sacred as honey

La douceur. Vibrant, spring-born & soon perennial. ❝––alas, our frailty is the cause, not we; for such as we are made of, such we be.

[camillasc]

french-louis:

“Oh?” His tone was riddled with curiosity and a hint of humour. His smile widened as he gently took Camilla by the arm, folding it neatly around his elbow. “I believe I may know of some of these instances, yet you rise so valiantly from them. Your endurance is admirable.” Befitting of a Queen, he had almost blurted out had he not quickly considered the greater implications of such a statement. He could not deny it though, the young woman would make an excellent Queen. 

The air was thick with anticipation, as though to inhale was to choke rather than feel replenished. Despite the isolation of the two, Louis always felt eyes upon him, watching and criticising his every move. It was not public knowledge that the French King did not intend war and many glared at him, noting the power he held in every stride- the power to plunge Europe back into war. It would be dishonest of Louis to deny how he relished such power, though he was determined not to use it. “Are you hungry, my lady? I can only imagine that after such a journey, you would care for something more delicious than what you were regrettably subjected to on the ship.”

She watched the words roll unto his lips, the lull of the syllables rustling between the king’s teeth. Entrancingly, she watched even those rows of white, sharp tokens, something from a chessboard or a statue, not the flesh world, as they clamped upon questions. She wondered if the other woman looked upon him so, was besotted so, compared him to Arthur and Alexander so. She wondered if such greatness could be lost to anyone, or go amiss. Did it not cower all these men here, with their balding patches and their paunch bellies? Did it not make them aware of the full force of their failures?

His constant measurement of their surroundings did not go beyond Camilla. She was not yet too lost in reverie d’amour not to notice his appraising, like his eyes were tailors, like the crowd was a cloth he must cut. At once, the realization of her true purpose her dawned upon the girl. They were in a foreign land, meant to smooth talk themselves out of the war path. Their circumstances emblazoned themselves with reality, as though before this moment she was still part of a play, and only now began to see above the curtain. She had been a sluggard, a foolish, overweening thing, to believe it would lead anywhere if she remained a distraction. No... what she desired required a toll heavier than giggles and blushes; it required understanding and gravity on her part, to acknowledge him as more than the object of her love, but as a being, autonomous, vulnerable and often dragged down by duties. “Senses such as hunger fade to the stern in these moments, Monseigneur.” The words were quiet, more meaning dripping into them than usual. She leaned closer to him, propped on his elbow like a hunting bird, with her own grace but her declared obeisance. “Your Highness, supper would be delightful, if you so desired. A private game, too. But I am at thy disposal for so much more. If sometime you need to speak things that no other man should catch sign of, I am here. Ever at your elbow.”

[camillasc]

luxsebastian:

It would be no great surprise, were he to know just how aligned their goals were, that Sebastian and Camilla could to-and-fro with such ease. It is strange, for they will likely never know of the symmetry of their plans. Sebastian knows that if– when– he is Archduke, he will accept it with surprise and sobriety. And he cannot speak for Camilla, but likely she would not brag to all and sundry, with a glistering crown atop her hair, of how she had deliberately clawed her way up the ranks. “Then of course you must call me Sebastian,” he grins, inclining his head towards her. “You’ve such a way with words; have you ever tried your hand at composing? I think that you would be marvellous,”

Immediately she feels more airy in the space of this tete a tete, as though they are building a conclave of insinuations independent from anything else. She glides to sit next to him, backline straight and lissom like a pinion, and squints her eyes mischievously. The mischief is jestful, but it alludes to their understanding, it alludes to what she has garnered from him. In the set lines, in the brow, in the very bones on which light glistened and covered, she saw le jeu. The game could not purport to be revealed, or even surmised, to those who were not already in it. It was more than flirting and less than conspiring, floating somewhere in the indefinite realm between treason and cardsharp... and it was beautiful. Yes: this scheming drained her youth, her present, and withered her future, but it was beautiful. And in Sebastian she saw the same reverence to the game. “Monsieur, but I compose myself everyday”, Camilla murmured, her lips half open, half swollen in a pout.

