dilshah

[dilshah]

What if...Selim existed and Dilsah married him?

𝑾𝑯𝑨𝑻 𝑰𝑭 𝑴𝑬𝑴𝑬   \    accepting   !

the answer to this is moot, honestly: in her mind, selim still exists. in the sanjak’s absence, who, in his great leadership, was frequently away during the turbulent course of their marriage, selim took on two roles––that of her attentive protector, and committed spouse. to a lesser extent, he also filled the role of champion for her son, as well, but that is not a facet of their relationship that she dwells so fondly upon. his betrayal, his disappearance, weighs heavy on her soul, like a tumorous stone in her heart. it is not her husband’s demise, though the manner of his death greatly grieved her, but selim’s judas’ kiss that causes her blood to run cold; it is, after all, the arrows one never sees coming that are most liable to kill, and selim, gentle selim and his unending grief, is the most surprising demon from her past.

[dilshah]

POINT  DIVIDER  FOR  𝑫𝑰𝑳Ş𝑨𝑯  Ö𝒁𝑫𝑬𝑴𝑰𝑹

this  week  :  80  /  total  :  595

[dilshah]

lorenzs​:

Perhaps it was fortunate that Lorenzo was not the kind to take offense with any sort of ease—as was necessary, he supposed, when one called a usurer dealt in the realm of kings—or he might find himself unhappy with this conversation. As was, he could take the jest for what it was, a jest, and only laughed. “Well, my lady,” he said, tone low and conspiratorial, referring to those without, with the two of them alone within. “If our repertoire extended merely to our own skills, then people should have little to talk about indeed. Or, perhaps—most of us, if not all of us.” His own skills, though plentiful, were certainly not ones he should enjoy bragging about; it would achieve only a disenchantment, if not sow the seeds of doubt in those with whom he worked. And besides, people preferred to hear about themselves. 

He led their way out, hands crossed behind his back as they passed caryatids and frescoes, frosted windows and thick curtains. The recent destruction of the Byzantine empire, and the shifting of the Ottoman capital to Constantinople, had no doubt left said capital an interesting place, comprised of a variety of people as might be seen in no other capital in the world—not even his own. “Ah, that is quite fair, hatun, and the game you propose sounds much to my liking. But at the same time, I am more interested in hearing your voice? Perhaps we can break this impasse by taking turns, and you could satisfy some of my own curiosities about your home as well?” He raised a hand, gesturing. “You must begin, as it was your excellent suggestion.”

––

       dilşah becomes instantaneously grateful to the rush of cool air against her throat, her lungs replenishing themselves with freshened intakes of breath. with the rising of the cariye’s chest a sense of tranquility overcomes her, cooling the broil of her flesh and the constriction she felt in her throat, lumped in close proximity to the lofty––but stifling––lords and ladies of the realm. the raucousness of the evening’s festivities were now a mere, muffled din leaching through the palace’s stone fortitude, quarreling with the moribund twitters of nature, the bird’s warbles and the itch of cicadas legs, piercing beneath the night’s blanket of darkness; yet, still audible to the cariye’s ears were the faint croons of strummed harps and sorrowful psaltery that played to the tune of copious feasting and imbibing. she surveys the gardens, maintaining a heed to the grand duke’s remarks, with one brow hoisted: at a disadvantage to appreciate the bounty of the ground’s lushness, the moonlight shedding only a meagre lamp over the hill’s rolling darkness. 

❛  if it would please your grace, i am obliged to agree to the terms of your agreement.  ❜  it is not lost on her––the unique magic lorenzo wields in his ability to compromise, to settle, to bargain in his own favour. ‘tis, after all, a banker’s trade; and one he evidently excelled at. lorenzo’s flattery, however, is less discreet, adorned like a dollop of jewels upon a lady’s ivory throat, flashing white-hot in the paleness of the moon’s glister.  pity, dilşah pondered, that he could not ransom the heavens above for a son.  ❛  in the absence of my own experiences, however, i must rely upon the stories that sweep the empire. many of them fabled, but prevailing in fascination.  ❜  she thinks on his request for a moment, a comfortable silence descending between the pair. her own voice cleaves the quiet, rising to stimulate:  ❛  very well. i wonder, is it true the bull’s head on your duchies’ magnificent dome possesses so... unrivaled history? i am afraid that no man, italian or otherwise, has satisfied my curiosity on this matter before now––i welcome you to be first and only, my lord.  ❜

[dilshah]

mariusdanjou​:

It was to be a worthy risk, taken against the advice of his oh-generous liege, the Empress of the Holy Roman Empire. And yet, he placed and nudged himself into the presence of the other. A woman hailed by the Ottoman Empire, and by word of his men, a kind of lady-in-waiting to the Valide, who was referred to as a Queen Mother against Western tongues. The music remained, rambling on as if there was never to be a satisfying end to the lute; a bard tapping a leather sole upon old wood, singing some melody of love once held between two faithful hands. If he were not in the company of a beautiful visage, then perhaps he would’ve barged forward to snap such an instrument in half.

