claudiablanche

[claudiablanche]

when: late afternoon where: west wing balcony, sasso corbaro castle closed: @vitcrias

♚

For all her perceived austerity, Claudia finds the extravagant majesty of where her birthright has swept her up and dropped her in the middle of not only attractive, but worthy of her brief visitation. Sasso Corbaro, with its glistening spires and wings, its magnificent ballrooms and lavish dining halls, its labyrinth of age-old corridors—the very ones she pads through at twilight in grave solitude, on the prowl for something treacherous to unveil itself—is a castle befitting of a queen at war. Important figures have come to gather here in the belly of Switzerland, and where she has seen discussions nip at the patience and confidence of more powerful men, she, in searching for emotions of her own, can come away with nothing but invigoration. She does not fear war—it has been her steadfast companion since girlhood, after all. No, she is anticipating it. What’s another blood-streaked stallion rippling under her command? What’s another one hundred men roaring her ruthless name, another one thousand enemies slain like sheep by her ruthless blade? 

Sasso Carbaro sits far from her own German kingdom, but Claudia finds she would not be opposed to claiming this stronghold for herself someday, when war does break out. It’s become dear to her: she enjoys hunting in the nearby woods, walking in fragrant gardens bearing blooms of every genus and breed, reading on the balcony that faces west, so that at sunset, everything is awash in rich tones of red and gold. In fact, this is where Claudia has chosen to take a brief reprieve from the day. Her book, however, sits abandoned on a chair she has gracefully risen out of. She has moved further out onto the balcony to simply stand, quietly, lost in one train of thought or another as she studies the fields and waters below. It is not until she hears someone approaching, that she turns her head. If she is surprised, nothing on her face betrays it.

She knew, of course, that Vitória was here—and doubts that her own arrival, so laden with novel speculations and intense debate within every political circle of Konrad’s empire and beyond, would have passed unnoticed and unacknowledged by the Portugal Infanta. As such, it would only be a matter of time before she and her...old friend would cross paths again. A castle, however majesty, is only so large. A history, however deeply buried, can only be ignored so long. Claudia studies the woman wordlessly for a moment, ignores the hard feeling in her chest.

"Hello, darling,” she greets, finally. It’s painfully awkward, and it’s the easiest thing she’s done in years. “You’ve found me.”

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holstcin‌:

This would just not do. While it was true that the newfound princess was, indeed, a Schleswig-Holstein, and while it was true that she was evidently out for blood, it was also true that she was family - and Dorothea was not the type of woman to just abandon family, not without a true cause and not without knowing her newfound sister first. Alright, potential bloodshed just might be a reason to ignore the princess and refuse to meet her altogether, but it was not in her nature to just… give up, without first knowing someone ( and, if she could change her in the process, it would be an added bonus - as same as spiting Konrad would be poetic justice ).

To be fair, she did not know what to expect of her elder sister. She had heard a great deal of her battle prowess and intelligence, and she was a little intimidated. But, she was Dorothea von Schleswig-Holstein and no one will ever bully her, or make her appear intimidated, and neither will her newfound sister. She had survived all her brothers and their petty squabbles, she loved them despite it all - she could survive a raging sister as well. Seeking her out had been less difficult than she had expected of a woman with her reputation; she expected the setting to be more violent, a battlefield or the hunting grounds, but instead, she met her sister in the furthermost, isolated part of the gardens. Her sister was tall and imposing woman, but Dorothea marched on, determined clear on her face as she neared her. She may look like a dove, but Dot was a wolf as well. “Do you have a moment?” She asked, after offering the elder woman a polite bow. “I would like to talk to you, if you would allow it.” There was a hint of a polite smile on her face, but she was not foolish enough to immediately reveal her kind nature. This meeting will be an assessment. A test. A battle of wills, if you would like to call it that - and it was not in Dot’s nature to lose such battles.

@claudiablanche​

Baby, baby Dorothea. She is a pretty thing, all golden hair and sweet blue eyes—in some ways, she resembles a softer, younger Claudia; and in other ways, she stands completely distinct. Certainly, Claudia can’t remember ever possessing a disposition so meek, so pleasant and agreeable. Considering her younger sister’s temperament, it’s unexpected to be approached first.

Claudia returns the bow with an incline of her own head, neither unkindly nor with particular warmth. She is...ambivalent. Certain figures who weave in and out of these crooked corridors are ones she’ll someday ruin—undeserving heirs, negligent kings, cruel emperors—but a girl like Dorothea isn’t quite one of them. If anything, Claudia would wish to spare her unnecessary harm; on the simple grounds of her obvious innocence.

