and she will come to realise the urgency of the sacrament of baptism.  

❛  my gift is humble,  ❜  he adds, almost a last-second addition and it’s clear enough that his words are a lie.  ❛  i hope it offers you some sort of solace in this trying time.  ❜

[antiquatus]

with @giovannamedici​ at the hunting lodge

there have been whispers.

the same servants that service him service giovanna, and so he catches the tail-ends of accusations, hears the words muttered in low tones, sees the furtive glances that decorate their features. they’re such low and vile things, but rumours fly best in the mouths of the coarse, and giulio has learned to speak with them  (  as them, like them  )  early on in the halcyon days of his youth.  (  here, he approaches a dangerous kind of romanticism, a pastoralism that claims no ownership of reality.  )  he hears their whispering, yet he does not linger on their implications; he only knows that there is something to talk about, not what they talk about—and he is sure to make them silence their gossiping, even if only in his presence, out of regard for his sister.

instead he picks flowers, plucks a couple of fruits, and puts them all in a basket wrapped up in a pretty silk bow. he doesn’t care for such things, but giovanna might appreciate the effort, convalescing as she is from her—illness.

he comes inside the hunting lodge with a worried expression, but he does not wish to worry her, and so giulio adopts a thoughtful look of regard instead. he looks at her, and he smiles.  ❛  how is my favourite sister ?  ❜  he asks, a sly kind of teasing present in the timbre of his voice.  ❛  i brought you some fruit; hopefully the swiss produce is as good as ours back in florence.  ❜  typical italian braggadocio colours his demeanour, but the care that is evident on his face, his words, his hands that put the basket near her bed are evidence of an underlying worry that he dare not articulate.

[antiquatus]

with @starfvllen​ at a garden

the sun shines, resplendent and radiant, on God’s green earth for yet another day.

it seems such a small matter of fact, something taken for granted, but giulio has been of the pessimistic sort as of late—though perhaps calling it pessimism is a touch too generous, an attempt to rewrite his state of being into something more palatable instead of calling it for what it really is. there’s a slight tinge of unease that colours his actions and thoughts still, weeks on from the occurrences that have coloured their gathering in such sombre and macabre tones. he thinks for a moment about why they’re here and why they should go on, when peace seems flimsy, as fragile as flower petals, easily plucked from the earth and taken apart by greedy fingers.

he is plucking flowers for his sister, who is coalescing in a hunting lodge because of some sickness. giulio has the slight temptation to indulge in speculation but he cannot, in good conscience, stand to accuse his sister of anything, even in his mind; and so he thinks instead about the beauty of God’s creation, revels in the silence, contemplates, prays. in his hands, the blooms look out of place, fists more used to being clasped in prayer, to the presence of a rosary rather than floral stems. 

there is a rustling that comes near. he turns around so as to greet the other, but then the sun directly shines on him, its beams bright and blinding. his free hand rises up to twist his galero, keeping the rays off the sun away from his face, while his other hand clutches the basket of flowers closer to him.  ❛  it’s a beautiful day out, wouldn’t you agree ?  ❜  he asks, voice pleasant, neutral. there is a smile on his face and, on his chest, there is a bejeweled pectoral cross that glints in the golden sunlight.

[mothwood]

steffi lang cut out poem from ANTI-OEDIPUS: Capitalism and Schizophrenia (p9)  Deleuze and Guattari 

[antiquatus]

imperial concubine jing.

t h e play of light in the cathedral is impressive, she would admit as much. all those lit candles in their neat little rows was charming. but it was the glass windows, that riot of colour both demanding and serene, crafted from fractions and slivers of coloured glass. as she rotates, she feels the muted heat from the sun on her skin.

perhaps it was a mark of small-mindedness, which she of course ignored, but xinning remained unimpressed with the whole of the cardinal’s pontificating. everything, all of it, seemed to come back to this singular concept of god. no name to it, no set image, save for whatever the commissioned artist felt like painting on the fateful day he laid his brush to the church’s walls.

she inhaled, breathing in smoke and incense. « and what does god look like, cardinal? is he three-faced, to represent the holy trinity? or is he really one singular being? is he here, in this very building? »

the question comes almost as expected—not that giulio ever expected the imperial concubine to give voice to any specific question, but he would have been a fool not to expect any. fortunately, theology is a field which he had devoted his whole life to, and the question seems almost elementary that he comes across another problem altogether. it is difficult to put his answer to words—or, at least, in words she might come to understand.

