AND SO, ANOTHER REASON TO LIE

my father is a sadist and i am my father’s son. i learned it well. do i have the stomach for it? do you really want to know? [...] THEODOROS PALAIOLOGOS ––––– DEATH-TOUCHED, DEATH-BELOVED, DEATH-DREAMER

[basileuspalaiologos]

welcome THEODORE PALAIOLOGOS. you hail from BYZANTIUM and have been risen to the position of an EMPEROR. you are a member of the house of PALAIOLOGOS and will go down in history as the DOOMSAYER. though you are MACHIEVALLIAN & INSATIABLE, you are blessed with being ERUDITE and GREGARIOUS.

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━━ BASIC INFO.

NAME:  theodoros  NICKNAME:  theodore,  theo  AGE:  thirty-five  PLACE OF BIRTH:  palace  of  blachernae,  constantinople  IMPERIUM:  byzantium  GENDER:  cisgender  man  PRONOUNS:  he/him  ORIENTATION:  homosexual  RELIGION:  greek  orthodox,  somewhat  of  a  mystic  PARENTS:  konstantinos  &  helena  SIBLINGS  andronikos,  sophia  LANGUAGES:  greek,  latin,  arabic,  french  (  fluent  )    italian,  german,  farsi  (  conversational  )    english,  mandarin  (  learning  )  EDUCATION:  private  tutoring  with  the  professors  of  the  pandidakterion  TITLE:  basileus  rhomaíōn,  see  also:  autokrator,  kyrios,  despotes  INTERESTS:  theology,  philosophy,  wargames,  mathematics,  alchemy  HOBBIES:  reading,  writing,  horseriding,  going on long walks  LABEL  the  doomsayer

━━ PERSONALITY.

mbti. infj-t  enneagram. 1w2,  the  activist  instinct. sp/sx  character inspo. rhaegar targaryen,  a  song  of  ice  and  fire  /  kendall  roy,  succession  /  paul  atreides,  dune  /  hektor,  the  iliad  /  rodion  raskolnikov,  crime  and  punishment

erudite,  gregarious,  perceptive,  dutiful

machievellian,  insatiable,  melancholic,  secretive

━━ SNAPSHOT.

character  study  HERE

known  most  everywhere    as  the  emperor  of  a  kingdom  yet  to  realise  it  has  already  fallen,    the  basileus  of  the  roman  empire  is  a  man  out  of  time.    the  clock  is  running  down  on  him  and  his  empire,    and  yet  he    (    poor  fool  that  he  is!    )    tries  to  save  the  imperium  that  was  his  birthright.    charming  and  conciliatory,    he  has  made  great  strides  in  establishing  links  towards  the  successor  kingdoms  of  his  empire’s  former  western  half    —    setting  aside  orthodox  pride  over  the  great  schism  if  only  to  stave  off  the  bleeding  of  byzantium.    one  might  almost  be  tempted  to  ask  what  the  basileus  might  sell  off  next,    if  only  to  further  exact  an  assurance  for  the  salvation  of  his  people. 

in  truth,    the  basileus  might  have  been  a  man  better  suited  for  the  monastery  than  the  rooms  encrusted  with  porphyry.    as  a  child,    he  always  had  his  nose  stuck  in  some  crumbling  tome,    his  mouth  always  firing  off  incessant  questions  to  counfound  the  philosophers  who  would  claim  their  didactic  lineage  all  the  way  to  aristotle.    yet  his  perception  also  gave  rise  to  a  profound  insight  when  he  was  young:    he  was  the  inheritor  of  a  kingdom  about  to  die,    and  this  changed  him  greatly.    he  could  never  be  the  sort  of  warrior  that  would  stem  the  ottoman  tide,    but  there  is  one  thing  he  can  do,  and  that  is  to  shift  his  focus  from  the  finer  intricacies  of  the  celestial  hierarchies  to  the  far  more  material  hierarchies  of  this  earth    —    a  change  that  he  still  grieves  for  in  his  heart.

━━ TIMELINE.

1397.  theodoros is born.

1398.  his brother,  andronikos,  is born.

1403.  his sister,  sophia,  is born.

1432.  he arrives at the court of king charles of france.

