karlxivjohan

[karlxivjohan]

[ He faltered. Just briefly. As her arms wound around his neck and her head found his shoulder, the sharp edges of his grievance were softened—momentarily dulled by the familiar warmth of her affection. He blinked, stared ahead as if trying to formulate a response worthy of a diplomatic summit. From Désirée came the were multiple enthusiastic “idiots” lobbed at him like affectionate grenades. His shoulders stiffened ike he’d just been told an enemy column was flanking his left. Then came the question. He froze. Inside, gears turned at a thousand miles an hour while the rest of him betrayed only a faint twitch of the eye. One misstep and he was a corpse. ]

Kill me?

[ His voice pitched up an octave. Just slightly. Not panicked. He would have you believe. ]

…Well. That’s… dramatic.

[ There is a beat as he inhales slowly. Weighing every word like it might explode. Because it might as well, he was practically attempting to defuse a bomb. ]

...I—no. No, my darling, I didn’t want to kill you.

[ He held up a hand preemptively, cutting off any objection he sensed brewing in her chest, which there undoubtedly was. ]

—Not because I didn’t care. I—love you too much for that—than to murder you. You know that. I’ve never been able to imagine a world where you’re not in it, much less one where I could willfully make that the case. That’s… unthinkable. Even at my most irrational. Even when you say things like “very deeply”

[ He paused—swallowed—then glanced off, just for a moment, as though ashamed of the direction his thoughts had taken. ]

If anything, I wanted to—perhaps—kill him. and then I also thought about using connections in Saint Petersburg. A letter to the Tsar. A discreet suggestion that the Duke of Richelieu would be infinitely more useful somewhere remote. Serbia, perhaps. Or Kamchatka. Or a lead mine..

And I almost acted on them. But then I remembered that I love you more than I hate him. And that seemed… significant.

Besides, you said farewell. That’s what matters. Not the very deeply—though we might circle back to that phrase—but the farewell. You came back to me. Not to him. You chose me.

[ Désirée already knew he was jealous. And she knew she’d won, no doubt. But no matter how bitter or lost or wrong-footed he felt, she was the only thing in his life he hadn’t wanted to break. Even when he felt like the wrong man in the right place, who simply stayed longer than he was meant to. ]

And regarding Marianne—Those were very long winters..

[ He added quickly, half-defensive. ]

The woman had excellent handwriting and could play the harp. That’s hardly a reason to my brains into my bed.

[ He’d then sigh and give her a small peck on the cheek ]

But if you do ever sneak into my bed with a gun… please, at least give me a kiss first.

I can't stop thinking about you; beautiful, sweet, passionate Désirée.

If Sweden is too cold, you know where to find me in Paris 😏

📝 The Duke of Richelieu

Sweden is always cold. But in this frozen land, I have everything I need and love most in the world.

Please believe me when I tell you that our story really meant a lot to me. I loved you very deeply. But all of this belongs to the past. A woman will certainly find you in Paris and make you the happiest man on Earth but this woman will not be me.

Farewell, dear Armand.

[karlxivjohan]

I'm not even going to dignify that last part with a response.

Magnus has been nothing but respectful, efficient, and loyal. It’s hardly my fault he always happens to be wherever I am, or that he seems to have an intuitive grasp of my needs, moods, and… emotional subtleties. That is simply what makes him good at his job.

If I were in love with every man who helped me run this kingdom—well—then Sweden would be bankrupt from the number of medals I’d be handing out.

But, you know, Davout, for a man who prides himself on severity and moral uprightness, you do seem obsessively preoccupied with my personal life. I'm beginning to think your own glass closet must be awfully cramped, what with all the moral superiority and repressed yearning shoved inside.

And while we’re on the subject of ‘closeness,’ allow me to ask: how is Gudin?

The way you used to speak of him in the camp—the long, silent glances over reports, the way you said no one else understood the art of command quite like he did, but I’m sure that was just comradely admiration.

Truly—your hypocrisy is only outmatched by your fixation. Do try to sort it out before next year’s Pride. I’d hate for the weight of your own projection to strain your famously upright posture.

Happy Pride to you as well.

Dude you can't be throwing a jealous fit about Désirée and her bf while you were hoeing about through all of Sweden. She only had one lover while you went through a few mistresses - plus whatever was going with Magnus.

