STATUS: open to @scfiyc @ofmarquessa @crownedprxncess @sfcrzas @isabelofyork @ofshiraz @queenalexandrina @jvanas @drippedink @amiraofcordoba @mairinarurik LOCATION: Couvent des Celestins, Mihrimah’s celebration TIMESTAMP: March 1459
The old quarters were alight with brass ensembles, the drapery of rich purples and the singing of the meddah who quoted the tales of Achilles, the Greek whom refused to leave the safe and isolated haven of his military tent. The room that was once the sanctuary to Catholic nuns, was transformed into an Islamic Palace; a central hearth to the Imperial Harem of the Sultan.
Mihrimah, sat upon the floor, surrounded by luxurious pillows embroidered in geometric designs, with her veil pushed back, as it always was when she kept herself within the security of the Harem. It was surely a sight to be seen, for the room was cloaked in colour and riches — leaving it to seem almost mystical, the very room becoming a peek into what Mihirmah’s upbringing had always been. The shapes, tastes and sounds were what formed the young Sultana, and what brought her to this moment, sat with only a handful of the ladies who had come to Paris’ summit.
“What do you think?” She asked, her eyes alight, as she reached forth to pluck a piece of Lokum, placing it between her lips with a slow motion — savouring the taste before her eyes widened in delight. She had hoped to dispel any foul rumour about the Harem, to let such grand and prestigious women into the Ottoman way of life. With the pop of her lips, Mihrimah reached forth to take another slither of Lokum between her fingers, gesturing for the other to open their mouth. “Do you like it?”