( cynwrig and his children bless the capital with a beautiful day โ clear skies, gentle winds, and a moderate temperature. unusual for so late in the autumn, but the windows of many homes and businesses are open to receive this gift. the parks and streets of the city are crowded with citizens enjoying the sun's warmth for perhaps the last time this year.
and yet, the king's office lacks cheer or warmth on this day. the drawn curtains make it hard to notice the sunlight; indeed, it's hard to discern if it's day or night. cigarette smoke chokes any lingering life in the room, a nasty habit of the foreign minister and the intelligence minister, each smoking as the interior minister gives her report on the number of asylum claims that week.
almost a thousand with another roughly thousand refugees waiting on ships in the port of tilhavet, each one fleeing from the unrest in the east. the asylum offices are overwhelmed, each clerk working overtime to process each case, but it is like trying to clear out water from a boat while a storm rages above. and each person will still require help after they're allowed in โ housing vouchers, food stipends, and employment help. housing prices in acacia have skyrocketed, which means each voucher must now pay out more. landlords are starting to refuse to rent to refugees. a solution then is to send the refugees to the western states, but to where? much of the land is already claimed, and the towns and cities out there are also filling with refugees. it is a temporary solution, a bandage on a gunshot wound.
constantin's head rests on his hand, his fingers splayed across closed lids, where he hasn't moved an inch since the duchess began almost five minutes ago. his shoulders are bent forward like the weight of the world rests on them. at this moment, it feels as though it is. ornefluer must accept these refugees. to not do so would be a betrayal of what the country represents; of what he represents. he is only here because someone took mercy on him, however petty it was, and accepted him into ornefluer. who is constantin not to show the same mercy?
when the duchess finishes speaking, he lifts his gaze from his hand. his entire cabinet stares at him, expectedly: general gaboriault's stern green eyes, the duchess's haughty brown eyes, and monsieur de philippe's piercing blue. the king's orders are brief and clipped: continue accepting asylum claims, set a rent freeze in the capital, expedite the construction of new housing, and arrange a meeting with the matriarch of kanรฉna mรฉros, a country further south. they have yet to welcome any refugees within their borders and zhiva, in her infinite wisdom, would not be so remiss to neglect a crisis like this.
they all rise, bow, and leave to carry out his commands. with their absence, the room feels more suffocating, more confining. there's less air. his heart quickens. he runs a shaky hand through his hair, and his fingers brush against his warm cheeks. a nervous energy clenches his body, and he must walk it off.
constantin finds himself in the hall of portraits, a grand room facing full west and the river stirrende. the large lace curtains blow in the mid-afternoon wind. nine pairs of eyes stare at him: amboise's severe green eyes, ignace's amused brown eyes, and wilhelmina's piercing blue. in the mid-afternoon sun blessed by cynwrig and his children, the gold wall trim shine, giving an additional brilliancy to the faces in the portraits. even the solemn face of king salinas appears brighter and less grim.
he stands under nacogdoches's portrait, his old friend in his youth and glory surrounded by trees and flowers. dirt smudges his hands, symbolizing both his love of nature and his willingness to engage every problem, regardless of how minor or terrible. constantin wonders โ he wonders what nacogdoches would do in this situation. nothing of this magnitude ever occurred during his reign. but if it had, nacogdoches would know the solution. he wouldn't let it bend his shoulders or twist his insides to knots. he never would have let it come to this, too.
[ the beautiful day tempts Margaery from the moment she wakes, a feeling Arakhis seems to share greatly as they both dutifully go about their day - alert with each task, but with a yearning to greet the sun and play with the winds. truthfully, her schedule suits her; the constant learning presents enough of a challenge to keep her mental faculties sharp and aware, while the day-to-day encounters with her ladies-in-waiting and members of the courts provide an active gauge for her to measure where she might stand.
but she does not long to remain still for hours at a time, forgetting what it means to stay active through walks. it's not proper to spend hours of her days hawking or riding, with all she has to learn, so she permits herself a turn around the grounds in the mornings, and a more vigorous loop around the gardens where she and Arakhis play fetch for wholesome exercise. today, the reward of the latter is glorious, although the presence of her ladies reminds Margaery not to risk ruining her skirts by picking up her pace into a light jog over well-kept grass.
