crowns of farce @gildedcrownx - Tumblr Blog

king henri montverre + rajkumar mahadji mehr.

verse: @redsnowrp ➺ ABOUT HENRI. ➺ ABOUT MAHADJI.

Cesar was aware of Henri's antics and thus, didn't react or kept most of his emotions as subdued and unbothered as needed. Men like him were prone to picking fights and acting out on irrational emotions which he had no need for. That and the way he dealt with his affairs reminded him so much of his own father that he resisted every urge to send his own head into a wall, repeatedly.

He nearly scowled.

"You mistake quantity for competence, your majesty." He couldn't help himself, matching the dig with equal bite, "common error in kings and amateurs." It wasn't like Cesar couldn't or wouldn't, rather the line of acceptable and good enough was slim. It was beyond him the logic of Henri's escapades and his undesirable habits.

"Flattering. And here I thought Kings were suppose to keep things for themselves. Not pass their pieces around like communion wafers." His tone cool and his expression stoic with the slightest hint of amusement. "Are the french always this generous, or is this your way of saying you've run out of holes?"

gildedcrownx

Witnessing the crown prince grapple with letting any emotion show on his face amused Henri to no end. Truth be told, he is quite impressed with the feat of restraint that the man has shown. He could sense the contempt held for him and his ways, and were he a more... sensitive man, he would have cared. The near scowl threatened to light up Henri's face with a grin. "Oh, an amateur, you say?" he gives the word pause, but there is no indication that he took offense to the veiled insult. Nor does he agree that it was a correct assessment. "The error is in thinking it has anything to do with competence. Have you no desire? Do you not feel the need to simply... pardon my french: fuck all the time?" Henri catches the slight hint of amusement and his grin widens. "Make no mistake— I do not share to just anybody. It is only because you are family, Cesar."

#cesar verdugo #king henri.#ch. 1: the devil's hour.

evcrfallen

Devayani. He speaks her name with such derision she feels it borders on affection. It’s impertinent in its warning, and that is the only explanation for why Devayani’s face feels split from grinning. His voice is melodic, she knows this, she's always known this. She could listen to it until the sun falls and rises again and again and again. But why she frequently forgets this fact feeling would require something she cannot give, reflection. She almost turns around in jest to make sure no one else is privy to their conversation, but his gaze confines her and so she stays.

A breeze blows through the hallway and Devayani swears it's incendiary.

“But it is always the heroes and the fools who survive, is it not? Or, at the very least, they are remembered. The rest are swept aside — unknown, unmarked, unnecessary to the tale."

She imagines what would happen if she grabbed the back of his neck, her nails digging into the soft flesh of his shoulder, bringing his gaze down to hers so she could look at him in equal measure. Study him as she knows he has always studied her. But Devayani was never one for arduous work, nor does she feel compelled to recognize this inherent violence for anything other than simple curiosity.

"Satisfied? Now move, troll. You have your answer."

His voice seizes her. It's terrible, she thinks, that even if she were made blind, she could recognize him from sound alone.

Before Devayani can reply, his shoulder hits hers. She reaches out for him to steady herself, wants his upper arm but catches the tips of his fingers instead. Better. She curls her pinky into his, locking them into place. It’s a practiced movement from some years before.

“And what if I told you I could help you as a demon, Rajkumar? Worse still — what if I asked for your help?” She murmurs his title as one would a sigh, a forgotten memory. “No matter. I am a troll today and trolls, as you know, demand riddles in threes. You have answered but one. However, your indulgence has warmed me and so I shall ask only one more of you.”

(Even practiced, even by her own design, her hand is burning. Even with her own self-imposed imprisonment next to him, she feels the need to flee. To chase. To subdue. Devayani holds tighter, oppressively, and knows there is a lighter patch of skin developing where she pins him.)

Her head turns and she breaks his gaze, forcing him to search for her. “What reasons might I have to save you from myself?”

