queenalexandrina:
closed for: @philipdeanjou
location: chambers of the queen of france, hôtel saint-pol
“please,” the queen started, turning to the dressers who adjusted her skirts, secured her opulent sleeves of emerald silk to the fitted bodice of her gown, “do be sure there are no wrinkles in the fabric, they shall be watching for such missteps.” they of course, were the upper echelons of all eurasia, enemies and friends alike. the preparations had gone on for months but as news trickled in of foreign ships reaching french shores, queen alexandrina found herself feeling less than steady. her marriage was only in its natal stages and already so much had happened to throw her off kilter. the last time a meeting of monarchs had occurred was lisbon, a trip which she could hardly recall now, lost in a haze of sadness as a ship carried her back towards the place she had once called home but served as a prison, all the same. her stomach flipped as she remembered how she had sent her dearest lucrezia to fetch the physician, beseeching her to do so with discretion and together the three of them hid her plight and passed off the days she spent in bed as sea-sickness and grief at the loss of her parents, nothing more or less. but that was portugal and this was france, this was her game, hers and philip’s and it had to be played to perfection. if their union was fraught with secrets, their adversaries would sense it, smell their weakness like blood in the water.
her ladies flitted about, securing a veil to her painstakingly coiffed hair, adorning her with a heavy crucifix and a jewel-encrusted coronet, spritzing her neck with rose water as they finished with their masterpiece. “thank you, ladies, you may leave us to continue with your preparations,” dismissing her household, the queen was left alone in her chambers as she often requested, warm gaze focused on a silver looking glass, scrutinizing every inch of her appearance, noting with a pang that her waist was as svelte as ever. her monthly blood had just ceased, yet another moon gone without sign of an heir. in it’s reflection she caught a familiar, lanky silhouette and turned to see her husband hovering near the entrance to her rooms. “majesty,” she greeted, dropping into a deferential curtsy, sumptuous gown swishing gently against the stone floor, “what say you? shall our guests find me to be a believable queen of france?” wide, dark eyes brimmed with hesitation as the hollow of her throat thrummed with her quickening pulse. aye, she’d have to speak with him, find a moment to share her failure before they were thrown to the lions and became the center of such a massive celebration, fodder for rumors and speculation.
The twisting of his stomach is nearly enough to upend itself and cast forth his breakfast upon the floor beneath his feet. Nerves twist in his belly like eels curling in on themselves and he must clench his fist to feel the sting of his nails to cast his mind from all that awaits him. Will they see him as the quivering boy he feels inside, thrown from advisor to advisor like a hound with a bone? Or will he be as he presents himself to be, a king rising from the failures of a false man who once called himself his blood? Jewels have been painstakingly polished and elegant fabrics stitched and draped across his body to the point of near suffocation so that he might play the part upon which he has been granted.
Philip knows the time will come soon and thus seeks out his wife, likely being adorned as he has been. Their union has been fraught with tension outside of their marital bed, outside forces poking and prodding at the potential cracks a newly wed couple might endure. Yet he is grateful for her presence, however distant it might be, for if he falls she will surely tumble alongside him. Yet their matrimony has hardly been unified for a full year, leaving them strangers beyond the fragile beginnings of talks they have yet to finish. Reports of her blood stained sheets has reached his ears and reminded him yet again of their lack of an heir, a fact he is all too aware of and attempts to smother for her sake. She catches sight of him before he might announce himself, the formality of her bow prompting him to offer a half smile to ease the air surrounding them.
“They shall, for we have no other option if they do not.” Were he not scrutiny to her peering gaze he would wince at the tactlessness he displays, quickly clearing his throat to try once more. “The jewels...they suit you. The coronet was my mother’s once, though it seems at home upon your visage.”