she throws the ball as hard as she can as always, pleased to watch as Arakhis unfurls himself naturally into a long-legged sprint each time, tail wagging whenever he drops it back at her feet. she thinks to do it several more times after another such throw, only to have a golden head catch her eye where it shouldn't be, amongst salmon pink blossoms. Aramis is too far away for conversation, and with her ladies nearby, Margaery doesn't care to approach, but there's a heavy, meaningful look in his eyes that stops her short of greeting him properly. and when that gaze cuts away, she follows its direction - back towards the palace, towards the wing that houses the hall of portraits.
she thinks she knows what he means to tell her.
which is why she bids the ladies to stay and enjoy the afternoon on her behalf as she makes her way back inside, pausing only to wipe Arakhis' paws clean before they earn the ire of any housekeepers along the way -
which makes it all the cuter when he is the first to bound up to the king like a long lost friend, too well-mannered to jump but insistent for some long overdue affection from his first parent. Margaery slows her pace so they have time to reunite, looking almost as put-together as any highborn lady who has just been holed up in the luxuries of the palace; the only telltale details are her ruddy cheeks and the very small amount of stray hairs that have escaped the intricate braids her hair is woven into. her curtsy is almost light and casual now that they're alone, with no formalities to play as proper.
the gentle light of day highlights the furrow of his brow and the stiffness in his posture, but she makes no mention of it, choosing only to smile at the way the wind tries to ruffle his hair and fails. ]
I hope you will forgive me for the intrusion, dear husband. Would you perhaps care for some company?
( โ if he says something. if he names the poison that infects the continent, an antidote could be more easily discovered and implemented. but is there any logic in that? what can be done when the poison is not one man but all men? corruption, greed, fear, and animosity have polluted hearts and tarnished goodwill. the eastern lands were vulnerable, with many governments weak and ineffective against even small groups of bandits. now they all live in the consequence of their failures. what is there to do?
perhaps โ
constantin's thoughts are interrupted by a gentle bump at his thigh. but his gaze stays on the portrait of nacogdoches, who beams with pride and joy as though a discovery has been uncovered. perhaps โ
the nudging at his sides becomes more insistent. but his stance remains as it were: rigid and unyielding with his hands locked firmly behind his back. nothing crosses his features that were not carved by the sculptor. the song children sing about him is correct: he won't bend to anything, not to the wind nor the light shining from the sky or margaery's face.
when he finally acknowledges his visitors, his voice is rough with thought and memory and soberness. his gaze stays on the portrait of nacogdoches. ) At the moment, I am company that neither of you would wish to care for.
( arakhis's large, wet nose presses against his knuckles, attempting to pry his hands open. )
[ her expression falters into one of genuine concern when he doesn't indulge Arakhis with his attention - even more than the sound of his voice or the line of tension running down his body, this is what speaks volumes about Constantin's state of mind. her hands come up to distract Arakhis from his futile mission, giving him the pets that he so desperately craves from the king before kissing him on the top of his head and pointing to a spot a few feet away from where Constantin stands. ]
Pobyt, lyubimyy.
[ it takes a few tries - clearly Arakhis has to get used to his new nickname - but he goes eventually, with a sad final thump of his tail against Constantin's leg, and giving Margaery space to stand behind her husband, just a scant few inches from brushing against him. together, they survey the portrait of Nacogdoches in respectful silence, although for her, it's more admiring the masterful brush strokes that bring life with all the deep, rich colors used.
after a few minutes, her hand gently comes up to tuck into the inner crook of his elbow, a feather-light touch that he's free to shake off if he chooses to. if he does not, he will feel that touch travel downwards, intentionally slow, until her hand comes to rest on the the balled knot his have made together.
softly, ]
I will not ask that you speak to me, so long as you let me stay here with you.
[ she bumps her cheek against his arm in a very Arakhis-like manner to be as endearing as she can. ]
( even through the layers of wool and linen, her light touch is noticeable but no reaction crosses his grim expression. he allows her hand to continue its path downwards in the same way that he would allow a butterfly or stray leaf to rest on his arm. )
I will not dictate where you can go or stay. This is yours, too.
