charles of france.

𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒍𝒆𝒔, 𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒇 𝒇𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆

[charlesv]

𝐱𝐢𝐚𝐨𝐣𝐢𝐧𝐠.

location: dinner!! 

   After first meeting Charles, the Dowager knew she would like to see him again – that his countenance, his character, would offer a page more interesting than ever. He was a Christian hero; a narrative imputed onto his character by his subjects (a woman of less faculties would describe them as adoring; the dowager knew such fervour was rarely afforded to a king).  She would neither speak nor write such words for his gross satisfaction; Xiaojing would offer a high grade for his character, in secret. Paired by his majesty’s side as the great hall took supper, the pair conversed in quaint terms – broaching one or two polite subjects which their neighbours would be acquainted with. As their company and lesser, unrefined ears, faded into idle chatter, the Dowager sought Charles emphatically. “I have long desired to visit your shores, and delight in the fineries of your courts – shall I be humbled by such an invitation, your grace, once we have departed these merry nuptials? She settled her eye upon him – in youth, her cold respite of a spouse, pronounced them the finest dark eyes in the world; ones which invited affection. Xiaojing turned them onto Charles now, offering him no emotion, no matter the shade of pathos reflected in his blue pair. “Or perhaps glad tidings of another nature, shall bind my presence to your lands; for none can proclaim with the authority or regard as I can, the desire of my empire to entreat yours into friendship. We must thank our gracious hosts for promoting an occasion of good-will across from the West to the East; they have succeeded swimmingly, have they not?”

Virtue grew plentiful in the practice of gratitude, making the appreciative verdant with grace. Charles disdained all of it—the professed virtuous nature to which all should strive, the habitual need to cultivate it in oneself with diligent care, each day a dour dance of self-conscious aspiration. These exhortations kept the many masses distracted, largely with the guilt which consumed any good Christian who drew either too close or too far from godliness. His own blessing (for which he rarely offered any gratitude at all) was the absolute absence of guilt in his heart. The garden of his being flourished, thrived, teemed with its opposite: that is, not innocence, but a kind of temerity. It took audacity to move through the world as he did. ‘With shamelessness, not gratitude.’ For all the critiques he attracted, the radiance of France relied upon it. His father set the works in motion but never would he have cut through the obstacles posed by possibility with such belligerent audacity—or, through the English king and Aquitaine, among others. More burdened men balked and wrung their hands and apologized. In three decades’ time, even this woman from earth’s hinterland—who, he heard tell, also possessed boldness which struck others like the back of a hand—knew well France’s delightful fineries and the sublime largesse of its friendship.

He feigned grateful respect in response to her question, not because it was right, but because it was expedient.

“They have indeed,” Charles assented. The dowager empress’s voice had sounded close and clear, so he had moved in a smooth swivel from the wide prattling face of some unimportant tablemate to regard hers. She told him what he wished to hear, and the inability to sight sincerity in her sable eyes left him untroubled. To her, he offered a clement smile which, too, failed to reach his eyes. They remained fixed and keen as always. ‘Glad tidings of another nature,’ she said. Matters of lingua francas and flustered translators weighed less than nothing. She and him would speak the same language.

Charles continued, “In my estimation, there is no greater success to be manifested by their efforts than this very moment. Whoever was so clever as to seat us side by side will be a footnote to something mighty.” He nodded, punctuating and making real his own pronouncement. “What were your words, again? ‘None can proclaim with the authority or regard as I can,’” In his smile, a flicker genuine pleasure. “That our mutually desired friendship may begin now.”

[charlesv]

❧   @alienored​

𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: some private dressing room, i guess ... 

𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞: late july, mid-afternoon ??

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: delivering a pretense for Unhinged Aliénor™ as requested  /  is it marital discord when you aren’t married anymore

Her presence was no gentle glow. Indeed, never had it been—always, from the first moment in which they stood toe to toe, she had raged white-hot. Charles allowed that she might have entered the world with a tempered disposition befitting the cherubic features into which she would grow. If such an Aliénor had existed, Charles never knew her. She surely became kindling for the firestorm his Aliénor would set in Paris. Years passed, yet he still invariably became possessed in her smoldering presence and compelled to draw nearer. Her ire seared; the moodiness which seemed to engulf her inflicted upon his psyche blistered welts, each laid and interlocked like the crosshatch pigments of an artist’s sketch. Seemed, as it were. He learned soon enough that her fire was not some quickmatch rage which could be set off. She was not consumed for she wielded it. It was her. She was an artist, too—her tools, not charcoal and vair brushes, but malice and spite. The dainty exterior she presented to the world concealed an iron cage and, within it, her true essence. She resembled not a household hearth, not a lantern upon the wall, not even the desperate fires of a war camp … Aliénor was a circle of hell cast into the world of man. At least one angel had sculpted her as such. Charles suspected, too, that she had been made to ensconce an inferno of perdition reserved specially for him.

He wondered what he had done to earn such a thing. Sometimes, it was rueful wonder. It was, in other instances, prideful. His wonder was always short-lived in either case, for he understood that divine fortune was no unconditional gift.

Today, she set up a happy purgatory in her dressing room. Sunlight streamed from a window on high, and it painted her flaxen hair into locks of gold with its afternoon warmth. Aliénor sat with a familiar item in hand—a case, open to reveal its convex mirror as an ivory scene faced toward the door. He noted the carved figures. A woman crowned her stooped lover while frolicking onlookers flanked the scene. Its irony had been as loud and indelicate when she received it as it was now. Floral designs, lilies and irises interwoven as fleurs-de-lis, etched into a delicate border. He need not examine the mirror closely to know it had been produced by a fine French artisan’s hand. All the best ivory dressing sets were and, besides, he had commissioned this one himself. She kept a matching comb and gravoir somewhere now out of sight. Aliénor’s current occupation was not restyling her hair for the evening. Charles lingered in the doorway as he strained to hear the sounds of her whispers while she sat, eyes trained intently upon the glass, lips moving in silent murmurs.

“What wicked things do you spit upon my name this day, woman?” he asked, both announcing his presence and playing his long-held part to her madness. “You cannot utter prayers of goodwill or optimism, although my whisperers tell me you have been—” The sentence hung as Charles strode across the small room to her side. Bending at the waist, he leaned close. The mirror reflected them as a pair, and he gave her features a cursory glance before settling his gaze upon himself. “In much conversation with fellow travelers of all sorts.” His eyes moved to hers. The mirror reflected them as they were: placid and inscrutable, heavy-lidded, soulless.