❛  it is like this,  ❜  he says, before he takes a considerable pause. for a moment, it seems as if he has forgotten his answer altogether. his eyes are fixated onto the tendrils of smoke still coming from the thurible haphazardly left behind in the altar. the smell, though a regular fixture of his life, reminds him of his childhood, oddly enough.

❛  He is, ah, ineffable and incomprehensible,  ❜  he says.  ❛  He is perfect in every sense and then some—for sense are fallible and easily deceived, yes ?—but God is Truth and thus He can never deceive. His presence permeates through all of creation, which is His own work, and thus all we are is but emanations of His will. He is Triune but One, Three Persons but One Being.  ❜  he smiles. he is perfectly aware of what he sounds like.  ❛  such is the mystery of faith, my lady, and so i must ask: how do you find it ?  ❜

[sfcrca]

The unity of steel and stone | Bona & Giulio

[antiquatus]

bona sforza.

She really should be thinking about the deaths right now, about Ludovico and the way his life was ended ( there was something so cruelly ironic in the way he died - with poison. he was a venomous, bitter old man, spewing poison at his daughters. it was only fitting he would die the same way. but it still… it still ached in a way she did not have the energy to deal with right now ), but she could not focus on that right now - not when there was a much more pressing matter in front of her. Giulio had always been a lot like her - that was one of the reasons why they got along so well. He was strong and he was cunning and despite the… setbacks and the terror which settled upon Bellinzona, she knew he was still that man. This was - this was horrible. Had she been alone, she probably would have screamed until her lungs bled out, until her throat was torn and her voice and reason abandoned her. But, she was not alone and she was stronger than that - and so was he.

But, while she wanted to focus on him, his words struck a cord and immediately her mind began to spin it, trying to twist it so that she could see the picture from every angle. “You are right. But, what would Gaufrid’s line of conspirators gain from murdering Ludovico? From executing nobles in such a way. Milan, Russia, Scotland. France. The Ottomans. Why them? What is so special about my father and the executed nobles? Because this was execution.” She said with a heavy sigh. “What do they gain from this? Possible civil war in Milan if Alessandro decides he wants to take the Seat by force. He had not been legitimised yet. Now with my father gone, the eyes will be on me - in both ways.” Suspicion and appreciation ( did she kill him or did God intervene in her stead, in her right? ). A frown marred her features then as she pondered his words. “That is an interesting thought. But, all these new nobles suddenly appearing, claiming thrones. It cannot be a coincidence.” And then, a thought. “The new nobles. Perhaps that is what is happening. The Russian, Simeon. His father had been murdered as well. Maybe there is a connection there.” Maybe she was just grasping at straws now - she did not want to think about it right now, not when he had been in such an anguish. “If it is against all nobles, then we are all going to die here.” She sighed.

Bona had known the blow was great for him. She would have reacted the same, if not worse than he was currently reacting. But, she stood her ground ( she always did, no matter the situation, no matter the consequences ). “Giulio. Caro. You took a blow. This does not make you any less a man you are.” Her words were soft, but there was steel and determination behind them. They did not know the truth. In her eyes, she could not care less if he were a Medici or Orsini or bloody Tudor. She knew him. This thing changed nothing. “This does not change anything for us. For all we now it is just a madman spewing nonsense.” She continued; “We weather this, together. You said it yourself.” No, Bona Sforza will never back down - not from him, not from Ippolita and not from Milan. Everything and everyone else were of little consequence to her ( yes, she had some friends she worried about, but not to this extent ). “Is there something you will have me do?” She asked, her grip on him tightening.

heavy thoughts, dark thoughts, unspooled in his brain. there is in every thread the possibility of a collusion or conspiracy, the idea of which makes existence in bellinzona fraught with danger. at every corner, there could be death waiting. at every corner, they risk their lives. what for ?  what was the point in trying to suffer all this bloodshed and insanity ?  for the idea of peace ?  yet how could anyone, even a pacifist, still entertain the idea of peace after all this ?  every day here seems like another step taken in their dance with death. would they stay here and accept their demise lying down or would they at least salvage their dignity and say enough is enough  ?

