────────「 ʳⁱᵛᵃˡˢ & ʳᵒˢᵉˢ 」──

[senna_]

──── 𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐑 𝐀𝐃𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐓𝐎𝐍 ─────────────────────────────────────────
english princess • location: eng. palace • mentions: french citizens, tags • tags: raymond, laurence

Ellie’s head was pounding. Her temples felt like someone was on the inside, constantly knocking every single second, and at the same time, another hand was yanking at the roots of her hair. It was excruciating. “Morgan,” she practically wheezed, sucking in a sharp breath as she closed one eye, “please tell me you are just about done here.”

“Not quite, Princess Eleanor,” the young, naïve maid responded. “We have to give you curls, still.”

A whimper of protest fled from Ellie’s vocal cords, but she pressed her lips shut and, squeezing both eyes shut, turned back to face the front. She loved dressing up. She loved the glamourous dresses, and the big wigs, and pretty bows, and everything marvellously radiant. She did not, however, love the pain that came around with it. Her maids had tightened the corset to such a degree that Ellie could have sworn she had heard, or at least felt, one of her lower ribs crack. It was getting harder and harder by the minute to properly inhale and exhale. Like always, after a few moments, Eleanor did adjust to the uncomfortable feeling, and the aggravating squeeze to her skin became nothing more than part of her own person, but getting to that stage was torturous. The same went for the hair; Eleanor could not stand wigs. It wasn’t very popular anymore, not like it had been when she was merely ten and bounding around random strangers, but sometimes they were highly expected amongst the older ladies who hosted higher-end celebrations. Eleanor had only worn one a small handful of times; her hair was thick and she had a difficult time keeping the wig upright for more than ten minutes. While her ladies were not giving her one now, they were working hard at some updo that was making her head hurt. You must let them do it for the fashion, she told herself as she let out a breath, letting her hands rest against her stomach. You’re meeting your fiancé today.

The insides of her stomach tightened at that ─ a feeling that went terribly with the squeezing of the corset. She knew exactly who he was. Pierre LaCroix was the golden boy of France; she’d overheard the servants in her very home gushing over him several times when strolling by. “He was the perfect choice for a strong alliance,” had said her father when she first brought up a question about the idea of an arranged marriage with someone from an enemy country. Eleanor was not exactly sure what happened between France and England. For as long as she could remember, they were constantly nagging at one another, always lashing out at their throats in an attempt to claim the title as Number One. Her father did not disclose any information regarding the reason for their stay, only that it was “well-needed,” whatever that meant. Ellie had known from the time she was young that she wouldn’t have a choice in who she married. If he wasn’t a prince, he wasn’t good enough. She needed to have someone with a good grasp at the throne. However, Eleanor certainly hadn’t expected the name Pierre LaCroix to come out of her father’s lips upon announcing whom it was she was to marry. Ellie didn’t have anything against him, she really didn’t know much about him, and while she knew it was bound to happen sooner than later (in reality, it should have been much sooner, given her age), it still managed to throw her off. She hadn’t had much time to dwell on it, either. Exactly one day after he revealed the news to her, follow-up news containing information regarding the shipment of carriages to pick up their guests came out. Eleanor had less than seventy-two hours to let the news sit with her. The carriages were surely on their way back now. This was a life-changing moment.

Her troubles had carried her off in the distance long enough to momentarily forget about the tugging of her mocha-brown hair. It wasn’t until the maids stepped back from her body that Ellie realized they had finished with her updo. “Thank you, ladies,” she voiced to them, patting the large, curled bun on her head before standing, tucking her hair in with a push of her ankle in order to allow the ladies to scurry through with her dress. It was pretty, nearly the exact shade of cherry blossoms, with a big bow that rested where the skirt met the top. The girls worked quickly to get her dressed and prepped. Eleanor did not say a word; she had come to learn that the more she tried talking while they attempted to dress her, the bigger the mess she made, and the longer they ended up taking. While they never verbally complained about it, Ellie always had a feeling they got slightly annoyed when she rambled on, anyway. She felt guilty for it, too; as harsh as it was to come to terms with it, they simply couldn’t connect with her troubles. Their lives were very different.

Well, most of them, anyway. Eleanor had been shocked to hear that some of their servants, as well as the knights, would also partake in this arranged marriage set-up. It sounded all very suspicious, but as per usual, her father hadn’t said a word about it. She hadn’t quite had a chance to talk to anyone about it, either. While she had known about it for a few days now, she had managed to convince herself that if she didn’t address it, it wasn’t real. Clearly, that was not the case, but it had managed to calm her nerves up until now.

“Princess Eleanor?” came the familiar voice of Morgan.

“Hm?”

“They are expecting you now, my princess.”

“Oh, dear me, already?” Ellie’s eyes flickered across all the girl’s faces, but she didn’t really have to ask to know the answer. “Goodness me, so soon… Thank you, ladies. You did a beautiful job, as always.” And with a very quick curtsy to conclude her thanks, Ellie took off running. Hiking up her skirt to avoid taking a tumble onto the floor, Eleanor carried on down the hallway, her heels echoing off the large walls as she made her way to the main entrance. She was quick to spot Raymond, a good friend of hers.

“Raymond,” she breathed, unsurprisingly out of breath from her race down to the main floor. “Is it true? Has my father found you a wife, too? Or, not ‘too.’ Oh ─ ” she waved her hand in the air ─ “you know what I mean, I’m sure of it. Quite nonsense, if you ask me. Why now, anyway?”

Her attention was quickly whisked away by the sight of Laurence, far too tall to go unnoticed, as he strolled past. “Oh! Oh, dear brother.” While Ellie did not step away from Raymond, she did wave to catch her brother’s attention. “Fancy seeing you here. I am sure you cannot control your excitement one bit. I can see it in that humongous smile across your face.” One did not have to thoroughly know Eleanor to know she was joking. Laurence, in fact, looked far from thrilled, as they surely all felt. “I am sure this was not simply Father’s idea. Elizabeth surely put this into his head.” Elizabeth. Their newest mother, the one their father was quick to snatch up after the death of their birthmother. Ellie felt odd calling Elizabeth “mother,” so when she wasn’t around, she didn’t. She wasn’t the easiest to get along with, given her snarky attitude and endless opinions, and Eleanor was convinced the woman disliked her. She was not too sure about Laurence, though, or any of her other siblings. It was hard to tell with that woman.

She fell quiet for a fleeting moment after that, her hand pushing at the bun on her head once more as she felt a wave of awkwardness flush through her. What to do now? There wasn’t much else she or anyone else could do, except wait. The carriages would surely pull in any second now. She couldn’t quite tell if she was ready or not. She supposed that regardless, she didn’t have a choice.

[senna_]

──── 𝐊𝐈𝐓 𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐄 ───────────────────────────────────────────────────────
french stable servant • location: france → eng. palace • mentions: pierre, tag • tags: serena

Kit had been expecting this day for many, many days now, but never had he thought it would ever actually arrive. The day where France and England would be forced together, all in an attempt to form one big harmony again. Wedding bells practically rang in the background of that sentence. Kit was apart of it. He had been told he too was to find his very own fiancé. It didn't feel real. And yet, here he was, strapping the last bit of the leather harness to the large, chestnut plow horse in front of him.

“Est-ce que vu est prêt?” he murmured to the large gelding, raising his arm to gently stroke the star on the horse’s upper head. Are you ready? It seemed like a funny thing to ask, as if it was, in actuality, Kit asking Kit if he was ready, not the gelding. France had the finest equines, there was no doubt this one could travel over to the docks. Kit hadn’t ever been on a boat before. He wasn’t entirely thrilled with the idea of being on something so flimsy, travelling across miles of open water (one that often had a temper, might he add), but he supposed he didn’t have much of a choice. The royal family was like his distant family, in a way. While not related by blood, they were the reason he was alive and standing strong on his own two feet. If they wished for him to travel overseas, then he would travel overseas.