“You conspire with no one but your king and devils themselves, no?” Wavering between jovial teasing and a sober taunt, he adds, “I have felt it, you know, in my marrow—that you have some machination underway, some mischief to scathe me—since we embarked upon this journey.” Their eyes, blue as blue, met on the mirror’s rounded plane. “I would rather you lay hands upon me than simply wish me misfortune.”

[charlesv]

𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞. 

She stared out of the window with an intensity, as if she were training her gaze on something so important that one flick of an eyelash would be enough to undo the weeks she had spent planning and preparing for the voyage to this new, impressive Tsardom. She hadn’t told Charles for his sake, so he may (she hoped) instead focus on France, to nourish the future the Kingdom demanded — but, when news had approached the French capital, Marguerite had realised that a plan was to be set in motion. Her second son, Hugo (named after his father), had been her favourite — a boy who swam between the waves of the ocean as if he were born to become a creature of the salt-slick sea! His legs would kick the surface, breaking the wine-dark surface into white bubbles of sea-foam. His hair was dark, and lucid, often curling itself around collected seashells or dried herbs that grew wild within the royal gardens. He had been the very centre of her world, for John (her first son) had belonged to Cyprus and her daughters (Helvis and Isabelle) had been prepared to become brides, rather than her own offspring. They, and the others who died too young, meant something to her, but it had been Hugh who had loved her without superstition. 

Though she kept her memories locked away, deep beneath her heart, Marguerite could not help but rise with the tension she had curated when Hugh had been mysteriously poisoned in 1315 — it came with a pain so horrifying, that Marguerite had spent two month within her bed linens after his stately funeral. Without the whisper of others, and with her own keen ill will to her brother’s flock of violent family members, Marguerite openly called the Dowager of the Byzantine Empire, Alice, her son’s killer. So, when the news was called out whilst breaking fast with bread and cheese, Marguerite sought the only thing she could muster. Vengeance. 

When Charles approached her, Marguerite turned slightly, offering him her profile as she rolled an apple in the palm of one of her hands, her eyelids heavy with thought, as her brother agreed with her. In truth, she was glad John had not been invited, that he had been left on the golden shores of Cyprus — she understood herself well enough, that if he were to be assassinated too, that Marguerite would never recover. Holding back a sigh, her eyes flickered to Charles, watching him as he denied the unspoken request. What did she want? She wanted Alice dead, she wanted to hang her up from the heavens — to make a show of it, a public affair for anyone who dared cross Marguerite of France. But, politics played its part, and with the soft flare of her nostrils she raised her free hand to touch her brother’s cheek, turning him to look at her, her eyes flared for just a moment, before falling into a docile gaze. 

“Nothing, brother. But I do wonder what you intend to do with this little trip? But do not mention that amethyst gem from the Empire, for we all know what you should do with her,” dropping her hand, Marguerite took the apple to her lips, biting into crimson to reveal a snow-white centre, the juice wet upon her lips as she turned back to the window, watching as the fanfare dulled to the hanger-ons. “Then there is the matter of your children —”

With an open expression, Charles observed the gentle movements of Marguerite’s troubled face. She favored any number of elegant marble statues which survived antiquity and the recent past, and it was not for beauty (although it was that as well). Like them, she stood with her chin high and brow squared; her composure spoke of fortitude, of endurance, that time itself balked at the task of leveling her. Yet, she was weathered. Her colors faded. The harsh world preserved her grace but wore away some of its delicacy. At times she reminded him of their mother, for they shared a countenance. They also occasionally shared the mask of mourning which he had come to despise in the mere days before the senior Marie spirited herself away to wither. Their grand loss had made him a colossus and rendered her so very small. She sickened and rotten from within like fruit on a vine—much promise, rich with life, then abruptly overflowing with wasps. He recalled meeting the news of their mother’s death with, not a stone face, but satisfaction. She had received what she wanted (death, quick and unearned) and it released him from thinking ever again of her plight.  This was where the resemblance between the two ended, Charles thought. Marguerite was no small thing, and loss left her undiminished.

He respected her for this, too. Such regard was why he allowed her stand there, her hand upon his cheek as if he were a child, as she spoke freely of what remained a secret to others with much more power and far less influence.

“What, Marguerite?” She would know her misstep immediately. He grinned as he continued, ever eager to agitate, “Do you not wish to talk of my gift to you? I plan to present you with a new sister from across the world, and you have no interest or gratitude? You have met her, I hear; is she so dull and uninspiring—or, perhaps, too extreme in the opposite? Will she play well with your other, the old one?” Somewhere, Aliénor’s eyes narrowed. 

With the litany of questions ended, he dropped the cheerful expression and leaned toward the window before them. He imagined for a moment these three women, then the asp nest they would build together within his court. Amusement dissipated. Slowed but endless, street activities continued below.

“We make closer family of the Byzantines first. Then,” Charles beckoned to borrow Marguerite’s apple. “We make a home for Marie in Nanjing, or else Paris a home for another. As for the remaining other…” He shrugged.

[charlesv]

𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐚.

Tittering had released into quiet forbearance, a hand encrusted with tasteful rings brought to her centre, a steadying weight beneath Helena’s bosom. ‘You do distract me,’ she relinquished, the bow of her lip ever-so-slightly inclined, ‘for you amuse me.’ The lie pearled with ease from Helena’s tongue, gliding like a swan across the curve of her mouth as she met Charles’ weighted gaze with a charming cant of her head.  There were many adjectives with which to describe Helena – and not all of them particularly honeyed – but distracted was not among them.  She was keenly alert to the cacophony of the reception hall, the glissando of hautboys, the mindless din of chatter between fresh blood and old hands, the swish of tunics and slippered feet.  She embraced mayhem, the music, the laughter, the courtly love that flowed from it, and cast a discrete gaze once more to the crowd.  She found, there, a heavenly terenne: flecked with rulers, nobles, crimson-coated patriarchs, roughly edged by eunuchs and helots, as loyal and as silent as hounds.  Cardinally, Helena had remained attuned to the whereabouts of her sister, Sophia, who sat at the helm of the grail and proved, at any moment, liable to weep her face hideous.  Her childlike nature lived at the periphery of it all like a leper.  Helena observed as she wafted a hand across her belly – cradling the vacuity that would one day sow Moscow’s next tsar – before the quicksilver flash of her eyes returned to Charles.