“Surely, a sister is allowed to address another sister without such stringent formalities,” Claudia muses. Of course, that is the irony—that they are not sisters at all. “You set the topic of discussion. I follow.”

Will you be my sister | Dorothea & Claudia

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duchessfriederike‌:

@claudiablanche​

Friederike has never been a patient woman, nor one to sit back and wait for others to take action. She has always seized opportunities with both hands, somethings with a reckless abandon, and this is no different. Perhaps she should have thought it through more completely, or sought guidance from those who knew better than she - but then, who could shed insight on this kind of treachery? Who in the world had been rattled by such circumstance? 

And so it is quickly that the invitation is issued to Princess Claudia Blanche. It is better, she thinks, to meet her swiftly, to try and figure out what place they had in each other’s lives. As wary as she was, did this little sister not deserve a chance to stand amongst her kin, shoulder to shoulder? It may be a fanciful hope, but perhaps there is a chance, and she owed it to the both of them to try. 

And so Claudia Blanche is led into the Duchess’ chambers, and Friedi is face to face with the sister she has never known for the first time. Her gaze travels over her features, and there is no denying her heritage. Only an utter fool would choose not to believe the story based on her appearance alone. “Oh, but look at you,” she murmurs. She did not think she would be so struck in seeing her for the first time, but the life they could have had dances before them, just out of reach. She does not know how Friedi and her sisters loved each other so dearly, does not know the affection that could have been hers. She isn’t one prone to tears, and will not cry now. Instead, she locks her fiery eyes to Claudia’s own, and gestures for her to take a seat. 

“Thank you for coming to meet me. What would you prefer that I called you?” She asked, an eyebrow raised in anticipation of her answer. There are so many other questions she wants to ask, but she is far too angry, and Claudia is not the one who need give her the answers she needs. She is an imposing figure, but Friedi is undaunted in her approach. “I hope you’ll forgive me for cutting straight to the heart of things, but I have never been one for tact,” she pursed her lips and paused for a moment to collect her thoughts. “How long have you known?” 

Of all the bizarre, extraordinary things that come with discovering she is Claudia Blanche, she finds this the most intriguing part: the having of sisters. That she has so many of them, that each slots perfectly into some place within Maximillian’s expansive web, and that since her arrival, they have one by one cast their gaze and judgement upon her; the naive ones warmly, the clever ones with justifiable caution. it’s been a refreshing exercise in socialization, at the very least, to interact with her blood and attempt to pinpoint what parts of herself are mirrored back.

Friederike, however, appears to share little in common with her. She is dark-haired and dark-eyed, graced with rich, lovely features and an air of indelicate fervor. Claudia, who is of iron, of winter-grass, who turns her severe, silent gaze from one corner of the throne room to another with little to offer but pithy remarks and imperial arrogance—she can hardly begin to recognize an elder sister in the more vivacious duchess standing before her.

“Not long enough to come up with anything too interesting,” Claudia offers, coolly ambiguous. Nothing of interest to you, at least. Her plans include a different sibling; one with a gold-paved future and a crown on his head. Besides, lovely sister Friederike, if she is as clever as she looks, ought to know matters of the court can never be discussed candidly. One can only speak in cunning tongues and subtle gestures. As such, she ignores the inquiry on how she’d like to be addressed as a gesture of her own impassivity on the matter—whatever name Friederike will take to calling her, she suspects it will mean little to either of them.

“Grandfather has a sick idea on what constitutes family entertainment,” she says, before beginning to take a turn about the room. She runs a gentle finger along the furniture, prods and pokes at various trinkets and knick-knacks she sees laying around. Exploring. Observing. “We ought to start looking in all our infantries for the next missing sibling, I think.”

Abruptly, Claudia pauses at Friederike’s bedside table, where she picks up a pair of earrings to admire more closely. “These are lovely,” she comments. “Up until recently, I’ve no opportunity to wear jewelry at all. It’s a shame, because I always thought they looked so radiant on the women.” 

In fact, Claudia is not overwhelmingly taken with the earrings at all. But she is taken with this new sister of her’s—at least for a little while. So Claudia takes only a second of silence to rearrange the blasé expression on her face, before looking back up to fix Friederike with a rather playful look instead. “Give them to me as a homecoming gift?”

Cunning tongues. Subtle gestures.