( his eyes trace along the details of nacogdoches's left cuff: white frill peeking from beneath the brown velvet of his doublet. like now, dark colors were popular in men's clothing. on his left hand is a gold ring, and nacogdoches reaches out to his left, to his wife, wilhelmina, who, in a separate portrait, reaches out to him with her right hand. her blonde hair is loose and flowing. she is dighted in a simple blue dress with minimal decoration and enormous sleeves, a style more akin to her native country's fashion rather than what was popular for ornefluerian women at the time: restrictive bodices, long and tight sleeves, and hoods. a style so clearly present in the small portrait of honnorรฉe, nacogdoches's first wife, located at the bottom left of his. wilhelmina's countenance is serene as she appears ready to work alongside nacogdoches on the task at hand, whether political, social, or botanical.
in his portrait, his friend appears so carefree and happy, but how often were his shoulders stooped and body stiffened with tension? if a crisis like the one now had occurred during his reign, the same doubts and troubles might have also plagued nacogdoches, but would he have faced them alone? no. wilhelmina would have straightened his shoulders and helped carry the load. a burden shared is a burden halved.
like a gust of wind that blows through a forest with trees groaning as leaves shake loose from their branches, constantin sighs. the hands behind his back relax and his brow softens. )
[ she waits, considering a great many things: the thick fabric the king still wears despite the beautiful weather, the gentle sound of Arakhis' claws skittering on the smooth floor as he settles down to lounge in the sun, how Nacogdoches and Wilhelmina might have met and fallen in love - just some of the stories she's excited to discover when she reads his autobiography.
by the time Constantin sighs, the skin-to-skin contact between their hands has gone warm, and she reluctantly removes her touch as he seemingly returns from where he had traveled so far; giving and receiving physical affection is one of her preferred body languages, cultivated by a family that never shied away from it in private, but not everyone has had such a luxury or cares for it by nature. instead, Margaery steps forward to stand beside him, still facing the portrait to keep the pressure of her focus light. ]
I look forward to the day our relationship is as strong as theirs.
[ which is to say: she is resolved to do the work that it will require, and make all the proper adjustments to be a better partner - already his quiet insistence that she call him by his name, or do as she pleases has done much to profoundly alter how she has always approached the role of queen. here, not only can she retain her voice, but amplify it for the good of the people.
but it will require balanced persistence, moreso on her part as she teaches Constantin what it's like to have a partner who depends on him in a way that requires more than a distant respect and consideration, aspects reserved for the rest of the country. ]
If your true preference is to be left alone with your thoughts instead of quiet company, I will remember it the next time I find you in such a mood. But you are my husband. And I may be young, but I do not think secrets or burdens should be carried alone in marriages.
[ she longs to take his hand, but she settles for holding her own instead, shifting her footing so she faces him. ]
( yes, a burden shared is a burden halved. some burdens, however, must be carried alone. their names cannot leave his offices and must remain confined within those so fortunate or unfortunate enough to know. it is the price of power, this chain around his neck. this weight that must be borne. but would she understand that what keeps his voice is not mistrust or an unwillingness to share but the nature of his position? some secrets must be kept not just from her but the public. if they knew a full account of the troubles in the east, then โ
some burdens must be carried alone.
and constantin would prefer to speak of more pleasant things anyway. it would loosen the chain around his neck. )
Forgive me, where are my manners?
( the tension drains from his voice like water from a bath when he takes margaery's hand and tugs her closer to him, gently as the wind that blows through the windows and brings in the joy radiating from the capital. )
Please allow me the honor of introducing my wife, Margaery, formerly of House Tyrell. ( when constantin looks at margaery, his set brow has relaxed and his shoulders has eased. he has always had the talent of assuming and maintaining a calm demeanor, concealing away his emotions like one would a book under their pillow. )
Margaery, this is Nacogdoches, son of Amboise, and Doctor Wilhelmina Clerveaux. My dear friends. ( he sighs as his gaze returns to the portraits in front of them. the book is under the pillow and the mask is on. )
[ she goes easily, willingly, although her expression indicates that she won't be so easily fooled by his smooth transition when their eyes meet - initially, at least. Constantin appears calmer, which is the most important thing, and seeing the marked difference in his demeanor is truly relieving. Margaery curtsies for the introductions, for nothing would be more proper for those that the king would truly consider his friends. ]
The pleasure is all mine, of course.