He tried not to let the queasiness he was feeling in the pit of his stomach show as he stepped back from the large creature, baby blue eyes lingering for a few seconds more before forcefully swivelling to face another direction. Other servants swarmed him, all of them frantic and panicked, desperate to perfect everything for the royal family. Usually Kit was one of those people, but today was different. Keeping his head down, he side-stepped the busy bees and headed over to one of the smaller carriages: the one where the royal family certainly would not be touching. Kit knew some of the other workers despised the way they were treated. How their names weren’t known, how orders were barked at them like they were prey targeted by an impatient canine. Kit, in all honesty, didn’t mind it much. The King and Queen didn’t visit the stables often, so he hadn’t worried much about upsetting them.

Until he made the worst mistake of his life.

Or, maybe it was the best. A bit of both, he supposed, as his gaze found the Lacroix siblings. Pierre and Serena. His relationship with the both of them was likely deemed as unusual, given their positions. He considered Serena one of his closest friends. While Kit wasn’t quite certain that could be returned, for who knew how many good friends she had within the walls of the castle, he knew he could count on her ─ and vise versa ─ when need be. Pierre was complicated. Kit couldn’t ─ wouldn’t ─ say anything more than that. A blush blanketed his pale cheeks as the two approached. Very well-aware of his staring, Kit turned away, pushing himself into the carriage. Sagging into the uncomfortable seat, he brought his attention to the flimsy window, fixated on a crack on the edge, and did not shift his gaze the entire ride over.

The ferry ride over was as awful as the carriage ride had been. The way the wooden deck shifted beneath him, rising up and down under his feet, made him want to empty his stomach right on board. For whatever reason, Kit had managed to convince himself that the swaying would be like the gait of a trot, rising up and down with the movement of the horse, but it was far from that. Even though the distance wasn’t drastically far, and they arrived within about two or so hours, if he were to guess, Kit could still feel the shifting beneath his feet as he moseyed along with the rest of the group to the awaiting carriages. Afraid of losing his step because of the awkward new unbalanced feeling, he cut his usual pace in half, although he made sure to keep an eye on the King and Queen in case they desired a servant’s help. That was not the case, though. In fact, not a single word was spoken to him. Perhaps it was for the best.

Kit was surprised to find out that the English had sent over very few carriages. So few, really, that Kit knew he was going to have to smush in with someone else. Again, his eyes automatically dashed over to where Pierre was standing. The thought of being close to the French Prince made the tips of his ears burn. That was risky. Surely they wouldn’t put a servant with a royal, though, right? Then again, the King and Queen seemed rather uninterested in pairing people up for the carriages. The Queen was stroking Serena’s hair back, and the family shared a few inaudible murmurs. Kit stood aside, as per usual, thumbs twiddling as he awaited the next command. It was neither the King nor the Queen who called out orders, though. A coachman with a thick English accent had commanded them to head into the carriages. Kit was hesitant at first, lingering closer to the set of market stands. The churning in his stomach had commenced once again, as if there was a butter-making factory present inside of him, and he clenched his fists. Nonetheless, he eventually headed over, wiggling his sore fingers to entice properly blood flow once more.

“Your Royal Highness,” he greeted Serena with a dip of his head as he shuffled in beside her. If it weren’t for her parents, who were both hanging about quite close by, he would have shot her a cheeky grin. Kit did like to be formal with his friend, for he knew it was proper etiquette, but he would be lying if he said he didn’t not call her Serena. It was improper, he knew that well, but when allowed, he did it anyway. Stepping up to the foot of the carriage (more or less quickening his pace to beat his friend there), he offered her a hand to help boost her up. Again, his eyes shot over to her parents, in case they were to show disapproval over his physical closeness to their daughter. Their expressions remained fairly blank as they shared some murmurs, however, and Kit wasn’t about to overthink his doings now. Helping himself up, he took a seat beside his friend, making sure to practically shove himself in the corner to give her an appropriate amount of room. “I need my hands,” he told her, before she could question his actions. “I do not wish for your parents to cut them or any other part of me off for being too close to you, my lady.”

His body jerked forward slightly as the carriage took off suddenly, but he was quick to retreat back into the cushioned seat – and realizing just how much more comfortable it was than the one in the French carriage he had taken over. He remained quiet about that subject, though. Instead, despite his itching desire to peer out the window and drink in the views of England, Kit focused on Serena. It wasn’t difficult to tune into the moment; he knew where she stood with this arrangement. Like Pierre, she was going to be put in an arrange marriage regardless. It was odd that her parents decided on England for the matter, but he supposed that would only make ruling more powerful. Softly, always softly, as if someone was constantly listening in on their conversations, Kit spoke, “How are you feeling?” It wasn’t his job to do such a thing, that he knew, but surely she wasn’t feeling her greatest right about now. In a few minutes, she’d be handed off to her fiancé.

For whatever reason, that realization felt like a physical punch to the gut.

He decided not to pose any more questions apart from that one. He didn’t wish to freak her out, or dwell too much on the scenario. It would come with time. Kit hadn’t even stopped to think about his situation. He wasn’t as concerned as he was for the royal families, in all honesty; they’d be far more pressured than some nameless man like Kit Verne would be. As harsh as that sounded, it didn’t faze him in the slightest. He knew his position. It was why he was so ashamed for everything he’d done with that boy. One wrong move and he’d be out on the streets. His eyes lingered shamelessly on Serena. It was so wrong… With that, he let out a small sigh and forced his attention out the window, watching as endless rows of perfectly-trimmed bushed zipped by them. Eventually, the carriage turned onto a large, skinny stone path, and its speed slowed down drastically. Within a few moments, it came to a complete halt.

“Nous sommes ici,” he breathed, turning towards Serena once again. We’re here. And at that moment, the butterflies inside his stomach burst from their chrysalis.

[Baroness-Pets]

𝐋𝐚𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐀𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐨𝐧
Role: English Prince - Location: English Palace - Tags: Eleanor

Up until fairly recently, the idea of marriage had never once crossed young Prince Laurence’s mind. After all it was such an adult concept, and throughout his twenties he had scarcely felt like an adult at all. As a boy he’d imagined the rift between childhood and adulthood to be clear cut, on one’s eighteenth birthday one became a man and that was that. Not so. Nothing had changed on that day of transition, he’d felt no different and carried himself with the exact same awkward gait as he’d always done. What had changed instead had been the atmosphere around him. Suddenly a heap of responsibilities had been unceremoniously lifted onto his shoulders, suddenly he was expected to know so much despite never having been taught. The expectations that came with adulthood had been completely lost on him at first.

Now in his twenty-sixth year Laurence had just about adjusted to life as a grown man, until the prospect of marriage had been placed before him. It wasn’t just a prospect though, for he nor his supposed bride had any say in the matter. Diplomacy came before one's feelings in this family, it always had and likely always would. The King had reminded the Prince with shame laced through his words how the boy was almost thirty and still had naught but hunting dogs to sleep in his chambers. A wife would have been chosen for him regardless of the political standing with France, since Laurence had seemed so determined to be a bachelor for the rest of his days. His father had seemed disappointed that the boy hadn’t even courted a woman before, reminding his son of his own exploits at the same age. It had taken much self control to hold his tongue when the Prince heard this, knowing that it had been the paranoia of that very thing that had damned his late mother to misery.

Laurence had been so young when she had died, and almost twenty years later he scarcely remembered her features. When he thought of her now, her face was undefined and vague, as if she was an indistinguishable image in a rippling pond. Her portraits were hung throughout the halls, but the artistic renderings within them were that of a stranger to him. Though intended to be realistic, he had never thought the artist had captured her at all. Every eye was empty of expression, their gaze fixed and unblinking. Each pair of lips looked incapable of smiling. The essence of her was absent, for even with her dilapidating mental state Laurence remembered the good days she’d had. If he focused hard enough, he could just about recall her lilting laughter and the soft smiles that would occasionally rest on her face. Had his mother and father been happy together once? Laurence liked to imagine so, even if he despised his father today.

