GROUPIE / 𝑳𝑶𝑽𝑬.

𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘢𝘮 𝘳𝘦𝘹. 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘶𝘴 𝘤𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘰.

[boleynsrex]

𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐀𝐌 𝐑𝐄𝐗 –– ( my conscience hath a thousand several tongues, and every tongue brings in a several tale, and every tale condemns me for a villain. )

intro « penned by di, 21+, discord available upon request !

[ladymegwelles]

& @boleynsrex

Marguerite Welles was in full bloom.

The gaiety and splendor of the evening seemed to have opened her shell completely, launching the usually quite reserved and proper young lady into the depths of spontaneity, and numerous courtiers would remark that such joy suited her. Her costume, more revealing than she had ever dared (though still not able to hold a candle to those of more scandalous ladies at Hampton, English or French), transformed her from a lady in service to the princess to one in her own right, for Cyrene was beloved by her people for her tenacity and loyalty. Meg found every aspect of the evening enchanting, from the eyes focused solely on her as she performed to the sweets rotating through the crowd, from the laughter echoing off of the Great Hall's high ceilings to the sight of lovers embracing tenderly out in the open - for the Greeks did value lust and love as much as the French, did they not?

The king seemed equally enthralled by it all, interacting with members of his court with a grin that seemed to transform his entire countenance - and why should he not? Did this night not declare him the most enviable prince in Christendom, to have a palace filled to the brim with charm, elegance, and prosperity? Emboldened by a bit too much wine and excitement, Meg approached the king as he sat upon a throne decorated to befit a Greek god; she curtsied low, then rose and extended her hand, eyes dancing with merriment. "Will you do me the honor of a dance, Lord Apollo? I should think you must."

[boleynsrex]

Apollo stood tall and radiant, eyes scanning the throngs of courtiers – not, in costume, his subjects, though few among him would mistake this lofty, lusty, treasure-chest of a figure for anyone but their King. His jaw chiseled by the brandishing of a torch, wisps of curled, copper strands lit at the edge like strands of fire, he bore his namesake’s bow in his hand, itself sumptuously forged from gold and white string.  As William looked out to the crowd, his gaze steady and unwavering, his presence commanded the respect a new sovereign such as he so ardently desired; high hopes for an already triumphant evening glowing around him in a heavenly aura.  Yet though his lips and eyes were smiling, for a moment the King appeared drowned in reflection, lending credence to the rumours of Percy’s banishment – the gradual descent of his lips submerged into another goblet of wine. 

From William’s vantage upon the throne, draped in a velvet canopy and seated on high, he could see everything: the goggles of wonder and delight, unfocused figures pirouetting across the floor, the precious jewels shining brightly atop their heads, bathed in sweat as much as gems, a riot of colour and passion – as was the King’s pleasure.  William cast neither a shadow of grimness or wrath over the crowd, as his father had done; but rather filled the air with the eagerness of a young man, replenishing the wine in his veins before joining his subjects in their Grecian festivities.  His lips then quirked as he received Meg, bowing before the dais, affording him the quickest of glances at her chest as she dipped; her paper-thin gown leaving nothing to the imagination.  ‘Damocrateia, is it?’  He asked, then raising to his feet.  ‘I take it back.  You are Cyrene – I see that now.  A princess, and a fierce huntress.'

Extending his hand, he waited for Meg to place her palm over his before enclosing her thin wrist in his grasp, eyes flashing mischievously. ‘Tell me. Does that make me your prey?'

[unconqucred]

the  retinue  that  had  been  deployed  to  florence  returned  to  english  shores  and  to  the  gates  of  hampton  court  palace  under  the  covert  cloak  of  night.  when  the  trio  of  councilmen  went  down  one  hallway  towards  the  inner  sanctum,  sibella  diverted  with  bowed  head  towards  her  family's  apartments.  edmund  and  isobel  were  nowhere  to  be  seen.  much  to  her  surprise,  slumber  came  effortlessly  despite  the  damning  intelligence  occupying  her  thoughts.  in  the  morning  she  would  resume  the  routine  she'd  swiftly  left  upon  receiving  her  summons.  once  more  she  would  braid  her  hair  and  don  her  hoods,  and  carry  on  as  if  her  mind  were  not  pregnant  with  a  multitude  of  emotions.