‘For, in truth, you amuse me. And, if you must know, I relish being amused.’

From a passing salver offered expectantly to the princess, she plucked an apricot, bringing the ripened, sweet drupe to her mouth as she expelled Sophia’s crumpled countenance from mind.  Her lips curved generously over the succulent treat, its pit discarded in the servant’s palm.  ‘If you will not dance with me,’ she countered, chin jutted, ‘then I must find some other way to impress.’  Her words catered to his manner, a scholarly bearing assuaged only by impertinence, his decadence, a self-righteousness that both repulsed and attracted Helena –– iron-locking the reputation for hedonism that proceeded him.  She would not begrudge a private discussion, for the chillblained Vasilyeviches would hardly miss them, not so long as they remained distracted by the grandeur of Tsar Alexander’s matrimonial panache.  Her mother’s voice was at the shell of her ear, reminding her to curb her insolence, rein in her cheek.  Alice had clutched the relics of Byzantium, Christ’s fingerbone and a fragment of Saint Peter’s ribs, and prayed, prayed devoutly, that the French King would not be dissuaded by her daughter’s sharpness, her acidity.  In any event, Helena surmised, the augusta’s intercessions had either been in vain or spiritually relieved; Charles seemed intrigued by her character, delightedly affronted.  Helena easily feigned the disposition of a blushing bride, of Byzantine scraps. 

Charles’ leaden gaze and the glittering overmantle bathed Helena in a wash of gold-leaf, a coat of shimmering oil over a fresh fresco.  Golden Helena with her relics and her union with France and her guilt that rusts an earthen brown as it rots in the soft, supple pit of her belly; a raw graved, marked with fresh holly and black, wet headstones.  ‘We hardly know each other well enough for me to reveal such things about myself to you, but..’  Helena’s voice lifts, airy and assured, as she offers a hand to him: ‘I challenge you to unearth the truth, yourself.  If it is a private audience you desire, then I have little choice but to obey.  Tell me, what other women have you threatened this night with a haunt outside of the hall?  The tsarina, perhaps?’

“We shall know each other well enough soon—wholly, in fact.”

He permitted himself this pointed retort but suppressed the laughter her question provoked. It would have been hearty, full of mirth at the irony—or, perhaps, serendipity—of her speaking aloud what he had already foreclosed as speculative mischief. A quick glance found the tsarina in question unmoved but accompanied now by a familiar face. Charles quirked an eyebrow as he strained to see her form in the shadows. If she was becoming, or beguiling enough to be so threatened, it was unbeknownst to him. Noticing suddenly Helena’s presented hand, he returned his attention to her. “I wished to meet you,” he said, poorly concealing the glee of knowing what he was to say next. “However, I mistook that ill-favored noblewoman,” Here, a pause to flick his free hand in the direction of the pair who had haplessly claimed his time minutes earlier. “To be the Byzantine princess whom I sought.” In the ensuing beat of quiet, he awaited her recognition of the woman but soon carried on. “How fortunate that I said nothing indecent to her, that I suggested no such thing as departing propriety for a private conversation.”

As he spoke, his hand cupped hers—not wrapped loose and neutral around her fingers but instead palm-to-palm. Though draped in fabric nearly from head to toe, only jewels clothed her hand. With their palms so aligned, he could curl his fingers around the slender curve of her wrist, able to both feel with his fingertips the supple skin and toy against the inner folds of her sleeve. If she wished, she might do the same. He imagined she would choose simply to ignore the minute touches. They were, however deliberate, so feather-light as to be a phantasma. With his own amusement now passed, he watched her with intent. Her words echoed: ‘impress,’ ‘reveal,’ ‘challenge,’ ‘desire,’ ‘obey.’ Against the walls of his imagination, distorted and silhouetted, stripped of their purpose and twisted into fantasies, they danced like candlelight figures. The performance conjured no smile or simper; his eyes, murky in the low light, suggested one puppeteer’s favorite—the wolf, often cast by two hands overlaid.

“Shall we?”

She had already consented, and so the words were little more than a prompt of courtesy as he moved to lead her away. The narrow path between the crowd would bring them to one of the hall’s doors—from there, either into some occupied antechamber or brisk outdoor landing. He knew nothing of this Palace of Facets except that every inch of it seemed to crawl, like an anthill, with workers whose downcast eyes distracted from their open ears. Where they were not, others stood already, having their own private conversations about speculation or mischief, or both.

[charlesv]

𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞​

It was not unusual to be separated as children, for that was the lot as the royal offspring. Marguerite was sent to the convent, to attend to her saintly aunt and learn of the pious nature that was afforded the lucky women of the Kingdom of France. Charles, and their brothers, however were afforded the luxury of being born of the male sex — they were to be raised as future Kings, as sons of God caught on the earthly plane, to lead the flock and chatise the wrong. If that was the case, then why had their father been cast into the Devil’s snare? Why had his hedonistic trait thereafter been inherited by Charles, who had already fathered two illegitimate children? Why was it not down to the girls, the ones who were afforded windows into heaven, who were not crowned God’s walking angels?

It was a question for the ages, a question that’s never been answered — for what would they do if they asked, if they confronted the sins that cursed their physical forms? Would they give up all that power to the whims of a woman who was charged with monthly courses and the charge of carrying children? The answer, she meditated on, was probably a resounding no. 

Alas, when Marguerite had been sent to Cyprus as hostage and ambassador (as was the trial of a foreign bride) she had been but a thirteen year old girl who had turned fourteen when the wedding ceremony took place. She hadn’t known Charles, Louis or Rene at all — she had shared letters, of course, but they were mostly transcripts by the head of households, for what was Marguerite meant to say to the brothers she barely knew? But when they grew into their own bodies, there was a natural ease that followed parchment and ink wells. Marguerite, who was Queen and the suffering mother who had lost so many children to the ills of infancy, found herself savouring the letters sent between she and Charles, often reading the good news of her home with much glee. 