‘Perhaps’ was a word that could be endlessly applied to life. Perhaps if his mother had not been expected to marry she might have lived a much happier life. Perhaps if his father had paid him the slightest bit of attention he might have turned out better adjusted. Perhaps if his eldest sister hadn’t gotten ill they could have eventually reconciled their differences and banished the animosity that had existed between them. Perhaps… Perhaps that Stag’s head would be better situated in a place that was not right above his bed. Laurence realised that decoration was slightly tasteless for a bedchamber, and it could risk giving his poor bride-to-be nightmares if she had to stare up at it night after night. A better home for it would be in the dining hall perhaps, somewhere it wouldn’t be constantly looming over people in their private hours.

It was a magnificent creature though, a 16 point Monarch stag that he’d managed to shoot down last spring after tracking it for over four days. That had been one of his proudest moments thus far in life, even his father had seemed mildly impressed by his prowess. Yet after staring up at that mount for months on end, Laurence had started identifying with it. In many ways he himself felt like naught but a trophy on a wall, a display piece and nothing more, captured in a moment in time and forever looked upon with reverence and eventual indifference. He was an object, a pawn in the chess game of this family. Yes, it was definitely better situated in the dining hall. Going mad staring at a Stag’s head every night was something best avoided.

“Who put this damned thing up?!” Laurence grunted to himself, currently balancing with one foot on the headboard and another lost in a sea of pillows as he tried to yank the mount off the wall. It was particularly hard to keep his balance, continually wobbling and finding himself nose to nose with the glassy eyed stag. The harder he yanked, the louder the walls rattled, and before long this commotion summoned a butler to his door.

“Good lord sir! What in heaven's name are you doing?”
“Trying-to-get-this--- damn-thing off-the wall!” He retorted, pulling between each word and sounding like he was about to tear the whole wall down.
“Sir, would it not be better to get one of the--” The butler had begun to reason, but before he could finish his sentence the mount finally gave way and parted with the wall. Of course this unexpected victory sent Laurence flying backwards onto his bed, knocking the wind clean out of him as the Stag tumbled over his head onto the floor. Thankfully it was undamaged, which couldn’t be said for the Prince at first.

“Goodness, are you alright your Highness?” The butler made to move towards the Prince, but Laurence waved him away.
“Ghh, I’m fine. See? Nothing to it!” He said when he managed to get his breath back, pointing at the darker spot of wallpaper where the mount had been on the wall. One never noticed how sun stained the walls had gotten until faced with the former vividness of the colours. At that moment, Laurence’s four dogs came barreling into the room and instantaneously piled upon him, smothering him in licks. It took considerable effort to push them away and stand up, and he looked rather messy afterwards.
“I want that moved somewhere, the dining hall perhaps.” He spoke, pointing to the mount on the floor.
“Yes sir.” The butler began “I’m afraid I must also inform you that our guests are arriving.”

Oh lord, he would have no time to clean himself up properly now then. With a sigh the Prince patted down his hair and brushed the dog fur from his garments. He was to marry Serena LaCroix, something he had found out practically a day ago. His sister Eleanor was to marry Serena’s brother Pierre, which unnerved the man slightly. Laurence knew he would have to fight back the urge to protect her. His inner turmoil must have been apparent on his features, for when he met Eleanor on the main floor she had chastised him playfully.
“We’ll see who’s laughing when you meet dear Pierre, I hear of his enchanting good looks. Will you allow him to sweep you off your feet dear sister?” He retorted jokingly with a hearty laugh. “You give that woman too much credit.”

Laurence had never agreed with his Father’s remarriage, and he could truly say that Elizabeth had been one person he’d never truly liked. In many ways it would feel like a betrayal of his own mother to like this faux one. The Prince avoided her as much as humanly possible.

“Are you alright?” He asked his sister after a pause, knowing it was a wholly stupid question.

[Baroness-Pets]

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐞𝐫
Role: English Lady in Waiting - Location: English Palace - Tags: none

Margaret had been dragged out of bed ungodly early, turning her from someone who was not a morning person into a downright ticking time bomb. Princess Sasha had insisted on rising with the sun in order to get properly ready for the celebrations in the evening. Naturally then her lady in waiting had been up when the grounds were still shrouded in darkness, and she’d had a bee in her bonnet about it for the entirety of the following hours. Sasha was used to her early morning moods by now, and took the scowl on her face in her stride when Margaret had woken her up. Why Sasha didn’t want one of the maids waking her up, Margot would never know. Perhaps it was simply a matter of trust, one's bedchamber held all manner of secrets after all. But really, rising this way was ridiculous, for one small moment the idea of treason crossed Margaret’s mind.

Both Margaret and Sasha had one thing to count their blessings for though, in that neither were expected to be married. At least, not yet. The lady in waiting was quite sure by now that she’d rather be considered an old maid until death rather than be bound in matrimony to a man. Plenty of women never married and were much better off for it. A woman and her sister who had lived close by to the Walkers were a prime example of that, one had married a man who seemed like a good match, the other had never taken a husband. The unmarried woman had control of her finances on an equal level to the men around her, but the married woman’s money became tied to her husband. That husband had turned out to be a gastly fellow, debt ridden and a drunkard to boot. He made his wife thoroughly miserable and left her penniless, whereas her sister enjoyed the luxuries of the money she had inherited.

Of course it wasn’t just practical and financial reasons that Margaret could cite as a reason not to marry. One could be happy with someone penniless if one loved them enough. No, her trouble was that she had no attraction towards men whatsoever, and in fact her affections found themselves latching on to women instead. Having read Sappho’s poetry in secret, Margaret knew what that made her. Each night she prayed that this supposed curse would be taken from her so that she could lead a life free from these distractions. But it never went away. One day she knew she would have to come to terms with if she were truly to live a happy life.

Tracing it backwards, Margaret was convinced it was the governess who’d taught her to read and to write that had started this whole thing. She remembered her gaunt features, her raspy way of speaking and being utterly entranced by her. Impressing her had at one time been the most important thing in Margaret’s young life. Then it had been one of the maids when she’d still lived with her mother and father as a teenager. They had been around the same age and Margaret had never quite been able to meet her eyes. Blushes would reveal her shame whenever the two would bump into one another, stuttered words betraying her nerves. How nobody had even suspected her disposition had really been a miracle. Now of course Margaret found herself wrestling a growing affection for Princess Sasha herself. As much as the woman annoyed her, Margaret could not help but feel elated whenever she could get the Princess to smile or laugh. Whenever their hands would brush Margaret would quickly have to hide her reddening face before anyone could see.

It was why she hoped the visitors and subsequent marriage ceremonies would help keep her distracted. She was no use to anyone drooling over someone she would never have any right to, she had to stay focused. Pity was what she currently felt for every single person that had been matched without choice, pity that Margaret would never accept if the roles were reversed.

Maids had been mostly responsible for getting Sasha ready, Margaret had been there more so as a detail checker. Tucking a hair in here, straightening a crease there, running through the schedule that if one opened up her skull one would see engrained on her brain. Everything had seemed to be done long before either were expected to be at the gathering, but of course there had been an emergency as soon as everything seemed in place. Some stupid maid had gotten her shoe caught on Sasha’s dress, and had tripped and fell, ripping a sizable hole at the hem. So of course it was Margaret who had to come to the rescue, needle and thread in hand, to meticulously repair the damage that had been done.