I was not “hoeing about through all of Sweden.” That is a grotesque exaggeration. I have lived a long life, a turbulent one, across continents, regimes, and crowns. There have been attachments.. Affairs of circumstance. But never anything that could diminish what I have with my wife. Désirée is not a footnote in my story—she is the spine.

I do not begrudge her for her relationship with Richelieu nor am I throwing a jealous fit. She had a past, as did I. But I will admit I do raise an eyebrow when I read very deeply. One can’t help it. We men are vain creatures.

You make it seem like I wandered through Stockholm like a libertine with a sabre. At the very least I can say I never entertained love letters from men in Paris who use too much cologne and sign their names like they're writing operas. I never said to Désirée that any story with someone else meant “a lot” to me.

As for Magnus—

—He’s a close companion. A friend. A loyal, upstanding Swedish nobleman who is always at my side because… that is where I need him. At all times. Because he is reliable. And available. And… extremely efficient with paperwork. Plus my wife loves him, ask her yourself.

Look, I’m not jealous. I’m attentive. There’s a difference. I simply take note when men start throwing invitations at my wife in public letters. That’s my job as a husband. And as a king.. Wouldn’t you be curious if your beloved wife started reminiscing fondly about Richelieu in the public eye?

Very deeply. Good God.

Anyway, I thank you for your concern regarding my emotional integrity. It has been noted and summarily ignored.

[karlxivjohan]

Dude you can't be throwing a jealous fit about Désirée and her bf while you were hoeing about through all of Sweden. She only had one lover while you went through a few mistresses - plus whatever was going with Magnus.

I was not “hoeing about through all of Sweden.” That is a grotesque exaggeration. I have lived a long life, a turbulent one, across continents, regimes, and crowns. There have been attachments.. Affairs of circumstance. But never anything that could diminish what I have with my wife. Désirée is not a footnote in my story—she is the spine.

I do not begrudge her for her relationship with Richelieu nor am I throwing a jealous fit. She had a past, as did I. But I will admit I do raise an eyebrow when I read very deeply. One can’t help it. We men are vain creatures.

You make it seem like I wandered through Stockholm like a libertine with a sabre. At the very least I can say I never entertained love letters from men in Paris who use too much cologne and sign their names like they're writing operas. I never said to Désirée that any story with someone else meant “a lot” to me.

As for Magnus—

—He’s a close companion. A friend. A loyal, upstanding Swedish nobleman who is always at my side because… that is where I need him. At all times. Because he is reliable. And available. And… extremely efficient with paperwork. Plus my wife loves him, ask her yourself.

Look, I’m not jealous. I’m attentive. There’s a difference. I simply take note when men start throwing invitations at my wife in public letters. That’s my job as a husband. And as a king.. Wouldn’t you be curious if your beloved wife started reminiscing fondly about Richelieu in the public eye?

Very deeply. Good God.

Anyway, I thank you for your concern regarding my emotional integrity. It has been noted and summarily ignored.

[karlxivjohan]

‘I loved you very deeply.’?

You know, for someone who gives me endless grief about only using the word “fine” to compliment your appearance once—just once—you certainly don’t seem to be choosing your own phrases with much... restraint.

I’m just curious—purely curious—what qualifies as “very deeply,” exactly? Is there a scale I wasn’t made aware of? A unit of measurement? Meters of passion? Liters of fond remembrance?

I’m not upset. I’m just... reflecting. As one does. On the wording. The specificity of it. Not deeply. Not once. Not with affection. No—very deeply.

I don’t recall you saying you loved me very deeply. Perhaps moderately. Occasionally. Possibly during the Consulate. But very? No, that was reserved for Richelieu, apparently.. And here I thought that after everything we have been through it would have earned me exclusivity in the “very deeply” department.

And what is this about our story meant a lot to me? Do you recall if you and I had a “story”? I thought we had a marriage. A kingdom. A son. But no, Richelieu gets the story.

But of course, I understand. These things are sentimental. Fragile. And entirely in the past. Where they shall stay. You are being gracious. You were being noble—polite. You were—what’s the word? Ah, yes—cordial.

Very deeply. Honestly.

I can't stop thinking about you; beautiful, sweet, passionate Désirée.

If Sweden is too cold, you know where to find me in Paris 😏

📝 The Duke of Richelieu

Sweden is always cold. But in this frozen land, I have everything I need and love most in the world.