gildedcrownx

The rest are swept aside — unknown, unmarked, unnecessary to the tale. Mahadji swallows the bile that has reached up to his throat, painfully, secretly, body taut with the effort. He is unwilling to show the monumental effect her words have on him, how it reminds him of the hundreds of nightmares he has suffered through where each step he took towards home only brought him back, time and again, at the Rajkumari's feet, knelt down and broken. Forgotten? Unwanted? Both. Tears begin to soothe the heat under his eyelids as he stepped away, only to be pulled back by her fingers on his, interlocked. She has always done this to keep him from running away. She has always done this to put him in his place. Yet another memory (which he fought to keep at bay) that reminds him: I am prisoner, I am property. Hers. He releases the breath he has been holding, and whips his head back, eyes meeting hers, face inches away. His title from her lips is mockery, a reminder that he is merely a symbolic pawn to the cruel dance of conquest. It angers him. She angers him. Makes his blood sing, makes his hands itch for her throat. "Let me go." He tugs at her finger, to pull his away, his hand swiftly moving up towards her neck. At the last second, with each fiber of muscle in his hand rigid, bones forced to lock in position by the only rational part of his mind, his hand hovers near her face and slowly. Resigned, he sighs as the tension unfurls and he curls his fingers underneath her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. Cage her in just as she had done him, for longest time, for years and years, for always. "I believe," he begins, answering sincerely, just as he had done for her, again and again, for always, "—it would be the same reason that has compelled you to keep me after all this time." He blinks and brings his hand down, gaze flitting away, stepping back. "Perhaps it is malice, Deva. Only you would know."

#devayani nasra'il #raj. mahadji #ch. 1: the devil's hour.

gresit

MONKEY MAN (2024) dir. Dev Patel

#portrait.#raj. mahadji

heavyisthexxcrown

He wasn't amused, nor did he appreciate the sentiment of being called dear brother. To think he were to be related to this walking whore was disdainful enough. He ignored such a comment, not even bothering to glance toward the girl. This gift of bedding and fucking should have been put to use toward the right occasion, truly it was a miracle that he only ever sired one legitimate daughter.

“Believe me, the idea of sending for someone did cross my mind. Then I remembered who I'd be sending them to. And here we are.” It wasn't as if he had an interest in seeing Henri himself, rather, he knew the man's reputation all too well to bother trusting any person to convey a message. That and the delay would certainly be an irritation. Even though this grinded on his nerves, he forced himself to find the man himself.

"I do. This was one of them." No wonder the Dowager Queen was the one in charge. "Has my sister taken ill, or is it simply the crown that weighs too heavily on your cock?" A biting comment. He had yet to see her within the French entourage, he prayed she hadn't become a blubbering mess with the likes of his majesty of the brothel.

gildedcrownx

content warning: slight body horror

Henri knew the crown prince disliked being called 'brother', and that is exactly why he enjoys doing so. He took a moment to regard Cesar, and the reverent way he seemed to approach his duties as heir to his kingdom, and that gave Henri pause. It reminded him of his late older brother, the one who should have become king, the one who deserved to be king, now rotted away, devoured by maggots underneath the unforgiving soil of the French royal palace. There is a sick satisfaction to it, to making the prince uncomfortable. Watching him keep it together, wound so tightly. "So you do know what a cock is. Ever use yours?" He evades the question, more so because he truly does not have a clue as to the whereabouts of his queen. "Better hurry before it falls off." The king smiles, falsely good-natured. The vein on Cesar's temple told Henri that the other man needed to simply fuck. "I could recommend good... partners for you. I could even share some of mine. I am quite the benevolent brother, am I not?"

#cesar verdugo #ch. 1: the devil's hour.#king henri.

evcrfallen

Location: East Wing with Mahadji @gildedcrownx

What most people did not understand about want was its required sacrifice. To voice a desire, even in the private confines of your heart, was to make known to the world a vulnerability within yourself. Devayani had no wants or desires.

Life for her was a dream she drifted through like a flower petal falling. Nature was not kind to everyone, but at least she would fall softly. The soft matter of her mind was a cushion to cruelty. What one did not recognize as vicious couldn’t harm one, after all.

But, Devayani mused, if she did feel want or desire, it might be to steal Mahadji once more.

Here in the East Wing, Devayani cornered him with the only exit behind her. She was not an imposing creature, with her mask still dangling from her neck and hair in half-fallen from its styling, but she knew he would see through this attention to detail with all the precision of a kingfisher. Still, she could not change, not even for him.

“What are these gates made of that demons are kept from entering?” she asked, dispensing with a greeting. “Does their protection reach the heavens, does it plunge deep into the earth? I think, if I were such a creature, I would rise from the soil beneath our feet and slip in unseen.”