she  took  her  place  amongst  the  wildflowers,  her  back  turned  when  she  felt  a  hand  upon  her  arm.  upon  sight  of  the  tudor  auburn  tresses  she  descended  into  a  curtsy,  percian  blue  eyes  bewildered  that  her  king  desired  his  attention.  had  he  mistaken  her  brunette  tresses  for  that  of  her  sister?  no—  it  couldn't  be,  for  she  too  was  familiar  with  commiting  to  memory  every  part  of  one's  dearest.  if  his  majesty  cared  enough  to  gift  isobel  the  locket  that  hung  between  her  collarbones,  surely  he  would  know  the  back  of  her  head  from  across  the  room.  and  thus  it  was  confirmed  to  sibella  that  it  was  she  that  he  sought.  i'm  well?  was  illlness  the  excuse  concocted  for  my  absence?  very  well.  lithe  fingers  reached  to  her  chest,  where  her  malady  might  have  been.  "i  thank  god  that  he  saw  to  it  that  i  may  see  my  family's  safe  return  to  dover  and  the  welcome  of  the  spanish  to  your  blessed  court."  she  offers  a  solemn  nod  to  his  request,  her  eyes  angled  towards  the  nearby  passageway  to  clandestiny.

[boleynsrex]

The lady proving herself acquiescent to his request, William leveled Sibella with a regal, wordless nod, the easy apathy splayed across his countenance indicating to no one the intimate parley that was to follow.  With the hand still lightly resting on her elbow, the King steered her in the direction of the large, oak doors, manned by a pair of sentinels adorned in rich livery, pried open at the sight of the sovereign approaching.  Once out of sight, William dropped his hand from his arm – allowing distance to form a healthy cleft between himself and Ned’s sister.  A wholesome shift, of course, from his procedures with the elder Percy girl.  ‘I did not intend to tear you away from your luncheon.  I found the atmosphere too stifling for us to speak freely.  Are you still hungry?’  He asked, tossing Sibella a sidelong glance.  The girl was tall enough that he could amble with long, confident strides – fingers flexing at his thighs with otherwise-veiled anticipation.  ‘You may speak freely with me, Sibella.  In your travels, you are my superior; and in gratitude for your service and truth, I am your humble servant.  You need only tell me what you desire in turn.’

[thladyofshalott]

As the night erupted with good cheer and the display of many perfected skills by the hands of the beautiful ladies of court, Jane remained hidden behind the cousins of her Dudley kin. In lappings of ivory, her eyelashes flush against the veil that seemed woven into her butter blonde hair, Jane cradled her patience with modesty, the gentle hazel of her gaze flickering from the ground to the passing monument of the King, who presented himself as the grand Sun God of Apollo — his look alone leaving all to stare with gaping mouths, as if history itself was taking place before them beneath the roof of Hampton Court. Jane, who had never seen someone so grand, could not help but steal glances towards the crown in the same way a sinful man could not avoid the temptation of something desired. Piercing the soft skin of her hands with crescent moons from her nails, Jane tried to look away, as if to tear herself from the King in order to look instead to her cousins who all seemed so decadent as Amphitrite, Poseidon and Selene. 

The other men, who were lounging with glee to be entertained by the ladies of Grecian luxury, had remarked upon the lady woven in white — whispering then to the King, that she seemed to look at no one else but he. @boleynsrex

[boleynsrex]

The King was in high spirits, the pallor of cheeks infused with high colour; flanked by a pair of slanted, sulky lips, and a concentrated gaze, knifing across the crowd, reflecting in his black-Boleyn irises the spouting of the torches, the jewels and gems splashed into the hair of silk-garbed maidens.  Touching the cool rim of his chalice to his mouth, William flashes a smile over it, nodding encouragingly to one gentleman, Sir Thomas Dymoke, flapping around a lady’s skirts, begging the King’s approval.  He bequeaths it with hearty cheer, the Percy fiasco suddenly forgotten, his bubbling blood tempered with sweet wine and sweetmeats – devoured in typical Henrician abundance. 