Lips rolled forward, he placed his goblet aside, and sat with a keen posture as he met the eyes of the other. He had yet to truly discuss the want and need of the Ottoman people, but his spies had offered enough intel to devour names and status — and if he were to initiate his act for Apollonia, then he would begin with a woman who must, in suspect, know what secrets lay beneath. With the lowering of his eyes, to halt her own look into dark and bottomless eyes, Marius smiled — a fine curve exploring beneath dark hair that had grown over the past five months. “My lady,” he announced, lifting himself to meet her — staring into bright eyes that both seemed to consume and guard against interrogation; for you could not look too close in fear of being blinded.

“Are you not meant to be known?” He asked, running a fingertip along the lip of his goblet, staining his fingertip with crimson as he watched for her reaction. “Have I come across a secret kept by the grand Ottoman Empire?” Looking at her, through the gaze of a spy rather than one of a Prince, Marius shifted in his seat, and looked again to his goblet that called his name. “And to think, I thought it would take the entirety of the summit to uncover such delicacies,” Marius whispered, his voice only audible to her fine ears, before picking the cup to his lips, sipping generously as he smirked beneath bronze.

        the lights of the banquet hall shone vibrantly in the cariye’s eyes, robin–blue irises pooling with the sight of candelabrum, melting to gilded wick, and chandeliers ignited with dozens of luminously burning torches; agleam as they gently swung overhead, whirled by drafts of chatter and revelry that appeared to be omnipresent, shared alike the goblets nobles clinked together in ceremonial toasts. dilşah took part in their mirth, albeit reservedly; preferring to sip the tea in her hand, the brew now lukewarm, rusticated in an air of elegant detachment––bemused, and certainly not unfriendly, as she appraised the convened company. the valide would busy herself, availing her own preeminent status, until the festivities came to a crescendo’s close, permitting her ladies’ roles to become virtually superfluous, save for the hapless soul engaged to replenish her cups. dilşah need only absorb the panoply of majesty before her, blot up the conversation and the alliances, unwittingly, forming before her eyes, like ink to parchment. to execute her role as the cariye’s eyes and ears, it was paramount that she remain alert; her nose furling in distaste to the pungency of alcohol, entirely unfavourable to one’s ambitions to remain vigilant, curdling from the tongues of the europeans who gathered akin to clotted blood upon a wound. 

and where vulnerability unearthed itself, there was marius d’anjou––seated at her left, drenched in a princely sombre. his reputation proceeded him as thick and as tenebrous as the ringlets of the deepest sable that bounced upon his shoulders, draped over angular cheeks, the cleft of his chin, the cleverness of his brow-bone, alike a cloak of mourning, or, perhaps, a veil of mystique: velvet drapery thrown over windows not to stop what is outside from coming in, but to keep that which is in, at bay. like a beastly stallion confined to his stables with only a plank of wood, she surmises the courtly civility hemming them is but a ruse, a precautionary measure: nothing would truly stop this blackened prince from wreaking havoc if he so desired. her curiosity merely reactionary, she hoists a brow upon her visage in response to his frank set of remarks. quick wit––so she might suspect from one of his calibre.  ❛  you must see a name emblazoned upon my forehead that others do not. marked, like a traitor, or a cow.  ❜  a little smirk curls at the edges of dilşah’s lips.  ❛  otherwise, would you not ask for mine?  ❜

her voice is, too, spoken lowly: scraping the very depths of her lungs, though infinitely lighter, raspier, and more feminine than his, she is at greater risk of being heard by the gentlemen convened than he.  ❛  a secret, indeed, for i do not believe i am meant to be conversing with you. a hound of the empress’, are you not? i know of you, your highness.  ❜  

[dilshah]

  some  one  word  prompts .    (    send   one   of   the   words   for   our   muses   to   interact   based   off   that   word   )

goodbye :  my  muse  kissing  and/or  hugging  your  muse  goodbye.

secrets :   my  muse  sharing/confiding  their  deepest,  darkest  secret  with  your  muse.

nightmare :   my  muse  coming  to  your  muses  aid  when  they  awake  from  a  nightmare.

push :   my  muse  pushing  your  muse  out  of  the  way  of  danger.

embrace :   my  muse  abruptly  throwing  their  arms  around  your  muse,  hugging  them  tightly.

bloody :   my  muse  coming  to  your  muse  with  blood  stains  on  their  clothes  and  hands,  shaking.

drunk :   my  muse  takes  care  of  your  muse  while  they  are  in  a  drunken  state.