[camillasc]

ncbleleader:

“of course.” duty. alarik has heard this word plenty of times in his life – one could say it is engrained in his brain. he is bound to it, all through birthright, and it carves at him everyday ( taking pieces of his freedom as the path of becoming king looms over his head, waiting for the day to take him entirely ). still it is his destiny and alarik will let no one take that from him, especially his younger brother. “a snare? i must agree…i do tend to find myself wandering these grounds for hours. losing complete track of time becomes so…natural.”

”I do not afford that”, Camilla retorts simply, without accusation, rather without judicious thought. It is not as if she is occupied (and how the realization that she is needed nowhere pricks and stings!) but rather that wandering implies leisure. She does not have a moment’s leisure from half-born plots and miniature schemes that lead nowhere, only secure her one more day in the king’s presence. In his bed, tangled in those sheets Camilla had learned so well, as if they are both her bridal veil and funeral shroud. She sits down, the back of her hand smoothing creases and wrinkles in her skirts. The mademoiselle’s head tosses in his direction. “I would rather like to lose some time, Highness, if not track of it. Have you any cure for that?”

[camillasc]

adaliees:

adalie had been discussing a matter of no real importance with a maid, something about her pillows or the perfume in her room, that was when she noticed the woman standing alone. she seemed to be watching adalie speaking to her maid, though it was not a long or threatening stare, simply one of interest. curious as to what the stranger wanted, and with nothing else to say to the maid, she dismissed her servant, and she waited. if the stranger was truly interested in her adalie would soon find herself with a sitting partner. ad surely enough the other woman approached and introduced herself. 

“princess adalie of burgundy, lovely to make your acquaintance, would you like to sit?” 

”It would be rather refreshing, and in such esteemed company too”, Camilla ushered after committing to the conventional curtsy. Though the mademoiselle’s tone was genial, the wilderness in this would-be garden chafed her, and thus dimmed the pleasure she found in addressing a princess. Her mouth’s contour plied onto a smile of sorts, as she allowed herself to be led in the arbre shade. “My, this place is teeming with fruitflies and wasps.” Her wide, silken eyes squinted at every buzz she heard round their heads, which meant at every few incessant moments. She made to grab the princess’ hand but paused suit. Gaucherie would not do, even if she preferred social disgrace to being devoured alive by such futile, determined, infuriating insects. “My jewelry collection for another place to hide, Your Highness”, she all but shrieked, hunching over to avoid being their target.

[camillasc]

margueritelamaitresse:

     in truth she knew the girl was merely that ; a girl, as much a fool as most her age. no wonder she could not help herself, attempting to imply that it was louis that kept her occupied. as if that could ruffle her perfectly preened feathers, after all these years. while it hardly pleased her that louis bedded others, and she may prefer not to think too much on it, she also knew the truth. louis’ heart belonged to her, and had for near half their lives. he might find pleasure elsewhere, but it was to her bed he would always return. it was hard not to compare the young woman to her beloved daughter ; so close in age to henriette, and yet as unlike her as the moon to the sun. henriette was kindness, innocence, and camilla was neither. ‘ you were? i did not see you in austria, mademoiselle - what may have been keeping you occupied, when the royal family were all so far from home? ‘ she asked, feigning true curiousity. it was not ; she only wished to remind the young mistress that she had been at the king’s side even then, and camilla had not.

Something petulant rebelled in Camilla at the sight of this woman’s condescension. She mounted all her power in order to keep from scoffing - or, more accommodated to her feelings, from gritting her jaw like garden pebbles. Her tongue flicked over the front row of teeth, a smile pushing it forward. I do not need your patronage; who do you project yourself to be? You are the effigy of a king’s desire to see familiar things, no more. Ever so sedated, milk-smelling flaccidity. Your greatest gift is being uneventful long enough to see him depend on it. And yet, when her fury crystallized into reason, she felt vapid before this woman... felt the length of what she still had to learn. She was showered in the scarcity of her own years. Camilla shivered at the disparities between them, at the similarities as well as the depths they’ll never know. None of those had been enough to avoid the lodestone that drew them here. None of those will suffice to hold them back. The mademoiselle’s foot crunched the ground below. “You are most adroit, Madam”, she twittered the title like a finch, puerile tone chipping away at the offense. “By the time Austria happened, I was already in dire want of rest. Soothly you can recall such exhaustion?”