[ she smiles up at the portraits, keeping their hands linked as her other hand gently curls around his inner elbow. it speaks volumes that Constantin would seek solace here, where his company consists of those who understand the burden of the crown and nothing less. de Philippe might be a close second in terms of trust, but if even he cannot breach the sanctum of the king's innermost thoughts, then it simply means she'll have to prove herself somehow.
show the king that she means to be a queen who truly leads. and also actively seeks his counsel. ]
I've been meaning to speak with you.
[ she decides to stay with lighter topics for now; there will be a better time to bring up Odette's very obvious interest and whether the king possibly entertains feelings for her as well. ]
I met your Minister of Intelligence, Monsieur de Philippe, during the ball when you were called away. [ there's no mistaking the exasperated amusement in her crooked smile. ] He is... certainly one of a kind. And I get the sense that he and my grandmother got on very well together. It is a good thing that you haven't met her yourself, you know. She could've very well charmed you instead and I'd have to call you grandfather.
( his immediate thought is if she wishes that was the case. if she had preferred her grandmother were in her place and the queen of ornefluer, while she was a mere visitor to their golden shores. but the thought is banished almost as instantly as it appeared. if those wishes are present within her, then there is no action but to discard them and accept life as it is. the only action constantin can provide, meanwhile, is comfort and encouragement to find and make a life here.
life rarely turns out how one hopes, and it rarely does any good to imagine otherwise.
constantin leads her from wilhelmina's piercing gaze to stand beneath the portraits of nacogdoches's son and his family. )
Monsieur de Philippe was quite effusive when speaking of your grandmother. ( that is a half-truth; most of his enthusiasm was reserved for her house and granddaughter. constantin does not wish to dwell on the man, however. currently, his name conjures the misery of the past few hours.
the unpleasantness does linger in his voice like a shadow when he introduces the next reigning family. ) Salinas, of course, and his wife, Bambri, and son, Burl. ( the true marble king with a stare as cold and harsh as a winter on eeuwigheid island and his wife, a mouse who rarely left the palace. lastly, their son, the king of fourteen hundred days, with a disposition more familiar to a westeroi than an ornefluerian. much about them is better left unsaid or even unthought, and so constantin leads her to the next portrait, tall, massive, and whose subject was never queen.
at first glance, her striking beauty is most evident, but the warmth in her wide, blue eyes sets the viewer at ease and draws them closer to admire the pearls shining in her flowing hair and her small but sweet smile. behind her are rows of delicate, white flowers, whose real name has been lost to time; in ornefluer, they are referred to only by her name.
any sorrow that lingers in constantin's expression or tone is banished by the sight of nacogdoches's and wilhelmina's daughter, salinas's half-sister, and ospreay's mother: delphine. )
[ Salinas is at least a name she recognizes, although the difference from Nacogdoches' portrait to his is almost startling for how stark it is. Margaery can only assume that these portraits convey the most honest portrayals, which is a departure from what she's accustomed to in Westeros. she's immediately reminded of one of the portraits of Joffrey that House Tyrell knights brought back to Highgarden, and their carefully stoic expressions when she'd asked if it was a fair representation of the future king.
in the end, they hadn't needed to say anything at all, and thank the gods for that.
the absence of Constantin's warmth says everything she needs to know about Salinas and his family, and as they move onto the next portrait, she waits for his introduction while admiring the gentle beauty that radiates from every detail. when none come, she glances up and catches sight of his expression -
one that she studies for an appropriate amount of time before she resumes viewing the portrait in front of them. it's enough for her to know that even though Odette may have feelings for the king, he does not return them; the tenderness she sees now would be impossible to hide, even for someone who has lived as long as he has.
after a few long seconds, her question comes softly. ]
( what could be said about delphine that hasn't already been expressed and extolled by the greatest poets of their time? the jewel of ornefluer, beloved here and abroad, and praised for her beauty. wide eyes, the color of the wฤnnuan ocean, that were carefully arranged on a delicate face that promised only a refined and sensitive nature.