❛  speculation about what they want is fruitless,  ❜  he says.  ❛  we know nothing of them—not even that they are a conspiracy, so to hazard guesses would be to engage in a sword-fight while blindfolded with one hand tied behind one’s back.  ❜  the imagery is colourful and vivid; the words themselves are delivered with a fiery sort of passion the likes of which has never been seen before in his demeanour. there is anger and frustration and a tempest of emotions raging inside of him, even the one he would deny the most, even despair.  ❛  what else is to be gained from this but chaos and confusion ?  and such two things can be a very powerful thing when wielded correctly.  ❜ 

he sighs. he cannot help it. he is mind-numbingly human, and his despair is as real to him as his pitiful flesh, which he is in equal parts mortified and obsessed with. on one hand, he feels himself slip into some sort of madness brought about by recent events—the uncertainty of identity is an epiphany not freely sought for reasons well understood—but on the other hand, he also watches himself slip into some kind of mood, as if a voyeur to his own descent. he is cognisant of the fact that he is angry and sad and he cannot help but think this is dramatic. he is breaking apart, and he feels himself breaking apart: all those parts of himself that have constituted a whole seems to be naught but discrete parts that have no connection to each other save for what he himself thought up in his desperate attempts to make it—make himself mean something.

❛  together,  ❜  he echoes, almost as if affirming to himself rather than to her.  ❛  together,  ❜  he says again, because the way the word sounds on his lips feels almost unreal—not because of any innate characteristic of the word, no, but because he is baffled as to why she would still shackle herself to him, even after everything.

then... ah, it comes quickly. the feeling of acceptance washes over him: there is the idea of giulio de medici, the one he and his whole family had constructed over the years in pursuit of power in all terms spiritual and political; then there is the idea of giulio-as-himself and who knows who that is ?  can he ever really lay claim to a full knowledge of who he is or is he performing even now, even to himself, even when nobody expects him to ?

he says nothing in reply to her last question. instead, he leans towards her, almost hesitantly, almost questioningly. there is a question in his eyes that he dare not give voice to; yet still, his chest presses upon hers, his cheek swipes against her own as he presses his weight forward, and one arm finally snakes around her waist, resting on the small of her back. in that moment, there is nothing—save for their breathing, save for their bodies, save for the two of them existing in a world that seemed fallen to madness.

[antiquatus]

ippolita sforza.

location: in the side chapel of bellinzona cathedral. companion: giulio de medici , @antiquatus .

THE‌ OCCASION IS PECULIARLY SOMBER. Easter ought to be at least a little of a joyful time, but this year there is little of it. No one in attendance was visibly happy in any manner, and Ippolita wondered if all of their faces hurt from being so stiff. It did not matter in the end- the mass was over, and everyone had practically fled from the place, eager to escape the void like confines of the church. The thought amused her. Where to, where to? There was nowhere anyone could really go without being surrounded by the mementos of blood and death left behind. A church was probably the easiest place to be- you could at least lie to yourself and say that God was surely going to help you one of these days.

She used to like going to mass. Emphasis on used to. At least back in the days when she lived in Rome, going to mass meant sitting quietly, being the quiet girl who lurked in the back and was overlooked by all, listening to whoever it was that was speaking, mentally playing games with herself to tangle apart what they said. This time had been much different.

There was first the music she had written- nothing too terrible there, it had sounded perfectly fine and people seemed to be pleased by it, although she mentally made a note to, on a later day, politely request for the singers to be careful on some of the higher, more spiraling notes. Then there was the entire problem of people from time to time blatantly gawking at her, as though hoping for some sort of reaction. Ippolita had given them nothing but silence and poise, weary of the courtiers that seemed to think watching her break down would be most amusing. I‌ will never give them that pleasure.

Still, the service was over, and everyone departed, and at long last she rises, numb and incapable of doing much except offer polite parting words, syllables slipping past her lips mechanically. A wraith, pale and worn and doing her best to pretend that it was not the case. They seemed to believe it- Ippolita does not know what is worse, her own pretense or the fact that no one has noticed it.

Somehow, her legs are seaworthy, and Ippolita lets herself drift, stained glass windows dripping in light until it all coalesces into oceans onto the floor, and she neither sinks nor swims, merely floats. (Perhaps her delirium means that no matter what happens after, she can be forgiven.)‌ Tremens factus sum ego, et timeo, dum discussio venerit, at que ventura ira, the thoughts spiral loosely until she is reciting in her mind the precise words sung before, Requiem æternam dona eis, Domine: et lux perpetua luceat eis.