Please believe me when I tell you that our story really meant a lot to me. I loved you very deeply. But all of this belongs to the past. A woman will certainly find you in Paris and make you the happiest man on Earth but this woman will not be me.

Farewell, dear Armand.

[karlxivjohan]

how do you feel about people commenting about your nose

Well, let me clarify something: yes, I am fully aware that my nose is... prominent. It enters a room several moments before I do. Artists throughout Europe have tried and failed to render it without having it overtake the entire composition..

But the nose is distinguished. It is commanding. It has presence. You remember a man with a nose like this. You listen to a man with a nose like this.

And truly, if my nose offends anyone, they’re welcome to turn their heads. I, however, will not be turning mine. It would cause a weather shift.

[karlxivjohan]

which ABBA song is the best?

'The Winner Takes It All'

It speaks to me for—obvious reasons—if you can imagine.

[karlxivjohan]

have you watched midsommar :3

I did watch it. Once. Out of... curiosity. Cultural interest. National pride, even. I thought, "What a charming opportunity to see how Swedish traditions are portrayed!"

And then I sat down and watched it.

Let me be perfectly clear: That is not how we celebrate Midsommar. I believe. Yes, we dance around poles, but no one is thrown off a cliff. Not anymore.

To summarize: yes, I watched it. No, I will not be watching it again. And if anyone invites me to a “retreat” in the woods with strange tea, I will be declining politely and fleeing to the Norwegian border.

Thank you for your question.

[karlxivjohan]

[ Bernadotte lets out a sharp scoff, the sound cutting through the air like flint against steel ]

Cruel? Cruel is handing a helpless creature to a man like you. I hand you a blessing, Davout—a living, breathing gift of nature, and your first instinct is to insult me? Are you suggesting I resemble a damp puffball with wings too small for its body? That creature should be honored to resemble me! And you ought to be thanking me, not lobbing barbs like some half-drunk artilleryman with no aim. But fine—go ahead and cradle your little orphaned fledgling that looks like it just lost a fight with a gust of wind and pretend it’s a war prize.

‘Poor thing,’ he says. If it survives your charm, it’ll survive anything..

I’ll have you know, I’ve marched battalions through sleet and snow, commanded half of Europe’s future, and kept my boots polished while doing it. I think I can manage not to crush a damn bird. I just choose not to bother, I have neither the time nor the patience to raise some—fluttery little half plucked ball of fluff that would rather shriek at sunrise than contribute to society.

But by all means, keep it! I'm sure your rigid charm and dazzling sense of humor will make it feel right at home. Maybe you can even teach it to glare and glower as you do! Heaven knows the two of you would be indistinguishable from across a courtyard.

*hands you a bird* This a kid of yours?

[ Bernadotte would blink at the bird at his hands, the tiny creature fluttering its wings awkwardly. He'd slowly turn and glance at Magnus. ]

[ Magnus, who is standing nearby, seems baffled, his expression a mixture of confusion and hesitation. He then offers a silent shrug, as if to say "Don’t look at me!" ]

[ Bernadotte raises an eyebrow, then looks back at the bird. After a brief pause, he lets out a dry chuckle. ]

Well, this is certainly… unexpected. I’m not exactly the bird-parent type. That would be more suited to someone like @passionedeperdrix—I’m sure he'd love another feathered companion to add to his little avian army.

[ He gives the bird one last glance before carefully cupping it in his hands, then sighs. ]

Right, well, off to Davout you go. Maybe he can teach you how to march in perfect formation.

[ He releases the bird with a small flick of his wrist, sending it fluttering off toward Davout, not caring much for the creature’s fate. ]

[karlxivjohan]

Ta inte livet av er, Ers Höghet, vi BEHÖVER er! Den där försvarsministern är bara en stor elaking!!

[ Bernadotte paused, the letter in hand. He’d seen this kind before. A concerned subject. An anxious voice, speaking from the heart. But in Swedish. He narrowed his eyes at the page, mouth tightening ever so slightly. ]

Uh…

[ A beat. He turned, slowly, toward where Magnus Brahe stood—just far enough to not seem like he was eavesdropping but near enough to be summoned with a glance. That glance came now. ]

Magnus.

[ Magnus, ever alert to that particular tone—straightened and approached. He didn’t have to be told. The King extended the letter with a slight flick of the wrist, still holding it by the corner, as if unsure whether the ink might bite. ]

I… have a general sense of the tone. But perhaps you’d be so good as to translate it?