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mxcimillixn‌:

@claudiablanche​

he had never fathomed the possibility of elisabeth and his first child alive. they told him the babe was a stillborn, not even bothering with the sex. konrad had gone farther than even maximillian had believed capable. to steal the firstborn as leverage against him and elisabeth was shocking and gutturally cruel. the more he thought upon it, the more he wanted to hurl. 

yet the time had come where the meeting was inevitable. 

he needed to know this daughter of his, who she was. he needed to see if she was like minded, to see if she was as clever as konrad had sought to make her be. from appearance alone, her resemblance was undeniable - as if he were looking through a mirror. his teeth felt as if they were smashing against against each other as his jaw clenched. 

he had debated how to approach. to be unkind was his natural reaction but … as he stepped forth, he felt a strange peace. parts of her were her mothers, perhaps even more reminiscent than the other two true borns. she had softness but the steel in her eyes were just like maximillians. such a feeling felt like a knife slitting against his throat. this was the daughter he could’ve raised as his. yet she had become a tool to finish his own head. he maintains a distance, the expansive space between them enough to slaughter a battlefield. 

“what do you want?” and yet the words fall without demand. there is an unprecedented softness and curiosity, combined with fatigue and confusion. “… what do you know?” the second phrased forced forward. there was fear. fear that he had never thought possible. he knew not the lies that she had been fed. knew not the woman before him who was his own flesh and blood - a stranger. 

“and why?” a whisper from his lips as his eyes gaze at her, unfaltering as he bates his breath in anticipation. hellfire surely would fall upon him. was this divine punishment for all the sacrifices he had made along the way? retribution by a man as wicked as the devil himself. 

Few men who look upon ruin, can recognize it. They mistake it for love, or forgiveness, or a gold-haired girl who’s put up her armor to pad through foreign halls in silks befitting of an imperial princess. And they do not see, this is the beginning of their end.

Luckily, her father is no such man.

He greets Claudia with no warmth, no loving embrace—yes, Maximillian will know better than to expose his chest to her, lest she drive a blade through it. Instead, he simply watches her, a pair of familiar cold eyes leveled intelligently against her own. She has his eyes, Claudia finds herself thinking. His tall, authoritative nose; his grave mouth; his stature; even the unaffected tones of his voice, rising and falling in familiar patterns. 

She tries not to dwell on these uncomfortable details. Perhaps it should reassure her of the place she holds within his family—that it’s real, it exists for her, that she did come from somewhere, someplace, someone. Instead, it only makes her more afraid. 

“I don’t need to tell you anything,” she says in rebuke to his questions. Plain and decisive, with no room for negotiation. She is careful to remove all traces of anger, of hurt, of any indication of feeling whatsoever from her tone. He doesn’t need to know how often she once ached for him: for his guidance, his pride, his protection. For anything, really. And in her weakest, most vulnerable years, to have received nothing—

No. Just as he will not be privy to the information she knows, he will similarly be barred from her emotions. If she will not be the vessel to an emperor, she certainly won’t be the child to a lower king now. 

[claudiablanche]

when: early morning where: hunting grounds, sasso cobaro castle  closed: @ferdinandlorraine​

♚

Any hunter knows this to be true, that the most rewarding part isn’t in the killing, but the chasing: to ride like a tendril of wind through bottomless woodlands, hands steady and eyes watchful; and to level your crossbow at a creature, in anticipation for the perfect moment to squeeze—release. In the moments it takes for an arrow to land its mark, everything goes quiet. She forgets to breathe.

The fact that the animal has to die—that’s a side effect.

While Claudia rides, the sun begins to crest lazily over a yawning horizon, still pink and groggy. By the time she’s finished and making her way home, weak beams of light have illuminated the grandiose drawbridges and spires of Sasso Carbaro Castle—and the much smaller figure standing before it, at the foot a dewy hill. 

“Brother,” she greets, once he is within earshot. The word is meaningless and void of any affection, but fulfills some unspoken courtly necessity for exercising good manners. She is, after all, a guest—one who will be visiting the Schleswig-Holstein family for the rest of all their lives, but a guest nonetheless. She wouldn’t pretend to fit in.

Claudia dismounts from her steed and collects the body of her game from its back—a beautiful deer, still warm to the touch.

“You needn’t worry,” she says, biting and coy, before motioning in the direction of the woods from which she had emerged. “Plenty more left for you.”

The princess is in a good mood today—and she’s in search of another good chase.

[claudiablanche]

✧ ━━ the courts of switzerland present CLAUDIA BLANCHE VON SCHLESWIG-HOLSTEIN of GERMANY, the FIRST PROTECTOR of the TEUTONIC ORDER. the TWENTY-FIVE year old has been GUILEFUL and ABSOLUTE before the break of war but has now become HAUGHTY and POWER-HUNGRY. SHE is often remembered by her likeness to ELIZABETH DEBICKI and THE THRUM OF FARAWAY DESTRIER STALLIONS IN WARS BYGONE ; CALLOUSED PALMS SLIDING BENEATH A TORN SILK BODICE ; THE INVIGORATING WEIGHT OF A JEWELED CROWN RIGHTFULLY CLAIMED. the rumour mills of europe claim that her allegiance lies with HERSELF and that she is for WAR.