She finds herself in the side chapel, staring up, lost in thought, losing track of time, oh that is dangerous, it always has been dangerous, look at what happened in the boat, at the organ, when will you stop forgetting and start running? Her eyes are half lidded shut, and Ippolita realizes that by now, she should have left already, along with the rest of the people gathered for the mass, and whoever it is that is steadily approaching her probably will request for her to leave. There is a vague moment while she composes herself, before allowing a wry, “Chi è la?” There are options as to who it could be- and Ippolita does not know which is worse. 

he does not know when it starts, how the slight visits to the Church’s alcove turns into lengthy one-sided discussions involving himself and an anonymous, silent, invisible audience. sometimes, he even fancies himself debating with the Lord Almighty Himself—and, in quiet moments, where the air feels so still that he can feel dust pressing down on himself, he dares to ask: is this what jacob felt when he wrestled with the angel ?

he digresses. there are very many things to think about in these past few days, but theology seemed to be the least of everybody’s concerns, with everybody scuttling about as soon as the easter service ended. is this a day to celebrate life ? everywhere seemed to stink with the rank smell of death and grief and tragedy. this is no time for a celebration; the promise of the resurrection has rung false. in times of hardship, one either becomes an atheist or believes all the more. polarising fates made for polarising decisions.

and himself ?  where can he reckon himself in that great bifurcation ?  his faith is steadfast, more stable even than his own sense of identity—it is his sense of identity in these days where identity seems to be ever-changing—yet he has questioned and begged and implored the Almighty. still, there is nothing. still, there is only silence. despite all these, however, he firmly remains  (  almost stubbornly so  )  to the trappings of religiosity. perhaps because there is nothing else.

(  tell me, little saint, is faith still faith when it becomes mere habit ?  )

he inhabits his position to the best that he is able. the gaze of many others is heavy on his shoulders, his own existential status called into question just weeks prior. through it all, his face remains fixed to the priest. he does not even let vain thoughts cross his mind—thoughts that say i would have made a better homily or the priest knows nothing of the Almighty—because this is a day of solemnity. like all solemn days, he empties his mind, purifies his heart, strives to make his soul worthy of receiving the Lord. there is no thought; there is only faith.

(  that, surely, is enough. it must be enough. there is no other option.  )

yet there is still vision. the miracle of sight lends to an apparition rarely seen yet seemingly always sought. he does not even know that he is wanting until he does. this, as with all mysteries of faith, is a revelation. yet what kind of revelation was this that spooled dark thoughts in his mind ?  if your eye causes you to sin, pluck it out—or so said the good Lord in the Scriptures; but what kind of living is that which does not appreciate beauty ?

giulio knows, rather than thinks, about the possibility of meeting her. it is not far-fetched: they have already met there once before. thus, they repeat, even if through a mirror, darkly.

❛  i would assume you already know who it is,  ❜  he says, stepping out of the darkness into light—and she is swaddled by it, radiant, almost baptised by the rays of the sun through stained glass and vaulted ceilings. the distance between them gets cut ever shorter, until there is seemingly nothing but a breath between them. in the silence, he bows and takes her hand, brushing it with the barest contact of his lips. when he straightens up, there is naught but a seraphic smile on his face.  ❛  buona Pasqua, mia dama,  ❜  he says—then, no more.

it is her turn now.

[antiquatus]

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post count this week (  mar. 22 - mar. 28  ) : n. of replies (  5  )

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point allocation:  MAXED OUT

health total:  150  /  150

[antiquatus]

francesco de medici.

The voice of his brother, despite their treacherous contents, reverberated in his ears as though holy gospel, as though parable from Gesù Cristo himself. Francesco was mere apostle, absorbing every word with reverence. The images invoked were as expected, and with every word that Giulio weaved grew the monster within Francesco’s heart, the one that called for crimson. “Multus sanguis fluit,” he repeated in a whisper after him, each syllable careful on his lips, the words evoking desire in the deepest trenches of his chest. Francesco was beginning to recognize the extent of the call that they were heeding. What did it say of him now, il serafino, that he did not refute it at its mere sight? “We shall call upon him, so that he must put the path back to the right. Except… I know not where to find Caecilius,” he said, and again what little contribution he had to the world. “Do you?” 