but portraits do little to properly illustrate why princess delphine was so beloved. inside her was a warmth that only the sun could provide, and a consideration for everyone that was rarely seen from someone in her station. she was just so kind and amiable with a gentle soul that the world's darkness could never taint. some of constantin's happiness times were along her side: teaching her to ride a horse, playing the bandura as she sang, and tending to the poor while dressed in the color of her mother's order.
he did love her. so why didn't you marry her?
the question suddenly strikes him, and it takes a moment for him to realize that it wasn't thought but asked aloud. constantin blinks and looks down at the woman he did marry, his tender expression shattering to embarrassment. redness colors his ears. )
Why do you ask that?
( he knows why. his eyes had lingered too long on her portrait, a relief soothing his bones that should come from his wife not a ghost. )
[ she doesn't mean to smile at the sight of his embarrassment, but it's a gentle one anyway, one that she shares with him easily. ]
I'm your wife above all else, Constantin. You may need to uphold a certain modicum of decorum with the rest of the court, but there is no need to stand on ceremony with me. I would be foolish to assume that in all your years of living, you have not felt love's sharp blade nor felt the warmth of a woman.
[ Margaery returns her gaze to the portrait so he can recover with privacy, should he wish to. Delphine is lovely to behold, and even with a mere painting, the aura captured makes it easy to understand how she held his heart. ]
I almost married a man who was in love with my brother in secret. And I would've gladly done so if it meant we could restore Westeros to a kingdom more like yours in spirit and generosity. From an early age, I learned that the price of finding true love at a station like mine was too steep.
[ her hand squeezes his arm gently. ]
So you need not worry about my expectations when it comes to your heart. I am well aware that is one realm that cannot be controlled by marriage or duty, nor would I dream of burdening you in such a way.
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no subject
and yet, the king's office lacks cheer or warmth on this day. the drawn curtains make it hard to notice the sunlight; indeed, it's hard to discern if it's day or night. cigarette smoke chokes any lingering life in the room, a nasty habit of the foreign minister and the intelligence minister, each smoking as the interior minister gives her report on the number of asylum claims that week.
almost a thousand with another roughly thousand refugees waiting on ships in the port of tilhavet, each one fleeing from the unrest in the east. the asylum offices are overwhelmed, each clerk working overtime to process each case, but it is like trying to clear out water from a boat while a storm rages above. and each person will still require help after they're allowed in โ housing vouchers, food stipends, and employment help. housing prices in acacia have skyrocketed, which means each voucher must now pay out more. landlords are starting to refuse to rent to refugees. a solution then is to send the refugees to the western states, but to where? much of the land is already claimed, and the towns and cities out there are also filling with refugees. it is a temporary solution, a bandage on a gunshot wound.
constantin's head rests on his hand, his fingers splayed across closed lids, where he hasn't moved an inch since the duchess began almost five minutes ago. his shoulders are bent forward like the weight of the world rests on them. at this moment, it feels as though it is. ornefluer must accept these refugees. to not do so would be a betrayal of what the country represents; of what he represents. he is only here because someone took mercy on him, however petty it was, and accepted him into ornefluer. who is constantin not to show the same mercy?
when the duchess finishes speaking, he lifts his gaze from his hand. his entire cabinet stares at him, expectedly: general gaboriault's stern green eyes, the duchess's haughty brown eyes, and monsieur de philippe's piercing blue. the king's orders are brief and clipped: continue accepting asylum claims, set a rent freeze in the capital, expedite the construction of new housing, and arrange a meeting with the matriarch of kanรฉna mรฉros, a country further south. they have yet to welcome any refugees within their borders and zhiva, in her infinite wisdom, would not be so remiss to neglect a crisis like this.
they all rise, bow, and leave to carry out his commands. with their absence, the room feels more suffocating, more confining. there's less air. his heart quickens. he runs a shaky hand through his hair, and his fingers brush against his warm cheeks. a nervous energy clenches his body, and he must walk it off.
