I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
One Nice Bug Per Day
EXPECTATIONS
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Aqua Utopia｜海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
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PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
we're not kids anymore.
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@defyingtreason
the beat of dagmar’s fingertips on the table were erratic, tapping as fast as a bird’s heart. “i hear a soothsayer make claim that it will rain soon. what do you make of that?”
‘I pray he is right, but I fear such would lend my aegis to a folkloric endowment.’ His lips curled upwards at the retrieval of a thought, ‘do bedimmed skies a soothsayer make, my lady?’
“Quite beautiful, are they not?” Helene admired the creature before her, tempted to call upon a stable boy and venture out on a ride.
‘Indeed; though mayhap it is his strength and thew which makes them the most bewitching. Do these strapping beasts belong to your Ladyship?’
“Ah, yes — my sojourn from my paper-laden desk in Sweden is to be spent at a paper-laden desk here in Rome, it seems. His Majesty has been quite BUSY since we last spoke.”
‘Again I am mistaken to presume that my active proceedings would courier unto you mirth, Chancellor; though I will admit your assiduity brings me no less joy. When you are occupied, dearest brother, Sweden’s commerce is always burgeoning.’
Do not speak so plainly. A scorn. William’s syllables were dusted in embers and brought a singing pain as the breeze carried them in the direction of a porcelain visage; prompted the ridges of her trachea to bob as she swallowed thickly– swallowed down the flames of hurt that flourished within her skeletal. “And why must you recoil from it?” Brows kneaded, features twisted in both vexation and bewilderment. “Happy? No matter how it is preened and strung, happiness will not be derived from a country that is not my own alongside a man who views me in the sole light of an obligation.” The rounds of shoulders were tugged back, swords and knives and the like wedged between the divots of a vertical spine. “To be Queen is to merely be a caged bird meant to swell with the children of His Majesty for the continuation of a region that is not her home,” Her words were not brittle, not extracted from tinder ribs but rather the soot of flames, “You must excuse me for dreading to bare such. And at the side a man, for he is merely such, who is incapable of sharing my fondness.”
‘You will anon become a nuisance if you press further, Princess. Challenge not your fortune when the ink indenturing us in marriage is wet still, the parchment on which it is indited just as frangible.’ His grumbled admonishment was uttered as vacantly as a swallow’s nest in the brutality of wintertide, bereaved of warmth and motion likewise – the lips from which they issued plucked downward. ‘Your fondness?’ An embittered chortle served to punctuate his uproarious query; sturdy brows sewn together as a crease of discontent sculpted betwixt them, reminiscence of those besieging his mouth. ‘You’ll pardon me for taking your fondness with a grain of salt, for they took only a matter of days to develop, and will surely fray at a greater pace. The wine has gone to your head and I shall benevolently exonerate you of such, but this colloquy shall extend no further. You may retire to your chambers at will if it is not your pleasure to accompany me unto the celebrations.’
Lips incurved, the Grand Duke eftsoon allows for the closure of his eyes; a fugitive disappearance of familiar leaden blue hues previously limned under the scrutiny of the room’s natural light. Yet Henri regretted the dearth of William’s gaze just as he did his absence, resentful of the hour’s engendered languidity as drowsy limbs tangled beneath their covers. Amusement finds its foothold as a low rumble within his chest, arising from ruined catacombs —— the zestful glare of daylight does not descry it often these days. ‘Ah, but you could not be rid of me for long.’ His words are just as equal querying as they are avowing as a sinewy arm follows forth, lissom fingertips palpating the hollow of the King’s neck, a stretching silence alive with the trice of each heartbeat which drummed against the Grand Duke’s ear. Luxembourg was his home, but its nights were solitary ; its moon perennially brumal. ‘Dotage.’ The man repeats, mirth ingrained within a tone perdurably sonorous as he raises an onyx brow, ‘Do not mock the afflicted, lest we recall your years chase mine own.’ A grin flashes as much amid his tone as it does his countenance, deft fingers relocating to trace the unrough plane of the Swede’s clavicle as he shifts his head to better accommodate the hand weaving through an inky barnet, and eyne painted silver beneath the lucent close of day find William once more before Henri —— unwilling to allow himself to settle within the embrace of slumber, for its arms are not as warm as those of the man beside him —— enquires in a tone placid ; ‘What waits for you in Rome at sunrise?’