[camillasc]

ncbleleader:

“my apologies…madam.” alarik speaks slowly – uncertainly. “thank you for moving.” it is rare for him to apologize, but his words are not entirely genuine. the prince eyes the woman – looking her over with veiled curiosity. he notes that she is french through her accent and this causes some apprehension from alarik. but, with little idea of her status ( he does not think she is a french princess ), he remains poised and collected. “ – how are you faring this day?”

She does not take his obfuscation to heart; it had often been proven difficult for people at court to distinguish the limn of Camilla’s position. What hopes could foreigners entertain? Yet it does not descend easy on the girl, and she senses her aimlessness almost like a physical burden. Squeezing both hands together in a half-shrug, she bends closer to him - without forgetting to permit light’s passage. Camilla musters some bite into her words and aplomb in her figure. “It was but mannered duty, Your Highness.” Through all of it the mademoiselle’s eyes smolder with a desire to simply sit down, launch herself in one conversation that involves neither triteness nor footwork. However, now is not meant to be; she has accrued the gift to tell chivalry from abrasion, and the Prince leans towards the latter. “ It is rather placid. The sun might make it gilded, but this garden feels like a snare nonetheless.”

[camillasc]

How do you feel about marriage, given that you would lose a lot of freedom?

“My views on marriage unfurl on a single track: la reine. The sideway gallows do not interest me, no matter how garnished they may seem… gold and status would not hide their stench of finality. Even to reckon it seems beyond horrific. Any other union than that which I hath promised myself unto is not just a loss of freedom, but of all future.”

[camillasc]

eponineofbrittany:

Of course Éponine saw beauty in those roses, even if they didn’t fit. It was quite a metaphor in fact. However, they didn’t really belong in her view. Turning to the woman, she paused before glancing back to the garden while taking her words into account. “I suppose. And I imagine that this is the image the overseer had envisioned while creating it.” Turning back to her, she  offered a light smile. “But again, I’m not a professional gardener or anything as such, what would I know?”

“Other than the disastrous chromatic”, Camilla picked up on a good-humored note, “how else do you find France, Your Grace?” For a hectic moment, which sent her heart pounding in her gullet, the mademoiselle was not sure if this lady befitted ‘your highness‘ or ‘your grace’. It came back to her in the following instant, but such loss of sense might cost everything even before succeeding upon the throne. Not only those who vie for royal glory should memorize heraldic lists and titles... but in their case, it is unforgivable not to. Cheeks imbued with color, Camilla fanned her face with one hand as she awaited their guest’s reply.

[camillasc]

french-louis:

Stepping onto Swedish soil had been more difficult than he had anticipated. Weeks of meticulous planning undertaken by himself and a selection of fastidious advisers had shepherded him to this day. Despite this, the King of France was still in a precarious position. It was entirely possible that the Archduke of Austria could, in a brief moment of vehement rage and a subsequent inclination for revenge, murder him over the negotiating table. Klaus had already expressed his impulse to exhibit intense emotion; Louis felt the venom in the words he had, perhaps casually, scribbled on parchment. It was not death the King feared. He had been conditioned to see death as a natural inevitability, always looming and inclined to strike at any time. He would always be ready to meet the cloaked darkness that had seized so many of his loved ones. He was afraid of dying as a fool, and to die at a negotiating table was indeed a foolish way to die. 

After greeting the others, he stood in silence as the King of Sweden spoke. Though he did not hear any words, as the sound of blood pounding in his ears like a constant drum drowned out the King’s speech. His gaze flickered, perhaps nervously, to the Archduke of Austria, taking a mental note of the man’s composure. It was a relief to turn and see the Lady Camilla waiting patiently for him.

“My Lady Camilla, I do hope the journey has not terribly exhausted you,” he said upon approaching her, his platitude serving a polysemic purpose; to act as a formality to open conversation and to see if she was willing to linger in his company awhile. 

Camilla knew it was a careful strategy to tread: if she chose to worry him in order to wring out more preoccupation, she might end up an annoyance, a nuisance on a man already burdened with affairs. If she chose to simply curtsy and flaunt a polite answer, he might remember the full extent of his duties elsewhere. How do I distract him, relieve his burden, but place myself in his care? A tenuous gamble, one for which she did not feel up to par. But it would have to be enacted nonetheless. The mademoiselle steadied a smile on her ingenue features, a smile whose brightness was purposefully dimmed.