William swilled the rest of his wine in one swift wash, droplets of it staining the cream of his shift, like bubbles of blood, dapples of rubies.  Treading the shadowed perimeters of the Great Hall to make his way – discreetly – to the smorgasbord, he helped himself to another lusty cup: one too many for mortal men, but an ideal amount for a King, keeping him in good cheer, amenable to the flattery of his court.  Turning his gaze to the side, and finding another lingering in the shroud of darkness, he shoots the lady a puzzled glance – followed by a grin – as he assesses the butter-gold of her hair, the doe-eyed gaze stamped into her round-face, the jewel-edged cut of her gown, skimming along her creamy bossom.  At his side, the King’s cup-bearer satisfies his apparent curiosity in hushed, subservient tones.  ‘Jane Dudley, sir.  Her father owns half of Warwickshire; the other by her husband.’  

Will’s copper brows rose, his interest piqued.  ‘Ah.  Will you have some wine, Mistress Jane?’  As he spoke, his tongue swished with the scent, the ease, of the drink.

[boleynsrex]

'WILLIAM REX' by DIANA WALES

[bookishblogging]

A P O L L O

“Apollo, of you even the swan sings with clear voice to the beating of his wings, as he alights upon the bank by the eddying river Peneios; and of you the sweet-tongued minstrel, holding his high-pitched lyre, always sings both first and last. And so hail to you lord! I seek your favour with my song.”

- Homeric Hymn 21 to Apollo

[boleynsrex]

'At the pageant, the King enters in full regalia – however, we are told by witnesses of the splendid event that as the night progressed, the riotous crowd, along with His Majesty's more mischievous friends, gradually picked each of the precious gems and layers of crimson velvet from the King's well-proportioned body. By the end of the evening, he was left wearing only a pair of trousers and an open linen shirt, exposing his marble-white chest and upper shoulders to the flickering yellow light of the braziers. Wills and his sister, Princess Elizabeth, tactfully embodied the roles of Apollo and Artemis, the divine twins delivered of Leto and Zeus; his attire cinched with Apollo's gilded lyre, bow, and a laurel wreath around his copper head (which one of the mistresses in the audience pilfered as a souvenir, half-way through the pageant, a fragment of which now belongs to the Royal Trust). A contemporary Spanish chronicler – by birth and circumstance opposed to the reign of the Boleyns – present at court at the time of the pageant rather scurrilously remarked that at half past two in the morning, the very shirtless King William III was observed breaking a timely retreat to his chambers with an unknown woman – though the veracity of such a claim has been since challenged by historians, the chronicler did acknowledge that the King 'verily and handsomely embodied the muscular build of his deity, and to behold him glide across the floor was the most exquisite spectacle in all of Christendom.'

– Tracy Borman, 'The Private Lives of the Tudors: Uncovering the Secrets of Britain's Greatest Dynasty'.

[richardofrochford]

@boleynsrex , hampton court tennis court.

It was a rare thing that anyone might have time alone - or at least its approximation - with the King of England, without the watchful eye of courtiers. It was a luxury few could afford, and Richard knew well that he must count himself as extraordinarily lucky to have it. Their shared blood was a boon in this regard, a fact which had created a closeness between them since they were just boys, sharing lessons and hobbies. Tennis was among them, a sport in which they both had much skill, shared competitive streaks brought to life.

"Well fought!" He cried with a breathless laugh as their latest game came to its end, William its victor. "Next time, I will best you. I guarantee it." Dabbing some sweat from his forehead, he took a moment to just survey the King. "You seem in a good mood," he chanced, swaggering closer to the net. "Pray tell, is it merely your great diplomatic victory that has pleased you, or have you found some personal form of joy? The former is a glad thing, to be sure, but it would be a joy to see you finding some pleasure as a brother, as well as upon your throne."