[ Bernadotte tilted his head slightly, a dry sort of amusement already beginning to gather at the corner of his mouth. Magnus accepted the paper, skimmed it quickly. ]

Well… ahem. The letter says, in brief—‘Do not take your own life, Your Majesty. We NEED you. That Minister of War is just a—big meanie.’

[ Silence. Bernadotte blinked. Then— ]

A big meanie.

[ Bernadotte gave a small chuckle ]

Davout has been called many things. “The Iron Marshal,” “The Eagle of Auerstädt,” “The Most Obnoxious Bastard to Ever Walk God’s Earth”—but I do think this may be the first time he’s been demoted to mere playground insult. Imagine telling a man who once broke the Prussian line in half that he is a big meanie! That is certainly one way to describe Marshal Davout. Not inaccurate, I suppose, though I would’ve opted for something slightly more… anatomically evocative.

Davout is a monument to stubbornness and self-importance. He marches through life like a siege engine with no subtlety or grace, and he struts around like he invented discipline, barking orders like a schoolmaster with a grudge. There’s no warmth behind that steely glare, no humor to soften the blow—only a stubborn, grinding grit that makes you wonder how anyone stands to be near him for more than five minutes without wishing he’d trip over his own ego. He’s the kind of man who confuses severity with virtue, and blunt force with brilliance, convinced that the world should bend to his rigid will. Conversation with him is less a discussion and more an exercise in endurance, as he bulldozes any shred of nuance with the delicacy of a hammer blow. He’s the sort of man who could clear a room faster than a whiff of spoiled cheese, yet somehow still demands the highest honors. Honestly, if obstinance were a sport, he’d be standing on the podium.

The people truly do care. Even if their vocabulary is… limited.

Oh, no, I’ll dictate. I should say something. Reassure them. Let them know their king hasn’t thrown himself into the Gulf of Bothnia over a minister’s sour expression. Tell them that that self-important, uppity, egotistical, pompous, conceited, pretentious assholes don’t wound me will you?

Erh—Kungen hälsar att han mår mycket bra… och tackar för omtanken. Han är vid gott mod och, eh… hanterar situationen med den värdighet som anstår en kung.

[karlxivjohan]

The king of Sweden received a letter... it reads: "Kill yourself. always yours, L. Davout"

Marshal,

I have received your most recent correspondence.

While I acknowledge your input—terse though it may be—I must decline your recommendation at this time. As it happens, my current schedule is regrettably full: diplomatic audiences, military affairs, and the small matter of ruling an entire kingdom. You will understand, I’m sure, how this might take precedence over your personal suggestions, however heartfelt.

Nevertheless, I appreciate the spirit of your letter. It is rare to find such frankness among the ranks of the imperial marshals these days. Please rest assured that your message has been archived with the same solemnity and care I afford all military recommendations from former colleagues. The parchment now serves an admirable purpose—fed to the fireplace, who found it more digestible than I did. A noble end, I think, for a noble sentiment.

Warmest regards from the north,

Carl Johan, King of Sweden and Norway

[karlxivjohan]

[ There was a thunderous knock. No, not a knock—a blow, as if the very wood of the Marshal’s door had been challenged to a duel. And before Ney could properly respond, the door flung open, protesting on its hinges, and in strode Bernadotte, draped in a long military greatcoat, cheeks ruddy from the cold, and expression caught between disbelief and fond exasperation. ]

You wrote me a letter?

[ He raised a brow, holding the letter delicately between two fingers before flicking it to the floor with a snap of his wrist. Brushing snow from his shoulders, he stepped fully inside without waiting for an invitation. He didn’t ask to come in—he rarely did, really only around Ney. Bernadotte spotted the opened box in the middle of the room, its contents still splayed like the remains of a botched engineering experiment, and made a low whistle between his teeth. ]

So—Marshal. You received a box of timber, failed to understand it, and immediately thought of me.

[ He strode forward and crouched by the box, picking up the slim booklet with ease. He raised himself back up again—flipping through the illustrations like a man reading a battle plan. ]

You know, this is not some insidious Swedish plot to confuse French marshals—though, mon Dieu, it is a compelling idea.