constantin finds himself in the hall of portraits, a grand room facing full west and the river stirrende. the large lace curtains blow in the mid-afternoon wind. nine pairs of eyes stare at him: amboise's severe green eyes, ignace's amused brown eyes, and wilhelmina's piercing blue. in the mid-afternoon sun blessed by cynwrig and his children, the gold wall trim shine, giving an additional brilliancy to the faces in the portraits. even the solemn face of king salinas appears brighter and less grim.
he stands under nacogdoches's portrait, his old friend in his youth and glory surrounded by trees and flowers. dirt smudges his hands, symbolizing both his love of nature and his willingness to engage every problem, regardless of how minor or terrible. constantin wonders โ he wonders what nacogdoches would do in this situation. nothing of this magnitude ever occurred during his reign. but if it had, nacogdoches would know the solution. he wouldn't let it bend his shoulders or twist his insides to knots. he never would have let it come to this, too.
perhaps โ )
no subject
but she does not long to remain still for hours at a time, forgetting what it means to stay active through walks. it's not proper to spend hours of her days hawking or riding, with all she has to learn, so she permits herself a turn around the grounds in the mornings, and a more vigorous loop around the gardens where she and Arakhis play fetch for wholesome exercise. today, the reward of the latter is glorious, although the presence of her ladies reminds Margaery not to risk ruining her skirts by picking up her pace into a light jog over well-kept grass.
she throws the ball as hard as she can as always, pleased to watch as Arakhis unfurls himself naturally into a long-legged sprint each time, tail wagging whenever he drops it back at her feet. she thinks to do it several more times after another such throw, only to have a golden head catch her eye where it shouldn't be, amongst salmon pink blossoms. Aramis is too far away for conversation, and with her ladies nearby, Margaery doesn't care to approach, but there's a heavy, meaningful look in his eyes that stops her short of greeting him properly. and when that gaze cuts away, she follows its direction - back towards the palace, towards the wing that houses the hall of portraits.
she thinks she knows what he means to tell her.
which is why she bids the ladies to stay and enjoy the afternoon on her behalf as she makes her way back inside, pausing only to wipe Arakhis' paws clean before they earn the ire of any housekeepers along the way -
which makes it all the cuter when he is the first to bound up to the king like a long lost friend, too well-mannered to jump but insistent for some long overdue affection from his first parent. Margaery slows her pace so they have time to reunite, looking almost as put-together as any highborn lady who has just been holed up in the luxuries of the palace; the only telltale details are her ruddy cheeks and the very small amount of stray hairs that have escaped the intricate braids her hair is woven into. her curtsy is almost light and casual now that they're alone, with no formalities to play as proper.
the gentle light of day highlights the furrow of his brow and the stiffness in his posture, but she makes no mention of it, choosing only to smile at the way the wind tries to ruffle his hair and fails. ]
I hope you will forgive me for the intrusion, dear husband. Would you perhaps care for some company?
no subject
perhaps โ
constantin's thoughts are interrupted by a gentle bump at his thigh. but his gaze stays on the portrait of nacogdoches, who beams with pride and joy as though a discovery has been uncovered. perhaps โ
the nudging at his sides becomes more insistent. but his stance remains as it were: rigid and unyielding with his hands locked firmly behind his back. nothing crosses his features that were not carved by the sculptor. the song children sing about him is correct: he won't bend to anything, not to the wind nor the light shining from the sky or margaery's face.
when he finally acknowledges his visitors, his voice is rough with thought and memory and soberness. his gaze stays on the portrait of nacogdoches. ) At the moment, I am company that neither of you would wish to care for.
( arakhis's large, wet nose presses against his knuckles, attempting to pry his hands open. )
no subject
Pobyt, lyubimyy.
[ it takes a few tries - clearly Arakhis has to get used to his new nickname - but he goes eventually, with a sad final thump of his tail against Constantin's leg, and giving Margaery space to stand behind her husband, just a scant few inches from brushing against him. together, they survey the portrait of Nacogdoches in respectful silence, although for her, it's more admiring the masterful brush strokes that bring life with all the deep, rich colors used.
after a few minutes, her hand gently comes up to tuck into the inner crook of his elbow, a feather-light touch that he's free to shake off if he chooses to. if he does not, he will feel that touch travel downwards, intentionally slow, until her hand comes to rest on the the balled knot his have made together.
softly, ]
I will not ask that you speak to me, so long as you let me stay here with you.