[boleynsrex]

It brought the King, so often invigorated by such a conquest, whether vanquished by fair means or foul, no great surge of pleasure to prevail over Richard’s athletic prowess.  With a sweat-slick grip upon his racket, Wills’ ball had sprung over the net, soared past Richard’s shoulder, and bounced against the nearest wall, causing the lords and ladies seated in the netted observatory to ripple with a round of well-timed claps, brandishing their favours at the passing figure of their King.  ‘A rest, my lord, a rest,’ the King bade, a far cry from the sovereign whose joyfulness was like music to the ears of his subject; his charisma and magnetism likened to a sun shining amongst lesser lights.  With long strides, he joined Richard by the side of the net, panting with exertion. ‘Then I am a worthier actor than I give myself credit for, cousin.’

Slapping a counterfeit grin on his face – soon to descend into a glower of malaise – Wills realized with a start that he had no desire to tell Richard, his confidante and kinsman, of what had transpired with Percy – though it was unlikely Rochford had not already overheard the news.  He trusted no one now; for there was no one, save for his very mother, that he could not suspect above betrayal and treason.  ‘Dover is too near to be considered a victory,’  Wills countered, echoing the advice of his council as he dragged a cloth over his face. ‘Mary may rally an army of support yet – what with her constant hacking and pitiful eyes.  I daresay, cousin, I would sooner will all Spaniards to the depths of the sea than to acknowledge her as our father’s rightful daughter.  She is weak, like her mother.’  The King’s eyes scanned the crowds, too far to overhear his venomous words but near enough that his gaze could alight on the pretty, virginal faces blushing amongst the pews – though even this failed to summon ecstasy in him.  ‘I have had enough, I think, of the game.  I’m famished, are you?’

[edmcndd]

the draft nearly sent a shiver down edmund's spine, and he was far too aware of the eyes of james cecil on him, the old man had never been truly a threat to edmund's person - for he was far less intimidating at times then walsingham, and he'd been pleasant with edmund on the few meetings that he had attended thus far as a council member. yet, edmund knew that he was treading a dangerous line, one that a lesser man would lose his neck over - one that john seymour would certainly not survive if he'd come to stand in this same position. " i fear that i do not jest, my heart has been claimed and i am a man, anew," he paused, swallowing thickly as he felt the weight of the rest of their audience. " i wed katharine brandon, yesterday. when the sun was low in the sky, i bound our souls together in your name," he announced, voice loud and proud as he stared at william, eyes full of a genuine sort of desperation. searching for that loved that they shared, for forgiveness that he needed. " i did not desire to wait a moment to inform you, brother, i would've rode as soon as it was done if the storm had not kept me away."

[boleynsrex]

Katharine Brandon.  That frail old woman’s very name launched a cannon to the King’s gut, blinding him with white-hot, tingling fury as its shrapnel flickered and seared across his skin.  Ned, his own kinsman, would dare to marry a woman of royal blood without his King – his friend’s – blessing?  Damn him.  He knew well that William would never sanction such a union; not one that inched the Greys ever closer to the throne, and certainly not one that robbed the crown of Ned’s valuable bachelorhood, a trump-card to be used in the baiting of noble treaties.  ‘I gave you no permission to marry that woman, Percy.’  Lifting to his feet with movements deceptively leisurely, Wills’ measured gaze raked over the lord.  ‘Nor would I ever.  You have sinned against me, Percy.’  Ned’s utterance, splintering through the deafening silence, wiped Wills' countenance clear of its sardonic calm. Rage billowed about him; his voice rising, shaking with betrayal. ‘I am your LORD AND MASTER, not your BROTHER.' Then, in a solemn, steady voice, he declared: 'worse than a bastard – you are a traitor, Edmund Percy, like your father and your aunt before you. Leave us.’