[ He tapped a finger on the diagram of a half-assembled armoire with a ghost of a grin. ]

Furniture like this is meant to test your patience, break your spirit, and humble your pride. In other words—perfect for a man like you.

[ Bernadotte looked up from the manual, expression suddenly blank. ]

I mean that in the—most respectful way, of course.

[ He dropped the booklet back into the box and gave it a disdainful kick with the toe of his boot—just enough to make the planks inside rattle. ]

Look at this. They send you furniture that arrives in pieces, then have the gall to act like it's a favor. Do you know what Swedes call this? “Democratic design.”

[ He held up two fingers in exaggerated air quotes. ]

No instructions in French, naturally. Only drawings. As if that’s supposed to make it easier. Even the Romans left better engineering notes.

[ He’d then glance at Ney. ]

You know, you could’ve left the mystery untouched. Told everyone the Swedes had sent you some symbolic tribute—or perhaps just kept the box as decoration.. But no, you opened it. Of course you did—you always—here, look.

[ He then held up one oddly shaped board with a perfectly circular hole in it, pointing to it with the other hand and making sure Ney saw it as if presenting to a student. ]

This piece serves no logical function. They always include one of these. To humble you.

[ Hed then turn it around and squint at it, inspecting the pre-drilled holes like they were wounds. A long sigh escaped him, and for a brief second, he looked like he’d aged ten years. Then he straightened again, flung the board onto a growing pile, and stared down at it for a moment before he promptly turned his attention back to Ney. ]

You know, I used to think you’d grow out of this impulse. This thing—Always asking for another voice, another hand, when yours would’ve done just fine.

[ Then he’d pause, let the silence stretch for a moment too long, before moving to peel off his gloves, suddenly all business again. Bernadotte moved with the comfort of a man who knew that this project hinged entirely on him and his expertise in the matter, and he crouched again beside the scattered planks and began separating pieces without asking permission. ]

Anyway, I’ll help you build it. But you’re holding the manual. I refuse to be the one squinting at the little man.

[ He tossed Ney the booklet, and without warning, tugged the greatcoat from his shoulders and slung it over a nearby chair, revealing a black waistcoat and shirtsleeves already rolled up to the forearms. He looked every bit like the man he used to be—soldier, general, friend—unburdened by coronation, by country, by history. ]

Let’s be quick about this. If I’m gone too long, they’ll assume I’ve defected. You separate the bolts from the washers, I’ll figure out where that damned peg goes. And if we finish before nightfall, maybe you’ll have something presentable in this space.

[ Then, almost as an afterthought—dry: ]

Try not to stab yourself with an Allen key, it happened to Oscar once and—you know.

*a mysterious box of IKEA furniture is dropped at Ney's door. Maybe this would be a good opportunity to seek out a certain swede's aid...*

What is this.

What a... delightful and utterly useless gift. Who would even think of sending that to me? And what the hell is IKEA?

The marshal bent over to examine the box, eventually opening it, discovering... boards. Nothing but boards and the instruction manual. It says "Made in Sweden". What the actual fuck. Why are the Swedes sending him boards? He should ask, the thing is that the only Swede he could recall was actually "made in France"... And once, he called that one a friend. So, he wrote to @karlxivjohan

Your Majesty,

I write to inform you of the arrival of a most peculiar parcel, which I have reason to believe originated in Sweden. Its contents remain a mystery, and its purpose—if any—eludes me still.

Though I am not well-versed in the customs of that northern realm which has seen fit to place a crown upon your brow, I trust your familiarity with its manners might shed some light on the matter.

Our paths, as history would have it, have diverged—one leading to a throne, the other to the edge of a musket’s aim. Yet I hold no bitterness. I still count you as both mentor and comrade, and it is in that spirit I appeal to your judgment.

Ney.

[karlxivjohan]

[ Jean-Baptiste stood still under her touch, allowing her to muss his curls as if she were inspecting a prized artifact at an open market. He looked vaguely offended—though more by habit than true protest—tilting his head slightly away with a put-upon huff. ]

Oh, now that’s cruel, I give you poetic words, and you give me geriatric slander! They are not cobwebs, madame, they are distinguished silver accents. Hard-earned, I might add, after years of reigning with the forbearance of a saint—and being married to you.