She leaned her shoulder against the wall, fabric scraping against the worn stone, and looked up at her pet from beneath her eyelashes. “How would you stop me?” she asked softly.

gildedcrownx

What does it mean when the blood underneath your skin burns simply from a meeting of eyes? The question lingers in his mind, unanswered, a taunt shackled through force of will, kept at bay. Mahadji has never allowed himself to ponder what it meant when he felt what he felt. It was more trouble than it was worth, because feelings are rarely more important than facts. And the facts are: the Nasra'il princess stands before him, beautiful, calculatedly disheveled, and blocking his exit. She must be bored, he posits, even when he knew it was folly to assume to know what she was thinking, or feeling. It was easier to see through what she was doing, because those have evidence, those things he could see. Nevermind him admitting that he has observed Devayani so much in this lifetime that he can see through her actions. She cages him in and he glares, the heat in his eyes scalding. He speaks her name, like a warning: "Devayani." And yet, he remains standing in front of her. Why? Why does he not turn away? What is it that compels him to heed her, always? (The answer is he could never resist her. And he will sooner sacrifice himself to a demon than admit how stimulating he found her, how he enjoyed her cracking him open and pulling at him until he unravels.) "It would be easy to believe that is exactly what you've done. Claw your way out of the depths to walk among humans," resignedly, he kept his feet planted and crossed his arms. His eyes never left her face. His own unmasked. "I think — whichever God these people believe in is dead, and the voice is only giving us time because it wants to toy with us." He sighs, and looks down at the stone floors, imagining her crawling out of the ground in a malignant form, transforming into what she is at present, in front of him. His eyes trace the ground at her feet and up to her face, taking his time before he lets himself speak. "Only heroes or fools would attempt to thwart a demon, and I am neither. I would not stop you." He pauses, contemplating. "Nor would I serve you." Irate eyes look down at her. "Satisfied? Now move, troll. You have your answer." He shoves her aside, pushing her away to get past.

#devayani nasra'il #ch. 1: the devil's hour.#raj. mahadji

sharvanibhatti

location: garden, by the greenhouse. open starter to everyone.

The flowers still smelled wonderfully, in spite of the thin layer of red ash coating them. It felt like ash, it smelled like ash, but she wasn't entirely sure it was ash. At least once she dusted the petals of a rose, she found the flower possessing its usual fragrance. She was still in the middle of processing the events -- the demonic voice hissing at the from the above had been center figure of her worry. Though, she couldn't quite say why she had been so worried -- the pope's disappearance and the conclave panicking about this affair had not really been her problem. If Shiva wished to see their end to restore the better humanity, then so be it.

Footsteps had drawn her attention from the lush, evergreen flowers and trees. A greeting smile upon her lips, Sharvani turned towards the intruder. She had longed for some solitude after such a long sail and ride to Santicarno, and the bath she took did little to truly relax her. At least the change of clothes had been welcome. Still, she did not mind the company, once provided. "I would have thought the ash to harm the blooms, though I am happy to see they've been spared of divine wrath. Have you come to enjoy the scenery or escape the anxiety in the room?" she asked.

gildedcrownx

The air inside the hall was stifling, or perhaps it was the suffocating dread that was constricting Mahadji's lungs, making it harder to breathe. The Prince of Vikrampur - his official title, though he was no more than a prisoner to the Nasra'ils - had an inkling that once it was time to choose who to sacrifice, the Maharaja would choose him in a heartbeat. It worried him endlessly, the fear making a home in his gut. He decided to step out to get away from the oppressive music, and the entire farce of a revelry. His feet led him to the gardens, where he was surprised to see the Crown Princess' younger sister. Instantly, a relief washes over him at the sight of a familiar face. He smiles, small and tentative, and began with, "Lady Sharvani, forgive my intrusion. I... required some fresh air," and then he halts, keeping a respectful distance, eyes darting to the blooms in question. "They must be used to the ash now, and have learned to survive amongst them." As the words left his mouth, he thinks about his life: a bloom among the ashes of the Nasra'ils, fighting to survive.

#sharvani bhatti #mahadji.#ch. 1: the devil's hour.

deadringers2023

Dev Patel as Gawain in The Green Knight (2021) dir. David Lowery

#portrait.#raj. mahadji

alouctte

location: dining hall of the palace with: @gildedcrownx

⋆˙⟡ It was just theatrics and pageantry, as far as Asli was concerned. Some trick devised by these cardinals, meant to frighten them all and make them bow to the Church's power. But she only feared the devils of her homeland ( the jinn and shayāṭīn and other such wicked creatures conjured in the night ) and besides, a sultan's daughter shouldn't be fooled so easily. Surely it was better to wait and laugh — and far better to have someone else laughing beside her. And it wasn't long at all before she chose her target. The French king, who seemed just as determined to enjoy himself as she was : the perfect companion, when everyone around her seemed so quiet and hushed and tedious. The perfect distraction.