‘Are you so certain of the desideratum of your being that you contend inimically to my will?’ Renounce his words he did not, but to coincide with their implications would be to desist from what diluted stronghold clung to his resolution; such had been marked in how facilely the King had forged to the Grand Duke’s company in the preliminary moments of their reacquaintance in spite of the friction which was to congenitally establish over briny mileage of estrangement between brethren and the misconstruing of diaphanous missives owing to the peril prevailing should the wrong hands come to bear their amorous overtones. Be that as it may, the inundation of recollections heretofore tucked within the latched chambers of his memory once again unleashed within him upon casting his eyes upon Henri’s visage had bled William of his past misgivings.
Though weightless and the sullenness uplifted, a lethal blindness had purloined his wits, and the ichor which pooled at his feet passed unheeded as a leaden smile curved his lips. ‘You are right. Never for long.’
A mirthful chuckle surpassed succulent brims, edges of lateral canthus striating in a further augur of the lightheartedness forming in the eventide hour. ‘The thought would exert me more were your years stagnant; alas, as my age advances — as does your own.’ Digits curl within inky tresses, ‘soon I fear you shall be unable to keep abreast. What have you come to upon our anterior encounter, four and thirty, Henri?’
His query promoted a curious expression to alter features drawn in absorption, a grave reminder of his obligation come dawn. ‘If I am fortunate: placidity. But as I boast of no such fortune: congregation.’ He swallowed deeply, trachea bobbing within his throat. ‘Whilst en route his county, an iniquitous felony was committed by the Viscount of Norrköping; for whom a scaffold awaits, should I accredit it, on the morrow. Many pine for his demise, my council and self included. He is a fine subject, delinquent of a man. But that is of negligible consequence, –– have you anything scheduled?’
“The head of the English Stuart monarch Charles I, hewn off by an axe in front of Whitehall Palace on 30 January 1649, became a terrible warning to the rulers of the age: the first male regicide of the modern era caused profound shock waves all over Europe, which continued right up to the French revolution at the end of the following century. The word ‘Remember!’ that Dumas puts in the mouth of King Charles just before his death, as the French musketeers look in astonishment, in his 1845 novel Vingt ans après, gave that moment proverbial resonance that has lasted to our own times.” — Cantar le lacrime: Laments for the mighty in the seventeenth century, Dinko Fabris
i. Songs of Mourning on the Death of Prince Henry, 1612: “So parted you” (to the most princely and virtuous Elizabeth), John Coprario | ii. Prélude, Daniel Bachelor | iii. Tregian’s ground, Daniel Norcombe | iv. The Monthes: January, Christopher Simpson | v. Consort set No. 2 in A minor: Fantazy for ye violls, William Lawes | vi. Semper Dowland, semper dolens, John Dowland | vii. “What greater griefe”, Tobias Hume | viii. A Sad Pavan for these distracted Times, Thomas Tomkins
listen | download | &co.
The extent of a blink, a mere downward flutter of sooty lashes and William’s broad frame was nearly pressed to her own, tender digits collected in his calloused touch; the King’s abrupt motions tugging an audible gasp from her mouth. Whether provoked by a presence which entirely consumed her, or the copious gulps of wine mingling within veins, she was left entirely entranced by the seraphic man before her; valiant syllables exhaled and left to caress the swell of her bottom lip. “Do you not wish it to be for love?” Her inquiry exited in a near choke– candid words plucked and spoken without further thought on their repercussions, “We shall be wed, a lavish moment surely– though one that will be followed by men who’s breath exhaled down our necks; sacred in the eyes of God, though not of pleasure, of love,” Her words were quiet, meant for William and he alone, “And what follows? It is then for children, for an heir, for His Majesty. Are your rules for my comfort, or for Your Majesty’s past faults?” His words had meant to reassure, surely, though Kamille’s own had left her hollow– weak for all that would never be.