[edmcndd]

it was an odd sensation for edmund to be approaching william so formally, awaiting his audience as if he was another measly little lord, come to beg and plead at the king's feet for a scrap of land or permission to wed his daughter to another lord's maiden. as if they had not mere weeks before laughed together as edmund made jests of them, whispering mirthfully in william's ear, sitting on a delicate but significant  metaphorical throne that granted him safety typically from any wrath of his brother's. when he is called upon, the page announcing him by full title, edmund held in the cringe at the reminder that he was still an earl - something he sought to rectify once this had all come to pass. " my king," he greeted with a  full bow, entirely of pomp and parade, with a wide grin on his face, one that mimicked thoroughly the assumed expression that william gave him. this was why edmund had reassured katharine that her presence would not be needed, for they were brothers, edmund loved william as much as any man could love his kin, and there would be little anger held between the pair. " worry not, i bring you a far more tender sort of dispute, brother. i come to plead for your forgiveness, for i have been entrapped in some wayward woes of a racing heart, and have taken a bride shortly after our return from dover." 

[boleynsrex]

An ominous howl of wind rattled against the windowpanes, followed by a cool draft swirling around the room – the thought crossed his mind that Grandfather Henry had made it as dismal and comfortless as possible to dissuade petitioners before their turns came to sink beneath the throne, squires and pages and petty lords eager to pledge their loyalty to the Tudors.  William watched silently as Ned valiantly swept across the room, crossing the Turkish-carpets – a gift, from the French King – with elegant strides, the humble supplication to follow taking the King by surprise. ‘Ned.’  His brother’s name exuded his lips in a surprisingly quiet, clear breath.  ‘You jest, surely.’  But who was laughing?  A voice from within nagged.  Cupping his chin, the King sent a discreet glance in James Cecil’s direction – looming in the shadows, his chief statesman, who would perhaps politely remind him that Ned had never been lauded for extraordinary shrewdness – and swallowed hard, shaking away the rage inching within him as he coolly prompted,  ‘you act as if I should know this woman’s identity.  Some pretty virgin to line the mantelpiece, I suspect? Get out with it.’

[boleynsrex]

@edmcndd

Sunlight leaked through the grand velvet drapes of the Presence Chamber, infusing the oak-paneled space with a sort of scarlet glow, bewitchingly bathing Wills’ cheeks in the high-colour of rubies. Though splendidly furnished and warmed with an enormous hearth, the throne room – where, as the name implied, the King’s damask-padded throne was mounted on a risen dais – was one of his least favourite places to be, the world over. Indeed, he found the whole business of receiving his courtiers' woes wearying. With days neatly marked out by hours of prayer, feasting, preening, hunting, and the receiving of audiences, the minor inconveniences and serene hear-hears his subjects brought to him proved rather irksome than otherwise, a practice he sought to reform in the regnal years to come.

Following a lengthy, garrulous plea heard from Sir Tilney, the King felt a great urge for wine grip at him. As Ned Percy entered, lowering into a graceful bow before the throne, a servant pushed a cup into Wills’ palm, a wish fulfilled. ‘Lord Percy.’ Mildly surprised to see Ned prostrated before him – for he’d always encouraged the Earl to air his grievances in private company – Wills’ brows waggled tauntingly, expectantly. Had his friend come to rescue him from inertia, come to wrest him from this tedious affair and spar him on the tennis court? Teasingly, the King entreated, ‘what great calamities do you bring us, brother? Witches in Northumberland? Barbarians in Sussex? If forced to adjudge another land dispute, I'll die an early death.’ A wave of hollow laughter rippled amongst the vacant-eyed servants clustered around the King, standing like Norman towers beside each of his shoulders.

[ladymegwelles]

A delicate hand flew to her mouth when her latest attempt nearly maimed a fellow courtier, her cheeks flushing pink as they were wont to do when she found herself in an embarrassing situation...which seem to occur more often, these days, and in the presence of a select few whom she would rather not witness such events. She was about to abandon composure and shout an apology across the field to the man when the king approached, saving her from drawing more unwanted attention to her blunder. "I was aiming for the greenhouse," she said by way of an excuse, attempting to add her own small bit of humor to the situation. "Master Kingston was simply in the way."