[ He reached up after her pinch to catch her wrist gently, guiding it away from his head with the kind of fond patience one uses for a very familiar and incorrigible cat, then, gently, he pressed a kiss to her fingers with all the gallantry of a street boy who’d just learned how to flirt. At her jab about Adam and Eve, he exhaled through his nose and rolled his eyes skyward. ]

It was not bad, really. The weather was nice, and the fig leaves were all the rage. I hear the serpent went on to open a very successful salon in Paris.

[ The façade was beginning to crack—giving way to something that resembled the old Bernadotte, the rakish general with the devil-may-care grin. He'd tilt Desirée's head slightly upwards by the chin. ]

I do miss the days when I was truly terrifying. Men used to quake when I entered a room. Time dulls even the blade of Aeneas, I suppose. Now I’m being harassed by a Marseillaise girl with cold fingers and a sunbeam smile! If I could, I would pull Marseille into this frozen place like a scarf around your shoulders. But I can’t—so I’ll have to warm you myself. I’m sorry for the snow, Désirée. But I will try my best to give you sun.

[ There was a beat of hesitation. The transition from husband to father always seemed to catch him at a vulnerable seam. Still, he looked at the boy with soft but unreadable eyes. He placed a hand gently on Oskar’s shoulder, not ceremoniously, not as a king, but simply as a father. His thumb brushed once across the fabric of the boy’s coat, a small gesture of affection. ]

I know you won’t disappoint me, and I trust you. More than you know.

[ He paused, as if weighing whether to go on—then patted Oskar’s shoulder once more and gave a faint, fleeting smile. He had meant it. He didn’t always know how to say it—the warmth, the pride—but trust was its own form of love in his book. He nodded once to seal it, then turned back to Désirée. ]

You see what you’ve done? Between being accused of being Methuselah with a sabre, your charming insults, and this poor boy standing like he’s guarding the gates of Valhalla, I’m beginning to think I missed my true calling as a tragic hero.

Cher petit village au bord de la mer Je te laisse en gage tout ce qui m'est cher L'éternel été d'un ciel enchanté Où j'ai cru vivre un jour tous mes rêves Pays que j'aimais je dois désormais Loin de toi m'en aller à jamais

⭒❃.✮:▹ DESIDERIA BERNADOTTE, née CLARY ◃:✮.❃⭒

THE MAIDEN -ˋˏ ༻✿༺ ˎˊ- THE WIFE -ˋˏ ༻✿༺ ˎˊ- THE QUEEN

Bonjour et bienvenue sur ce blog!

Here there are no pompous titles or ridiculous little salon curtsies, we are among friends and we call each other by our first names: for you, I shall simply be Désirée. For posterity, I was Princess of Pontecrovo (nothing to be impressed about, I don't even know where this place is supposed to be), Queen of Sweden and Norway, but my heart has always remained in my beloved birthplace, Marseille.

Both my parents were merchants and traders. At the dawn of the French Revolution, my family's fortune was the object of covetousness, and I almost married Joseph (a wonderful guy, le sang de la veine, I hope he's doing well. Joseph, if you happen to be passing by, please write to me)(…saying that with the most honorable intentions, of course) and Napoleon Bonaparte (😐 I am not upset alright, bro is small and hairy like a dwarf ogre and I am SO GLAD Madame de Beauharnais got me rid of him, I HATE HIS GUTS). Then, after a period of studying pharmacy textbooks to learn how to die of sadness without losing my good looks, fate sent me to meet the best husband in the world: @karlxivjohan ♥

In fact, it is on his advice that I decided to open this account, in order to further educate myself on the complexity of this world and “broaden my general culture” (because according to him, it's “a disgrace” not to know who Molière is, but how does he expect me to have met everyone of his childhood friends?). At least this way, I can stay home, by the fireplace. In Stockholm, summer is even colder than winter. This city makes me depressed, the sun doesn't even come up for half the year, and I can understand why we were offered this crown for free - we should have seen the scam coming. The good thing is that here, the Corsican population is estimated at 0%.

I'm bringing my beloved son, Oskar, with me. He may interact from time to time. I'll also be posting a lot about the wonderful city of Marseille and teaching you a bit of the local dialect.

Ask all the questions you want, with a few conditions:

No insulting Marseille, Marseille rap music or the Olympique de Marseille.

No insulting my husband - only I and Magnus Brahe are entitled to that sacred right.