[ she bumps her cheek against his arm in a very Arakhis-like manner to be as endearing as she can. ]
Please.
no subject
I will not dictate where you can go or stay. This is yours, too.
( his eyes trace along the details of nacogdoches's left cuff: white frill peeking from beneath the brown velvet of his doublet. like now, dark colors were popular in men's clothing. on his left hand is a gold ring, and nacogdoches reaches out to his left, to his wife, wilhelmina, who, in a separate portrait, reaches out to him with her right hand. her blonde hair is loose and flowing. she is dighted in a simple blue dress with minimal decoration and enormous sleeves, a style more akin to her native country's fashion rather than what was popular for ornefluerian women at the time: restrictive bodices, long and tight sleeves, and hoods. a style so clearly present in the small portrait of honnorรฉe, nacogdoches's first wife, located at the bottom left of his. wilhelmina's countenance is serene as she appears ready to work alongside nacogdoches on the task at hand, whether political, social, or botanical.
in his portrait, his friend appears so carefree and happy, but how often were his shoulders stooped and body stiffened with tension? if a crisis like the one now had occurred during his reign, the same doubts and troubles might have also plagued nacogdoches, but would he have faced them alone? no. wilhelmina would have straightened his shoulders and helped carry the load. a burden shared is a burden halved.
like a gust of wind that blows through a forest with trees groaning as leaves shake loose from their branches, constantin sighs. the hands behind his back relax and his brow softens. )
no subject
by the time Constantin sighs, the skin-to-skin contact between their hands has gone warm, and she reluctantly removes her touch as he seemingly returns from where he had traveled so far; giving and receiving physical affection is one of her preferred body languages, cultivated by a family that never shied away from it in private, but not everyone has had such a luxury or cares for it by nature. instead, Margaery steps forward to stand beside him, still facing the portrait to keep the pressure of her focus light. ]
I look forward to the day our relationship is as strong as theirs.
[ which is to say: she is resolved to do the work that it will require, and make all the proper adjustments to be a better partner - already his quiet insistence that she call him by his name, or do as she pleases has done much to profoundly alter how she has always approached the role of queen. here, not only can she retain her voice, but amplify it for the good of the people.
but it will require balanced persistence, moreso on her part as she teaches Constantin what it's like to have a partner who depends on him in a way that requires more than a distant respect and consideration, aspects reserved for the rest of the country. ]
If your true preference is to be left alone with your thoughts instead of quiet company, I will remember it the next time I find you in such a mood. But you are my husband. And I may be young, but I do not think secrets or burdens should be carried alone in marriages.
[ she longs to take his hand, but she settles for holding her own instead, shifting her footing so she faces him. ]
Will you tell me what is on your mind?
no subject
some burdens must be carried alone.
and constantin would prefer to speak of more pleasant things anyway. it would loosen the chain around his neck. )
Forgive me, where are my manners?
( the tension drains from his voice like water from a bath when he takes margaery's hand and tugs her closer to him, gently as the wind that blows through the windows and brings in the joy radiating from the capital. )
Please allow me the honor of introducing my wife, Margaery, formerly of House Tyrell. ( when constantin looks at margaery, his set brow has relaxed and his shoulders has eased. he has always had the talent of assuming and maintaining a calm demeanor, concealing away his emotions like one would a book under their pillow. )
Margaery, this is Nacogdoches, son of Amboise, and Doctor Wilhelmina Clerveaux. My dear friends. ( he sighs as his gaze returns to the portraits in front of them. the book is under the pillow and the mask is on. )
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The pleasure is all mine, of course.
[ she smiles up at the portraits, keeping their hands linked as her other hand gently curls around his inner elbow. it speaks volumes that Constantin would seek solace here, where his company consists of those who understand the burden of the crown and nothing less. de Philippe might be a close second in terms of trust, but if even he cannot breach the sanctum of the king's innermost thoughts, then it simply means she'll have to prove herself somehow.
show the king that she means to be a queen who truly leads. and also actively seeks his counsel. ]
I've been meaning to speak with you.