When her son had been buried in St Sophia Cathedal of Nicosia, Marguerite had sent word to Charles that she was to join him for the first time — that she would renounce Cyprus as her home in order to help him with the govern of his realms, especially since, news had reached the Island that he was craving the consumption of a crusade. She was, by all means, supportive — but she also felt an overwhelming need to protect him and his children, even if she thought children born within the safety net of matrimony a curse against the sin of lust.

Since her arrival, Charles and Marguerite seemed to enjoy the gentle nature that blossomed between them. As brother and sister, he helped him with duties and prepared his offspring to inherit what was due to come their way if Charles did not remarry a young, fertile bride. She had gladly remained by his side as they made their way to Russia, but something about Moscow had put her on edge. For some reason, she had returned to the whispers that had once passed through her husband’s lips — the Byzantines were not to be trusted, that they were heretic by nature and scheming by nurture. She, after all, believed that the sudden death of her second son was down to the work of Alice, her husband’s warring and unjust half-sister. 

It was this that caused Marguerite to stop, to pause and reflect on what was to pass between the two Kingdoms. France would take a daughter of Byzantine as a bride, and Charles’ would hopefully create new heirs by her womb. But, what did that mean? She stood by Charles’ window with wine in her hand as she watched the procession of flags and trumpets continue beneath, her eyes sharp with her back to her brother. She would act as an envoy for him, of course she would, but she must also act for her children — the ones both buried and breathing. 

“Do you think it is a sleight that John was not invited?” She asked, almost out of the blue, for the room had been in silence since her arrival, and the note of her only living child – and King of Cyprus — was a rare subject for Marguerite to introduce. After all, she never mentioned what had been left behind in Cyprus, and had only ever talked about France. “This is troublesome, Charles. Your alliance with my son should be obvious, and your new friends should know of it — loudly and clearly.”

Charles loved few living or dead as much as he loved himself, but Marguerite drew nearer than most. The root of his affection was, not the blood they shared, but the respect he held for her. Even less than love, his respect for others was rare, shallow, and fleeting. He had regarded his sister as little more than a stranger for much of their early life, but he came to appreciate her intelligence and loyalty in time. She had also played a part in the tilt of French diplomacy, whether wittingly or not. ‘France is the center of the world,’ he stressed in their letters. ‘But, the future lies in the East.’ Marguerite and her Cyprus had occupied a prime position at the confluence of vast power. Charles found the intrigue which preceded and surrounded her fascinating. It did no good that she locked away the details in a cage of mourning. The news which traveled the Mediterranean told of a cyclone—that is, swirling treachery and ambition, turning bonds of blood into wreckage. For his part, he found the island’s familial struggles of mostly strategic noteworthiness; Marguerite’s silent suffering ensured its value as a launching base for holy warfare. Still a pang of sympathy existed amid the troubling detachment with which he regarded the travails of her kin. It became on occasion true empathy, though he now thought of Héloïse as frequently as Marguerite mentioned her own graveyard.

“Without a doubt, it was a slight,” Charles replied without pause, his voice traveling as he approached her. The procession below interested him little. Though he took time to note the affected splendor with a competitor’s eye, he willed himself to do the dull work of statecraft between festivities. Thus, in joining her, he abandoned the precious vellum missives strew across his tabletop. Marguerite’s complaint was hardly fresh, and it did not fall on deaf ears, but he had no desire to placate her with suggestions of oversights where none existed. Indeed, reassurance had never been his strength; his candor veered too often into a semblance of cruelty. The opportunity to gall a rival with such magnitude rarely presented itself. Had he been a Byzantine advisor discussing options, he would have suggested the snub himself.

He kept that thought to himself but, in that vein, continued, “Our Byzantine and Russian brothers are each careful and astute. What am I, Marguerite? Less careful? Less astute? Perhaps quiet and unclear?” His eyes moved from the procession to look down upon her as she cupped her wine. Noting the displeased wrinkle of her brow, his goading relented to a sigh of capitulation. “I do not mean to provoke you, of course. What would you have me do?”

[charlesv]

hellcnas​:

Stern intent settles upon Helena’s brow as she listens to Charles’ words, her eyes discreetly tracing the movement of his lips to keep abreast of the rapid French eluding them.  So as to not incriminate her own ignorance, Helena flutters her gaze, every so often, from his mouth to his eyes; entrapped by the warmth of them, thickly-rimmed Bosphorus azure, flanking a self-important Carolingian nose.  There, at least, Parisians had not exaggerated; it was, perhaps, one of the few artistic embellishments of size that would not disappoint Helena, were her mother’s negotiations with the French bound to segue into nuptials.  ‘I––,’ Helena begins, yet before she could get a word in edgewise, a solicitor at her hand gravels for attention, for a moment of the glittering despoina’s regard.

A rustic-looking Russian princess (with only extravagant jewels and beetle-dye smeared across her sullen cheeks to recommend her) gathers Helena’s hand in her bony fingers, bringing them to the gelid plane of her mouth.  Helena’s face turns to the poor gallowsbird, disarmed with a tight smile as if to convey: not now.  The gaunt creature leaves with a royal escort and Helena’s own blessing, and with the stain of her lush, pert mouth.  Her eyes swivel back to the king.  Do you see, ruler of the Franks?  How I am valued?

In an instant, however, Helena’s eyes –– aqueous, molten pools of volcanic rock –– flash with ire.  An ire that, God above, Helena was inept at concealing.  Stupefaction and shock wrought by Charles’ quip follows, her offense assuaging into something risible, nettling.  The sound that lifts from her throat is boisterous, glorious.  Her laughter chimes like a bell, accompanied by an elegant incline of her neck, revealing a sun-kissed column of her skin, palisaded by fine silks.  ‘Make no mistake, my lord, it is no accident that I am unmarried.’  She moves a pace further toward him so that her words might lower, reserved for his ear alone, a whispered challenge.  ‘You see, there is security in my position, an ‘old maid’ I might be.  I know, at least, that my family will not put me aside when the sudden urge for something freshly felled and hot-blooded strikes.’  Instinctively, Helena finds the radiant Aliénor in the crowd, both a victim and reward of Charles’ errant lust.

Aliénor’s perfume lingered in the court of France, Helena was told, like a watchful ghost.  She cants her dark head to the side, head tilted upward to leer at Charles boldly, openly; affording him neither a bashful flutter of her lashes, nor a roseate glow to her cheeks. She is all woman: Eve who devours, Godia who rides dauntlessly.  The trappings of an ingenue escape her.  ‘The same cannot be said of women with spouses, can it?’