An exhale threaded with culpability had been duly stifled, sentineled by the macerated brims of his lips as she entreated his heartfelt desires — more ardently than any matter of state he quelled with an amorphous dispensation upon the throne. He did not often rifle within the chambers of his own heart, as though a gilded locket oxidized by time; moreover, he also did not care to when the feasibility of unearthing personal gospels that ought to have gone unheeded remained formidable. His soul was astray and pitched like a strapping vessel unruddered in a shoreless pelagic; heaved thither and hither by Kamille’s temerarious will. He peered outward, never inward, and shifted his attention otherwhere from the countenance of his betrothed lest his adopted, diplomatic and distanced nature crumble as swiftly as Greece’s zenith. ‘You should not speak so plainly.’ His words were spoken low within the hollow of his throat, as though the subject was no more than his own privy-council. ‘Why must you dredge up love? I am neither your husband nor your acquaintance. I am your betrothed, your sovereign. Whatever sentiments I bear you will be next in order to our marital responsibilities.’ A winded breath vented from within him. ‘Could you not be content, be happy, in such a way? You will be Queen. Is that not enough?’
rumor has it that in spite of your betrothal, you are in love with another
The rumour mill lacks a stringent perchance for verisimilitude, does it not?
Send “Rumour has it...” and a rumour about my muse in my ask!
My muse will then react to it being spread.
Some may say that eavesdropping was considered rude, Caterina however would simply claim she was curious and just so happened to remain unseen. Curiosity had led the Neapolitan to spotting a couple sitting below the balcony from where she stood, too entwined in one another to notice her presence, while speaking rather loudly and publicly of their recent engagement. Upon hearing footsteps nearby she did not flinch, instead she spoke out to coax them into conversation.
“How rare, to see a match look at one another with so much…love. If that is what it is.”
Urged by a precipitated inquisitiveness, the King flicked an eyebrow upwards as he canvassed the welded duo, indentured by a betrothal likely forged by their betters, embrace — decisively tender given the public swath they tenanted. William merely grimaced, the commissures of his lips tugged downwards, and shook his head ; drawing the opulent drapery to a close.
‘Nay. A betrothal does not a romance make, albeit I am told surveilling is a sin in the majority of creeds.’
@imperialxlucius / @devicusduke / @hoskuld / @ettaofsweden / @solacoronam / @ofluxembourg
William ❤️❤️
https://youtu.be/Ahi09hiGDbo
Brandi Carlile - My Song
Everything I doSurrounds these pieces of my life That often changeOr hey, maybe I’ve changedSometimes seeming happyCan be self-destructive Even when you’re saneYeah you’re only insaneBut don’t bother waking me todayHere I amI’m so youngI know I’ve been bitter I’ve been jadedI’m alone Everyday, I bite my tongueI’m not sure I can take itI’ve nothing strong to hold toI’m way too old to hate youMy mind is full of razorsTo cut you like a Word if only sungWell, this is my song
_________________
How much can a single man endure? How many secrets and thoughts can roil beneath the skin before they all come bursting out? William, with one dead sister (possibly murdered), the other cruelly ravaged and her vengeful husband now eyeing Sweden with suspicion, the son he can’t acknowledge, the burdens of kingship and the necessity of marriage, the secret relationship with Henri that he hides … if he ever sang it all out he’d cut Rome to ribbons.
“ Oh - forgive my intrusion…” even if it were to considered such a thing as they appeared to be the one to sneak up on her, “regretfully my travelling has left me considerably weary. I’m searching for the gardens - if I’ll ever be able to find the damned things.”
‘Wherefore you are unutterably astray, madam; as the nearest means of egress unto the gardens is found in the westward hall, several paces ahead of us. If you would allow me to - ‘twould be my pleasure to escort you. I have found myself yearning for daylight likewise.’
ᴀᴜɢᴜsᴛ ꜰᴏᴜʀᴛʜ, ¹⁴²² – ʙɪʀᴛʜ ᴏꜰ ᴀ ᴩʀɪɴᴄᴇ
Amidst the bellows of labour and the inquisitiveness of sundry courtiers loitering outside of Queen Anne’s luxurious birthing-rooms, a cry erupts from lungs forged of aureate fibres intertwined with coal. Nigh a decade succeeding the parturition of the first Swedish royal, breath given unto a son, William –– name bequeathed in honor of Saint William of Gellone; a feudal, imposing leader amongst the Aquitaine peoples. He is born the first and only son in an impenetrable trio of heirs; the picture of his father and the crowning glory of his mother’s matrimonial prosperity. Long live the King.
ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴇʀ ᴏꜰ ¹⁴²⁸ – ᴀɴ ᴀʟʟɪᴀɴᴄᴇ ꜰᴏʀɢᴇᴅ
An association to be likened to the confidence which is possessed between the moon and the ether which holds it and the concord wound betwixt Damon and Phythias, is stimulated between brethren — the sons of alliances blessed by Philotes. Coalitions had long been forged between Luxembourg and Sweden, the former noted for its wealth, the latter for its militaristic progression; but the camaraderie which soon formed between the children of monarchs had been borne from endearment alone - and a corresponding taste for havoc, joined at the hip and of one mine once juvenescent revelry had stepped in.
ᴏᴄᴛᴏʙᴇʀ sᴇᴠᴇɴᴛʜ, ¹⁴³⁵ – ʜᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍɪɢʜᴛʏ ꜰᴀʟʟ
Thirteen years of life have elapsed when the nape of his neck begins to prickle and swell with hive-like effects, unfurling across the vast swath of his frame in minuscule, reddened nodules; corralling the Prince to the royal bedchamber for a fortnight to recuperate from that which was like to seize his life. Though buboes did not suppurate upon his flesh, his mother cries that he has risen from the dead once he is mended and emerged from constraint, faint cicatrixes marring concealed areas of his frame in contingencies. He is considered fortunate to have evaded the widespread demise which swept through Sweden on account of such an ailment.
ᴛʜᴇ ᴡɪɴᴛᴇʀ ᴏꜰ ¹⁴³⁸ – ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇᴍᴩʀᴇss
Only but meagre years had succeeded the espousal of Lucius and his sister, and the birth of their only child, before the news of the Empress’ malapropos and disputed death engulfed the Western nations. In inordinate amplitude had Emma been lamented in both Sweden and the Holy Roman Empire, and no expense had been restrained to revitalize her memory amidst the Swedish people; her image enduring as youthful and fair as she had been upon the portentous days in which her tremulous nuptials had been uttered, her place within the Swedish crown polished for the last as her body lady upon a land overruled by her murderer.
ᴍᴀʏ ᴇɪɢʜᴛʜ, ¹⁴⁵⁰ – ᴀ sʜɪꜰᴛ ɪɴ ᴩᴏᴡᴇʀ
Death is a vengeance delivered in trios; his sister gone first, father headlong in his grave soon thereafter, and his mother’s seclusion from court penetrating as keenly as if it were her sepulture succeeding the demise of the King. William is then exalted to the throne of Sweden in solitude. A hollow crown upon his head of flaxen and titular robes weighing down his shoulders fitting ill. Etta of Sweden is by then married and maternal, and his own mother abstracted; acquitted of all queenly obligations until her expiry in the proceeding wintertide. To combat the isolation which seeps into the chambers of his chest as thickly as tar, the King gathers a throng of men to fortify his reign in times of prevailing uncertainty; rearranging his privy council to meet the standards which would encompass his incipient rule.
ᴍᴏɴᴛʜ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴇᴄᴇᴍʙᴇʀ, ¹⁴⁵⁰ – ꜰᴇᴀsᴛ ᴏʀ ꜰᴀᴍɪɴᴇ
A ubiquitous famine of agriculture spreads across the lowlands and reaches the northern stratosphere of Sweden in a calamitous paucity of necessary amenities contributing to the success and longevity of a territory and the livelihood of its people. Within weeks thousands of deceased Swedes are accrued in the streets and set to flame by men of the church - burials, as though an emulation of the past two decades belonging to a weakened pestilence, becoming an extravagance. And thus the land of roses begins to wilt and the milk and honey coagulate. Death is hence rife whilst yields continue to worsen, and though the royal court persistently migrates from one palace to the next (ergo securing the safety of its ruler), the mortality of the Kingdom is challenged in several metropolises supplying the comprehensive weal of the realm. The poverty which was once attributed to servants alone had, by then, seized the bourgeois. Several strides were made to recuperate the perpetration of prosperity amongst the people — but the famine claims control of royal deliberations for nigh a year before rebirth limns upon the horizon and William’s own decision becomes clear to the people.
He must take a wife and bring an heir unto his Kingdom.
“No, it is not. I am quite happy to perform my duties without making a show of it. I will say, that I did not mind the attention so much in the court of my parents as a child.”
‘Ah, yes. The knowing looks of the patrician and gentle-borns appear mitigated when the presence of one’s own parents’ is granted.’
I would like to see you take Kamille to your chambers and have her as your own.