bed :   my  muse  wakes  up  in  the  same  bed  as  your  muse  with  little  recollection  of  the  night  before.

slap :   my  muse  slaps  your  muse  across  the  face  out  of  anger.

gone :   my  muse  stays  by  your  muses  side  while  they  take  their  last  breath.

scream :   my  muse  hears  your  muse  scream  and  quickly  runs  to  their  side.

sleep :   my  muse  falls  asleep  on  your  muse,  making  it  hard  for  my  muse  to  leave.

stalk :   my  muse  gets  caught  by  your  muse  trailing  behind  them,  watching  them.

sacrifice :   my  muse  jumps  in  front  of  your  muse,  sacrificing  their  life  for  your  muses  life.

trail :   my  muse  watches  as  your  muse  traces  one  of  my  muses  scares,  asking  them  about  it.

love :   my  muse  confronts  your  muse  about  why  they  never  say  ’ i  love  you ’  back.

piggyback :   my  muse  jumps  on  your  muses  back,  my  muse  gives  yours  a  piggyback  ride.

jump :   my  muse  runs  to  your  muse  and  jumps  up,  my  muse  holding  yours  up  by  their  thighs.

dance :   my  muse  holds  their  hand  out,  waiting  for  your  muse  to  come  out  and  slow  dance  with  them.

carry :   my  muse  carries  your  muse  to  their  house,  either  drunk,  or  a  weakened  state,  can  specify. 

lighter :   my  muse  pulls  out  a  lighter  and  lights  it  for  your  muse  to  use  to  light  their  cigarette.

shot :   my  muse  gets  shot  and  struggles  to  your  muses  house  for  aid.

wound :   my  muse  patches  and  bandages  a  wound  your  muse  has  gotten.

fight :   my  muse  stops  your  muse  from  getting  into  a  physical  fight  with  someone  else.

arrest :   your  muse  finds  my  muse  arrested  in  cuffs  with  swarming  police  everywhere.

hospital :   my  muse  awakens  in  a  hospital,  finding  your  muse  by  their  side,  asking  what  happened.

gun :  my  muse  pulls  out  a  gun  on  your  muse,  your  muse  tries  to  talk  them  into  putting  the  gun  down. 

betrayal :  my  muse  finds  out  that  your  muse  has  betrayed  them  in  same  way  and  confronts  them  about  it.

nude :  my  muse  walks  in  on  your  muse  accidentally  seeing  them  naked.

karaoke :  my  muse  pulls  your  muse  up  on  stage  with  them  to  sing  some  karaoke  songs. 

laughter :   my  muse  hears  your  muse  laughing  uncontrollably  and  approaches  to  see  if  they  are  okay.

murder :   my  muse  walks  in  on  your  muse  committing  a  gruesome  murder.

wet :   my  muse  strips  down  to  their  under  garments  and  runs  into  the  water,  motioning  for  your  muse  to  join  them.

[dilshah]

lorenzs​:

The unveiled barb had Lorenzo stifling his smirk, but perhaps not before she noted it. Certainly one who could mark with such ease, despite a sore lack of familiarity, the falseness of the saint they felicitated, could note such a thing as a smile shown and then suppressed? Lorenzo would not make a mockery of their hosts… in an obvious fashion. “We do, indeed, and yet too often become just what we fear. Perhaps it is why we always drape ourselves in wool.” He spread his hands, gesturing at his own dyed wool doublet, as well as his successes in the wool trade. 

He watched as her grace turned their chance encounter into a possibility for further acquaintance. A skill learned, or inborn? “The gardens are particularly beautiful after the stifling air of a feast within. Shall we, hatun?” He raised an arm for her to take, if she would—it was not a custom amongst her people, he knew, and yet it was a habit engrained in him too well to leave in a moment as apt as this. Or perhaps here, too, he tested the waters—this Italian exploration she lauded—to see the comfort the Ottoman, represented in her person, found with his company. “We are surely not the only explorers, are we? Your capital sits at the perfect midway, does it not, between the Mediterranean and your own Black Sea? I should be happy to tell you of our explorations, if you tell me of your own.”

––

        with ease could dilşah transform a barb into a quip, concealing an aspersion as no more than a flash of clever wit, a slip of the tongue, on her part––and yet, she was gratified that the grand duke had perceived her meaning, swallowing it with a diplomatic chortle shared by they two and the nameless french nobleman who leveled a perdurable stare upon them. oil paints had rendered his eyes aqueous, as misty as those on the cusp of dotage, no longer as sharp nor as penetrative as they might have been, decades ago, when the portrait was yet newly commissioned and adorned upon walls bearing the eye-watering fragrance of fresh lacquer; nevertheless, dilşah stood witness to its intense scrutiny upon her, and was relieved that lorenzo had agreed to her offer to trek outside, to refresh smothered lungs with crisp air.  ❛  then tonight i must fear lady fortuna, my lord, for i am fortune embodied to have made the acquaintance of one whose conversational repertoire exceeds his own skills and accomplishments.  ❜  a brow, housed upon the smooth surface of her countenance, rose to accompany her words; intended entirely as an amiable rejoinder as she caught sight of his gesture, countering it by wordlessly wafting a hand over his brocaded sleeve. chestnut head lowered, nodding in acknowledgment. ❛  i would be honoured.  ❜ 