━━ PLOTS.

possible  betrothal  connections,    prior  overtures  he’s  made,    trading  contracts  he’s  in  the  process  of  securing,    religious  brethren  he’s  trying  to  mend  the  schism  for,    etcetc    —    is  it  obvious  i  forgot  to  write  this  part  and  just  put  it  in  haphazardly  at  the  last  minute  upon  noticing  my  lapse?

[warriorprincesstramp]

they should invent a life that is liveable and a sleep that comes easy and a winter that doesn't feel like decay and a spring that doesn't feel like the past and a head that doesn't hurt and a heart that doesn't sit in your chest like a rock and a body that doesn't hate you and a hometown that doesn't make you lose your mind and a university that won't kill you they should invent a me that is normal I think that would be really neat. ok good night I love you

[writeswiftly]

When the invitation arrived, gilded as though she were being asked to attend a grand soiree, Isabel had not known what to think – teatime in Scotland conferred far less distinction than such a beautifully-crafted letter implied. Perhaps the custom was different and more formal elsewhere, or perhaps the Emperor was simply accustomed to such fine lettering. Unsure, Isabel erred on the side of caution, outfitting herself in a gown that – if a little too fine for everyday wear – could hopefully pass for appropriate in either scenario. She could not afford to embarrass herself when an olive branch had been extended – Scotland needed allies, friends it could rely on if (and inevitably when) trouble began anew with the English. 

“Your Imperial Majesty,” she returned his greeting with practiced grace, years of etiquette lessons automatically pulling her into a perfect curtsy. Her hands joined politely upon her waist as she rose to follow him into the room, listening carefully as he spoke, pleasantries flowing like a well-practiced poetry recitation, each word carefully selected and delivered with the greatest care. Isabel wondered vaguely if they were rehearsed lines or if he was so naturally inclined to charm. Whatever the case, it seemed to signal good will, and for that, warmth flooded the tone of her voice when she next spoke, courtly manners softening into a brief display of genuine appreciation. 

“You are too kind. I assure you, I have been looking forward to this meeting just as eagerly. I have heard many tales of Byzantium and its noble ruler.” She offered him a smile, meaning the words: “I hope you do not mind questions. I have rarely had the opportunity to leave Scotland’s shores, and all I know of the Mediterranean has come from portraiture and books, all of which make it appear quite an ancient and lovely place.”

[basileuspalaiologos]

his  own  honeyed  words  are  met  similarly  with  that  of  her  own,    proving    —    although  theodoros  has  not  needed  convincing  —    that  she  is  every  inch  the  sister  of  a  king,    her  bearing  utterly  without  fault.    he  meets  her  smile  with  the  widening  of  his  own.    practised  hands  offer  her  the  chair,    as  a  gentleman  might,    even  bowing  to  her  as  she  glides  along  his  vision.    the  components  for  a  picturesque  tea  ceremony  has  already  been  laid  out  on  the  table,  and  theodoros  has  made  sure  to  inform  —  twice,  three  times  —  all  his  servants  that  he  is  not  to  be  disturbed  for  the  duration  of  this  meeting.    he  can  do  this,    he  told  them,    himself,    all  on  his  own. ❛    i  hope  that  i  prove  myself  worthy  of  your  eagerness,    ❜    he  responds  with  a  rather  noticeable  verve  in  his  voice,    finally  moving  to  his  own  seat.    he  unwraps  the  finely-packaged  batch  of  tea  leaves,    only  recently  brought  from  one  of  the  merchants  who  courted  foreign  coin.    he  has  interrogated  the  seller  extensively  about  the  preparation  of  it,    not  only  for  curiosity’s  sake  but  for  this  very  reason  right  here:    to  make  a  positive  impression,    to  prove  himself  capable,    learned,    proficient.      he  scatters  some  leaves  first  in  her  cup,    and  only  then  his  own,    before  taking  the  pot  of  still  steaming  hot  water  and  pouring  it  over  the  leaves.    ❛    though  you  must  forgive  me  if  i  shall  attempt  to  match  it  with  my  own  curiosity  to  spar  with,    ❜    he  says,    his  tone  light  and  airy,    the  remark  almost  punctuated  with  the  ghost  of  a  chuckle.    ❛    the  land  is  ancient,    true,    ❜    theodoros  concedes,    ❛    with  all  the  history  that  comes  with  empire    —    yet  i  am  more  than  certain  that  the  same  can  be  said  of  your  own  scottish  demesne.    ❜    he  positions  his  cup  so  that  the  handle  is  better  suited  for  his  position,    waiting  for  her  to  take  a  sip  before  he  takes  his  own.    ❛    i  should  very  much  like  to  tempt  you,    then,    with  an  offer,    ❜    he  says,    almost  an  afterthought    —    even  as  it  is  the  very  crux  of  this  here  meeting.    ❛    a  question  for  a  question,    and  an  answer  for  an  answer.    that  way,    our  respective  curiosities  can  be  sated,    and  we  can  declare  this  whole  afternoon  a  very  productive  meeting  indeed.    ❜