Still, she approached him carefully, delicately — like a lady circling her partner in a dance ( or a hawk going after a hare ). Drew close to the table where he sat, feigning as if she were only listening to the musicians play. Watching him and pretending that she wasn't. Waiting until the seat next to his was empty, then seizing her chance : ❝ Truly, I must envy you, Your Grace, ❞ she began, her voice light and mock-solemn, dark eyes bright with mischief as she glanced at him. ❝ Not only is your queen the loveliest lady in this hall, but they've given you a seat nearest the music. How does a man become so blessed ? ❞

Her hand was already resting on the back of the empty chair, ready to sit boldly down beside him, but she paused. Made a show of hesitating, her smile half a question and half a challenge. ❝ — may I ? ❞

gildedcrownx

The ancient voice, terrifying and malignant, had demanded blood. Noble blood. Surely, someone of utmost importance like himself, a king, would not be a choice for such sacrifice. The voice only wanted a noble, and useless people with noble blood run aplenty, simply wasting air every second they breathe. There was no need to sacrifice a royal. So, therefore, there is truly no cause for King Henri to worry. If anything, he believes the Italians should be good hosts and choose someone among them: one of those Dell'argents (except perhaps his aunt Marielle and his cousin Cecelia, but if he's honest Cecelia is not much of a loss, anyway), or even better: one of the Trenzacordas. Perhaps the pope's own child? That would be truly poetic. The ghost of a smile lingers on Henri's lips as he regarded the room, bored by the worried faces. In his periphery, he sensed the presence of a beautiful lady (Altinyel?); feigning deep interest in the music. He knew she was there for him, and he was absolutely delighted when she began to speak, addressing him directly, respectfully, charmingly.

"You could say I was born to be blessed," he replied smoothly, with the casual arrogance afforded to him by his station. He gestures at the vacated seat next to him, and nods his permission. "Come sit close to me so I should hear you better over this loud music." He calls to servants for more wine for his new companion, watching as they scurry to serve the liquor.

"I assume you know who I am," he begins after a sip of the freshly-served wine. "You must reintroduce yourself to me, darling. Help me remember your name." His eyes rake all over her, resting on her lips before coming to a stop to meet her eyes, his own twinkling with the promise of mischief.

#asli altinyel.#henri.#ch. 1: the devil's hour.

heavyisthexxcrown

location: montverre quarters with: @gildedcrownx

He shouldn't have been stunned to see what he saw. And yet, it never ceased to surprise him that of all times - this man, the oh so great French King never missed a single opportunity to fuck his way through any moment. Be it a wedding, a funeral, an uholy hour of cursed damnation - he would find the time to properly bed whomever.

He cleared his throat before watching the girl scurry off with her head held in shame. Was she a maid? A mistress, some other kind of heathen? He spoke with pointed accusation, "I came to see how my sister was and yet, I find you oh so preoccupied with sticking your groin in everything and anything once more." His tongue was laced with disgust. He pitied Ros, but he lacked an interest in making himself more involved than he needed to be. His sister was no longer a liability for House Verdugo and he hoped she had grown to mature in her foolish little ways. May God save her from her husband.

"My mother wishes to convene with yours, if you know her whereabouts," his voice flat. "I would presume you will be capable of relaying the message unless you have other appointments to get to," it was false courtesy. Henri surely wasn't stupid enough to be incapable of reading between the lines - can you find your own mother or are you too busy shagging up anything with two legs tonight?

gildedcrownx

"You scared her off, dear brother," Henri shook his head in mock disappointment, eyes shamelessly following the lady's retreating figure as he sits up. She was some lady-in-waiting or other (he hardly cared about the details - she spread her legs for him and that was enough information). His eyes finally land on the utterly composed crown prince, and without making any attempts to smooth his disheveled appearance, he shrugs at the mention of his sister, Henri's queen and wife. "I would have you know, Cesar, that I am not the keeper of queens and I hardly know their whereabouts. They have their own duties to attend to, which I do not believe I need to be aware of," he refers to his wife and his mother, both, in nonchalance. "I would also presume you could send for one of your people to ask one of my people to get the word out for my mother. I am certain you know a king is not quite someone you would expect to deliver messages." A second too late, Henri punctuates his statement with a smile, trying to lighten the mood. It does not reach his eyes. "Besides, I do have other appointments to get to. Do you not have them yourself?"