FATAL FLAW.

what retributive, wrathful seeds you have sown in your gardens of dark / how cruelly you have seduced your child to bite the fruits they yield.

tw: physical abuse

Before she was Prinzessin Claudia, announced for the first time in twenty-five years to an awestruck court that had believed her dead, she was Ritter Helena of the Teutonic Order, an iron-clad maiden who, on an ivory steed, single-handedly blooded and seized masses of territory for the Holy Roman Empire. There were other names, too, given to her for this particularly glorious era—War-Monger, Sun-Bringer, First Protector of the Empire, Prophet of the Father—but it was Helena by which Konrad called her. And where Claudia would have happily pierced his gut clean with her Christened blade, a younger, blinder Helena answered to no other name but the one he gave her. 

After all, before she would conquer men and kingdoms in his name, she would conquer needlework and morning mass first as young Freiin Lena: knees rubbed raw from praying at an altar she’d rather spit on, mouth twisted permanently in rebuke, knuckles bruised purple and red by thin-lipped teachers who’d have subjected her to worse if it weren’t for the Emperor’s enduring favor. This is where she learned obedience—eventually, anyway. Before Konrad dragged her out to the battlefield for play, he taught her control and composure: the rhythmic precision of embroidery, the patience needed to recite page after page of Latin scripture, the necessity of being able to sit at a table without upending it in a fit; staining her gown in shades of spilt wine; cutting herself on the shattered glass. The maids who cleaned up Lena’s messes would whisper amongst themselves derisively: Now what kind of lady is this? What feral little thing has the Emperor plucked so lovingly from the filthy loins of war? Why does he continue to spoil her, when she presents nothing but unbridled fury, but monstrous rage? 

And all the while, Konrad himself would watch Lena struggle, and cry, and snarl, with nothing but absolution in his eyes. Her wilderness, her chaos, her hurt—where did it all come from? Ah. He knew. 

For before she was a Freiin, she was nothing at all. They said he’d found her tucked away in the rubble of a ravaged land, a weak babe fussing and keening for survival. They said merciful, pious Konrad had sensed something in her: a greatness, a divine calling, an affection that compelled him to rescue and take her under his wing. She was less than a daughter, but greater than a subject. She was given her own land and title, but denied the luxurious spoils other children of imperial favor enjoyed. In fact, she remained shrouded from the public eye for years to come: locked away in some undisclosed tower, unheard from and unspoken to. 

It was harsh of him, perhaps, to begin at such a young age. Some would say cruel; others insisted it was a stern kindness needed to lift her into glory. To the little girl in the tower, it was simply how the world worked: in endless jabs and cuts, in broken bones and shorn hair—fighting tooth and nail, slammed to the ground over and over until it no longer frightened her to fall. Before she ever wore a gown, she wore armor; before she ever held a needle, she held a blade. Konrad’s best generals taught her, then would bring squires and older boys to drive the lessons home: in barracks, in stables, in dead black fields—

Day after laborious day, year after unrelenting year; he was teaching her, slowly, how to fight—but more than that, he was teaching her wrath. It was important to the Emperor that his weaponry was not only functional, but doused in a rich, dark fury that would ensure her success. He sowed these seeds of rage deep, deep within her: every split lip, cracked rib, denied privilege, clear prejudice a means to cultivate something truly, truly dangerous. 

And he did. Perhaps, more than he has anticipated.

For now, Claudia is a woman truly worth fearing. The years have aged her like honey wine: she is a valkyrie on the field, a vixen in the courts—and carries with her at all times an inaccessible air of perfect, stoic control. Those who see her now, the poised princess returned to a joyous Germany, seated calmly at a table with nothing but a pair of cold blue eyes for accessory—they would not believe she is, deep down, made of molten ire. They would not believe the havoc she wrecked in the wake of the discovery of her birthright: the broken jewelry and splintered bed frames and torn shirts—and Konrad’s blood, caked beneath her nails from the one good swipe she got in before they finally subdued her. Since then, her anger appears to have dissipated, smothered out as she’s matured into a regal womanhood; but in fact, it sits like a fire in the pit of her stomach, both an engine and hazard. 

She has grievances, an appetite for vengeance, an inability to forgive—and with all of that, an increasingly volatile, out-of-control temper to match.