[ she decides to stay with lighter topics for now; there will be a better time to bring up Odette's very obvious interest and whether the king possibly entertains feelings for her as well. ]
I met your Minister of Intelligence, Monsieur de Philippe, during the ball when you were called away. [ there's no mistaking the exasperated amusement in her crooked smile. ] He is... certainly one of a kind. And I get the sense that he and my grandmother got on very well together. It is a good thing that you haven't met her yourself, you know. She could've very well charmed you instead and I'd have to call you grandfather.
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life rarely turns out how one hopes, and it rarely does any good to imagine otherwise.
constantin leads her from wilhelmina's piercing gaze to stand beneath the portraits of nacogdoches's son and his family. )
Monsieur de Philippe was quite effusive when speaking of your grandmother. ( that is a half-truth; most of his enthusiasm was reserved for her house and granddaughter. constantin does not wish to dwell on the man, however. currently, his name conjures the misery of the past few hours.
the unpleasantness does linger in his voice like a shadow when he introduces the next reigning family. ) Salinas, of course, and his wife, Bambri, and son, Burl. ( the true marble king with a stare as cold and harsh as a winter on eeuwigheid island and his wife, a mouse who rarely left the palace. lastly, their son, the king of fourteen hundred days, with a disposition more familiar to a westeroi than an ornefluerian. much about them is better left unsaid or even unthought, and so constantin leads her to the next portrait, tall, massive, and whose subject was never queen.
at first glance, her striking beauty is most evident, but the warmth in her wide, blue eyes sets the viewer at ease and draws them closer to admire the pearls shining in her flowing hair and her small but sweet smile. behind her are rows of delicate, white flowers, whose real name has been lost to time; in ornefluer, they are referred to only by her name.
any sorrow that lingers in constantin's expression or tone is banished by the sight of nacogdoches's and wilhelmina's daughter, salinas's half-sister, and ospreay's mother: delphine. )
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in the end, they hadn't needed to say anything at all, and thank the gods for that.
the absence of Constantin's warmth says everything she needs to know about Salinas and his family, and as they move onto the next portrait, she waits for his introduction while admiring the gentle beauty that radiates from every detail. when none come, she glances up and catches sight of his expression -
one that she studies for an appropriate amount of time before she resumes viewing the portrait in front of them. it's enough for her to know that even though Odette may have feelings for the king, he does not return them; the tenderness she sees now would be impossible to hide, even for someone who has lived as long as he has.
after a few long seconds, her question comes softly. ]
Why didn't you marry her?
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but portraits do little to properly illustrate why princess delphine was so beloved. inside her was a warmth that only the sun could provide, and a consideration for everyone that was rarely seen from someone in her station. she was just so kind and amiable with a gentle soul that the world's darkness could never taint. some of constantin's happiness times were along her side: teaching her to ride a horse, playing the bandura as she sang, and tending to the poor while dressed in the color of her mother's order.
he did love her. so why didn't you marry her?
the question suddenly strikes him, and it takes a moment for him to realize that it wasn't thought but asked aloud. constantin blinks and looks down at the woman he did marry, his tender expression shattering to embarrassment. redness colors his ears. )
Why do you ask that?
( he knows why. his eyes had lingered too long on her portrait, a relief soothing his bones that should come from his wife not a ghost. )
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I'm your wife above all else, Constantin. You may need to uphold a certain modicum of decorum with the rest of the court, but there is no need to stand on ceremony with me. I would be foolish to assume that in all your years of living, you have not felt love's sharp blade nor felt the warmth of a woman.
[ Margaery returns her gaze to the portrait so he can recover with privacy, should he wish to. Delphine is lovely to behold, and even with a mere painting, the aura captured makes it easy to understand how she held his heart. ]
I almost married a man who was in love with my brother in secret. And I would've gladly done so if it meant we could restore Westeros to a kingdom more like yours in spirit and generosity. From an early age, I learned that the price of finding true love at a station like mine was too steep.
[ her hand squeezes his arm gently. ]
So you need not worry about my expectations when it comes to your heart. I am well aware that is one realm that cannot be controlled by marriage or duty, nor would I dream of burdening you in such a way.