* / 𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖔𝖋 𝖋𝖆𝖙𝖊

jakov zvonimir, duke of split, sworn to croatia and its king. captivating &&. histrionic, safekeeping winters of discontent.

[ofsplit]

creepiest thing about you . ( 1 )

RESULTS  :   you are a disturbing control freak ; caring for people and things does not work the way you think it does. You are so invested in making sure that everything around you is perfect that instead of showing you care, you plan and control without asking for any input (which, of course, you justify by telling yourself that you aren't burdening anyone else with extra work). You call this “dedication,” but it's not - it's needing personal control so badly that you've confused it for real connection — which is not really a great quality in a friend, but a very helpful quality in an aspiring serial killer.

ASSESSMENT  :   jakov sees in nikola what the world itself should ; his love is a compound of potential and subjugation, a hegemony of things that could be, ought to be, rather than what they are. the duke tells the people around them that he’s aiding the king, advising him to the best of his abilities — as if he were nothing more than a useful voice from the shores of dalmatia, which have been ill-used by the venetians for such a dire long time. as if he truly is the instrument he proclaims himself to be. or, better yet, the distraction. of course, he has stopped fooling anyone for some months now; the nobles are amassing, gathering at the footholds like crows, and they creak for his distancing from power. such a feat, however, can never be obtained. for power is nikola, and nikola is power. he knows not where one love ends and another starts, whether risk has spurred desire, or desire is fueling the gamble. or which will burn first.

[ofsplit]

groficasplitska‌:

By the time Jakov Zvonimir knocked on the gate of the Marulić family home to ask for her hand in marriage, Irena was done with men. It have been perhaps a year since she had returned from her affairs in Dubrovnik, journeying back home, and Hell bent to never leave Split again. Franjo, like all men, was a delight - for a while, and far too short. But, her youth and her unchecked ideals kept her blind to the folly that was her relationship with him - or, better said, to him, as she was the only one invested in it, it would seem. Too many years she had spent being in his sights, his mistress, and while once she hoped he might take her for a wife, it all went to smoke at his marriage to Marija. One part of Irena’s heart was broken, but the other, more dominant part? Enraged. Out of sheer spite she remained at court in Dubrovnik, allowing the relationship to continue for a little while longer - and until she was completely fed up with both Franjo and the other members of his sex. Returning to Split with a dramatic flare, Irena pondered joining a nunnery. The Order of the Clarisse is always in the market for more lost souls to find salvation, but God Almighty does not want her anywhere near a convent - not with her views on the spiritual life; if she were to die that day, she held no illusions that in the afterlife, she would not ascend - but descend - and perhaps she’d feel terror and fear, if only she believed in Him. And so, when her brother told her she was to marry, the only thing she could do was to offer him a saccharine smile, while internally fighting the urge to roll her eyes. Still, it was convenient, and so was Jakov. Ironically, the most interesting thing about her betrothed were the rumours surrounding him, but courtly gossip always tended to blow things out of proportions - if they were all to be believed, then what would people in Dubrovnik think of her? One of the latest rumours were that she had no less than four illegitimate children with Franjo. Well, that was amusing - if only she remembered birthing them.

The marriage followed shortly after the engagement, and Irena was still annoyed with men, still spitefully refusing to let go of her grudge, the silent fury which ignited her eyes whenever anyone would mention Franjo to her. She wasn’t really in love with him, but she did enjoy his company and she was not the one to share. With six elder brothers, she always had to fight for herself, even if they were all decent enough towards her, and sharing things was not something she was taught to do; her things, and her people, were her own, and no one else had any right to take them. While she was possessive with Franjo, it did not happen with Jakov - whether it was because of the rumours ( and such exciting things they were ) or her determination to simply regard him as someone who shares her space ( more of a reluctant pet, then a lover ) and nothing more, but the possessive streak did not yet manifest. Of course, there was always room for surprises, and knowing herself, Irena would not really be surprised if it, eventually, surfaced.

She was sitting in the balcony in her husband’s quarters, enjoying the view. Night was falling, and it could not have come any sooner; the heat of day was all but unbearable to her. Holding a glass of wine in her hand, Irena pursed her lips, thinking about the city, and the people, beneath the balcony. Silence. It was probably the most enduring thing in her marriage, but while some ladies would feel discomfort and unease, she was more than content with it. But, when her husband spoke, Irena turned to face him, a curious expression curling her brow. She pursed her lips, a light hum leaving her mouth as she pondered his words; “You are right. We have both been busy, I suspect.” She said with a soft chuckle, drawing the glass to her mouth to take a sip of the red wine. Setting the glass in her lap, her eyebrow arched at his question.

“It is pleasing enough, but I already wish to be home. I miss the sea.” Irena quietly replied, then snorted at the question of the pope. “Ah, yes. Another lecherous man preaching modesty and poverty. Making people give all their gold, even those who have very little, in name of some God and the fear of Hell. The only thing I can see him salvage are the coins in his pockets.”

𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐒𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐋𝐘 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐍 𝐀𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊 by her remark. It was caustic, flippant, and, above all, seemingly well-informed. Granted, the Duke had never presumed to know or understand his betrothed, not even from a secure distance, where the mud speckles of marital arguments and unmet demands could not reach. If he had deigned to puzzle her out, he might have admitted it was impossible; as it were, he never asked, never prodded, and was in turn never surprised.

The men in his retinue (and the other advisors that populated Nikola’s drawing chambers, more and more scarce now, less and less opinionated) appeared to find her demure. Suitable, really. A more placid reflection of the former Crown Princess, now Ottoman Consort, whom Jakov had only met on a few isolated occassions and was left adamantly indifferent. They described her as an eager listener, pious insofar as it was conventional, and with some measure of business acumen. No one even murmured anything about her being an anti-papist. No one hinted at there being empty wine pitchers at three in the afternoon on his balcony.