Please be nice, I tend to cry easily

Tag directory :

#correspondance de sa majesté : answering anon requests and enquiries

#billets privés : interactions with other rp blogs

#le pitchoune : answers by prince Oskar

#mon gâté : interactions with the hubby

#mon journal intime : extracts from Désirée's diary

#la galerie des arts : reblog of people's stunning art

#marseille infodump : educational posts about Marseille

[karlxivjohan]

My dear Désirée,

You continue to astonish me with the vitality of your spirit and the... uniqueness of your perspective. I am heartened to see you embracing this venture, and it pleases me immensely—even if your method of introduction left me… slightly winded.

Seeking to learn, to broaden one’s horizons, and to engage with the world is never a foolish pursuit. It is, in fact, one of the most vital and dignified things a person can do. it is the duty of every person who wishes to live well, and with purpose. You were never one for dusty tomes, I know, and that is quite all right! The fire in your heart was never meant to sit quietly behind a desk; it was meant to live. But you will find that even the driest pages carry the breath of those who came before us, and sometimes even the sparks of those yet to come. Do not mistake curiosity for weakness. It is a strength, perhaps the finest we have.

That said…

Désirée, please. Molière is not one of my childhood friends. He died in 1673. Seize cent soixante-treize, ma chère. I was not yet born for over a century, even if I’m sure you think I’ve been fifty years old since the dawn of civilization..

He is widely considered one of the greatest most influential French playwrights in history, not some neighbor boy I played with in Pau. The fact that you continue to confuse centuries of intellectual achievement with my supposed social circle is… troubling. And yet, somehow, not surprising. Still, I admire your candor.

I concede, the winters can be trying. The sky greys too early, the winds gnaw at the bones, and the darkness stretches longer than any reasonable person would like. But there is beauty here, too, if you allow yourself to see it. The hush of fresh snowfall on Slottsbacken. The glint of lanterns in Gamla Stan. The way the northern lights sweep across the sky.. The air is crisp and clean, the lakes glisten like silver.

I know it is not Marseille. It will never be. But it is ours. I am aware you once could not imagine living anywhere that did not smell of the sea and citrus. I understand that longing. I carry my own nostalgia for France—but I have found a home here. And I hope, in time, you will find one too. Not out of obligation, but out of some shared sense of belonging.

And as for your assertion that "the Corsican population here is estimated at zero"—well. That is, I admit, a great advantage.

Oscar—my son—I trust you will behave on this platform. You carry the weight of your birth and your name, and it is not light. I ask only that you carry it with dignity and with kindness, even as you navigate the strange absurdities of this new landscape as you have before. Be good to your mother. She loves fiercely and sometimes speaks recklessly, but her heart is as generous as it is loud. If you must correct her, do it kindly. And if she begins quoting rap lyrics in Provençal, just nod and pretend she’s a scholar of literature.

In any case, Désirée, if you find any more “childhood friends” of mine, please do not hesitate to write them a letter. I’m sure Voltaire and Charlemagne would love to hear from you.

Cher petit village au bord de la mer Je te laisse en gage tout ce qui m'est cher L'éternel été d'un ciel enchanté Où j'ai cru vivre un jour tous mes rêves Pays que j'aimais je dois désormais Loin de toi m'en aller à jamais

⭒❃.✮:▹ DESIDERIA BERNADOTTE, née CLARY ◃:✮.❃⭒

THE MAIDEN -ˋˏ ༻✿༺ ˎˊ- THE WIFE -ˋˏ ༻✿༺ ˎˊ- THE QUEEN

Bonjour et bienvenue sur ce blog!

Here there are no pompous titles or ridiculous little salon curtsies, we are among friends and we call each other by our first names: for you, I shall simply be Désirée. For posterity, I was Princess of Pontecrovo (nothing to be impressed about, I don't even know where this place is supposed to be), Queen of Sweden and Norway, but my heart has always remained in my beloved birthplace, Marseille.