TASTES.

what blood i cannot spill on fields of war, i lick from a lover’s lips / what violence i abstain from in daylight, i pursue beneath exotic moons.

tw: sex, unequal power dynamics, internalized misogyny

The Princess of Germany is, by unanimous agreement of anyone who is asked, an unconventional one. She is a knight, and a war hero, and stands at a height so great she—quite literally—towers over any suitor who would dare court her. Indeed, princess, for as short an expanse of time she has occupied the title, is one Claudia has decisively outgrown. Her most curious, and scandalous, point of unconventionality, however, has to do with her choice of companionship; or lack thereof. 

At twenty-five years of age, Claudia is young for a knight, but old for an unmarried maiden. Predictably, she has refused any offers both prior and after her return as princess—and given her intentions to continue serving on the battlefield, has made it clear that marriage is and likely never will be a serious consideration. A declaration so bold would fare worse for someone positioned less uniquely than she, but such is Claudia’s stance on the matter—and so it has been respected. 

Of course, being unwed does not mean the young woman is without an appetite. In fact, Claudia is an extremely sexual being: she is austere, unromantic, and wholly uninvested in anything but her own future—but possesses an energetic carnality and sophisticated sense of eroticism all the same. Men, however, do not interest her: in youth, they were her foul tormentors and fixed enemies; in war, her brothers in arms and family; and in womanhood, they have proven themselves to be her cunning keepers, her foolish kings, and her negligent gods. Men have consistently wounded her, betrayed her, or simply failed to measure up. No, Claudia finds them entirely unappealing, and more importantly, untrustworthy. If she had once harbored affections for any man at all, the feeling has been cleanly discarded of; at the very least, she refuses to acknowledge it. 

Which leaves women. Women, with their soft voices, smooth skin, long hair—graced with an anatomy Claudia is familiar with, knows how to work with ruthlessness. They are not loud and brutish as men are—but rather, speak with their eyes and hands. Many are intelligent, and know the same truth as Claudia: that this world was not meant to carry them safely into and out of the world. So we must carry each other, and ourselves instead. Claudia even loved one such woman, a long time ago. But just as there are beautiful, precious women in the world, there are even more worthless ones. Conniving women who would see her ruined; desperate women who plead with her in the mornings to be saved and loved and lavished; unmemorable, meek, resigned women who have lost any agency of their own to better their luck. Women who take it like whores and don’t complain.

Then again, it’s oddly thrilling, isn’t it? To bruise her up, to hold her down until she shakes, to push her legs apart and tear her to pieces until she looks at you the way women look at men: helplessly, adoringly, fearfully. It feels briefly powerful to be wanted like that, to know you can hurt, and hurt, and hurt—and she won’t hurt you back.

REFINEMENT.

joan’s downfall: not knowing when to stop kissing God’s wrist, and start biting it. / who needs martyrdom? this is my empire. i strike the flint. i set the torches.

Claudia is a study in duology: she carries herself with both the graceful severity of a knight, and the coy entitlement of an imperial heir. Perhaps she is an unconventional one, but Claudia, in many ways, is a princess. She wasn’t ever pampered or swaddled in opulence, but raised all the same to believe she was deserving of it: every strike against her cheek, every bitter night spent shivering in the dark an unspoken promise of her worthiness. At some point, she understood why things were made so difficult for her: it was because Konrad believed she could do more, be better, rise to extraordinary heights. If an Emperor saw as much radiant potential in her—why oughtn’t she see the same in herself? Besides, few can say with Claudia’s same self-assuredness that they have worked hard enough to deserve anything they please.

Claudia, therefore, is not shy about her desires and standards of quality. She is neither spoiled nor overindulgent, unlikely to splurge on useless merriments, but is unabashedly particular with what she does feel is necessary and proper for a woman of her standing to possess. The few material goods she holds dear have each been carefully curated and adjusted to her exact liking. Her stallion is a white destrier, purebred and an unparallelled companion in warfare; her diadem a halo of luminescent gold, embellished with tasteful sets of Chinese jades, Portuguese sapphires, Russian alexandrites, each piece of jewelry imported from a different corner of her someday-empire. Her selection of gowns remain remarkably slim and extravagant for royalty, but each dress is tailored to immaculate perfection, cut from fine silks and dyed in rich shades royal purple, deep cerulean, vivid crimson. The same quality of care, if not more, is given to her armory and weaponry—each piece of iron casted and crafted under her watchful eye.

Some may call it vanity, but Claudia answers to dignity. She has always believed in excellent living: holding oneself in high regard the same way one is held to high expectations. When all is said and done, it would be unfitting to adorn a future Empress in anything less than the very best her Empire can offer.

[claudiablanche]

Elizabeth Debicki photographed by John Russo