She moves to retreat, to abscond before her fragrance, too, can linger.  His hand is regarded wearily, whether an omen or a charm, prompting Helena to release yet another imperious husk of breath. Yet her mother’s voice is potent in her ear: you are too young, too radiant, to be buried in an apostolnik with a grove of dead-eyed nuns, ever unmarried.  Helena was made for marriage, look at those hips, look at how your people pray for your triumphant entry into foreign lands, into a husband’s embrace, up and down, up and down, like marmots.  Helena eyed Charles, his hand, his face, his lavish attire, quizzically.  She relents, thinking of her mother, and of Byzantium, and of Sophia.  ‘And how, your grace, do you plan to distract me?  More thorny barbs, or perhaps, dancing?  I would hazard a guess that you cut a fine figure on the floor…’ 

In a rare turn, Charles chose to exercise forbearance. Her question asked for no answer because she had posed it with surety. It was the confidence of a siege underway, of a mortal wound in which the blade still sat lodged, with which Charles himself would stand alongside Amis and Amiles as some mangled predator spasmed at their feet. Still, an answer weighed heavy in his mouth. He longed to discard her remark concerning the dancing; what was it, after all, except an afterthought of a balm? There would be no dancing. He wished to lean close and whisper against the innermost curve of her dainty ear that she should pray to his God the implications of her taunting were untrue. He had, after all, approached her with surety of his own—the proprietorial sort. Always, he saw the gossamer tendrils of what would be dangling above the cusp of his palm. Such was his luck that he only ever needed to grasp them. They, these threads, took her form on this evening.

Would it be easier to whisper if they danced?

“I distract you already,” Charles answered. “Do you not now stand here, imagining what we may do, instead of hurrying away to the occupation which beckoned you first?” He would have chuckled, but he was distracted, too. The provocation held his thoughts without respite as he watched her scrutinizing eyes. How depthless they were; how pitch-black, dark as sin.

‘How do you know these things?’ reverberated as a chant in his thoughts.

‘Do you recall the sound of your father’s laughter?’ he could have asked.

Her answer would not have mattered, for the climax would be the same: ‘Do you hear it now?’

“I thought we might converse in private.” Instead of the derision which filled him like breath in his lungs, he supplied this forthright explanation. The crowded nature of the room and laughability of absconding from it prompted him to further elaborate, adding, “There will be other times, but I make no habit of letting opportunities go unused.”

Indeed, better than fleeting dance floor embraces, the edges of tables and shadowed walls of the hall proved intimate for dozens of their fellow attendees. Anyone might stare nakedly upon them as they talked—Charles did this himself, eyeing the dowager tsarina still as a statue here, or the sour faces of one very holy Henri and his wife there. Still, the unpleasant music and discordant murmur of overlapping voices discouraged eavesdropping. As he considered it, he wished to be seen conversing with the Byzantine princess. He imagined the eyes of interested parties tracking his movements like able sailors marked celestial bodies. What would they make of these constellations, which must be either woven together into the darkness by the hand of God or a meaningless trick played by unseasoned eyes? With full faith, Charles would bet upon the former.

The hand, once raised, now beckoned in a fluid gesture that they relocate. Any aperture in the press of gathered people would do—a gap along the wall, beneath one of the bronze lamps, where the warm light would roll shadows across their figures like water. Perhaps they would be hitherto undisturbed by bothersome nobodies with their own cravings for her attention. Were she anyone but herself, he would march them outside into the summertime night.

“You cannot say my company fails to intrigue you,” he insisted, smiling, his voice more genial accusing. She could, in fact, disagree. Their exchange insofar suggested she would do exactly that. However, her words’ rough edges had given him a pretext to closely attend to the language of her body. Thus, he concluded with astounding sincerity, “If you do, then I will be undeterred, and you will be a winsome liar.”

[charlesv]

reknes​:

while   timing   is   rather   fickle,      charles   always   seems   to   pop   in   at   the   most   opportune   of   moments.      catching   their   child   red-handed   in   their   means   to   belittle   anyone   that   has   the   misfortune   to   have   crossed   paths   with   the   serpentine   kin   of   the   french   king.      at   least   this   particular   one   was   lucky   enough   to   be   interrupted   by   the   man   in   question   before   more   cutting   exchanges   would   be   met   with   more   cruel   gestures   of   feigned   cordiality.      “         that      creature      you      speak      of      embarrasses      himself      without      me      having      to      lift      a      finger.      there      lacks      a      certain      …      challenge,         "         their   father’s   words   are   met   with   a   smile,      one   which   holds   a   surprising   authenticity   as   it’s   aimed   at   one   of   the   handful   of   people   that   is   met   with   jules’   respects.      gaze   meeting   the   other’s   as   their   thoughts   were   asked   upon,      they   manage   a   shrug   as   their   expression   falls   flat      —      devoid   of   any   interest   in   the   festivities.

"         as      you      have      clearly      been      closely      watching      my      encounters      thus      far,      i      would      assume      that      you      are      more      than      aware      of      the      answer      to      your      own      curiosities,      father,         "         at   least   now   they   can   drop   the   mask      ;      disdain   casting   freely   over   the   planes   of   their   features.      there’s   nothing   quite   like   home,      even   this   trip   alone   is   enough   to   sate   their   curiosities   of   the   world   outside   of   their   land.         "         is      every      other      nation      this      boorish      or      did      we      just      happen      to      have      attended      the      most      poorly      fashioned      out      of      all      its      festivities      ?         ”

Charles allowed the question to hang in the air as he looked, with an incisive stare, upon Jules. In the dim evening lighting of the banquet hall, the angular peaks of their face cast shadows to contrast against its smooth planes. Their expression exuded youthfulness—a kind of haughty expectation as Jules awaited agreement from their likeminded father—but their very form was itself a picture of youth. It was ever difficult to believe that Jules drew so near to three decades of life. Charles would reluctantly accept his own age, but his children remained in his imagination as precisely that: immature, adolescent, wobbling fledglings. Even as he considered them more obligated friends than offspring to be reared, his fondest memories were not adult conversations but a montage of quotidian childhood activities. These recollections were not tender, not rich with saccharine parental longing; they were playful and easy.