the cariye’s gaze glided to the duke at her side, voice well-modulated and as clear as crystalline as she spoke,  ❛  indeed, the sultanate boasts of exceptional explorers, allowing our court to foster all manner of philosophies, creeds, cultures ... men, themselves, of varying degrees of civility––in any event, my own experiences brought me to albania, not far, i presume, from your duchy’s nearest port.  ❜  she speaks only briefly of this chapter, closing the metaphorical novel in her head with a resonant thump. slyly, she turns her eyes to the winding corridor before him, not sparing a glance in the duke’s direction as she beseeches,  ❛   yet, in truth, i am far less interested in hearing my own voice than i am to hear yours, my lord. perhaps you will satisfy my curiosity another way, then: shall i share the legends i have heard on behalf of your duchy, and you dispel or confirm them?  ❜

[dilshah]

validemahidevran​:

  As all exceptional ladies ruled by espionage, Mahidevran prided herself on a well-established staff of spies; she perfectly knew the power of a well tailored soldier; the cultivation of a  perfectly fashioned hammer, to wield within her fist. Dilsah had risen above the rest; gaining knowledge by methods appearing facile, without painful exertion or waste of spirit. Better yet, lay the wisdom to adhere to the Valide’s plans, altering little, and requesting none. May fierce warning be granted, to wretched figure who relied on her a fraction beyond the point where it was in her interest to consulted; interest was the master key of Mahidevran’s nature - birthing point of allother  motives. “The Şehzade favours his father’s discreet modus operandi indeed, a habit I should seek to stamp out him, before his ascension - have you yet taken an interview, with him? I shall arrange one, if you regretfully inform me, you have not. If he should be receptive, do not hesitate to lend your wisdom to his wanton ear - the men of our Empire, are dependant on the might of its women.” She traced in this gesture, every ounce of favour and delight, she took in Dilsah’s companionship; the rays of good favour, shone partial over her head. “Dark-haired, akin to a raven? He has long refused to disclose his preference, but we have secured an inkling at last - I am most eager, to capitalise on this gain. I bid you to keep further tabs, on the entanglement …. if she pleases him, I shall grant it my blessing. On the front of securing a desirable partner, amidst our allies, I confess a growing lack of confidence. Have you much acquaintance, with the young ladies of the court?” 

   With tendencies of severity and terrors, Mahidevran excited fear in ordinary minds; yet no cursed word, no vehement aversion, drove her lady, frantic. “Chatter within our courts is consequence of action, no matter the extent of distortion the truth has endured - you are well, to have informed me of the development. He conquers his hesitation to grasp the reigns of succession, whilst allowing himself the indulgence of affection - the sentimentality of my grandchildren, warms my heart in varying degrees. But this sympathetic stock, is a weakness easily exploited. Take care, that you remain as vigilant as ever, as you bestow your favourable regard and softer sentiments. Women of our order, are not fit for the indulgence.” The candour of Murad’s sentiments and his kind humour, result of having been born beneath a smiling star, had derived none of its aspects, from the Valide. Attempts to appeal to her heart, most notably on the account her sex was dominated by its whims, was the surest way to earn her antipathy and to make of her, a foe. “You know me too well – woe the be day, I forfeit your affections. Another dish of tea, and the further detainment of your company; we are to fashion, a scheme for you : on the account, of the Russians.” 

        dilşah would not admit to mahidevran’s presence being a comforting one––perhaps, only as soothing as the sight of the axe is to an executioner, but familiar nonetheless––yet there was a certain ease, an irrefutable concord to their routine, that she felt in the company of the sultan’s mother and relatively nowhere else in her life. debt and responsibility to the valide deprived dilşah of moments otherwise engaged in self-reflection; her mistress’ preoccupation with her own fortune and a myriad of ambitions demanding that dilşah’s every waking moment be reserved for mahidevran’s benefaction. it was a but a trifling price to pay, dilşah wagered, for the prestige had been bestowed in spades in return; there were few among the sultan’s imperial entourage who did not either extol or deprecate the cariye’s name, proceeded by motifs of immense fealty and unrelenting service to the throne, and such was undoubtedly a result of her unequaled intimacy with the valide herself. still, she was not so audacious in her role as to voice an untoward thought to the valide ( monarchs valued individuality, so long as it did not eclipse their own ) and thus formed a deft habit of echoing mahidevran’s philosophies. when apt, she recommended counter-measures that would gratify her mistress’ motives, remaining heedful until mahidevran engaged her with an inquiry––dangled like a dusk-purpled jewel before her.