It had taken her almost an hour, but by the time she eventually finished, one could scarcely tell there had been a tear at all.
“Oh Margot, you are truly a life saver. Whatever would I do without you?” Sasha had cooed excitedly, cupping Margaret’s cheek and making her flinch like a startled cat.
“Please do try to avoid stepping on it, even I couldn't repair it if it should rip again.” Margaret replied, turning away to put away her sewing things. “We really should be going now, else we shall be late.”
“Of course! Oh how excited I am to meet them!”

Sasha and Margaret left the room together, and made their way through the halls.

[lemon!!]

♕━━━ 𝑉𝐴𝐿𝐸𝑁𝑇𝐼𝑁𝐸 𝐿𝐴𝑈𝑅𝐸𝑁𝑇
20 ⋆ french knight ⋆ location: france → english palace ⋆ mentions: serena, "the english" ⋆ tags: pierre

The arrival of the dawn brought an unexpected emotion for Valentine - apprehension. She hadn't felt such an emotion since the day she stepped onto the training grounds, sword in hand and flimsy grip on it's shaft, merely fourteen years old. But here it was again, a sensation of uncertainty coursing through her body as though she was back in that child's body staring down a future she wasn't convinced would be there by the next morning. In many ways, what was in store for her was more of a battle than she ever faced on the fields of her enemies.

Nervousness wasn't something she felt lightly. The King and Queen had not appointed her the role because of her skittishness. When they wanted steadfast and surefooted, they came to Valentine. Encouraged by Serena, choosing a female knight was quite the statement by the royals at the time, and she had certainly been met with her fair share of adversity in accepting the title. Upon taking on her duties as knight, Valentine had sworn to protect the royal family with her life and to serve them however they wished. She promised that she would do whatever it took... but she never imagined she would have to pay her debt like this.

She had been anticipating this day for as long as she knew of its existence... but she was foolish to believe it was more than some lighthearted banter. They were shipping her off to England - her and all of the people she considered her closest thing to family in this world. For marriage, no less! It didn't quite feel real. And while she had been all but enthusiastic about these plans to the King and Queen, the young woman had practically scoffed at the idea behind closed doors. Valentine was used to forcing harmony through battle and blood... never in her wildest dreams had she expected to be part of some insane scheme to intertwine the countries' fates through love.

Valentine had experienced boat travel before, though not under any circumstances like this. It seemed to Val like everything was much nicer on board this ship than any of the other vessels she had been witness to in the past. Like usual, people scurried about the dock as though their very lives depended on pleasing whoever was next to come aboard. In her experience, boarding was usually frantic but it was never rushed. It was precise, timed to perfection. Like a military operation... quite literally a military operation. She wasn't exactly excited about the journey, having to suck in a few deep breaths before taking a step aboard the docks. The dark haired young woman didn't mind being alone as she boarded the boat - her memories of ocean travel weren't exactly pleasant. If one had seen what Valentine had, one might never step foot on a ship again. All in all, the travel wasn't quite as bad as some of her other journeys. She stayed practically glued to one spot, watching the bouncing of the waves as they traversed the waters on their way to the English kingdom. Nothing traumatic, nothing too terrifying. Just Val, the waves and all her thoughts.

Stepping off of the boat, Valentine couldn't quite help but eye some of the servants as they scurried around. They were like an infestation of rats, squeaking and squealing as they went about their tasks to try and impress the King and Queen. She was always immensely curious as to how many of these people were content with just settling for what they had. What did these people retain from sticking so harshly to their societal boundaries, never able to reach more, just getting by as they were and not much else? She couldn't look for too long, not wanting to seem like she was staring. How terrible, a life of menial servitude for little gain.

Valentine's eyes scanned the docks for the English carriages, eyebrows furrowing at the desolately few numbers she saw in front of her. Her eyes narrowed a little, lips pursed with an expression that almost looked like disappointment. Val had hoped that if such a fuss was being made of transporting those to be betrothed, that they would at least be able to travel in comfort and solitude. Wonderful, they'd have to share transport on this trip to their doom. She stood her ground as a gruff-looking man commanded the French into their carriages. It took her a moment to actually move - only doing so when she saw her superiors follow their orders. No fight today for Valentine, she would've loved any opportunity to stick it to the man. "Quel dommage..." the woman whispered inwardly, biting down on her lower lip and still rather stone-faced as she shuffled into the carriage nearest where she was standing.

"Your Highness." she uttered, greeting the man inside with a soft - yet somewhat cheeky - smile and a nod. Pierre Lacroix, Prince of France - brother to one of her oldest companions, Serena, and one of France's most eligible bachelors. Well, not for long now. She shuffled into the carriage beside him, struggling to keep cool and neutral. He was probably the only face she had seen today that she actually cared a hoot to talk to. Etiquette was difficult for the young lady, always struggling to keep a neutral expression. Battle and war makes some people expressionless, mute, desolate but with Valentine, quite the opposite was true. One could often see the girl laughing or grinning to herself when nobody was even around. Perhaps some of her screws got knocked loose in battle, that was the age old saying around the castle. But who could really say?

She didn't even flinch as the carriage started to move towards the English palace. Her eyes glanced out of the window and away from the young Prince, unable to quite keep her attention on one thing for very long. In all honesty, Valentine felt insanely out of her depth here. Where one was used to jumping off of boats and marching right into formations and camps, Val was not prepared for the luxury that came with royal marriage arrangements. She couldn't help but think a lot as the hills and valleys of the English countryside passed them by. How will these people take a female knight? she wondered, chewing down on her bottom lip out of terrible habit. Perhaps they were aware, and perhaps they weren't. She knew the King and Queen were responsible for their arrangements - not the English. Her attention slipped back to Pierre, eyes scanning the man with a hint of both wonder and worry. There was something so terribly enticing about the way he carried himself. And a little sad at the same time. She wondered what exactly he was hiding... and if she could pick his brain at some point to figure it out.

As the carriage rolled to a halt, Valentine exhaled a breath. She lifted her head high as she looked out of the carriage doors.
The future awaited.

[mtuan,]

.. 𝐊𝐀𝐓𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐎 𝐊𝐘𝐎𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐄. 𝙎𝙒𝙀𝙀𝙏 𝙇𝙄𝙆𝙀 𝙋𝙀𝘼𝘾𝙃𝙀𝙎 𝙄𝙉 𝘼 𝙋𝘼𝙄𝙉𝙏𝙄𝙉𝙂 !!
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(tags) pierre,
valentine
(misc.) when you re
alize kier's nervou
sness morphs into
overthinking bc sa
me lmao-
1,229 words
mtuan, kim mtuan

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𝐀
𝐊
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𝐊
𝐈
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Ardently, blissfully, easily...

How marriage was always meant to be.

Love is like a sunflower looking up at its source of warmth; like a puppy with big, round, admiring eyes for the hand that fed him. Like a painter enamored by his muse... like your father whenever I catch him staring at me. That'll be what marriage life will be like in your near future, Kieran. You know your father and I know best.

The gentle words of a loving woman, spoken over the dinner at the announcement of the journey ahead. Kieran Vernet still recalled the way his mother had snuck a peak at his father, a renowned oil painter in his own right, a sly look as she spoke; a young, innocent muse to an old artistic soul. Though his parents bore only the slightest of an age gap- no more than a year and some odd months, the jarring juxtaposition of two dynamically different personalities played out right before Kieran's eyes.

Never meeting your betrothed surely can't be the reason for your rejection?

How ironic, for a young man of wealth and status, to be blessed enough with the sight of his parents falling in love time and time again with one another- like a play or a story by the bard, only for his own life to come spiraling down and no way out. How hilarious, to hear about the love and lost from your own mother, to learn the tender passion one could hold in their heart for another through time and dedication, only for the very same romanticization to be ripped from your own hands; as if someone roused Kieran from his own dream to face the reality that laid ahead.