Despite all that, a bemused smile grew on his lips. The Duke clamped down on his confusion, swallowing it like a morsel left uncooked. ❛ Those are... strong sentiments. ❜ He could not get the affectionate term past the grit of his teeth; they would not yield before it. It was as if he, who had cooed darling a thousand times, who had given pet names to all the rakes of Zagreb, could not summon it in the one instance it mattered. What odd baubles men are, Jakov mused. ❛ Well, I am sure all economic reforms do not fall entirely within papal jurisdiction. Even so, I can only admit to... sharing some of your verve. ❜

He took his place next to her, atop the ledge. Under them, a city fretted its way into eternal deliverance — their moves were recurrent, their laughter unbridled, their desperation barely visible underneath. ❛ I think there is no room for me in their teachings. Nor for my coins, mind you. ❜  The Duke chuckled, but he glanced at her askance, trying to see what her reaction would betray. This, this was the closest they’ve gotten to discussing their differences: from each other, from the rest of the world.  ❛ Are you a not believer, then, Irena? Or simply nondogmatic? ❜ No, he thought, as her fingers trapped the swirling glass of wine, I do not know her at all. He caught himself wondering if it was too late. Perhaps that surprised him more than anything else.

[dcydevils]

DIO PER TUTTI

[ofsplit]

daravenna‌:

It was the name he’d found for it — the thirty-something minute long scenic cantata which consumed the halls of the St. Peter’s Basilica as the coronation took place. Perhaps Carmo should have paid more attention to his own musicians, or the Pope in his holy self as the traditions unfolded; instead, his eyes fell on those in attendance, searching otherwise stoic faces for a reaction as soon as the last note hit heavy, lingering, and then fading into the air. 

Dio Per Tutti: Breve Orazione had been but a commissioned work of torture, the ink seeping heavy into the paper as Carmo put each passage down, succumbing his mind yet again to the requirements of the Church. God for all was a silly concept and not worth of his expertise, but he’d managed to twist it into something beautiful, almost haunting. Perhaps people’s memories would hold on to it for a while longer.

The trip back had been a long one, but Carmo appreciates the time to think. The empty fields have a certain magic to them, with the notes he wishes to frame them into. Off his carriage however, it takes all of a full breath to realize the emptiness that’s around him, the narrow streets of Florence only down to mere landscape. That is, except for the person in front of him; the first face he’d seen in several hours. 

“Quiet out here,” Carmo says, glancing around them — the pathways, alleys, and beyond. “People still in hiding after the celebrations?” Must’ve been a good one.

𝐉𝐀𝐊𝐎𝐕 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐔𝐒𝐇 𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐋𝐃𝐒, which curved and looped under his eyes like sinuous lengths of wool. He’d always heard men compare them to the calves of women, to their backside, to whatever mound they last laid hands on, but in his view they were never anything so carnal. Rather, they were cards left discarded, littered over a world from which the players fled. It made him feel both alone and restless at the same time.

He thought he could detect a similar nuance in the other’s voice. Not solitude precisely, but somehow... upended. As if all this green served to remind you about how far you still had to go. Although he’d seen the man’s silhouette shadowing the outskirts, he crossed the hill nonetheless, betting on the off-chance it was either a hermit, either a melancholic. On a particularly unlike day, it might’ve been both. He hadn’t wagered it will trigger a conversation. Remembering his manners, the Duke gave a curt nod. Then his strategic instincts tugged, brusque, familiar, and he began to check the man’s posture. Even in passing, his eyes latched onto anything of note — from the coat on his shoulders to the buckskin at his heels. Wealth? Yes, perhaps; some measure of it. Incomparable to what his own convoy displayed, but miles above the usual men he encountered away from the palazzo.

❛ Still in hiding after the execution, I would reckon. ❜  His voice was grim, but no more than it would be customary; the assassination attempt on a member of what had been, arguably, the most resilient dynasty to date,  could only point to larger changes. Their worlds might be splintered, but when one toppled over, it reverberated into the others. His own goals and hopes would be short of squandered if something were to knock down the pillars of stability. ❛ Have you not celebrated yourself, signore? ❜ , he inquired, somewhat straining under the pleasantry. The word is still odd on his tongue, even after weeks of whispering it, moaning it, cursing it behind a hidden palm. 

[ofsplit]

maricofviana·:

the  commotion  in  the  streets  increased  tenfold  as  the  coronation  inched  closer,  flocks  of  expectant  europeans  flooding  into  both  florence  and  rome  from  the  most  remote  corners  of  the  globe  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  his  holiness  donning  the  magnificent  papal  tiara  —– and  to  plead  for  mercy  at  his  feet.  a  rather  bitter  irony  presented  itself;  the  silken  whispers  of  clairvoyants  in  the  now  deserted  aragonese  court  humming  beneath  the  mop  of  curls  piled  upon  the  prince’s  head.  the  trastamaras  downfall  was  an  act  of  god,  and  there  was  nothing  left  to  do  but  beg.  how  could  anyone  have  guessed  that  in  ten  years  time,  a  trastamara  pope  would  sit  upon  the  holiest  of  thrones?  it  would  no  longer  be  they  who  would  need  beg.

mario  turned  to  the  individual  beside  him,  and  he  would  hazard  a  guess  that  they,  too,  were  seeking  an  escape  from  the  pandemonium  rising  in  the  streets,  wavering  between  the  utmost  of  support  for  the  elected  candidate  to  riotous  tyranny  against  his  reign.  his  lips  pressed  together  sternly.  ❛  no  one  can  deny  the  passion  italians  feel  toward  their  realm,  can  they?  fortunately,  the  palazzo  borgia  does  not  allow  the  sights  and  sounds  of  the  city  to  seep  through  —-  we  would  be  glad  to  receive  you  if  you  require  respite  from  the  commonfolk.  ❜    

𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐏𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐋, but the world itself moved too swiftly for him to follow. The swapping of popes, like tiles being shifted around in mablework, the onslaught formed by new travelers and pilgrims, new supplicants which came to pluck their own yields from the olive branch —- all these confounded him. It also made it far more stifling to be in Florence. Or anywhere on the continent, rather, for its ties webbed across waterways and beneath acres of land. He, a man who sought politics blindly, for their taste rather than their effect, knew it still better than most: there is nowhere conflict cannot entrench. For conflict, at its zenith, was power, and power in itself stretched unbounded.