❛  i have seen his grace only fleetingly, and to ensure his well-being with my own eyes. i find him a most adroit conversationalist, though perhaps he remains apprehensive to speak his mind in the company of his büyükanne... ❜  discretion seemed to be an upwards trend amongst rulers, yet dilşah could remember a time when the bedfellows the sultan kept provided both table talk and political ammunition; universal in its interest across the length and breadth of the sultanate. even in the thick of dilşah’s admittedly ephemeral girlhood, she too could boast of a faculty to recall the names of each woman, both native and adventitious to edirne, who sported the boons of the sultan’s affections ( which she deemed equally ephemeral. ) ❛  after all, in the şehzade’s eyes, you are unrivaled in virtuous sentiments; not only a high-octane valide, but beloved blood relation. if it should please your grace, i will increase my contact with the prince, and inform you of our discussions. as for his raven-haired guest, ‘tis only a matter of time before pride and vanity lead pigs to squeal and she may soon grovel at your grace’s feet for a more... permanent position.  ❜

with a nod, the cariye sets aside her loom and silk and rose to prepare the valide another dish of tea; directing the eunuch who bid patiently at the door to fetch his mistress another fresh lemon to garnish her refreshment. retrieving a kettle from the hearth, her ears prickle to the valide’s thinly-veiled inquisitiveness. the iron is warm, even beneath her mitten.  ❛  the young ladies of court?  ❜  voice as light and as clear as a summer sky, preparing for the onslaught of a tempest, she feels a grin curl at her lips as the valide pins a gaze to her spine.  ❛  so few stand the test of time, valide, there is virtually no reason to trifle ourselves so––with the exception of şehzade kasim’s mother, of course. yet, with the haseki’s triumphant return to court, mayhap her reign will soon come to an end––‘tis a cycle each woman who enters and egresses the sultan’s harem must come to grips with, is it not?  ❜  in saying so, dilşah felt great content that her pride of place in constantinople was not won by virtue of the sultan’s carnal affections for her, volatile as the male gaze was; rather, she had grasped her position by way of cunning and skill, and was determined to maintain it in similar fashion. ❛  better that they learn quickly, than fatally.  ❜

dilşah returns to the valide with a dish of tea, lemon lapping gently against dark-brewed liquid. in it, she descries her own reflection: azure eyes standing sharply alert, softened––deceptively so––by the sooty lashes that encumber them. ❛  tsar ivan rurik’s entourage,  ❜ the cariye reiterates; this time, curiosity lands in her own net. mahidevran and she have begun a game of sleight-of-hand tricks, volleying secrets and ambitions between each other, with the ladies who encircled the valide none the wiser.  ❛  a scheme all too easily carried out, i surmise; what the russians possess in grit and mettle, they lack in wit... what will you have me do?  ❜

[dilshah]

mariusdanjou​:

STATUS: closed to @dilshah​ LOCATION: Hotel Saint-Pol, feasting hall  TIMESTAMP: February 1459

As the sun went to rest for another evening, Marius attended another feast. His smile, having yet to return from the onslaught of bad news, wavered — his feet skirting around the room with slow and quiet steps that kept him to the shadows. This was where he belonged and this is where he thrived, as he began to find comfort in collecting overheard whispers and secrets — whilst catching the eye of his spies that worked the room with as much vigour as he did.

His attention, often spread across various plans, was only stopped in its tracks when met with the sight of another. It had been three long months since the death of Henrietta, and though he had yet to pass through the shadow realm of mourning, Marius had found comfort or perhaps, a thirst for human company. And so, he approached — telling himself with stern instruction that Apollonia would fancy some intel on what lay behind the borders between the Holy Roman & Ottoman Empire.

With wine in hand, half-empty by greedy lips, Marius strode onward, bowing his head to the woman he could not name by look alone. Instead, he quietly and modestly assumed she was a sister to the Sultan, or perhaps a consort tempted by celebration. With the roll of his tongue, Marius extended one finger towards her own cup. “What do you think, my lady, if not French wine? And may we find a chance to refill it? For the night is still young, and I would hate to miss your acquaintance…”

        the french were, as ever, master illusionists––and as the valide swept across the banquet hall with ease, rubbing elbows with the european nobles assembled beneath vaulted frescoes and occasionally darting pejorative leers in her cariye’s direction when she took exception to a crass remark, dilşah wafted a hand upon the arm of the aging, but augustly distinguished, seigneur chancelier who ushered her to a vacated seat and, with a prolonged gleam, retreated to his own. she pawed at a gilded cup, hoisted to her lips with little intent other than to function as something for her hands to occupy themselves with; in the absence of her mistress, dilşah fell into the role of humble, deferent accoutrement, as silent––but resplendent––as the jewels inlaid in a tiara. muted strains of a cantiga echoed about the hall, paired with the aroma of a delectable feast to celebrate the triumphs of the anjou crown: its wealth and taste exemplified in tables laden with piquant delicacies lining the wall. the sight of fare proved a tonic to the ravenous aches of hunger hours of dancing and feting had engendered and, certainly, for the king’s european countrymen, a means to dilute the many douses of wine swimming and addling within knotted guts. 