[basileuspalaiologos]

. · . · . · : * ¨ ༺  with  @isabelofscots  at   the   byzantine   apartments   of   hôtel   saint-pol

there’s  a  name  for  it,    this  thrumming  of  the  pulse,    this  hummingbird’s  beating,    a  wreck’d  tendency  borne  of  a  jittery  excitement,    the  kind  that  won’t  let  up  no  matter  how  hard  he  tries:    and  he  does  try  —    to  the  point,    it  might  seem,    does  feel,    of  senselessness.    more  open  wound  than  man,    he’s  never  made  a  point  of  poking  at  the  rawness  of  it  all,    content  to  put  a  patch  over  it  and  move  on.    too  many  things  to  do,    to  bother  himself  about,    to  think:    like  the  fact,    for  example,    of  how  he  must  ensure  that  the  granaries  be  filled,    the  harvest  of  the  past  year    (    and,    his  mind  will  think  bitterly,    all  the  years  before  that    )    ruined  by  war’s  ceaseless  insistence  upon  itself.    the  material  concerns  of  this  world,    he  reminds  himself,    will  always  trump  the  personal.    ———    &&    that  is  why  his  hands,    still  freshly  inked  from  writing  missives,    must  now  clean  themselves  up  for  afternoon  tea.    a  quaint  ceremony,    perhaps  for  a  quaint  people,    but  theodoros  could  see  the  advantages    —    always,    forever,    thinking:    how  does  this  advantage  imperium?    —    in  that  it  offers  all  the  parties  involved  an  opportunity  for  frank  conversation. it’s  certainly  why  he  ensured  that  she  would  be  amenable  to  accepting  his  invitation,    more  pomp  and  circumstances  than  the  actual  circumstance  might  require,    but  he  wanted  to  make  an  impression.    a  positive  one,    at  least,    but  now  here  he  is  thinking    did  i  overdo  it.    no  question  mark.    just  the  flat  horror  of  realising  one  might  have  made  a  spectacle  out  of  oneself.    no  question  about  it.    heart  beating  like  a  hummingbird’s  wings:    he’s  doing  this,    he  tells  himself,      because  he  must  ensure  the  granaries  remain  full. he  opens  the  door,    smiles  ever  so  brightly,    thinks  about  the  sun  hitting  the  bosporus  just  so,    in  the  rare  moments  where  he  allows  himself  to  take  it  all  in.    so  he  does.    he  takes  this  in:    the  image  of  her  face,    the  king  of  scotland’s  very  sister,    standing  before  him,    resplendent  like  the  most  seraphic  revelation.    ❛    your  royal  highness,    ❜    he  greets,    betraying  nothing  of  his  former  thoughts.    ❛    i  might  have  sent  a  retinue  for  you,    ❜    he  adds,    ❛    but  i  feared  overstepping  and  wished  not  to  insult  your  own  servants  by  ill-made  assumptions.    ❜    he  leads  her  in  with  a  flourish  of  his  arm.    ❛    do  come  in,    ❜    he  continues,    ❛    i  must  confess  how  much  i  looked  forward  to  this  meeting  and  of  making  your  doubtlessly  most  charming  acquaintance.    ❜

[doomsayings]

There's a mystery in my crouching here like a beast of prey, flesh gripped by hunger. It's completely absurd: "Is God an animal I'd like to tear apart?" ...But I'm sicker than that. My hunger holds no interest for me. Rather than eat, my desire is to be eaten.

Georges Bataille, Guilty

And there God is waiting to eat him. Later he will go out again, but he will be changed, he will have become different, after being eaten and digested by God.

Simone Weil, Waiting for God