“Oh, Your Majesty, it is nothing that cannot be cured.” The murmur fell among them with even more softness than usual, and Camilla drooped her shoulders in frailty. Her hand rose to play with the pendant at her neck. Her glance, likewise, rose up to the king, and one finger dipped into the hollow where her pulse was flitting. Out of a sudden, the solution revealed itself: the middle line between the vulnerability she knew he favored and the fire that had subjected him so. Her voice continued: “I can remember, en passant, some other instances where I was... similarly exhausted. If not more.”

[camillasc]

@french-louis

They had disembarked on foreign soil after a journey that was anything but uneventful. Many ladies in waiting had been seasick, both repulsed and drained by such long adjournment below deck. They were all used to lighter, more giddy travels, where they could bathe in sunlight and play merry at cards. It had not been a breeze on Camilla either, but she did not afford to indulge in any... unseemly weakness. She had a stance to preserve, and an even more hallowed one to attain. The mademoiselle strayed clear of food and sipped from apothecary vials, previously secluded with great care in her pocket folds. With an ermine-lined coat, she’d taken her strategic place near the ship’s fore: it was impossible not to see her, a velvet dot, braving the waves and losing herself in their impeccable darkness. Now, with both feet skidding uncertainly over the ground, she watched as Louis dismounted and hacked his way through the crowd. He walked as if his limbs were a scythe, his towering height parting the melee on both sides. Behind him, a line of advisors curtailed like ducklings. She bade her time and waited until the customary greetings were over. The King of Sweden, a stone-faced pillar of a man she wouldn’t want to face, finished his speech in a swift conclusion. He and his councilmen strode ahead to lead way. When their own procession began to move through the palace and Louis approached her vicinity, Camilla let out a sigh. She had painstakingly timed it so he would hear. She knew there as a long time between now and dinner, and an even longer time before negotiations tomorrow. This hours she had to claw into and claim as hers. Her body slumped against a wall in his path, as if so, so absolutely in need of support.

[camillasc]

french-louis:

Dark aureole eyes transfixed into a gaze as they scrutinised her lissom figure when she moved to increase their physical proximity. His lips, having quivered hungrily for a moment, slightly parted as though he would gasp as her silky neck outstretched. “Then that is what you shall have, my lady,”

Louis strongly desired to have her stay with him during the negotiations, not only to have a gem by his side, but so he could lay next to her at night and feel the familiarity of her body against his as they slept. Rarely spending most nights alone, Louis would have to seek a different participant to share his bed. Such women were often ladies in waiting, those he lacked a connection with. It would not be the same. Quietly, he huffed at this realisation and stepped even closer to Camilla, as though he wanted to spend every waking moment with her before she was forced to leave his side. His towering height was both a blessing and a curse, and Louis had to bow his head quite lowly in order to talk gently to her.

“And how are you finding the changes?” Her life must have changed dramatically in a very short space of time. Louis saw all eyes upon her in the great hall, watching out of jealousy and admiration.

FINISHED

[camillasc]

How do you feel about Louis' children?

“Apprehensive. It is a… contradictory position. I will not impersonate a role I can hardly claim: we are of similar age, any pretense to be motherly would only end in ridicule. No authenticity could flourish in the sentiments I am bound to display. It is equally true, however, that I have no intention to huddle in a corner as if I were something unbecoming. I do not believe myself a stain on this court, but a garnet - it depends on my king for how long it will glow.”

[camillasc]

crownprincejacques:

“With the current situation, perhaps he should” and maybe that was paranoid, but at the moment it wouldn’t surprise him should someone try to sneak in an assassin. With no known heirs the whole situation would be highly dangerous and if he died it left only his brother. No, he really did need to be on his guard more, especially if Violetta was involved. Which was even more of a valid point, he had no idea how close Camilla had been, and just what the young woman had heard. The woman was not Marguerite, and he did not know or trust her. His father would do what he wished, but this girl was just so young.

“Not at all mademoiselle. I fear it was you who caught me in what appeared to be a compromising position” he replied, still keeping the relaxed tone. “They come sometimes, women claiming to have bastard children of some relative of ours. It’s better to dismiss them quietly than cause rumours to start” well there was some truth to that, there had been plenty of women who had tried their luck with that trick. “I hope our argument did not disturb you”.