dilşah’s light eyes lifted from tables piled high with mouthwatering provisions, gaze blanketing the guests who leisurely began to trickle into their seats: a mixture of old hands and new blood, foreign councilmen and distinct french nobles. her gaze was ensnared, then, by marius d’anjou––who, in her own assessment, had found her before she found him. and then, by some stroke of luck, he seated himself beside her, le prince noir himself, and she felt herself repress an almost instinctive scowl, qualified by an unbidden embarrassment for having been discovered spying. out of all those assembled, she cursed herself for having caught a twice-failed usurper in her net, the taste of tea now bitter as it pearled upon her tongue. 

❛  your highness.  ❜  dilşah’s chin lowered reverently, lashes dusting her cheeks as she glanced downwards. when a beat of necessary humility had elapsed, her sea-green irises once again found those of marius: dark-hooked, and fearsome in depth. ❛  you will find me without need of refreshment at present, though i am certain with good conversation, my cup will soon need to be replenished.  ❜  whilst perhaps reclusive at heart, dilşah was keen to prove herself a woman of considerable confidence, easily stirred into conversation for which she became lauded for her charisma.  ❛  satisfy me, your highness, how is it that you seem to already know who i am?  ❜ 

[dilshah]

mihrimahsultan​:

STATUS: closed to @dilshah​ LOCATION:  Couvent des Celestins, the Harem’s quarters TIMESTAMP: February 1459

Ever since Mihrimah had been old enough to admire and respect anyone other than her parents, the Sultana had been tuned and weary of the grace and poise of her grandmother’s Cariye. She was (when overlooking the tender eye of her mother, Nehir) the most beautiful, who seemed to walk the halls of the palace with the command of every man and woman at her fingertips despite her place in standing. It was as if she was Mihrimah’s aunt instead, and so, when they were allowed rest bite from the rest of the court, Mihrimah looked to Dilşah with admiration — wide, adoring eyes looking upon her as if a single blink would make Mihrimah miss a special occurrence.

Whilst sat by the fire that licked their bones, Mihrimah reached forth to put forward a line of enquiry — her embroidery hoop resting within her lap (for she could not afford to bring her loom to Paris, and she refrained from working on any other that had not been built by the Ottoman artisans), the Sultana leaned across the little space, placing a delicate hand upon the knuckles of Dilşah. “May I ask you something?” She asked, innocence apparent as she batted her eyelashes and put her work aside. “Something intimate, something I dare not ask anne or büyükanne.”

        in lieu of raising her own son, dilşah had assumed the role of mothering the sultan’s kin –– welling great pride in her bosom for her ability to imprint upon them her philosophies until, like glass, the mark of her fingers became absorbed. the cariye’s direct influence upon the sultana’s lives, and ergo the trajectory of the sultanate itself, proved both above reproach and immune to discredit; for even her most ardent adversaries, instrumental paşas and sanjak beys among them, marveled at the remarkably close kinship she boasted of with the women who shaped the sultan’s life. whilst her duty was foremost to the valide, it would often behoove mahidevran’s interests for dilşah to maintain an ear to the developments of her granddaughter’s lives, the most vibrant and precarious of them all, naturally, being mihrimah––on whom dilşah resolved an unusually heedful eye. 

when beckoned by the spirited sultana, dilşah’s attention remained, ostensibly, trained to the bolt of fabric in her lap; she assiduously weaved a needle through scarlet cloth until, on the opposing side, a precise trim of gold pierced through. her work was faultless; but her eyes were not without strain. the cariye canted her head, a wave of auburn curls cascading over her shoulders, and replied cooly:  ❛  is it my confidentiality, or my opinion, you seek? ❜  confidentiality –– to dilşah, a mere farce. virtually all present would be privy to the fact her eyes and ears were not her own; rather, they belonged to the valide. but, she was at least willing to play the role of an attentive and faithful lady.  ❛  i give either freely, sultana. tell me, what is it that troubles you? i have known you far too long to play blind to the conflict raging in your eyes, mücevherim. ❜ 

[dilshah]

GOLDEN ( OTTOMAN ) GIRLS. 

[dilshah]

FOREVER IS THE SWEETEST CON.