He found that what the nobleman was offering was not silence. In younger days, Jakov might have been obtuse before such covert attempts, which started ever since he was a squire in Zagreb, heralded by a quicksilver tongue, a promising eye for the kill. Not once, he’d reacted limply to chances that could have overturned his fate - made him a quisling or a turncoat, a rebellious warlord, a martyr. That could have, after all, made him his own man. All that was in the past. In recent years, he grew alongside these ploys in tight inevitability; shrewdness would meet and match recognition. Duplicity would match charade. With each coy strategy deigned to make him spill his heart, speak against the king, speak too fragrantly for the king, with each underhanded remark, he became more adept at eschewing them.

It took scarcely more than a hint of the other’s gaze, holding his eyes for a fleeting instant while they stood at shoulder’s length on the palisades, to understand that no man like that would stoop to acts of charity. ❛ Would that it were only the southerners, and we could all rest unturned. ❜ His face scrunched lightly as he spoke. ❛ What happened at that last feasting was... well, assuredly as imbued with passion as it ever gets. Can the Borgia palazzo offer respite from that ? ❜

[ofsplit]

𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝  𝐟𝐨𝐫  @groficasplitska .

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐀𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒. Whatever the rest of the world deigned to call it, convenience or arrangement or merely the God-given wisdom to preserve one's material safety, their marriage had clear terms. Indeed, Jakov doubted anything this rushed and haphazard had ever been outlined so rigorously, in all human history. Nikola had employed his most efficient clerks and notaries for that specific purpose. Of course, it was he who'd suggested it in the first place — something to quell the whispers. Hand to heart, the Duke couldn't say whether he would've consented otherwise. Like so many things in his adult life, the flow of the king's will had warped everything else in its course. He knew not where his conscience ended and where Nikola's caution began. Come to think of it, it seemed his liege paid him eye to eye for all the control Jakov wielded in their affairs. It was a rarely executed ransom, but a steep one. So it went. Not even a full summertide ago, he'd summoned the eldest Marulić brother and made his intentions known. The reaction was not euphoric. Naturally. The rumors were long seeped by then. But the match was good, undeniably so, even if you counted in the potential risk of Jakov's from grace. God knows Jakov himself counted it every day. And the girl's personage was a well-vaunted one: skilled in foreign languages, bookkeeping, all the implications attached to running an estate. Besides, by that age she should have long been whelped ( damnation, even widowed ) so it was short of ideal. Short of ideal suited Jakov best right. The halo around her may have been scrubbed clean, but not immaculate — pristine enough to favor the Duke, but not so much that the brunt of gossip would land only on his reputation alone. They were betrothed a fortnight later.

He'd never slowed down to ask her, what is your mind on this? It was one thing to share a man with his mistress; hell, rows and rows of them. It was another burden entirely to share someone with their own fanciful dreams, with their fantasies and folly, and be dragged alongside what they believe to be the love of their life. If that even existed. Yet, doubting it had never stopped Jakov from proclaiming it. And he never stopped to gauge his betrothed's position in this. The Duke expected Irena to carve room for herself, and she had. Admirably so. It was only that, already, guilt and admiration twined in him for the sake of another person, and there was no space left for such feelings to encroach. He'd shut them aside and nursed the ruthless streak within him, the same one which helped him waiver his family's hopes all those years ago, the one that dismissed and slandered and bankrupted the ministers who'd villified him once he rose in court.

No, they've never discussed it, not in so many words. He still thought that nothing in their marriage could confuse either of them. More and more as they neared Florence, the Duke had taken on wondering whether she did understand, whether she'd espied or had been led to see the full extent, the dizzying limitlessness of it. Of what his purpose at court truly was. But whereas he and Francesia had truth approaching them like Death's four-storied carriage, cruel and inexorable, nothing loomed on the horizon for him and Irena. They did not even have a horizon to surmise. It was no source of pride for him, not at all; it was right close to the portrait all those shriveled old nobles made of him. A haughty, coldblooded man, an upstart with his sights set only on his own fulfillment. He would not be that, if he could help it. But as he faced his wife sitting in the balcony of his quarters, Jakov started to question whether indeed he could.

❛ I think this may well be the first time we are together outside the confines of a council chamber, at most since we've journeyed south. What do you make of this land? And the new pope meant to lead it to salvation? ❜

[ofsplit]

alexandercfengland‌:

As soon as the words were spoken from Alexander’s lip, he was glad to see that the other man had relaxed in an instant. Perhaps it was impudent for him to have made such a remark but he couldn’t restrain himself. 

“I have been known to break tradition, convention is rather bland isn’t it?” He cocked a brow - the implications for both the invitation as well as the other ways he spent his past time. “Life was made for an adventure, might as well take some risks or else there would be nothing to gain from it,” he humored himself. In Florence, Alexander felt free of most expectations and without the watchful eyes of all of English court - whatever occurred in Italy would remain as nonsensical gossip. Watching him swallow the thing without hesitation certainly was amusing. His gaze remained, intrigued. “then what would you propose as a more worthy challenge my lord? It is only fair if you have a turn to choose.” 