In spite of herself, Meg's breath caught in her throat when William reached out to touch her; he seemed to have a new and unsettling effect on her of late, where one look or touch sent her mind into a tizzy. She could not help but smile in response, then caught her bottom lip between her teeth momentarily when he released her chin. He was in a fine mood, a far cry from the last time the pair shared a semi-private moment together, and Meg could not help but feel her own spirits lift in his company. A happy Tudor lit the world around them with favor and joy, and how Meg adored the lightness of the court when it was so. His gaze met hers again and she simply nodded, her body instinctively tensing at the close contact between them. He pointed this out, of course, and Meg made a conscious effort to relax her shoulders and neck, then her arms. "I fear archery is simply not destined to be my strong suit," she commented with a wry expression. "That is all well and good, I suppose...I don't intend to wound any creature, human or animal. Not on purpose, at the very least." She glanced back over her shoulder at him then, waiting for his instruction. "If you turn me into a master archer, Your Majesty, you should receive a special commendation."

[boleynsrex]

‘Was he now?’  William teased, laughter husking from his lips as he took stock of Meg, her rosy cheeks blooming beside the lushness of the lawns, shafts of wintry sunlight streaking across her gaze, making them shimmer like shallow forest pools.  The King’s lips quirked into a grin as he scanned her fair countenance; pleased, as it were, by any vestige of beauty in his court, particularly that which stood so near to him, near enough for the scent of jasmine and oil dappled on her throat to float in his direction.  In recent months, Meg had proven herself a breath of fresh air, a companion of ease, light, and, so his shadows whispered to him, blessed with a certain loveliness that did not go unsung at court.  Though nothing more than brotherly affection had yet risen in William towards her, he felt a certain responsibility to protect the honour his mother had spent years cultivating in young Meg.  ‘I wouldn’t worry.  Kingston’ll be pleased to hear I’ve found him a more permanent post in Brussels – not that he wouldn’t enjoy being your personal target.’

His brow then furrowed, a disapproving wag of his copper head.  ‘Nonsense.  You’ve got the finest mentor in all of England now. By the time I’m done with you, you’ll be warring young Dudley for command of my armies.’  Smirking, the King’s long, lean fingers eagerly sought Meg’s bow, archery being one of his chief pastimes (besides, of course, ogling the lovely women of his court).  ‘Ready?’  He entreated, gesturing for Meg to take her stance.  Then, positioned before the target, and with one hand cusping Meg’s elbow, Wills drew her arm earthbound so that the bow was nearly level with the crook of her lips.  Feeling light resistance on her end, he instructed lowly: ‘use your mouth as an anchor.’

As his eyes honed onto her pout – her lush lips parted slightly, her breath exuded in gentle pants – Wills endured the lady’s proximity with slow, steady blinks.  ‘Touch it against your lips.  Relax.  It won’t cut you – good.  And now…’  Dragging his hand excruciatingly slow along her other arm, he steadied her; one large hand cupping her shoulder, smoothing over the tangled ribbons of her sleeve.  ‘Release.’

[boleynsrex]

a compilation of songs intended to be a character evaluation of william rex, through the lenses of artists and songs (–– i think) william would actually listen to in a modern verse (though the taylor songs are a bit of a stretch).

[perioddramasource]

RUAIRI O'CONNOR 1.03 — The Spanish Princess

[boleynsrex]

@unconqucred

The King’s spies had returned from Florence with the warm winds, gusts that swept over the harbour and lifted the velvet waves into peaks and troughs, William’s leonine banners snapping above the tide.  Tho’ the evening witnessed a heated convening between the King and his triad of counselors, there was still the matter of the Percy woman (one of two to lurk in his thoughts) William sought to tackle.  What, if anything, could the lady impart that his advisers had stealthily omitted from their conclave?  Catching sight of her – those brocaded, conical skirts swaying by the periphery of the banquet, hooded head bent over the array of pomegranates entwined with sugared Tudor roses – William nodded and stalked in Sibella’s direction, a hand ghosting at her arm to gain her attention.

 ‘Mademoiselle Percy.’  His lips quirked into a well-intentioned smile, scanning her face for an ounce of surprise to be sought by the King.  But while those around her may have caught wind that the lady had retired from court on account of indisposition, William knew another reason to be true: she had been his convert intelligencer, the Florentine sun bathing her skin in the ecru gold of health.  ‘I am glad to see your face back at court, and thank God above that you’re well.  A word – in private – if will do me the honour, my lady?’