This is what furrowed his brow now as he stared. He owed Jules a snide concurring remark, but he instead thought of how strange it was that their eyes nearly met level—when, if Charles were to close his and picture someone called Jules, the top of this child’s head would scarcely reach his waist. Finally looking away, his eyes roamed the panorama of the banquet. On one side, the dais held Byzantine sisters, and to the far wall an international coterie of lesser nobles mingled. The masters of the world flecked the middle like bits of gold. Charles could acknowledge the reception was a decent affair and even impressive by some standards, but he would never utter the words where another might hear. Hubris, like any powerful and delicate beast, required painstaking maintenance. Jules had inherited this same pet. Even when they had been pocket-sized, Jules had been equal parts conceited and opinionated. They learned, swift and nimble, how slice an opponent with curt words. Charles participated in the teaching, sitting them upon his knee and murmuring reviews of the various courtiers, advisers, and passersby who came before them. Eager to emulate, Jules would nod with solemnity—and, when a disfavored man came around next, they proffer embellished versions of the insults Charles had devised.

So, this exchange felt as familiar as the memories it abruptly stirred.

“Never mind all of that,” he said, still surveying the space. “The true Lancasters are starving dogs, and this is a room of bleeding flesh.” It was not his desire to discuss the English. The sun had set upon their isle, as far as he was concerned. Still, the predicament of the slain king’s betrayed brother fascinated him; the late Edward’s death had been a gift, and in its wake came more delightful twists of fate’s knife. The English past was relevant, however, insofar as it laid the foundations of a brilliant French future.

Charles continued, “As for the others, you pose the wrong question. We do not care for their fashion or their manners—not here, when it suits us to outshine them and do so with grace.” His gaze lingered upon, one by one, the faces whose names he had begun to learn, as he turned from chastisement to direction. “Jules, you must be charming and beguiling and innocuous. We cannot find you a suitable marriage if you are known to be undesirable.”

Making eye contact once again, Charles prodded, “Are you shrewish, Jules?” It was a rhetorical question, and he paused only long enough to quirk a smile. “Even if you are not, the princess whom you insulted may now whisper to each new friend she makes that you are a villain who cannot charm a woman. And, to be sure, these may be our friends, too.” 

In another pause, the smile became a frown. “That would disappoint me. We must be known collectively to be as gracious as we are cruel.”

[charlesv]

hellcnas​:

Helena was radiant: a magnificent violet, blooming within a cypress hothouse –– gleaming with the dew of euphoria.  She thrived in the company of admirers, in the adoration and the exultation with which they fanned her, and under the heady stares of courtiers glazed in both awe and stupefaction.  They leered at her as though she were a relic, intangible and holy, a vial of Christ’s own blood; and, perhaps more saliently, the quixotic melding of both a saint and temptress preserved within her lithe frame.  Helena was a far cry from Sophia’s more peaceable nature, the unflinching doll still perched upon the velvet dais, yet she was undoubtedly the more tantalising of the two –– all too swiftly, and all too easily, usurping her sister as the gilded crux of the empire.  Ribald and pious men alike laughed in response to her jests, deep, full-bellied guffawing that prompted tears to haze their lovelorn eyes, whilst women fawned over the jewels that weighted her nimble hands, the tunics embroidered with purple thread and edged in sparkling gold.  She was awash in the glow of the candelabrum and in the celebratory acclaim of the assembled guests, a glowing ruddiness streaked across her cheeks.

With much subtly, Helena had ensured that the dais remained ever in the corner of her eye.  The festivities had yet to peel away Sophia’s terrors, for she remained as still and as vigilant as the Pharos upon the Tsar’s throne, a feathery, shrinking girl uncertain of her fate.  Helena tended to her when the moment allowed, ensuring the coronet upon her head was never askew, the clasp at her gossamer maphorion ever secure.  Yet, within an instant, Helena would be ineluctably whisked back to her rightful place as the majestic head of a growing party of admirers; commanding them, observing them, taking note of their sleight-of-hand tricks.  Unaware that somewhere beneath the hall’s gold-washed diaconicon, she, herself, was being observed: her hand upon Sofíka’s arm, a protective clasp secured by precious jewels at her wrists.  ‘I’ll tell Irene you wish to retire,’  she murmurs in her native Greek, brushing away the sullen look on the Princess’ cherubic visage.  ‘Wait for me here.’

En-route to seek out the Princess’ lady, however, Helena swiftly found herself at an impasse: Charles V, the infamous King of France, standing squarely in her path.  She recognized him by various, coal-etched portraits circulating throughout the courts of western Europe, and by the fleur-de-lis delicately embroidered within his sumptuous doublet.  Ah, indeed.  This is the man whom all of Europe calls a hedonist, and the rest a spoilt rat.  ‘And why would she not?’  Helena’s agreement was swift, her momentary confusion over linguistics replaced by her own aplomb.  In a broken French tongue, she continued:  ‘I have groomed her for this very moment, with assurance and adoration forged from my own breast.  I have cut her from marble into a tsarina worthy of the King of France’s presence.’  At that, Helena swept into a fearsome low bow; her rapidly rising decolletage displaying the grand extent of Byzantine wealth.  ‘Your majesty.’ 

Charles nodded as she spoke. She made her misshapen words intelligible, but it was the all-important confidence buoying her voice which he understood best. Seeing her up close, he decided that Helena was a woman whose corpse might someday disappoint. She would, in all likelihood, not rest in her coffin as a breathtaking tragedy. Would anyone, their eyes blinded by beauty rather than tears, suggest in despair that she appeared to have fallen asleep in the midst of a fruitful life? For some, to have their inner hearth extinguished would be to render their exquisite splendor as mere prettiness. How many unfortunates aspired pitifully to be even this, pretty? Yet, Charles considered it an insult; she might, too. The arrogance of her response told him that this radiance was not because heaven had sculpted her countenance to catch and refract its own angelic light. He had seen such people. The letters—those assuring him she was pretty, that she was capable, that she had suffered no horrific accidents rendering her unmarriageable—had also implied vivacity. Now, he saw how it imbued her. Wealth softened ugliness and made goddesses of mortals, it was true, but so too did mystique. He smiled, easily, imagining both the way she must laugh and the angry cadence her voice must take. 

They would fight, this he knew. She may be her most radiant in such moments. Indeed, personal experience suggested the most beloved ( if not best ) wives were.