No matter, you cannot reject a proposal that has already been set. You will be sent off soon, you are dismissed from the dinner table. Get some rest.

How is it that a woman who his father had regarded so highly, like Fragonard in Les Hasards heureux de l'escarpolette (The Swing), could so easily taken the reigns on Kieran's romantic life and ripped it into a staggering halt? Had she no empathy for who her son was to fit the shoes of?

The answer was no. The answer had always been no. And whether or not Kieran agreed with the decision (he didn't), he was of no power to go against his mother's wishes. In plain sight, anyway.

Not that she or Kieran's father made the smart move by choosing to raise their young son along the prince himself the best they could. They should have been able to predict it, really. Because who wouldn't trip over their feet for the prince at one time or another? Ahem. Well certainly I have.

The nights leading up till the morning of Kieran's departure alongside Pierre didn't simply 'get' better either. In fact, sleep seemed to dodge the young man more and more frequently as the date approached; Kieran often found himself rolling over from one shoulder to the other late into the night. Until he couldn't handle the silence or his own thoughts any longer and the Japanese-French man found himself carefully rolling out of bed with as little noise as possible; shuffling through the dark to light an oil lamp, stumbling until he'd found the chair to his desk. (Sometimes the late night stubbed toe was certainly not uncommon, but Kieran would rather have been found dead than exposed of that little secret of his.)

He ends up painting the night away, in the dimness of his room and the little light provided by a dying lamp- or until a little maid or butler of his parents' catches him and ushers Kieran back into bed once more. (Or on the rare occasion- perhaps sneaking out the window to rouse the Prince of France himself from his own quarters didn't seem like too bad of a plan either. Bonus- Pierre's more than lacking sleep schedule only fueled the devious plan.)

(Though the man giggles at the thought of the prince of France, squinting through the dark because he hadn't his glasses on, attempting to make out the shape of Kieran, with his long hair covering any defining features the man possessed.)

Needless to say, the nights leading up to the morning of departure were pitiful to say the least.

And of course, early morning comes too soon.

Yes, because early morning comes too soon with the two young men shoved into the schedules that laid out before them. They travelled together at least- that much Kieran could be grateful for.

Though he'd been quiet for the duration of the trip until their shared carriage were to arrive, knowing that the two men would share a trip was like a comforting blanket, nonetheless. Or maybe Pierre was the comfort person that Kieran (always) needed. Things never changed with time, even when kids grew into men.

To the sound of Valentine's voice peeking into their shared carriage, Kieran inadvertently perks up- only to fall back into his seat, allowing his long fringes to cover his face; as if to hide his presence for just a bit longer. Not a negative word to be said about the knight, of course. She was admirable and strong in every way Kier could have imagined. Unfortunately, the timing perhaps hadn't been the best. Not with the way Kieran could practically count the strands of white hair sprouting right out of his skull at the moment.

With his vision trained down at the fingers in his lap, the French titleless remains quiet until her presence disappears.

"Quite the pretty scenery to behold out here. I must say, each respective party has done their part, wouldn't you agree?" Kieran finds himself mumbling quietly, gaze falling to the greenery sitting just outside their shared carriage. Though Kieran finds himself a little bashful- unsure to be seen from outside through prying eyes, despite his family status. Somehow, even with the knowledge and name his family possessed, the wealthy French man had never been comfortable in the spotlight like some of the others surely were.

Pulling away from the carriage window, Kieran bumps shoulders with Pierre lightheartedly, as if to catch the prince's attention. "You might as well appoint me your advisor now, while we're at it, right? Before..." His words trip slightly in hesitation, "... before your future wife takes that title from me before I even got there." he jokes softly, attempting a lighthearted chuckle that sounds a little too stiff for Kieran's liking.

Do you feel it too? Or maybe I'm the fool for thinking we're anything else but friends.

Making sure the curtains are closed, the Japanese-French man couldn't help but playfully point an accusatory finger in his friend (forget prince-)'s direction, as if mocking him like they were children once again. "I swear to the heavens, Pierre, you ought to remember our roots even after we set foot into the English palace, you hear?

"I won't forgive you if you forget about me, your highness." Though laced in an accusatory tone, Kieran's bright eyes tell otherwise-- he didn't regard Pierre in the same manner that most would. And perhaps the man should have, considering all the "cruel punishments" Pierre's rightful power and privilege had the right to offer.

But Kieran possessed the power of... childhood best friends... correct? Hah. Right.

[♥Princess of Lions♥]

- 𝒮𝑒𝓇𝑒𝓃𝒶 𝐿𝒶𝒸𝓇𝑜𝒾𝓍 -
Princesse de France | Female | 22 | Location: English Castle | Tags: Kit | Mentions: N/A

𝒮erena had awoken early in the morning, anxious to ensure that there was enough time to complete the remaining preparations for the big day. Distant sunlight peeked into the cabin through the small window on the side of the boat and the young woman rose from her bed, striding to the little window and pulling back the remainder of the curtain. Gazing through the glass across the vast expanse of ocean and quickly approaching landmass, Serena took the moment to admire the beauty of the natural world and appreciate the opportunity afforded to her, allowing her to view it. The sound of quickly approaching feet on creaky floorboards prompted her to peel her gaze away and head into the bathing room to begin getting ready. Getting dressed would be quite an ordeal today. Serena had to look perfect for her first impression; she wanted England to know that she was committed to the marriage and to the people she would soon help to rule.

It was customary for the handmaidens to prepare Serena in such a way that she would hardly need to lift a finger to get ready. Typically, Serena was the type to object to this overly-catering attitude in private, but today was different. Today she would allow the swathe of women, young and old, to thoroughly examine every inch of her body and mitigate any imperfections they could find.

The grand task began with a quick bath, water heated as much as it could be in order to soften her hair. She was quickly scrubbed clean with scented soaps before the water could have a chance to cool. The hair on her body, barring her head, was thoroughly waxed, leaving her skin soft and smooth. The cool ocean breeze drifted into the bathing room from beyond, drawing a shiver down Serena’s spine as she headed back towards the bedroom for dressing.

Despite her mother’s protests for acclaimed designers to select the outfit she would wear, Serena wanted to choose for herself. Black and white were both off the table, too implicative of specific moods. A pastel, lighter color could also unintentionally convey an undesirable dismissive lightheartedness. Serena had thought long and hard about what she was to wear, and what could be better than a gown of the richest red to resemble the sincerity of her commitment as well as her love of the people? She wanted an outfit that conveyed, I'm doing this for you.

The dress she selected was primarily a burgundy color, with gold lace and embroideries spanning floral designs and accentuations throughout the fabrics of the gown. A small diamond was carefully secured into the center of each golden flower, causing the dress to sparkle in direct light. The dress was laid out neatly before her upon the bed, a handmaiden hunched over to fiddle with the criss-crossing ties at the back while an older lady prepared the cage that would go beneath the dress. Serena stepped into the cage and two of the handmaidens tugged it up carefully over her waist, tucking in some padding and securing the fixture to her hips. Serena’s gaze drifted over the fading bruises that lined her waist from wearing contraptions such as this one, fingertips brushing lightly over the tender darkened blotches as she wondered how badly they would worsen from her time in the cage today.

Serena lifted her arms up to shoulder height, allowing her very best handmaiden access to her torso for the corset. The fabric scratched at her skin as it was tightened around her, prompting Serena to straighten her posture and puff up her chest in order to further flatten her midriff. “Tighter, please,” she commanded, the handmaiden behind her giving a questioning look to one of the older servants who was quick to dodge her gaze. After a moment of hesitation, the handmaiden obediently yanked the strings behind the corset tighter, tighter, until Serena lifted a hand to signal her to stop. The princess swayed in response to the following tugs of the string as the handmaiden secured the fixture in place. Wearing the corset took her mind off of the discomfort of the cage digging into the bruises at her waist.