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐇𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐋𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐁𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐘 𝐒𝐔𝐏𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐃. The Duke smiled, betraying thinly veiled amusement, and strove not to show too overtly what he made of the other’s claim. Have been known to break tradition seemed less than exact. Iconoclasm moved with slippery ease past one’s national borders — Jakov was entrusted to believe that whatever the princeling did or did not do in his pastimes, it was nowhere near a scandal. The only things he’d ever heard about the boy - about his side of the family, at least - were priesthood and tidy engagements. Still, he could see the exaggeration of youth sewn all over the sentence. Jakov himself must have made similar grandiose statements when he was several springs greener. It was only that... well, in his case those had all been rather true. Seemingly only the saints and the hallowed coves had preserved him from not ruining his entire legacy before it even took flight. Even now, wisdom was not entirely befitting, still too much of a borrowed cloth, donned out of necessity and higher yearnings. Which is why he neared closer to the younger man, bordering his elbow before pulling him away from the street’s ongoing flurry. His hand lingered on the doublet, briefly, palm pressed against the wrinkles it formed near the couter, then the next moment he took it away. Feigning thoughtfulness, Jakov rubbed his fingers against the air.

❛ A turn to choose. How benevolent! Well, if it’s come to that, why not race in liquor? Or in stealth? I wonder how many palazzos we can infiltrate, and how thoroughly, before anyone inquires on our business. ❜

[ofsplit]

𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝  𝐟𝐨𝐫  @ofdios

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐍 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐖 𝐏𝐀𝐑. There was little argument in its defense; you could glean it from the wax-cloth which’d replaced the panes in the window, from the veil of grime coating the tabletops. Even if you found yourself blind-drunk to general details, you could still sense it from the clientele. Out of all the places of refuge Jakov could have chosen, it was this low-grade shanty he seemed to have stuck with. Of course, it didn’t make sense now, whatever could have prompted that decision. He was drifting in and out of memory, pleasantly sedated cup after cup, lulled by the rhythm of Florentian dialects as if it were the cradle song of a faraway realm. Perhaps it’d been the wine, the reason he’d dallied here. It didn’t seem to taste half bad, but then, so many refills rarely did. Sourness and sweetness glued to one another until there was nothing left but a crosshatched taste, bringing together metal and overripe fruit. It could have well been vinegar, for all he knew. The only testimony of brand was in the victual’s power to dim out the world. Or, rather, the specific parts of the world that struck against you like splinters in a heel. It worked for woe, for complacency, it worked for the thrill of delight. Come to dwell on it, the Duke knew of nothing liquor could not either assuage or heighten. Then again, he also knew rather little about all things real. He and verity scorned each other with a constant rhythm of sabotage. Thoughts stuck in a loop, it took a moment for him to realize there was a distant commotion going on. A man - or a pair - had started some ruckus further down at the bar. Interest piqued, mollified senses rendered awake, Jakov cocked his head in that direction and spoke over his shoulder. ❛ Do you think it’s high time to search for our knives now, or do we wait until the alewife knocks them out ?  ❜

[ofsplit]

francesiia‌:

﹥ @ofsplit  / JAKOV, DUKE OF SPLIT

HER MIND MADE UP,   francesia smooths delicate fingers over the length of her kirtle, bidding the fabric lay flat over her stomach, over the rise of her waist.  so much of her presence required adherence to aesthetic standard —  after all, what queen can be a queen when she looks a pauper ?   francesia waves away her ladies, although her guard does not budge and follows her measured steps down winding florentine corridors, gilded finery dripping from wainscoting and windowsills as if to remind the world that italy remains the home of things larger than life, of men and women holier than the rest.

STILL.  SHE FEELS OUT   of place among the gold and royal blue of it all, pale haired and pale skinned;  as a child she had fancied herself a spirit, like in a book she had read, a keener graveside with death on her mind and morbid song in her mouth. what an odd occupation that would make for a princess, let alone a neglected queen. she was never much for singing.  she does not knock on the door to jakov’s rooms, his public-facing study.  her hands remain clasped around themselves at waist-high, shoulders back. the guards do it for her, and a serving boy in a dirty livery opens the door, offers her a polite bow.  

FRANCESIA STEPS INTO THE    room, eyes the curtains, the position of the desk, a tray of writing supplies, fine-tipped quills, stopped ink, sand, small parcels of wax blocks and a seal or two.  she supposes it is rather on the nose to demand reception in a room so clearly for business, followed by guards in pairs, but what other alternative did she have ?  let the rumors build ? that jakov had not only the mind and perhaps heart of her husband, but hers as well ?  it would not do to have her daughter’s parentage questioned. it would not do to make herself so disposable so easily.

SHE OFFERS HIM A  queen’s curtsy, graceful dip of the chin, her eyes fluttering down-cast,  rather than dipping low.  “you must forgive me,”  francesia begins. empires were built with less tact, she supposes,  “for neglecting to send ahead a note of warning, perhaps, or the intrusion into private chambers, though i suspect you are not so tired yet of royal visits — ”  she glances behind her, and shoos the serving boy, and all but the most stubborn of her personal guard, out of the study’s door and into the hall. fifteen paces, she hopes, will be sufficient enough to avoid her further speech repeated days-over downstairs among servants, and later to snake-nosed masters.  “your grace. a pity we have not spoken at length in some time. florence is… busier than anticipated.”   idle hands, and that devil nonsense, she does not say.

𝐃𝐎𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐀 𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊. Only the lightest murmur of sill scraping against stone, then they are hitched ajar, and the Queen’s silhouette emerges. Jakov himself harbors no servants — the king may come to call at any moment, and, well, a man takes his precautions where he may. Even if those safeties have been rendered moot time and time again. He still bids a lackey in her retinue to have a go at the curtains; even while he paws for composure like a newborn kit in the dark, swallowing the dry pockets of air that lodge in his throat, the Duke would have light for this meeting. He would have a seamless ambiance. Nothing short of it will suffice.