[dilshah]

POINT  DIVIDER  FOR  𝑫𝑰𝑳Ş𝑨𝑯  Ö𝒁𝑫𝑬𝑴𝑰𝑹

this  week  :  50  /  total  :  515

[dilshah]

sehzademurad​:

Starter for: @dilshah​

Location: Celebratory pageant

Murad was in a surprisingly pleasant spirit this evening. Perhaps it owed in part to the celebrations going on around him and in part to the wine he had consumed behind his father’s back. At any rate, he was in a good mood as he cast his dimmed gaze around the hall, though admittedly he lingered close by the Ottoman delegation. Still, he watched the dancers and felt some measure of envy, though his mastery of the steps was poor, especially when it came to European dances.

Nonetheless, when he was aware of Dilsah at his side, he inclined his head to hear her words and offered her a smile. “Would you indulge me, Hatun Dilsah, and honor me with a dance? I will make a valiant effort not to crush your feet, but I think my grandmother is well attended for the moment, and I should like to see you have some enjoyment of the evening.”

       there was seemingly no shortage of curiosity or inquiry into the culture and customs of the sultan’s empire. admittedly, dilşah took great pride in that europeans should marvel and gawp, locking their marbled gazes upon the sultan’s glimmering harem, in light of their own egotism––though she, too, knew that fascination blended seamlessly with disapproval, with the border between it growing less clear and more indistinct by the hour. on occasions such as these, where the ottomans extended their gratitude to the valois by putting their best and brightest traditions on full-display, dilşah preferred to enshroud herself within her own delegation––after all, there was also no shortage of drunken halfwits seeking to dance or prattle with her, either. she found her place beside the quiet şehzade comforting: she observed him with the attentions of a mother, pride and admiration for the future sultan blooming like spring in the beet-red of her soul. 

when spoken to, she flickered her eyes upward to ensnare the şehzade’s gaze, a crooked smile appearing upon her lips. ❛  your valide would have you reserve your energy, çelebi. ❜ despite her honoured position, dilşah was not inclined to refuse the prince his request. she offered her hand, intended to place upon the velvet sleeve of his arm, and nodded: ❛  if it is my enjoyment you seek, then to dance with the sultan’s son would bring me much––tell me, will we deign to take part in these french country dances our hosts seem to take such delight in? ❜

[dilshah]

isabelofyork​:

                        ❛  you are most welcome here hatun dilşah. ❜ isabel greeted as the woman before her, gracefully placed her brow aback of her hand –– a customary and respectful greeting within the empire, or so she was informed and one she found rather pleasing. the english court had already been saturated with the influences of the empire, córdoba and russia, though it was undoubtedly isabel’s fondness for the ottoman’s that had the tongues of the courtiers wagging. the fabrics now clung to the figures of ladies once inspired by the french fashions, as emeralds, rubies and sapphires adorned their necks, wrists and lobes. it had pleased isabel to witness the ladies of court so fondly embrace the fruits of the empire, yet beholding the vision before her, she now thought them to be poor imitations. perhaps the stories were true, perhaps the sultan’s harem did harbour the most splendid jewels of all.  

a smile curled at isabel’s lips, watching as the groom stepped forth, carrying the coffer; her gleam only broadened as she opened it. amber hues grazed over the offerings, a delicate touch of her nimble digits smoothing over a particularly striking emerald necklace and then over to the collection of neatly presented letter and with it her gaze softened. ❛ how could i refuse his imperial majesty, you must convey my esteemed gratitude though also enforce that my friendship need not repaid by such extravagance. ❜ with a nod to the groom, he took the coffer to her bed chambers, where she would peruse the contents further when alone. turning her attention back to dilşah, isabel offered her a seat beside the fire before claiming the arm chair adjacent. ❛  i am gladdened to finally be acquainted with you hatun, valide mahidevran has spoken of you frequently in her letters and i must confess to being curious about you. tell me, what exactly is a carive ?? ❜

––

        while she had not envisioned the queen to receive the sultan’s offering abjectly, dilşah was nevertheless pleased that isabel had done so warmly, courteously joyous––yet, steadfast to the stiffened nature of the english, she sent the gifts to the adjoining room so that she might delight over them in private, allow a beam to caress the corners of her lips when the eyes of the empire were not upon her, transmitted through the cariye’s deceptively light gaze. dilşah, herself, could not help but prove keenly aware of the many sets of eyes seemingly fastened to her; to the uncommonly emboldened arch of her spine, meeting hips that seemed to jut with aplomb, the interlocking clink of the jewels upon her fingers, the collected and imperturbable correspondence she enjoyed with the queen. curiosity seeped into her marrow, as though a toxicity that was now, admittedly, common: her mistress was the most venerable, most influential woman in the entirety of the sultan’s behemoth empire. this gaze, howbeit, was different. this gaze was slighted with scrutiny. dilşah’s sea-green eyes flickered briefly to the circle of pasty-faced women who attended upon the queen, formed together like a knot of puffed-up dough, the men cloaked in sable who crowded like a murder of crows, observing each deft trick of etiquette to, doubtlessly, report their findings to their master––but, above all, the cariye was certain of this: they would find no fault in her own composure.