❛  fratellino,  ❜  giulio says, tone coaxing, almost tempting.  ❛  do you not yet understand ?  ❜  he asks, switching back to their created tongue.  ❛  he is where he has always been, and he is doing now what he should have done earlier: he is making sure his plants grow, nourished by a source that is the biggest prize of all.  ❜  a smile before:  ❛  where is he you ask ?  why, caecilius est in horto, fratellino.  ❜  he looks to francesco now, almost as if in desperation, but no—instead, it is steely resolve, the attempted imposition of his own will. he knows what is to be done with orsini, and his siblings can either join him in his effort or be against him.  ❛  you know what is to be done.  ❜ 

[antiquatus]

tomas rafael trastamara.

Keep reading

giulio, once holy and now damned, cannot help but respond to the kiss with a fervour that would have made some puritan weep. he smiles against the other’s lips as he withdraws, savouring the hand on his hair, almost comforting, as if he was being pet.

❛  sunday,  ❜  he whispers against the other, their faces still so close, a hint of charm present in the twinkle of his eyes and the crinkles present in the corner.  ❛  the Lord’s holy day... i shall be present for confession.  ❜  he hazards another kiss, quick and light, almost a flutter, before:  ❛  and you shall be confessing your sins.  ❜

(  giulio cannot help but think: oh, how easily he turns sacraments into perversions !  )

❛  i shall see you then,  ❜  he says, cracking a smile, his tone almost brooking no rejection.

[antiquatus]

patrick stuart.

patrick was not thinking of interesting. yet he gave a nod; lies came as easy as breathing did - living or rather surviving beside anne tudor had made him slick yet rough, he gave little care for anyone outside of the children, euphemia and david by extension. “mayhaps, we are close enough - this may be my only chance to see the eternal city,” patrick mused, his finger yet to caress the stonework as his eyes continued to gaze around them with lost and an absent stare. little could root him to the conversation, and yet he was pulled back as the cardinal spoke more on the supreme-pontiff and the city itself. he knew little of him, but knew by looks alone ( in connection to the portraits he had seen when vying for marriage opportunities through anne ) that he was a medici by blood. a man made of gold and religion, a man one would not wish to be an enemy at all. “and now you travel with the pope, is that right? that must be an important role to behold amongst the pious. do you find it suits you, your eminence?” 

he feels almost amused at the other’s tenacity and ingenuity, the remark eliciting a low-toned laugh from the cardinal.  ❛  if only such an excursion would be allowed,  ❜  he says, voice still tinged with appreciation for the other man’s wit,  ❛  i would very well accompany you—and i might even help to get you around and show you all the sights of rome.  ❜  he almost speaks of the city with a certain kind of pride, as if he was roman instead of florentine—but ah, such matters are easily enough overlooked. it is an appreciation of aesthetics and nothing more. still, he feels he did not get the man’s attention until he spoke of his link to the Pope  (  a normal enough occurrence: he himself is irrelevant; it is the cardinal whom people wish to talk to  )  and piqued the man’s curiosity.  ❛  i travel with him indeed,  ❜  he says, some small degree of affection seeping into his tone. it is obvious that he cares much for the Supreme Pontiff.  ❛  i am fortunate enough that the Pope has decided to favour me amongst a flock of very earnest cardinals.  ❜  he hums as he considers the last question. his position does suit him, if he is to be honest, but he has been in this position for many years—and now he is hungry for more.  ❛  i am well appreciated by him,  ❜  he says, his voice still the same even as his words turn neutral.  ❛  i am even more fortunate that the Church as a whole shares his appreciation for me.  ❜  if one listens closely enough, one can even hear the hint at ambition that his words so subtly betrays.  ❛  i am more than well-rewarded,  ❜  he finishes, even as he thinks: yet there is still opportunity for more.

[antiquatus]

guilherme de barcelos.

Guilherme listened quietly, intensely. Though the priest did indeed have less years of life experience, Guilherme imagined years of listening to the pains and sins of others must weight enough to make up for much of life experience. To be sure, living through the very pain of loss was not comparable to seeing it upon another, but it certainly gave one perspective. Even Guilherme could appreciate that, seeing as the pain in his children’s faces gave him perspective though he was suffering the same loss. 