And sunlight does spill with hunger and obedience, marring each outline of the room’s furniture, riffling through the stationary in golden dances. He bats away the motes swimming before them. ❛ My Queen...— ❜ , he begins, drawing out the address, and then blanches at the implication. There’s no denying, how it stuns him stupid, the vague allusion behind her play on words; about all those royal visits he must be so inured to receiving. It is not an invective —— she is above that. Yet it stings more coming from her part than from any numberless, split-tongued courtiers back at home. On that, Jakov cannot muster an explanation. But is there any need to? He’s already long admitted it, deep within the confines of his mind, that he holds the Queen in such high, tainted regards, outreaching common sense and self-preservation. That his admiration turns more intent the more Fate gives them cause to despise each other, to want to outroot one another from the marrows of the kingdom. When the small princess was born... oh, Jakov had expected to howl. Instead, there had been a mellow blanket on his days, filled with the promise of a brighter, more secure future, brimming with - if not love - then hazy affection for the child.

For he would have no other Queen but her, he knows that now. At times he prays there will be no need to; that, no matter the spindly subject of a male heir, Nikola will hold on to her. Other times, he simply wishes he could convey all of it, the bizarre aspects inside their bond. His greed and his adulation. His need to know her there, not detached from the king, nor discarded in a far-off sea fortress, but twined within his life and Nikola’s, within whatever they’re trying to do to keep their land from wasting away. He never makes any headway with that.

When she ushers the servants away, the Duke cannot tell if it’s relief he feels or further sinking. It gives room to say more — it takes from him the comfort that he shouldn’t do so. ❛ There was hardly any point to this day as it is, Your Majesty. You are not intruding upon anything of note. ❜ Jakov scrabbles for the chair at his back, from which he rose when he saw it was none but the Queen bordering his doorway. It was seconds ago, but it is as if a fortnight divided the moments, between his fighting to think and his voicing anything out loud. When fingers clench against the headrest, he pulls it closer by the splat and leans against it. ❛ How may I espouse you ? ❜

[lifeinpoetry]

I desire you to Never swim home—the sea glass fascinates You to a high stupor, you forget the world For my sake. I have power, I have craving: I am weak. I felt so human while you read The map—

— Logan February, from “A Fictional Love Poem,” published in Moonchild Magazine

[ofsplit]

❛ every man is a righteous man, at least in his own mind. ❜

𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐄  *  /  𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐞𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠.

𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍 𝐀𝐍 𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐆𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄. His eyes raked over and waned, only to sink entirely upon glimpsing that vault of red hair. Its flame was unmistakable: it looked like claret and brass welded together, an assay unrivaled in Florence. He suspected in England it was much the same. The roles they both held at court were curiously similar, even if the places themselves spanned a continent apart. Naturally, hers was bound to cover more… physical aspects. Croatian nobles viewed Nikola as some love-blighted Samson, yet Jakov knew the truth. It was no comfort, but it was still there: a pebble among thin grains of fact. But when it came down to  people’s beliefs, it was no strenuous guess, the names they’d be regaled with: temptress, groveler, sycophant. At the very least, Jakov’s appearance offered him a sliver of anonymity from foreign courtiers. She would find no such respite, not with that head of hers. ❛ That may well be true. Still, how does it help the rest of us, who must either suffer tyrants or mimic them ? ❜  

[worsesights-blog]

abstract prompts

[ofsplit]

worsesights‌:

25   prompts   inspired   by   this   meme

I walked into the river and sunk like a stone.

Are you sorry for everything you’ve done?

I can look past the grey cold to the buds that sprout from the oak tree on the lawn.

Over-steeped tea that you drank anyway.

There are things hiding beneath the mountains.

Like convicts in prison cells.

I have spent twenty years sinking into the mud.

The taste lingering on your tongue.

Salt in a wound.

A field burned to ash.

I feel like Ariadne.

Watching the waves roll out to sea.

When the raspberries ripen.

There are places where people eat their dead.

I couldn’t breathe for the way you held my hand.

I have died twice already.

Crashing into a cliff face.

A handful of drug-store brand painkillers.

There’s a ring on your finger.

Candles on the living room floor.

We could both hear his voice ringing in our ears.

When the war finally ends.

We have always been on opposite sides.

I wanted so badly to believe.

We could choose each other.

[ofsplit]

nikclxs‌:

duke of split * jakov.

     honing  in  on  his  game,  blue  hues  narrowing  their  line  of  vision  upon  the  subject  of  their  interest,  nikola  arched  his  back  to  straighten  the  posture  of  his  neck.  in  a  facile  movement,  he  drew  his  left  arm  back,  the  sharp  needle  threaded  between  his  index  and  middle  finger  as  his  right  arm  locked  into  place.  the  marginal  restive  movements  of  his  horse  caused  an  inconsequential  interference  in  his  aim  he  would  have  to  time  properly  in  order  to  efficiently  dispatch  his  target.  but  he  relished  the  challenge.  as  the  world  around  him  fell  away  and  his  right  arm  began  to  falter  under  the  resistance  of  his  bow,  he  knew  it  was  time.

     beginning  to  release  his  grip,  he  failed  to  discern  an  intimate  countenance  ride  briskly  into  his  line  of  vision  as  though  to  garner  and  avert  his  attention.  committed  to  his  shot,  a  small  gasp  escaped  his  lips  as  he  quickly  aimed  up  to  circumvent  the  new  obstacle.  the  arrow  soared  through  the  air  and  far  into  the  distance,  beyond  his  field  of  perception.  with  an  exasperated  suspire,  he  watched  his  prey  charge  into  the  trees  at  the  sound  of  the  disturbance  which  cost  him  a  kill  and  almost  a life.  he  turned  in  several  directions  to  seek  the  person  to  no  avail  until  the  sound  of  hooves  trotting  in  the  distance  lured  him  to  their  location.  when  he  found  himself  face  to  face  with  he  who  sabotaged  his  hunt,  an  ever  so  slight  grin  pulled  at  the  corners  of  his  lips  for  a  moment  in  passing  before  he  adopted  his  stoic  tone.

‘  by  god,  jakov.  i  almost  killed  you.  do  you  realize  your  contribution  to  the  throne?  what  would  i  have  done  without  you?  ‘

     the  seriousness  of  the  situation  could  not  last  before  nikola  erupted  into  laughter.