[boleynsrex]

@felipaed

The badges of the Habsburgs and Tudors welded together, the copper-tressed English King to one side, hands clasped, eyes swirling with gilded intensity; the Spanish prince on the other, a hawk at the wrist, dripping in Iberian jewels; above, a band of heavenly angels singing in choir, rising into a background blue-as-blue – the colour of the carpets stretched along Westminster Abbey.  William feasted his gaze upon the double-portrait, depicting himself and his young nephew, Prince Philip, as the very picture of Renaissance glory, and gave a triumphant nod.  The painting commemorated not only their individual strengths – two rulers at the height of physical vigour – but the successful summit convened at blustery Dover, this blessed November 1559. 

In centuries to come, would their descendants gaze upon such a work of brilliance and wonder if it were possible for two such princes to have walked the Earth in unison?  Was their world not indeed a splendid Camelot, now united in filial harmony?

William grinned to himself, his leer conspiratorial.  The wounds his father had sliced across the continent were beginning to seam and sure and cauterize; all of it thanks to him.  Who would have suspected only five years’ past that Spain was rapidly becoming more ally than adversary?  Tho’ it was war and immortality he desired, peace and prosperity had begun to trickle across the length and breadth of England to the sound of overwhelming popularity – and this he would but seldom object, for though he embraced it now, the time for battle remained ever near, a devil lurking in the shadows. Turning to his nephew, the King lauded: ‘aye, your mother’s Leevina Teerlinc is indeed a maestro, young Philip.’ Bading the Prince with affection, the Spaniard’s eyes like fiery pits, Wills released a low chuckle. ‘But do you not think our noses are a little… grand?’ 

As he clasped the boy on his shoulders, his cheeks bloomed pink – for all his venery, the King of England was a pious man, after all. ‘Or is that merely the continent’s way of symbolizing a large… ah… apéndice? Flattering, I should think.’

[fitzrxyal]

closed starter for @boleynsrex

it was hard to find a moment alone with william. the court was eventful, and the responsibilities of the crown were many. the whole court orbited around the king, all it’s many members eager for his attention. nel had spent her whole childhood with william the prince’s affection, and she held william the king’s favour, but all the favour in the world could not buy back the simplicity of their younger years. they were not children anymore, and nel could hardly expect him to give her the kind of time she had once enjoyed.

nel had not expected to speak with him privately at all during their stay at dover, the ongoing political situation surely too all encompassing for him to have time for her. and yet when she found him up on the curtain wall he gestured for her to stay, and she knew that he was not quite william the king in this moment. he was only william her brother, the man who happened to be king.

[boleynsrex]

It was not difficult to spot Elinor Fitzroy in the crowd.  She bore the King’s same red-gold hair, rosy complexion, and the aristocratic aura that misted the air around her, the trappings of royalty pouring out from her lithe frame.  Only where his blood had thrusted him unto the throne – that half-Boleyn, half-Tudor beast of mythology – Nel’s pumped with long-forgotten illegitimacy.  It made her no less dear, certainly, but nor did her pride of place at court bode well with the counselors who sought to eviscerate potential threats to the throne from England's sodden shores; Elinor, however, happened to lurk openly, and with demonstrated loyalty to the crown resting on Wills' russet head evaded suspicions of traitorous ambition. 

In any event, Wills was fond of Elinor, his niece more a sister to him than any number of his numerous courtly relatives – it did not hurt her case that the physical similarities between the two proved so unutterably striking.

Swishing a glug of wine in his mouth, his lips and teeth washed in deep claret, William nodded in Elinor’s direction, curt. 

His eyes were distracted by the crowd from which she had freshly emerged, twinkling beneath the whirling candelabras above, bathing the entire court in a tarnished-amber glow that reflected in Wills' dark gaze like flecks of gold. ‘Lady Elinor,’ the King bade lowly, studying the indecipherable expression etched across her countenance.  ‘Cat got your tongue, Nel? Speak, if you have something to say.’