“At last, clarity.”  Still nodding, Charles made the declaration to himself before continuing.  “Your effort must be the reason that you, an old maid of near-forty, have groomed and sculpted no husband or children of which to speak.”  Perhaps he meant this statement as a barb, but only insofar as one might use a gilded spur, bidding a svelte courser to demonstrate its swiftness.  “You might imagine the contradictions in Alice’s many claims. Now, in the flesh: no paradox, no deceit, but a curiosity. You have piqued mine, anyway.”

He raised a hand, anticipating and forestalling a clever retort.  “You walked from the dais with purpose. Allow me to distract you from it, only briefly, and I will repay you—generously.”

[charlesv]

❧   @reknes

𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: palace of facets, moscow

𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞: 23 july 1319, evening

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: referencing some version of this thread ! 

❛ Must I find you taunting little girls? ❜

The English princess had since peeled away by the time Charles appeared at his child’s shoulder. Suspecting Jules may notice his approach but indifferent to startling them, he spared no greeting. He had sat nearby while the exchange proceeded, able to observe through body language as Jules succumbed to serpentine cruelty. It was more of an embrace than a capitulation, however. Jules ( like their detestable Agnes ) at times and without provocation raised their head with a blackening stare and spoke with a forked tongue. Charles liked their meanness—usually. This incident struck him as something else. Was it pettiness unbefitting the setting or, better yet, directed at the wrong variety of recipient? The issue of suitability would have little to do with questions of delicacy or fairness. She was an unassuming princess, but how benign could an English rose be? It was a remarkable choice, still, to catch field rabbits while wolves stalked the village.

❛ Could you not find her brother, that creature Richard, when you desired to hurl insults? ❜ he asked, turning so their eyes could meet. Charles’ disdain was, in truth, paper-thin; amusement at his own words ripped through it with ease. ❛ Tell me your thoughts, and leave them naked: do you find this an impressive evening, or is it so lackluster as to necessitate you entertain yourself? ❜

[charlesv]

what do they do with their hands during a conversation? cross their arms? fidget with something?

accidentally read this as “in a fight” and was like “THROW THEM, DUH !” 

anyway …

oddly enough, i don’t imagine charles does much gesticulating or fidgeting. in general conversation, he’s inclined to stand with his hands behind his back or on his hips; he keeps them folded on the table top when seated, or loose upon the armrests of his chair. the exception is that he’s not subtle about boredom or displeasure, so cue the finger-tapping and knuckle-cracking and generally obnoxious fidgeting !

[marchenvillain]

— OC QUESTION MEME !

no particular theme to them, just what i could think of~ feel free to reblog and use for your own oc blogs! sorry if any questions repeat ;;