‘  are  you  trying  to  die?  do  you  despise  me  so?  ‘ he  spoke  between  laughs.  ‘  you  could  always  just  ask  that  i  relieve  you  of  your  duties,  you  mustn't  have  to  throw  yourself  in  my  line  of  fire.  ‘

𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐗𝐇𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐌 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆'𝐒 𝐌𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓. It was as if a lanyard converged between them, so that every gesture had an echo in another, every deed eliciting a mirrored response. Before Nikola loosed the arrow, Jakov already felt it quiver somewhere overhead, heard it rick through the air like a bird’s pinioned bones. Before his face even clouded with frustration, Jakov predicted the way his eyes would crinkle, impatient and attentive all at once, pitched to the surroundings, the target, the kill. But nothing could’ve prepared him for his laugh.

No, that was always a novelty. That always upturned his world. Nikola kept grinning and he sensed it in his ribs, in some empty space inside him which he maintained hollow just for this, for this golden sound to pour into. He grinned as well, breathless, short-winded. He shook his head in a mixture of haughtiness and affection. ❛ Oh, hardly. You would not have reached the mark either way. The angle was simply...— well, skewed. ❜ The words were blurted through another gust of laughter, a deeper one, more evident in its cheer. Nikola’s posture had been perfect; the score would have struck, had the Duke not traipsed onto his margins. He scarcely knew why he’d done that —— it was often like this, inexplicable things where his heart was concerned, and as of late his heart had a single center, a single focal point. There was a meteoric pull to being near him, Jakov thought, as if that could make him forgive himself.

As Nikola went on ( what would I have done without you reverberating through his bones ) the Duke lowered his eyes. He could not bear it. He still smiled — indeed it seemed impossible to peel it off, etched there like plaster on a statue — but his eyes glazed over. Not with desire, but something far more nameless. Jakov did not think he’ll ever find a term to embed it. And what are those duties, pray tell? he would have asked, but he knew boldness served him very little, in this realm of unspoken things where Nikola reigned supreme. They would only circle the subject again and again, no definitive confession, no promise, and it would leave Jakov dry, scooped out like a husk. He’d almost say he had enough, but then, oh, he did know better. It will be centuries until he could wean himself off this.

But the day was bright, the hunting grounds almost deserted but for their frames rending through the scenery’s stillness. These gifts were not to be spoiled; he’d have time enough for longing after night fell. Jakov reached out to pat the king’s horse, sinuous motions rippling through bristled fur. For once, his fingers steered away from brushing Nikola’s trousers, from reaching out to any part that would not be his. Even the kidskin buckles, gilded and casting quick glimmers in the sunlight, were left untouched. ❛ You will not begrudge me the loss, will you, my liege? ❜, he whispered, low and hoarse with distance.

[ofsplit]

𝙏𝙃𝙀𝙍𝙀  𝘼𝙍𝙀  𝙈𝙊𝙍𝙀  𝙄𝙈𝙋𝙊𝙍𝙏𝘼𝙉𝙏  𝙈𝘼𝙏𝙏𝙀𝙍𝙎  𝙄𝙉  𝙏𝙃𝙄𝙎  𝙒𝙊𝙍𝙇𝘿  𝙏𝙃𝘼𝙉  𝘽𝙊𝙔𝙎  𝙒𝙃𝙊  𝙆𝙄𝙎𝙎  𝘽𝙊𝙔𝙎    ——   a  playlist  for  a  subversive  alliance .

[ofsplit]

❛ nothing we feel is understood by anyone else. ❜

𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐄  *  /  𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐞𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠.

𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐏𝐄𝐎𝐏𝐋𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐃 𝐕𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄 at the Croatian court, but truthfully, Francesia was their wild card. A spectacular, silver-clad force, peerless in both reality and metaphor. He recalled the first time he was presented to her ( what telltale irony, that, when Jakov had been in Zagreb longer than she had ) and the lurch, dismal and hopeless, of true beauty striking its mark. Would that she were plain, he had thought, over and over like a mantra of deliverance, tilting over from worshiped to worshiper, would that she were nothing much at all. Of course, scorned Gods never did grant demands. If orisons were as scant a resource as it seemed in the world, then Jakov had already bungled them all, used them up in flimsy chances. So that now, when he burnt at a pyre of longing, of needs half-confessed and even less met, there was no one to quell the smoke. And so Francesia had not been plain. She had been - was - ardent, burning like white fire, growing into her power with just as much urgency as one. Tenacious, too. Determined to skirt all the uphills that Croatians ( and dear Nikola, both blameless and blameful at once ) would thrust before her.

It was unthinkable to ever hate her. Hatred was too simple a substance, could carve no room in what he felt. There was resentment and distance, the self-awareness that she was so frightfully similar to Jakov, only bearing none of his fickleness, none of that indulgent apathy, stretched over his soul like a blanket. There was, oftentimes, the perverse need to peek through the blockade between them, so carefully comprised of protocol and duty —— when he lingered over her hand, mouth ghosting the skin, he could not help delaying the retreat, wondering if that’s where Nikola had pressed urging lips, if that’s what he moaned against, or held interlocked atop the bed furs. Mostly, there was admiration, and a dull sadness which neither pierced nor howled. It thrummed within him instead, like bowstrings set wrong in their notch.

The inevitable had always loomed over them, but lately Jakov had started to wonder if the inevitable was only so in his mind. Nikola did not seem to advance; not noticeably, and oh, Jakov was painfully attuned to changes by now, no matter how subtle, every deeper smile a mark in his heart like height points on a door frame. By now he had shagged his way through half of Zagreb. He dotted his trail with curtailed hearts, envisioning the following morning he would council with Nikola even as his hands delved deeper into someone’s hips. Perchance there was no inevitability to it in the slightest: he would die as he lived, clinging to each signal from the king even as they never materialized in his grip. Clinging even whilst they stumbled into old age, the royal children long out of the nursery, the reins of power faithfully ceded? The thought made him want to scream. Draw blood, yes, but whose? His own seemed the overbearing option.