The struggle to breathe only lasted for the first several minutes after the corset had been tied. Serena willed her body to adjust to the constriction, breathing in such a way that her shoulders would rise and fall instead of her stomach expanding and contracting. It only allowed for shallower breaths, but that was scarcely an issue compared to how critical it was that she look absolutely perfect for this meeting.

A few of the handmaidens left, the remaining tasks only requiring a few nimble hands. The two who had secured the cage around Serena’s waist were now fluffing up the underskirts of her dress and smoothing the upper layer of fabric to fall evenly and elegantly around her. The third, the handmaiden who had secured the corset, was now standing atop a stool behind her and carefully combing through Serena’s still damp hair. Once her hair was smooth as silk, the handmaiden took to adorning the crown of her head with a French braid all the way around, weaving gold flowers to peek through as if blossoming from a vine. In the back beneath the braid, Serena’s hair was loose behind her, free and wavy like a waterfall.

As the dressing ritual neared its completion, Serena was escorted to a small vanity with an assortment of jewelry and different perfumes. Two more of the handmaidens departed, leaving just one remaining. Serena eased herself into the seat, staring at her reflection in the mirror. Any of her handmaidens would have told her she looked stunning, but the woman who stared back was someone she could hardly recognize.

She did put on her own jewelry; a large diamond necklace and matching diamond earrings. The earrings dangled from her lobes, glittering attractively as she moved. They weren’t too heavy on her ears however, and Serena was thankful for that. She then selected a perfume to scent her skin, especially along the wrists and neckline where the warmth of her body would best help the fragrance to develop. It smelled faintly of flowers, particularly honeysuckle. After applying the perfume, the handmaiden carefully shaped and painted Serena’s fingernails, followed by the toes. They were also a burgundy red to match the dress, with tiny flowers painted in gold. Once all the preparations were complete, Serena strapped on her burgundy high heels that had roses spanning over the foot just above her toes. Then she rose to a stand, just as the boat reached the dock.

The princess was escorted from her cabin all the way to where her family was discussing trivial things of disinterest to Serena. Her gaze drifted along the line of carriages as final preparations were under way. The coachman then arrived and announced the seating arrangements for the trip, and she was thankful to have been paired with Kit. The young woman offered a radiant smile towards her long time friend as she approached him, nodding once in response to his greeting. “Good morning Kit, you look very handsome today. I’m sure your betrothed will be delighted to see you,” she said politely, though truly, she did mean what she said.

Kit guided her over to the carriage and helped her to climb inside. It took Serena a long moment to adjust the many fabrics and intricacies of her attire before she was perched as comfortably as she could manage, and was ready for the ride. Her gaze drifted back towards Kit as he seated himself as far as he could manage, looking terribly uncomfortable, like a lamb in a lion’s den. “I do not wish for your parents to cut them or any other part of me off for being too close to you, my lady,” he had told her. The young woman couldn’t help but smile and shake her head a little, leaning over and reaching to clasp one of her hands over his. Her hand was small compared to his, skin a softness that only a woman who had never endured physical labor could possess. “We must be the change we want to see, my friend,” she noted, allowing her hand to linger over his for a moment longer before withdrawing it back to her lap.

As the carriage took off, the anxiety that Serena had all but forgotten rose to the forefront of her mind. Numerous questions and worries swarmed her thoughts; concerns about being rejected as a foreigner, the royal family disliking her, her fianceé wanting to get rid of her in favor of someone better. All very valid concerns, but nothing she would be able to act upon. The worry must have made its way to her expression, because shortly after the ride began, Kit was asking how she felt. The princess mustered a weak smile for her dear friend. “Honestly? I’m terribly nervous, but not about anything within the bounds of my control. As per usual,” she muttered that last part a little quietly, often finding it frustrating when she encountered problems or fears that she couldn’t do anything to alleviate.

The carriage pulled up to the castle, came to a halt, and Serena felt as if her heart stopped with it. Her muscles immediately tensed, as if out of reflex, and she inched towards the carriage door in anticipation of someone opening it for her. Beyond the walls of the little carriage, Serena could hear the names and titles of her family announced, followed by the emergence of each royal from their carriages, off to meet the English royal family and whoever the betrothed were of those who had been arranged to marry. Serena’s breath caught in her throat as she heard her name announced, followed by the swinging open of the door to the carriage. Sunlight exploded into the small enclosure, temporarily blinding the princess. Her hand fled to the skirts of her dress, bunching them delicately in order to keep from tripping as she stepped out of the carriage. She placed her trust in whoever had reached in to take her hand and escort her out, preparing her very best smile as she stepped down onto the stone path, eyes adjusting to the light.

[senna_]

──── 𝐊𝐈𝐓 𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐄 ───────────────────────────────────────────────────────
french stable servant • location: eng. palace • mentions: tag • tags: serena

While Kit’s mind was frantically dashing from place to place, like foxes on a hunt, there were two particular words that stuck in his mind the entire time. Your betrothed. Up until now (or maybe not even, because Kit still felt unusually calm about this whole situation), he hadn’t quite dwelled on it. Perhaps it was shock that was still lingering inside of him. Throughout quite literally his entire life, Kit was quite confident he was nameless to the King and Queen. They were all nothing more than “the servants,” after all. In fact, for a good while, Kit truly believed the King and Queen hadn’t even realized they had taken in a stray baby. They had nothing to do with him, anyway. Of course, they made their occasional visits to the stables ─ the King far more than the Queen ─ but that was as far as things went. Kit had never shared a meal with them. Kit had never spoken to them. Kit, in fact, hadn’t ever even made eye contact with them. So when he heard the news, he was truly flabbergasted. Even now, he was semi-sure it was all a mistake. He didn’t even know the name of the lady he was supposed to wed. The poor thing. Kit desired marriage, he craved the comfort and affection that came with a strong one, but it felt wrong. They were two nameless servants, after all. Was it a game for the royals? A show for them to sit back and feel entertained by? Or had it been to make their sons and daughters feel less bad about themselves? Regardless of what it was, it seemed to hit Kit harder than it ever had. He was on his way to meet his future wife. What if things went horribly? Would they still be forced together the way the Princes and Princesses were, even though their marriage did little for their countries? There was so much to worry about now.

He was glad he was easily able to focus on Serena, though. While the nerves regarding the arrangement undoubtedly swelled in his mind, Kit felt it was rather easy to tune back into what his friend was saying. Natural, really ─ it felt natural. “As much as I wish to compliment you in return,” he started, clasping his hands together and placing them in his lap, “I feel you are very well-aware of how pretty you look right now. Très belle. You’ll make quite the impression, I am sure of it.” Pretty sounded like the most modest thing he could come up with. His growing crush on the young woman would surely mess up the word beautiful in more ways than he could imagine. He supposed he couldn’t shower her with compliments, teasing or sincere, anymore. Was the Prince of England a harsh one? Would he scold the living bits out of Kit if he were to even greet his friend? He feared the worst for her; she deserved a humble, loving man. Someone kind and gentle, who could appreciate every single inch of her. She truly did deserve all the best. And he knew how unfair it was, ripping away her freedom to choose a partner she loved dearly. Although, he supposed the whole intention of the arranged marriage was to bring love along with it.

If only it was that easy.