1. What’s a unique skill they have? Is their any reason why they can do it?

2. What are their favourite possessions? Why? (sentimentality, history, price, etc)

3. Do they get jealous easily? If so, what usually causes it?

4. Are they a good gift-giver? What do they tend to give as gifts?

5. What’s their reputation like? Does this reputation contrast what they’re really like?

6. Do they prefer to have a big social circle, or a few close friends?

7. What’s their “type”? What romantically attracts them to another person?

8. What does their dream house look like?

9. If they could change one part of their appearance, what would it be?

10. What’s a simple thing that brings them joy?

11. What is their dream pet?

12. What’s their position in their friend group? (leader, mom friend, chaos goblin, etc)

13. How forgiving are they? What do they consider unforgivable?

14. Who do they go to in a crisis/emergency? Any particular reason why they choose that person?

15. How good are they at conversation? Are they a small talk master, bad at initiating, etc?

16. What food do they absolutely hate?

17. Do they show a lot of affection, or are they pretty reserved?

18. If you had to represent them with a flower, colour, and animal, what would you choose?

19. What’s their unusual quirk?

20. Are they easy to wake up in the morning, or grouchy and sleepy?

21. What’s their ideal date like?

22. What’s their silliest or most unusual fear/phobia?

23. Is their pain tolerance high or low?

24. Are they a fussy eater?

25. What are their dreams like?

26. Are they technologically savvy?

27. Are they forgetful? What do they tend to forget? (plans, phone, keys, etc)

28. Describe their morning routine.

29. Are they a good cook? If they are, what do they like to make?

30. Do they consider themselves a “hero” or “villain”?

31. What holiday do they like the most? (Christmas, Easter, Valentine’s Day, etc)

32. What are they like at parties? Party animal, or awkwardly sitting in the corner drinking punch and reading?

33. Are they adventurous, or do they prefer to stay in their safe zone?

34. What’s their favourite drink? (Coffee, tea, juice, hot chocolate, soda, etc)

35. Are they good with children?

36. Do they trust easily? What would you have to do to earn their trust?

37. Are they a hopeless romantic, or is that stuff just not for them?

38. Do they get lost easily, or are they good with directions?

39. Are they superstitious?

40. Do they like physical activity, or staying inside?

41. What would they dress up as for Halloween?

42. Do they like fast food, or fancy restaurants?

43. Are they a chaotic bastard, pure angel baby, or tired mom friend?

44. Do they have a good attention span?

45. Are they always late, on time, or early?

46. Do they cry, gasp, laugh, etc, while reading a book, or do they remain relatively stone-faced?

47. Do they keep a diary?

48. How dramatic are they?

49. Do they put a lot of effort into their appearance, or do they just make themselves presentable and go?

50. Why would they be a good partner for a road trip?

51. Why would they be a BAD partner for a road trip?

52. What topic should nobody bring up around them, lest the other person be subject to a massive ramble/rant?

53. Are they clumsy?

54. Are they a law breaker, or stickler for rules?

55. Choose a vine you think perfectly encapsulates their character.

56. Do they like to share?

57. What’s the most chaotic thing they’ve done?

58. Which friend do they immediately become a zero-braincelled idiot around?

59. Do they love or hate surprises?

60. What sappy thing will they cry at? (romance movies, cute cat videos, etc) Would they deny crying about it later on?

61. What’s their favourite and least favourite subject in school?

62. Do they take a lot of photos? If so, what of?

63. Do they wear makeup?

64. Describe what their social media would be like.

65. Do they give people a lot of nicknames?

66. What nicknames do others call them by?

67. What’s an outrageous story about them nobody believes?

68. Are they easy to fluster? What would you have to do to truly fluster them?

69. What’s their dream vacation like?

70. Are they a good liar?

71. What do they want to do in the future?

72. How do they feel about love?

73. Are they more book smarts, or street smarts?

74. What’s their guilty pleasure?

75. Is there anyone they consider their rival?

76. Do they have any notable physical features?

77. What’s their music taste like?

78. What’s something they’re really bad at?

79. Do they have a good sleep schedule?

80. What’s their aesthetic sense like?

81. What’s something they’re really proud of?

82. How would they spend a free day?

83. What are they like as an s/o?

84. What’s one thing they like that they don’t want anyone to know about?

85. Do they have a sweet tooth?

86. How would you describe their fashion sense?

87. Do they like spicy food?

88. Are they lucky? Do they believe in luck?

89. What would they get into a petty argument over?

90. Are they a good artist?

91. Do they prefer hot or cold weather?

92. Can they play an instrument?

93. What type of movies do they like to watch?

94. What does their room look like?

95. How do they feel about bugs? Scared? Fascinated?

96. What’s their sense of humour like? (Dad jokes, morbid humour, basic knock-knock jokes, stand up comedy, etc)

97. What do they keep in their bag?

98. How competitive are they?

99. What would they wear to a formal event? Describe their outfit!

100. If you, the creator, met them, would you two get along?

[hmnbd]

— random character description questions on various topics 👀: a small list

as someone who constantly struggles about how to describe their characters, what to mention, and where to start, I've compiled a small list of things and scenarios to consider about your characters, focusing on random habits and traits that aren't just physical/visual to add some spice to your descriptions and help you figure them out a little bit better. feel free to use it to better flesh out your characters while writing, or have your followers send you one of these and answer to let everyone know your ocs/muses better!

how's the sound of their laugh? (if they laugh, that is!)

how do they respond when someone's feeling down?

how do they act around children?

do they make eye contact with others look at their feet/somewhere else?

how do they act when they cry? (if they ever do it)

are they a hug person or a handshake person?

what makes their eyes light up?

how do they react when they're caught in a lie?

do they smile with their teeth?

do they stand up with their back straight or slouched?

what do they do when they start getting impatient?

do they like to talk about themselves?

what's an item they always carry with them?

can they tell a joke without laughing before finishing it?

do they like to take pictures?

do they have any pets? do they like animals in general?

what's their comfort meal?

is there any subject they don't like to talk about?

how's their relationship with their immediate family?

are they chatty or reserved?

what do they do with their hands during a conversation? cross their arms? fidget with something?

[charlesv]

❧   @hellcnas

𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: palace of facets, moscow

𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞: 23 july 1319, evening

Throughout the bride’s stiff and ostentatious presentation, Charles had felt nothing more than the blunt edges of boredom gnawing upon him. He took note, not of the tender bride herself, but of the magnificent parade in her wake. This was the real presentment. No amount of beauty could conceal the glaring repulsion of a paltry offering, but even the most hideous woman shone bright in the light of the luxurious, the scintillating, the pure heft of her family’s wealth. (This, Charles would tell himself, while shuddering nonetheless at such a predicament.) Fabrics of fine quality and heaping coins beckoned avarice. The distinct Byzantine nature of it all, however, made anticipation a companion to his initial indifference. Such was his personal interest in the reception underway—it was reconnaissance, but it was also the judging of competition. France might outshine this gilded rigidity. Witnessing firsthand the reception offered to the Byzantines and all the world, such a possibility became to him nothing less than a mandate.  

The ceremony reached its end, and now it was time to move. Charles leapt from his seat with little thought to what occupation he might take; his restlessness, half-excitement and half the desire to be seen, required more motion than thought. With haste, dancing and mingling had commenced enlivening the banquet hall. It seemed others were of the same mind as himself. He paused to appreciate the ambiance—the space beneath the concave web of the ceiling and between the bodies moving, an atmosphere thrumming with aggrandizement. The bowed heads of congregated conversations juxtaposed against the rhythmic surging and receding of the dancers now amassed. Clanging, clinking, the faint slosh of what passed for wine… Spaces ike this ripened with chaos. It would be subtle until it spilled over in heated words, in visceral passion, or (among less civil company) from split knuckles.

Charles bowed his head. He thought of God. In his mind’s eye, he saw himself.

This was the way he approached her. Of course, there was a brief detour. He first spent an undue amount of time standing toe-to-toe with a stout, matronly Byzantine gentlewoman. A man, whom Charles had mistakenly believed to be this maid’s minder, once more unleashed upon him the dull teeth of boredom. He watched his jowls as he spoke. Spittle dewed his beard. The woman’s face, so plain and open, would be no better distraction. It was only when she jutted her bony chin in the direction of another that his mistake was revealed. She—her, lithe and elegant even from afar—had been all the while alongside the evening’s honored bride. As a trio, they watched as the princess pressed assurance in the form of a lingering hand against the would-be tsarina’s arm. This was private, intimate even. This was a moment that meant nothing to Charles, but now it was over. Having noticed as well, the matron suggested with much pluck and little irony that a king’s time was better spent with others.

Charles agreed. With a gliding step and no words—indeed, had he uttered anything at all to the pair?—he left. He thought himself less a god to them and more an angel; would they ask themselves later, had a foreign king tested them and vanished? Now gone from his sight, it was they who ceased to exist. Her path into the rest of the party stood remarkably clear for such a populated room. Behind, the dais loomed. A wall of partygoers to one side and a food-laden table on the other formed a narrow aisle; he placed himself squarely in her way. It would compel her to halt before him, face tilted and surprise in her eyes. He surmised she was too dignified for the other option. What princess would throw herself shoulder-first into the throng of guests? A few seconds intervened before she noticed. These moments—just as her gaze lifted to glint like black glass in the low light—were for appraising. He thought simply, ‘The Lord delivers,’ as satisfaction colored his expression.

“Byzantium displays all of its jewels on this evening,” Charles remarked once he had her attention. “Princess Helena—” He paused to acknowledge the feel of her name. Looking in the direction of her sister, he concluded, “She must adore you.”

[antigonick]

We are only midway through the central verse of our youth when we see ourselves begin to blacken. […] We had been seduced into thinking that we were immortal and suddenly the affair is over.

Anne Carson, excerpt of Mimnermos and The Motions of Hedonism (Mimnermos: The Brainsex Paintings)

[maurawrites]