“Indeed,” he managed to reply to the Father’s words that echoed his own sentiments on taking solace on his children, but dared not to immediately continue lest the tears begin to flow. “Forgive me Father, that I find such words as sad though I can also see the joy in them,” he said referring to the idea of faith being Father Giulio’s only constant. Guilherme could hear the sincerity and he did not doubt the man’s devoutness. It made him happy for the man, but also terribly sad and could not help but wonder at the possibility of the other feeling even remotely the same. Guilherme hoped not. At the moment, he wished not sadness on anyone but those to be blamed for his current loss. 

“I admire you Father Giulio,” he declared, “I saw such faith in my late wife… I sometimes envied it, and then I wondered if it were not a sin to dwell instead of pursue. I thought to pursue, and then I lost her and could not even fathom to give myself to God. I was so lost.” He did not sound lost, he sounded like he knew exactly where he stood and how to walk the path but simply chose not to. 

the supposed sadness doesn’t strike him until it all too suddenly did. the portuguese’s words feel almost like some sort of epiphany, a revelation that is simply accepted as true upon receiving. it is sad, giulio realises, because he didn’t have anything else other than the Church. he feels, of course, his nominal ties to his family as well as his homeland of florence; but such ties are served only out of duty. he never much saw either in his younger years, sent to live amongst cold abbeys to learn about the splendour of God. he had nothing in those years—nothing save for his faith and the solid conviction that he has always been meant for the Church.

is that sad ?  maybe it is. it was the Church who nursed him and sheltered him, the Pope who favoured him, God who stayed by him; there is nobody else.  (  a terrifying thought: there is nothing else.  )    ❛  such words do not disturb me,  ❜  he says, a smile on his face, almost melancholic, the fire’s reflection on his face almost emphasising the sharpness of his features.  ❛  never fear. i consider such honesty actually refreshing.  ❜

and as the other continued on about his grief, giulio, ever attendant, only listened, until he figured it is time to speak.  ❛  such feelings are understandable,  ❜  he says.  ❛  to everything a time and place. you could not have done otherwise as you would have.  ❜  he straightens his back, looks back to the man in an image of grief. giulio wonders for a moment, before he gambles:  ❛  but of course, there is a way that opens before you now,  ❜  the cardinal says, voice ever so sure, snaking towards the edge of conspiratorial.  ❛  God’s justice is divine, yes, but He has also given us reason to seek it through our own means.  ❜

[antiquatus]

alonso trastamara.

It is strange, to be manipulating situations that rest beyond his own fate and rather in the hands of God. Yet Alonso has done his best to put forth enough effort to bring happiness to his brother’s life and must do as best he can to ensure it. It is a delicate intervention to ask for the Pope to intercede on his behalf but he finds he cannot bring much thought to it without doubt creeping in. “You are most kind, Your Eminence, for I do not wish to burden you beyond your daily duties. My brother, Tomas, has been betrothed to a woman he does not wish to wed.” He sighs, unsure of how else to put it, before swallowing thickly and continuing. “I had hope of seeking you out as a man of God to intervene on his behalf to the Pope to annul the betrothal.” 

❛  you are not in any way a burden, su alteza real,  ❜  he says smoothly, the words falling from his lips in accordance to a script that would have them trade banal niceties like this as a prelude to the actual meat of the conversation—which comes easily enough, as the spanish king wastes no time in stating what he wants.  ❛  ah,  ❜  is, at first, his only response.  ❛  i have heard tell of the same.  ❜  he does not wish to say that he has heard tell of the same from tomas himself; such grumbling, after all, are common enough that giulio thinks it doesn’t quite matter where he got this knowledge from.  ❛  of course,  ❜  he says,  ❛  that is a very difficult matter that we broach here.  ❜  he puts his hand over the other, almost as if clasped in prayer, but then it just rests like so in front of his body.  ❛  as you well know, engagements are almost like marriages. to break them off, one must need a valid reason as in annulment, the reasons of which are varied but i’m sure are known well enough by your royal highness.  ❜

[timotaychalamet]

Wild Strawberries (1957) dir. Ingmar Bergman

[antiquatus]

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post count this week (  mar. 15 - mar. 21  ) : n. of replies (  34  )

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[antiquatus]

francesco de medici.

giovanna de medici.