She chuckled at his witticism, surprised he had it in him. Jacques never did strike her as the spirited type, but perhaps she’d been too focused on herself to notice that characteristic in the past. She was at her most restrained when dealing with his Majesty’s children, as if they were a barrel of powder awaiting perpetual disaster. Not only did she brave them with forced insouciance, but she also tried to behave with a mix of innocence and hauteur. Camilla squirmed her nose at his mentioning fallen women. It was a delicate sign of disgust, as most of her miniature expressions were, but it showed itself nonetheless. The willowy lines in her face needed a moment to recover. A rotten miasma followed any conversation about bastards, concubines or alehouses. She, who had been so impish about such things in the past, often leading her married friends to alcove meetings, now turned wry at the first hint. The lady struggled to brandish the same pose as before.

“To usher out these leeches can hardly be compromising, Highness. It is cleansing.” The mademoiselle clasped her hands together with resolution. “But let us not speak of such brazen things!”, she added in exclamation, beseeching him with a smile both timid and repulsed. She could not bear to have so close to her the image of what she might have already become in people’s eyes. 

[camillasc]

thefrenchrose:

It seemed there was no way to escape now. If she had to be honest, she could not remember a single time the both of them had ever had a conversation. It was no secret that Henriette would always favour Marguerite over any other mistress her father had, for she was her mother in all but blood, and the young princess was not interested in having a relationship with a woman that would be there for a couple of years and then leave. Her father would soon marry someone with a title and fortune Camilla could only dream of, and so Henriette had no reason to speak to her if she did not want to.

“He is a terrier.” Henriette certainly did not know much about dog breeds nor did she care. Papilon had been a gift, one she had come to love with all her heart. “Come here.” She smiled down at her dog and gave him a biscuit. “Good boy.” It was only then when she decided to look up at the woman. Henriette was not a rude person, her gentle nature had always allowed her become friends with the people she met, and she of course did not wish to upset Camilla. It was not personal actually, but more about the fact Camilla’s presence made her mére uncomfortable. “Is there anything I can do for you, mademoiselle? Would you like to sit?”

There was something perverse about Camilla’s desire to endure such situations. She could have surrendered and left this palpably odd encounter for another time, when she might have been better suited. Yes, she could have adjourned to her rooms, with candied plums and pamphlets that have been circling court and amused her so. Why, then, did she accept the princess’ proposal with a suave bow? It seemed as if the more her lover’s children or advisors slighted her, the more inadequate she felt, it only brought more pretension on her part. As if this was a duty as much as a challenge. Her own personal jousting tournament.

“Why, I shall very much like to sit”, she answered, her eyes flitting over the scene. With glibness and indifference to decorum, as befitted a child of the Parisian court, Camilla nestled in the oakwood bench. The small garden encircled them like a hunting snare, with seats and jardinieres dotting the tableau. Her legs crossed together under the velvet sable, a recent gift from Louis. She flaunted a nonchalant expression at Henriette. You do not sit first before a Princess of the blood, the mademoiselle considered the rule she’d purposefully ignored. “Might I learn your terrier’s name? I once had a lapdopg, but she was always mudspattered, the lousy thing. She could not abstain from puddles... must have been an impure breed, truly.”

[camillasc]

margueritelamaitresse:

       in the days since returning from austria, a minor illness had plagued her, one that had her maids concerned. yet she was fine now - the sickness had passed, and she wished for fresh air, and the warm sunlight of mid-afternoon. her worried lady may have only been speaking out of kindness, yet she was rather tired of hearing it all. it was important that no one knew she had been unwell ; in such times, even the slightest sign of weakness could cause a downfall. the lady dismissed, she returned to gazing towards the flowers, cultivated at her wish to liven up a dull space. her peace was quickly interrupted - and by one whose company was least wanted. marguerite smiled, despite lacking the desire to do so. ‘ i know who you are, mademoiselle, ‘ she replied, gracious if not particularly warm. ‘ but it is true we have not had much occasion to speak. ‘ in large part because marguerite did not care to entertain flights of louis’s fancy. she would be gone soon enough - they all were.