He was content holding her hand, even if only for a moment or two. He gave it a gentle squeeze, an action he could only hope ensured her that he was there for her. He knew she was uncomfortable with the situation that was fast approaching, which was obviously understandable. She was rather quiet, and while she hadn’t ever been an overly loud person, Kit was confident part of this near silence was due to the fact that they were heading into the territory of not only France’s former enemy, but the home of her fiancé. He was more surprised when she answered him than he thought; he had subconsciously, he supposed, told himself she wouldn’t respond to the question. “If it makes you feel any better,” he murmured, dipping his head slightly, “I have a good feeling you are not the only one feeling queasy over the scenario. And… with a bit of luck... Well, perhaps this arrangement is a bit over their heads? With all respect to your parents, but don’t you…” His tone died off and he rubbed his lips together, hesitant to continue with that sentence. Kit hadn’t ever been one to engage much in politics, but even he had to note that things seemed rushed. He understood the reason; with more war right around the corner, it seemed to make sense. Everything was about alliances and power, after all. But several marriages? In such a short amount of time? In a country that was considered an enemy only weeks prior? Perhaps Kit was naïve, trying to deem it a bit far-fetched, but he couldn’t help it. Deciding against going down that path, he straightened his posture and settled for a simple, “I am sure it will all work out in your favour.”

He wasn’t usually the jealous type. He rarely felt jealousy. He did not crave the attention and privilege those above him received. He stuck to his position and remained quiet. But he couldn’t deny the disappointment he felt with every moment he thought about the future. There hadn’t been a point, saying anything to Serena about his lingering feelings. He was a Nothing, and she was an Everything. He couldn’t simplify it any more than that. He kept his admiration to himself; surely he’d lose his head if he even smiled differently at her when in the presence of others. That didn’t mean he didn’t appreciate her in silence, though. Mostly in silence ─ he was always quick to say something bright to her when she visited the stables. He just didn’t say what he wanted to say, truly. The way her hair flowed elegantly down her back, the way her girlish smile seemed to light up the entire town. How her laugh sounded like its own musical instrument, and how she managed to gain the respect of every single person while being so incredibly humble. All of it, he kept it to himself.

He supposed he was relieved when a man stepped up to help Serena down. As much as Kit wished to stay with her longer, for he knew she was feeling a bit troubled over what was about to happen, and he knew rushing her into it wasn’t going to help, his cheeks had also turned into a shade very similar to the dress she wore, and he knew it would ─ if not already ─ become very obvious. “I’ll be here,” he murmured towards her, waiting an extra few seconds so that she could properly get herself settled on the ground she was now standing on. Servants and other helpers swarmed her like bees to their queen. He supposed, in a rather down manner, that she could be their queen, at least partially so, one day. The attention only made sense.

Inhaling a large amount of air, Kit eventually removed himself from the carriage. He wasn’t offended by the lack of help that was offered his way; he was used to it. They were far more busy gushing over how radiant Serena looked ─ just as he practically had internally been doing earlier ─ to say more than a curt “hello” to him. Swiping a hand down the simple white cloth that slung across his torso, Kit straightened his posture. While unsure if Serena could even remember if he was present (he most certainly did not think that little of her, as they were such good friends after all, but he couldn’t help his fleeting insecurities!), he let his gaze linger with the hope that she’d catch his eye, even if for a second. “I suppose it’s time, your highness,” he told her, formality washing over his vocabulary once again. They were in public, it was back to the Princess and the blond stableboy. “Go sweep them all off their feet with that charming personality of yours.”

[senna_]

──── 𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐑 𝐀𝐃𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐓𝐎𝐍 ─────────────────────────────────────────
english princess • location: eng. palace • mentions: tag • tags: raymond, laurence

Despite having properly addressed her elderly brother, Eleanor had yet to really stop and take a good look at him. She was usually rather decent at keeping a clear head when under pressure, or tossed into a busy situation, given how that was the sort of environment she was raised in, but for whatever odd reason, her mind appeared to be everywhere but she needed it to be. He, in all bluntness, looked awful. The sweet young ladies surely managed to dazzle her up enough to rid the dark circles under her eyes (why was it that, despite handling pressure semi-decently, her sleep was always so terrible the night before?), but she couldn’t quite say the same for her brother. Frizzy hairs were curled around his face, and a few stuck straight up to the sky. While not super noticeable, it was enough to catch Ellie’s eye ─ then again, she typically found herself drinking in one’s appearance on sight almost immediately after their arrival.

“Goodness me, brother, you look as horrid as the knights after a wretched round of jousting. No offense,” she was quick to add in Raymond’s direction, raising her brows ever-so-slightly. “But had no one bothered dressing you? Had you ruffled a pillow against your head? Was it the dogs? I told you they had to be kept elsewhere whenever you are preparing for an event!” While she wasn’t hinting at a smile, she knew ─ or at least hoped ─ he was aware she was teasing. In reality, his hair wasn’t as bad as she was making it sound. However, the teasing appeared to be a way to take her mind off of the event that was about to unfold, so she would remain stuck to it. If Laurence was not pleased with her commentary, he had every right to leave her be.

Rising up onto the tips of her toes, Eleanor flattened her palm and brushed it over the stubborn wisps of loose hair on his head (as best as she could, anyway; it certainly was not easy, given their height difference), then retreated back to her former spot. “Well, that is good enough. Surely your wife-to-be will not be too, too picky.” The words wife-to-be felt sour on her tongue, and a small frown played at the corners of her pink lips. She knew that Laurence was well-due for a wife. Every day that went by without the sight of Laurence and a lady by his side added to the fury within their father. He was desperate, clinging onto a bit of hope that his children would marry well. After all, marrying someone of high status meant further protection. Or, more power, in their father’s eyes. He hadn’t been so lucky. With Elizabeth, that was. While she wasn’t a commoner, she certainly was no princess before they wed. And now she was a queen. Funny how that worked out. If only I had that much freedom.

Dwelling on the woman once more sent a bitter breeze of displeasure over her. It certainly did not help that the step-witch had the same name as their oldest sister, the one everyone loved so very much. Perhaps it was because of that, that Ellie disliked her father’s new wife so much. She lacked the sweetness her sister once carried about. Their chambers had turned cold, icy cold, and even when the Queen wasn’t around, it certainly did not warm up the way it once felt when their birth mother was still wandering around.

Her vision twisted back into a clearer frame as she snapped out of her trance. Folding her hands around one another, Eleanor let them rest against the top part of her basket-skirt. Shoulders down. Head up. The carriages were still not yet in sight, but Ellie had a feeling they would soon be right around the corner, if not already. She glanced at Raymond, shooting him a soft smile, then took a couple of steps forward so that her conversation with Laurence could turn into something more private.

“I am not confident Father will behave himself the way we wish him to,” she murmured towards her brother, bending her head in his direction in order for him to hear her voice more clearly. “He embraces change to our faces, but I am quite confident that is more or less an act of confidence to keep his strength up and running. I worry his distaste will break free once he sets eyes on the French.” Tilting her head back up, Eleanor allowed her eyes to linger observantly on her brother’s face. It hadn’t been until quite recently that they actually began to have daily conversations. It was usually business-like, as were all the conversations within their home, but, regardless, it pleased Ellie. It almost made her feel less alone, even if she didn’t know her brother inside and out. And while she did not wish to act out sourly about this marriage (Pierre had to be nice enough, right?), if the engagement and later marriage ended up horribly, then she could only hope it would bring her closer to Laurence. But, as if it was some girlish fantasy, Eleanor hadn’t spoken about her hopes to Laurence. Perhaps she was embarrassed by them. Perhaps she didn’t wish to get her hopes up.

Stepping back, Eleanor tilted her chin slightly, casting her gaze down the long, empty path that connected the dirt road to their very home. “I can only hope for the best,” she returned, regarding his previous teasing. Her tone had increased back to its usual level, as if the secrets had been bid farewell for the time being. “I have not heard much about Pierre, and while I would most certainly not feel my greatest if he was displeased by me, I am marrying because I know it pleases Father.” And that was exactly it, too. She was marrying on behalf of her father. She was hopeful things would work out between her and Pierre, but something told her that her life-long fantasies of true love wouldn’t comfort her going forward.