giovanna had never given a rise to gossip and the foul head of envy. and even when their names slipped from some foreign’s mouth giovanna did not spare a glance. but minutes passed, and the wind howled. one strike of lightening was enough to turn her. the tears that fell from her eyes were both loud enough or the heavens to hear and quiet enough to not be noticed by any onlookers. for they were tears for her family, for her deceased mother and the father she had loved. was she not a medici? a tuscan and firenze woman who had built her entire life around the stage set mere moments before her birth into the world, the birth she had so witnessed with her twin brother francesco? so she cried for not herself, but for her brothers - as she always had done. 

in some ways the opinions of a madman give her ways to breathe, as she clutches the arm of either brother - forcing herself between them like a needy child as she looked from side to side. giulio was right, they must not entertain the needy and the mentally unstable - for the man who had whispered such illigetimacy was surely someone to put pity on, was he not? giovanna had always helped others, it was something she had held as a medal or a lifeline, yet was she not falling back on old promises by ignoring the man’s pleas for help? cast aside with a newfound mourning for their long-gone parents, giovanna squeezed her brothers’ arms and cried for their attention with tones fit for a woman on the edge. 

“i miei fratelli più dolci, we must stand strong for we are medici and simply put, medici alone. they strike whilst we are apart, whilst piero is not with us… but what scares me most is the ghosts he speaks off. how dare he speak of our madre benedetta like that, or cast doubt over caro padre!” giovanna dropped either hand only to rub away the tears on her face, her skin tainted with salt as she tried to wash away such residue. “where do we go? what do we do now? do we stand tall and listen to such slander or do we hide like mice?” // @ilserafino

Once Giovanna had brushed away her tears, Francesco reached for her hand once more, their fingers embracing in a tight squeeze. There was solace in his twin’s touch unlike any other, and he needed it now more than ever. He was met with accusations against the man’s character and a plea to be led — Francesco, meanwhile, knew nothing of the man and even littler of strategy. “There is nowhere to go, sorellina,” he said. “We must face the slander in its entirety, we must know what is being said against us and our family in order to respond properly. I call into question our response, and I will merely subsume to what the both of you demand. Do we deny it, do we confront Orsini for his slander upon our blood, demand reparations, or are his lies so beneath us that they merit no response?” Francesco, truly, was beyond his know-how. “I am certain that Piero will stand strong with us when he arrives. For now…” He looked to Giulio now for guidance. The eldest of the three. Helpless as they were, Giulio always knew what to do. “What must we do?”

@antiquatus​

while the twins embraced, giulio held them but for a moment before he extricated himself from their touch.  (  dare he say it almost feels like intruding ?  )  instead, he chooses to spend the time to pace about, walking in circles, as if by doing the same thing over and over again, he might find his answers. it is a strange expectation, heavy and burdensome, that his siblings have given him: what to do now ?  what is their plan ?  did they think he knew the answer to everything ?    (  an errant thought: was this not how he portrayed himself to them ?  and now he reaps his harvest.  )  all the murmurs made him restless, his hands fidgeting, wrapping them together around themselves almost as if clasped in desperate prayer. nails scratch the back of his hands almost as if to remind himself he’s still here, that this isn’t some horrible dream he’d fallen into.   ❛  francesco speaks truly,  ❜  he says.   ❛  we shan’t hide.  ❜  he releases his hands and clutches the wood of the pew, almost as if to ground himself, his eyes set carefully downwards, as if he himself is ashamed that he would be saying this next words; yet it is only to hide the fact that, for all intents and purposes, he does not feel at all guilty about what he is going to say next, and he fears their condemnation if ever they see such ruthlessness in his eyes.

❛  this man, this julius orsini,  ❜  he spits the name out like venom—and by God and all His angels in Heaven, did his mother fucking name him after her lover ?—and it’s clear how clearly he esteems  (  or not at all  )  the soldier for Christ that would call him son.   ❛  the solution for him is simple: since he slanders our blood, is it not righteous and just that he pay for it with his ?  after all, the Bible says:  percussus sum ut foenum, et aruit cor meum, quia oblitus sum comedere panem meum.  ❜  a slow exhale, before giulio then tips his head up, and it is almost as if he is not suggesting murder most foul at all.  ❛  he is a pest,  ❜  giulio says,  ❛  and we do not suffer such annoyances to live.  ❜    //  @giovannamedici​