And yet, just as Nikola stalled, Francesia had charged forward —their alliance, tentative in the beginning, if tangible at all, now began to stoke up, bolstered by these foreign parlays. The words she’d just addressed him were a testimony of that. It was, so far, the boldest step they’d come to circle. He debated feigning confusion, for a moment, like the recreant he felt himself to be. But she deserved better than such a dismissal - it offended not only her courage to approach the subject, but also her intelligence, to which they’ve both stood witness countless times before.

❛ My Queen, I am sure the world is vast and wholly unknown to us; the old religions would own that. Someone must have felt it once before. ❜ He gave out a small sound, the stunted child of a chuckle, but rueful and dry. The Duke’s gaze cottoned to her, drawn to the shapely frame, the budding fierceness underneath. ❛ At least once. But now… yes, I’d dare assent. No one can understand what this is, or how it grew to be, or what to do with it even as it drags us all down. ❜

[ofsplit]

petrcv‌:

‘out-of-context writing’ sentence meme

❛ good or bad, it isn’t indicative of our progress. ❜

❛ who taught you of love? ❜

❛ nothing we feel is understood by anyone else. ❜

❛ the ear that does not exist hears nothing. ❜

❛ it’s ugly and obscene to our beauty-spoiled eyes, isn’t it? ❜

❛ which is worse: the end itself or the anticipation of it? ❜

❛ death is a friend to all. it’s the deliverer. ❜

❛ it doesn’t make me whole; it makes me filthy. ❜

❛ it is not such a stretch to best the greatness of life. ❜

❛ my effort is far too valuable to waste. ❜

❛ i think you are too forceful to die tonight. ❜

❛ to make an enemy of a god among men would be unwise. ❜

❛ we are not our ability to rationalize, but our ability to survive. ❜

❛ it will be a wreck of expectations if we are truly divine. ❜

❛ we shall not even shake in the wind of this storm. ❜

❛ i would tear myself apart before i sacrificed on your behalf. ❜

❛ i should have assumed we would cross paths. ❜

❛ i’d hate to have to hunt you down later. ❜

❛ it makes life smoother, but it gives us jagged edges. ❜

❛ to be is one thing; to be alone is another thing entirely. ❜

❛ every man is a righteous man, at least in his own mind. ❜

❛ anger is not nearly as bankable as greed or jealousy. ❜

❛ don’t aspire for death—a conclusion overshadowing the performance. ❜

❛ silence? i thought i deserved something more. ❜

❛ strange that an empty doll feels. ❜

[ofsplit]

lianabraganza‌:

“A letter, Your Highness,” greeted one of Liana’s ladies as the Princess returned from her walk.  “Sent from the palazzo of His Majesty the King of Croatia.”

“Indeed?  Read it to me,” she instructed, allowing another of her ladies to help her out of her cloak.  She listened with interest to the roll of the words, the subtle swirling lilt.  Liana enjoyed the sound of Latin: soft sibilance intertwined with acerbic architecture, its sentences unfurling and breathing like a pennant upon the breeze.  She could almost imagine a Roman legion marching before it, guiding by the rhythm of word upon word upon word.

“Will you send a reply, Your Highness?” inquired her secretary.

Liana’s inhale was sharp and, at last, she inclined her head.  “That is the thing, isn’t it?  I must write before I call.”  Quickly, the scribe caught up his pen, inkwell, and some fine parchment.  “No,” interrupted Liana.  “Thank you, but no.  I shall write it, myself.  After all, I mean to meet with His Majesty, myself.  I may as well write to him, myself.  This letter, after all, does not appear to be the work of a scribe.  If a king may find the time to write a princess in his own hand, she may find the time to do likewise.”

Quickly, the secretary vacated his seat and the princess assumed it.  Gently, she ran a smoothing hand across the parchment, thoughtful, feeling the gullies and hills of its surface slowly, ordering her thoughts.  Then, a decided nod of the head and her stylus came to hand, ink rolling and pooling in the neat lines she traced upon it.  First, the long and lofty salutation, fixing his string of magnificent titles, then, the meat of the letter, writ bold in neat script.

                     ❛❛ I am most pleased to report to Your Majesty of my continued wellbeing.  The trip was pleasant as any such excursion may be, its hazards few and its vistas of great interest to myself and my companions.  Few are the princesses so fortunate as to leave their home with the hope of returning once more to that state which she has left – a fate which is my happy good fortune and my greater joy in leaving Portugal behind.  _

                    ❛❛ Your Majesty may well count upon my continuous friendship.  It is my hope that goodwill may proliferate throughout all Christendom, giving rise to peace and prosperity for all.  Yet, the sad condition into which mine own uncle, His Majesty the King of Aragon – yes, it is this title which is his due – has fallen remains most troubling.  So long as this condition persists, our relations with the Ottomans remain equally tense.  I am in hope that these grievances, too, may soon be rectified, particularly in light of Your Majesty’s most noble support.  