In the distance, the familiar clip-clop of horseshoes rattled against the stone pathway. “Put on your very best smile, brother,” she voiced, eyes still lingering up ahead as she started up at a slow pace. Names were being announced and murmurs were arising quickly. From ahead, she could see a sway of deep red fabric stick out from the side of one of the carriages. “It seems our guests have arrived.”

[Zyn]

♔ ᏗᏕᎷᏬᏁᎴ ᏕᎧᏒᏋᏁᏕᏋᏁ ♔
Danish Prince || "Az" or "Soren" || Male || Twenty-Five || Demisexual-Homoromantic || wc: 1,745

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♔ Location: Denmark ➳ English Palace
♔ Tags: Open
♔ Mentions: Eleanor
♔ Mood: Distracted, Embarrassed
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When the letter arrived Asmund had been called to his father's study and he had been terrified, expecting the worse. His mind had whirled through every possible situation that could possibly be the reason for why he was being summoned in such an urgent manner. Had Liva fallen ill? Had she passed away or was she missing? Had her family been killed on one of their many trips? There were too many possibilities and they all came full circle back to Liva's possible death. Something that made Asmund's stomach churn and threaten to expel all that he had eaten that morning. Loosing yet another sibling and one that he had become quite close to following the death of their mother and siblings, he couldn't bear the idea. Her death would ruin him, a mere shell of the man he had been would be all that would remain of him if such a tragedy occurred. He had walked into his fathers study, his fingers clasped behind his back. Less about being proper and more so that he could wring his hands without drawing attention to the anxiety that gripped his hammering heart. His expression had been carefully schooled as his father had handed him the letter. The breath of relief as his gaze darted over the letter went by unnoticed by all but his father, the raised brow from the king was all Asmund needed to see to know it had been noticed. Thankfully the quiver in his hands, in his mind his hands were shaking so much that the letter in his hand flapped back and forth like a leaf caught in the wind, went completely unnoticed. An invitation from the English Royal family. It had been some time since he had visited and the idea of going alone made his stomach churn. But that was not up to him and so he had been forced to prepare for the journey.

The trip to England had always been a long drawn out trip, often taking over two weeks to complete. Every other time that he had gone it had been with his siblings and his younger brother and sister in particular had a hard time staying still. Frequent stops and staying the night was the reason for why they often took so long to complete the journey. It was much easier with only a couple people taking the long trip. Less stops and only resting long enough to give the horses a break from the trip was all was needed. Whatever they needed to eat could be eaten on the go. Yet even with the pace that they had barely managed to keep up it had taken them a week to get to the ferry. It was plenty of time for Asmund to get lost in thoughts, some more tame than others. Musing about the exuberant amount of money his father had forked over to cover the cost of moving three horses and a carriage across the water. His father had informed him in one of their many debates on the matter that the more people who saw their prized horses the more likely they would to purchase some for themselves. If they couldn't afford such a distinguished horse then they could at the very least spread the news of the Danish horses, the Jutland and the Frederiksborgs. Almeta was a prime example of the Fredericksborg and one that Asmund had personally raised from the moment the mare had been born. He had spent countless hours raising the mare into the fine specimen that she was today. She was a shinning example of what an interested buyer could expect from the royal families Fredericksborgs. The pair that pulled the carriage that contained the king and a knight were Karyn and Kolinka, Jutland horses. They too were fine examples of their breed. Power houses of horses with their thick bodies and necks and effortless way they pulled the carriage. The hefty build was sought after by many who wanted a powerful horse.

As the small group pulled up to the pier he had peer over at the other side of the carriage, Emil road his prized mare Gudrun. It almost made him chuckle a little knowing that all the horses that had carried them all the way from Denmark to England were mares. Gudrun and Emil wouldn't be coming with them all the way however, they had accompanied them to the pier to ensure that Asmund would make it there safely. After all he had been the one to insist upon riding Almeta rather than dragging her along behind the carriage. The idea of spending so much time inside the carriage with his father had been horrifying enough to justify ridding Almeta for hours on end. When they had made the trip before the five siblings had been pilled into one carriage while their mother and father had been in their own carriage ahead of them. It had been fun then, with all five of them keeping one another company. Now the idea of the stagnate silence made his skin crawl. Boarding the ferry had been every bit as awkward as he had thought it was going to be. They had dragged their carriages across the ferry before but it never got easier. This time with only Emil, Malthe and Asmund it was even harder and there was only one carriage to wrestle onto the ferry. Karyn and Kolinka had been unhitched and loaded separately, settling them as close to Almeta while also giving the red mare enough space to keep her from nipping the gentle giants. After much wrestling they had managed to get the carriages aboard and Asmund had watched as Emil and Gudrun had become small dots on the horizon. He had stared at the land disappearing long after he could no longer make out the knight and his steed. The ferry ride itself felt short in comparison to the long trip they had just endured. An hour or two of nauseating sloshing back and forth was nothing compared to the seven day journey.

All too soon the ferry ride was over and Asmund found himself once again wrestling the carriage off the boat, this time it was just him and Malthe. God forbid his father ever be seen help with what they considered servant work. Instead the king stood to the side making that "I'm disappointed in you son" face that they seemed to always make nowadays. Asmund payed the look no heed, he wasn't about to let Malthe do all the work by themselves. It was tough work with three people and he couldn't even imagine how impossible it would be if there was only one person working at it. When they had finally gotten the carriage on solid ground his father had climbed inside like they hadn't just watched the knight and the prince break their backs getting it off the boat. Without his father lingering though Malthe and Asmund had been able to stand and gasp for air while wiping sweat from their brow. Neither were close since Malthe was easily ten years older than Asmund but in that moment they felt closer then they ever had. That moment gave Asmund a moment to really give the knight a once over, Malthe was remarkably tall standing a good eight inches taller than him. Unlike him the knight had short blond hair a thick beard and sparkling blue eyes. From the outside they seemed very personable. He would have studied the knight a bit longer but that moment that was over far too quickly as they moved to guide the horses off the boat. Swinging onto Almeta, he had to really think about keeping his facial expression neutral as his muscles protested at the excessive use that they knew was coming up. The ride itself from the pier to the castle wasn't all that long but it felt like forever to Asmund. His mind wandered to all the other times they had visited, the trip had always been long and tedious but it seemed like in the last sprint from the pier to the castle they had always perked up. Like the promise of seeing their old friends had always managed to bring the excitement of the trip back into their veins.

Asmund's gaze danced to the carriage and for a moment he could imagine what it must of looked like for someone on the outside. When Eva and Axel had been young they had pressed their little faces up against the windows of the carriage, squealing and pointing at everything. Their laughter and excitement had filled the carriage and had been infectious enough to even get Liva to laugh without any worry about what other might say about her. She had always had boundless energy but it was contained to maintain her royal appearance. Only these moments hidden away from the outside world and with her sibling had she let herself laugh deep from the gut. Jerrik and Eva could always get the biggest laughs from her. He tugged his gaze away from the carriage, desperately sucking in a deep breath to keep himself from visibly breaking his calm façade. Nothing, no amount of wishing could bring his siblings back. Nothing could bring back the moments that he had cherished so much over the years. Thankfully the castle came into view and effectively distracted him from the images that he had conjured up. The castle was as impressive as ever, he would never get over how different it was from his own home in Denmark. As they came closer to the castle he spotted the Royal family and his stomach twisted into knots. Eleanor looked ever bit the princess she was, and he was clad in his traveling attire. A quilted jacket with a leather tunic over top, leather gloves with leather gauntlets and two swords belted over his tunic. Across his chest he wore an iron neck guard with the family crest impress on the front. His dark curls were tamed and pulled up into a half up do. Practical for traveling while exposed for so long but if he had known there would be a greeting like this he would have removed his traveling attire for something more dignified. Even through the carriage he could sense the disappointment rolling off his father as they approached the English and the French who had arrived only moment before them.