          The mademoiselle lowered her gaze demurely. “Indeed... especially since I was so often occupied.“ Her tongue drawled on the last word so as to leave no doubt about its insinuation. She ached, as much as the confésseur and Jésus allowed her, for Marguerite to picture Louis in her bed. She wanted that image engraved into the woman’s thoughts like branding iron. Louis’ hands wrapped around her waist, his mouth on the back of her neck; Louis being impossible to satiate. Yes, Camilla could see no wrong in that: the other courtesan should face the things she herself confronted at all times. With false diffidence, with the most affable gait, she neared towards the king’s maitresse. Her eyes sought instances of decay on Marguerite, tell-tale signs that the long decline which awaited all women would soon stretch to meet her. She found none, and was strong enough to admit so. But that did not mean it would spare her. It never did - Camilla had seen it in her own mother, in the cankerous women discarded by the court as though they were table napkins. If she had any sense, bile would rise in her throat at the imminence of it. How many years do I have? Ten? Seven? But Camilla felt too overladen with life, with rapture and frenzied greed, to truly fear such things.

[camillasc]

rosethistle:

There was a factor to the Frenchwoman’s charm which suggested that it was unconscious. Contrary to her contemporaries she was without the err of ostentation as a conduit for affection. Whether she set it to fruition or not the eye of court had been turned to her in Marguerite’s absence - which was all the more reason for the Princess to keep keen notice on the woman as she gavotted through King Louis’ court. A court predicated on lush desires and the austere church by which the edicts of a monarchy became permissible.  Cathryn hoisted a coppery goblet to her breast as they made to move outside, her ladies soon following. ‘ The King will not be offended that we have adjourned outdoors, I trust. ’

She had suspected one of the younger ladies would require some wheedling before giving in and deserting the banquet. As it turned, her boredom was not singular, but diffused onto all of them. All the more enticing for it; she won’t have to iterate this feast’s failure. Camilla placed down the mulberry liquor, nudging it between the rims of two tart plates, and plucked herself upward.The garland on the mademoiselle’s head dipped forth as she gathered her skirts. “I dare maintain he will not.” She frowned as they passed Marquis de Montesquieu through the wedges of people; was he reciting some stanzas? Sacre dieu, this was a drudgery as never seen before. She is almost intend to bow towards the Princess, not only in recognition but also repentance. “Is is not usually so”, she cooed, fiddling with the glimmer in her voice. Camilla’s neck was a slight inclined in Cathryn’s direction, mannerly, but mindful she would not solicit an untimely eye contact. She was not asinine enough to say what she felt: that is, they should have let her tend to the celebration, at the very least garnish it with some pomp. But she still shook her curls with reporbation: “Our Grand Maitre has seen his days of glory... and now he seems bent on forcing us relive them. I pray Your Highness will give me the chance to adjust on any premature impressions.”

[camillasc]

crownprincejacques:

As long as Jacques didn’t claim Violetta, the young girl would be safe. That much he had always known. It had never been a decision that he took lightly, but until he had a legitimate child, it was one he had to stand by, for her sake not his. But with the rumours of Austria’s events in the air, the girl’s maid had come, almost begging him to come and see the child who was ill with worry from the sounds of it. But he still couldn’t go to her, not with all of Europe watching France’s actions right now. Instead he spoke to the woman in as private a place as he could manage before she left to return back to his daughter. Did he like the situation? Not at all, but now more than ever he could not endanger her by claiming her. He hadn’t realised that he hadn’t actually been alone at all until he heard Camilla speak. Of course he knew who she was, and so offered her a smile, slipping effortlessly back into his usual mannerisms, “mademoiselle, forgive me I did not see you there before”.

She dissimulated an amiable amount of surprise. “Why should you, Your Highness? The Dauphin of France cannot afford to peer into every corner of the inner gardens.” Camilla’s forehead puckered with dismay, a few curls waving in arabesque patterns on her shoulders. She feigned impassivity, but the mademoiselle was not content with what she’d glimpsed: it was a meager handful of details she would not be able to recompose from memory. A woman? Yes. Well, but whose bonnet did that topple off? He was the second highest noble at court, in line to the throne of a soaring country. She should count it odd he had not been seen with two. But there was such a... lout air about that girl. Something pointedly vulgar. A bona-roba, perhaps? It figured he had less taste than his father in that respect.

Despite her curiosity, a part of Camilla felt indebted to him for his courtesy. It might not be genuine, but that owed to different reasons than his siblings: this even she could gather. “I dare hope I did not misappropriated myself somehow.”