                  ❛❛ The climate is most agreeable in large part, but then perhaps it is not so very different from my own home climate - though I do admit to missing greatly the sea breezes from my own home.  I hope the clime has struck Your Majesty as most pleasant, as well.  There are few challenges like being both mentally and physically taxed.  As to the individuals I’ve had the pleasure of meeting, though I have only lately arrived and therefore had little opportunity of interaction, I have found each encounter to be most elucidating.  It begins to be my impression that a greater number of such gatherings might well suit future generations.  I may add that sometime soon I may add Your Most Gracious Majesty to the list of those whom I have had the very great honor of meeting here in Florence.  Pray advertise to me a time and place that will suit Your Majesty that we may converse in person.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐌𝐏𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐋𝐘 𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐇𝐈𝐌. Just as they wanted to secure the whiff of compromise, the vague promise of a future alliance, she had her sights set on the present. Nikola would probably state that all pragmatic rulers did: the future was too tenuous, and too spurned against people, to avow any insight. Jakov had not the inkling of an idea whether that held any truth. His own future seemed at times to have been a match played by another - an elusive body of present elements, comprising his family, his lineage, but also his own proclivities, for power, for fulfilled pleasure, both just as undue to him. Even when he felt he was holding the dices, he cast a spiteful throw with them, like he longed to pull the plank from under his feet. It was like this when Jakov's father had died and invested him Ban: months and months of his estates not even seeing the shadow of his steps, laying duties aside with delicious abandon, as if not caring was a feat onto itself. But he had cared, hadn’t he ? Even then, when the outline of his own power was feebly forming up, he’d already insinuated himself upon another’s.

He would have to bring this forth to Nikola, he knew. They had bargained for a lukewarm prelude, some tokens bestrewn here and there, gifts and boons and oh so royal gratefulness. At the opposite end of the parchment, the Princess bargained for a conference.

And what of this Aragon nonsense ? Did that even take place in the same bloody century they lived in ? His tongue pushed against his teeth, thoughtful, and yet somewhat remote from it all. There was a shortfall between him and the king when it came to the full ambit of state affairs. It was caused by more than Jakov's lacuna about foreign events, or in streamlined etiquette — it was also, pure and simple, disinterest. He liked the spin of flavors in holding authority. He exerted it well enough, but he took it where he found it, sometimes in a contest, other times in provocation, even more often in the bedchamber. The Duke did not know how to handle this all-encompassing, indistinct sense of power. This dominion that seemed to reach everywhere on the continent and yet reside nowhere at all. Irked, distracted, but not so young enough anymore to permit himself to divert it, he thought Francesia would have known a way out.

               ❛❛   We can only concur with the hope that future gatherings shall be a steady tradition for the future princes, and the present one a prolonged and fruitful conjecture. Of the second matter Your Highness broached to us, we will consult with your advisors and try to secure a breach in our appointments. Our correspondence sends to a future full of promise, and it is thus why we cannot in good conscience expedite our personal meeting, or otherwise risk hosting it at an inopportune moment.

                ❛❛   Beyond measurable doubt, the noble eminence of Osman has many more summits to reach and ensigns to impose before we can foresee any reliable conclusion. In the wake of this, how fare your most illustrious monarchs, His and Her Royal Majesties of Portugal? Do they share the younger need for rectification that you so boldly and rightfully exhibit? We leave you in good faith and in our most present graces.

           𝔎𝔯𝔞𝔧𝔩 𝔑𝔦𝔨𝔬𝔩𝔞 𝔬𝔣 ℌ𝔬𝔲𝔰𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔅𝔞𝔟𝔬𝔫𝔦𝔠, ℭ𝔯𝔬𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔞 ℜ𝔢𝔵, 𝔞𝔡𝔡𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔰𝔢𝔰 𝔢𝔵 𝔬𝔣𝔣𝔦𝔠𝔦𝔬 ℌ𝔢𝔯 ℜ𝔬𝔶𝔞𝔩 ℌ𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔫𝔢𝔰𝔰, 𝔱𝔥𝔢 ℭ𝔯𝔬𝔴𝔫 𝔓𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔠𝔢𝔰𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔓𝔬𝔯𝔱𝔲𝔤𝔞𝔩, 𝔈𝔩𝔦𝔞𝔫𝔞 𝔡𝔢 𝔅𝔯𝔞𝔤𝔞𝔫𝔷𝔞.

[ofsplit]

ofunholiness‌:

       “let’s celebrate we’re not dead yet! isn’t that why we’re gathered here, in a sense? well, i say hallelujah!” artemisia jested, raising a glass of cherry wine cheerfully. everywhere the princess went, she was the life of the party. soon enough the nobles in the room imitated her, toasting and laughing at her sally remark. although she thought it foolish to believe it was indeed all the pope had in mind with this sudden invite, and pitied anyone who trusted that any goodwill would actually come from it. mïsia had known her great uncle fairly well; the blood speaks louder.

      she then crossed the room to approach another, with a sparkle of mischief in her eyes. “i propose a game. we make three statements about ourselves & one of us must decide which is a lie. have i found one brave enough to start it or should i make the honors?”

𝐀 𝐁𝐔𝐃𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐆𝐑𝐈𝐍 𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐃 𝐔𝐏. Jakov could sense the heady smell of fermented cherries wafting through the room, as dense and cloying as ichor. The sojourning chambers they found themselves in, hosted somewhere in those upper Florentian residences which did not really belong to anyone, but acted instead as local adornments to the name and purposes of the Medicis, blurred and trembled in the candlelight. Pendants of violetwax candles had been hoisted onto the ceiling, illuminating in their eerie, needless way. They did not require them - the sun was still potent on the other side of the walls. But Jakov had always loved beautiful inefficiency, the squandering aspect of it, and no one was more profligate than the people of this Peninsula. None he had the good fortune to encounter, at the very least. Yet the young woman before him looked like she could rival them all, and then some. She would give even the wives of Osman a contest for their pains.

❛ No introduction as all that ? You outrank me, Madam, and I should know by how much. Or is it Lady still? ❜ He clucked his tongue, something between commendation and admonition. His eyes were drawn to the intricate jewelry sewn deep into her busk ; enough to buy ten steeds, he reckoned. Enough to give you footing to bargain the world itself. Wealth in itself regaled him, whether it shone upon him or not. It had always been thus. The first time he’d glimpsed upon Nikola, as a sea-kissed boy newly arrived in Zagreb, it had not been the man he saw, but the crust of myth and glory overneath. The lapis and pearl encasing the vestures. ❛ Very well ❜ , he conceded, one hand already thrust to draw a chair by their side,  ❛ but you will have to set the course. It’s easier to start on a loss. ❜