❛  there is no greater ally in the world than his majesty. ❜  she allowed a humbled smile to grace her lips,  ❛  and as a result of your own personal alliance with the sultan, i trust you will know my servitude to him does not influence my bias––even his enemies know him to be a great and true ruler. ❜  when the queen’s arm outstretched in her own quasi-offering, silk falling like waves from nimble shoulders, dilşah stepped forth and elegantly seated herself across from isabel, the hearth licking her cheek with its cheery warmth.  ❛  oh––a pity the valide has already reached you before i; depending on her mood, her opinion may be entirely different of me from hour to hour. i believe the equivalent of my position to be... a lady-in-waiting, such as those who attend upon your grace. many of the valide’s other attendants were gained through the sultan’s expeditions––i, however, was raised in court; as were you, i assume? i am aware that the kings of england traditionally take foreign brides, but your husband is fortunate to have had his pick of england’s most resplendent roses. ❜ 

[dilshah]

lorenzs​:

It had become acutely clear that this summit, apart from being a convenient moment to showcase the new-grown ties between France and Rome, was also a political excuse to display French wealth and power. Each night was celebration after celebration; some private, held between dignitaries in meeting houses, but most public, with banquet halls packed to the rafters with people and food and liquor. It was almost too much—but Lorenzo was made for this. 

Though it was a celebration in his own hall of residence, Lorenzo found himself needing minutes away from the endless festivity; it was these little recesses that kept him cool and companionable for the remainder of the evening. As the conversation between himself and a young duke of the Holy Roman Empire came to a natural end, he excused himself, and disappeared amidst the crowd, only to emerge into a quiet corridor minutes later.

He paused as he realised his corridor, too, was occupied. He looked behind himself once, half-wondering if it was not too late to disappear and find another, when the woman began to speak. Well, he decided, perhaps he could take another recess later. Throwing a glance to the portrait on the wall, Lorenzo gave an exhale of a laugh. “All the better to see us with,” he remarked, quoting the old childrens’ tale of the false grandmother… perhaps surprisingly suitable to France, as it stood. “There must be wolf ears somewhere here, too.” Laughing once, he bowed to the Ottoman lady. “Hatun. Apologies for intruding; it is only that I found myself looking for a minute or two of quiet.” 

      the accent that curls from his tongue, wafting like swirls of fog over the bow of a ship, is one familiar to dilşah––after all, italy is not so far from albania that she should be unawares of its rosary-clutching citizenry, nor its halo-crowned tyrants masquerading as luminaries of democracy. rather, she harboured tender recollections of the admittedly brief discussions she’d engaged in with florentine ambassadors, or napolitan emissaries, who once moored their magnificent crafts in her husband’s ports; they sported their hearts as splendidly as a medal of honour upon their sleeves, aired out their grievances with each belabored gesticulation, rendering it impossible to misinterpret exactly where they stood (a task which dilşah prided herself on accomplishing). with an incline of her bejeweled head, dilşah wondered if the grand duke’s shell would be as easy to crack; pried open with the ease of a pomegranate, a coarsened and tenebrous exterior enshrouding, rather like a geode, a formidable mind indeed. but, then again, even geodes required a gavel to split. 

her contemplation does not preclude her from keeping an attentive ear to lorenzo’s words, albeit she is more cautious in rejoining his parley than she would be with one of the witless––but mightily influential––paşas who crowd her sultan’s court. her lips come together assiduously, remarking quietly:   ❛  nay, a pity there is not. perhaps instead this fur that lines the conde’s neck is sheep’s; as i understand it, the west bewares the false prophet who adorns himself in sheep’s clothing. ❜  dilşah receives his minute bow with the flicker of her blue eyes downward; lashes fanning across her cheeks, stained with the fervency of the night’s celebrations. ❛  you are not the only one in search of a reprieve, though i fear we will not find it here. i hear the italians are masterful explorers, sailing far and wide the expanse of their mediterranean sea––perhaps we might together explore the gardens, if you would not begrudge sharing with me your men’s findings. ❜ 

[dilshah]

THE NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER RE-IMAGINED STORY OF DILSAH OZDEMIR.

( part one of two )

[dilshah]

POINT  DIVIDER  FOR  𝑫𝑰𝑳Ş𝑨𝑯  Ö𝒁𝑫𝑬𝑴𝑰𝑹

this  week  :  185  /  total  :  465