Both my parents were merchants and traders. At the dawn of the French Revolution, my family's fortune was the object of covetousness, and I almost married Joseph (a wonderful guy, le sang de la veine, I hope he's doing well. Joseph, if you happen to be passing by, please write to me)(…saying that with the most honorable intentions, of course) and Napoleon Bonaparte (😐 I am not upset alright, bro is small and hairy like a dwarf ogre and I am SO GLAD Madame de Beauharnais got me rid of him, I HATE HIS GUTS). Then, after a period of studying pharmacy textbooks to learn how to die of sadness without losing my good looks, fate sent me to meet the best husband in the world: @karlxivjohan ♥

In fact, it is on his advice that I decided to open this account, in order to further educate myself on the complexity of this world and “broaden my general culture” (because according to him, it's “a disgrace” not to know who Molière is, but how does he expect me to have met everyone of his childhood friends?). At least this way, I can stay home, by the fireplace. In Stockholm, summer is even colder than winter. This city makes me depressed, the sun doesn't even come up for half the year, and I can understand why we were offered this crown for free - we should have seen the scam coming. The good thing is that here, the Corsican population is estimated at 0%.

I'm bringing my beloved son, Oskar, with me. He may interact from time to time. I'll also be posting a lot about the wonderful city of Marseille and teaching you a bit of the local dialect.

Ask all the questions you want, with a few conditions:

No insulting Marseille, Marseille rap music or the Olympique de Marseille.

No insulting my husband - only I and Magnus Brahe are entitled to that sacred right.

Please be nice, I tend to cry easily

Tag directory :

#correspondance de sa majesté : answering anon requests and enquiries

#billets privés : interactions with other rp blogs

#le pitchoune : answers by prince Oskar

#mon gâté : interactions with the hubby

#mon journal intime : extracts from Désirée's diary

#la galerie des arts : reblog of people's stunning art

#marseille infodump : educational posts about Marseille

[karlxivjohan]

who would u fuck. Murat or Davout.

What a vulgar question. Absolutely not. I refuse to entertain it.

…If I must answer—Murat. Not that I intend to engage with either, but I would rather strangle myself than have to deal with whatever Davout has to offer—if anything at all.

[karlxivjohan]

🪄Upon my hand, I cast upon you ---- genderbending

What in God’s name—wait—what—?

That is not my voice..

Oh hell. My uniform doesn’t fit. It’s tight in all the wrong places—! No, not wrong, just—different. Different! Damn it, who tailored this coat? Was I always this broad in the shoulders? And now it’s pulling here, and here—The sash doesn’t even sit right anymore. The waist—

Hair—my hair—what the hell am I supposed to do with this? What am I meant to do with this hair? It’s longer than Murat’s.. How did it even grow? Ugh. I can feel it on my neck.

…I am calm. I am calm. Fine. Fine! I’ll adapt. I have adapted before. This is only... temporary. Surely. This is just a moment. A temporary moment. I swear, if this is some divine punishment, I—well. I’ve suffered worse, haven’t I?

I’m not marching into a single damned room until I find a pair of boots that fit.

[karlxivjohan]

[ Bernadotte took in the receiving foyer with a slow, measured glance. The florals, the porcelain—softer touches woven into the fabric of Kléber’s home, but the martial spirit had not been buried, only tempered. Despite himself, he was struck by a feeling of quiet displacement, here he stood, wrapped in the heavy folds of a Swedish winter coat, in a home where Egypt’s sun had been immortalized on the very walls. His eyes lingered on the Egyptian motifs for a beat longer than necessary, tracing the elegant depictions of Bastet and Sekhmet with something that might have been bemusement. Fitting, really. For Kléber, Egypt had never quite left him, and it wasn’t hard for Bernadotte to imagine why. ]

Jules is.. fine. As for your Madame, she needn’t trouble herself on my account—I am not so removed from my Republican past that I cannot appreciate a woman in practical attire. But yes, right, you’ve gone through the trouble of hospitality, so let’s not waste it standing in the foyer..

[ There was a tightness to his voice as he craned his neck to glance over Kléber’s shoulder as if to try and get a peek at this woman, his usual brash confidence faltering for just a moment under the other man’s sheer presence as he rubbed the back of his neck. It was ridiculous—he had faced emperors and kings, commanded armies, stood firm in the face of all manner of political scheming—but standing here, beneath Kléber’s gaze, he felt like a young officer again, uncertain and reluctant to step forward. Bernadotte wanted to run outside and stick his head in the grass, he would’ve never felt this way all those years ago, ] [ Magnus, however, had no such reservations—and he stepped forward almost immediately. ]

It’s an honor, General Kléber, truly an honor—His Majesty has told me much about you and your exploits in Egypt. Perhaps not as much as I’d like, yet that only made me more eager to meet you! Your patronage brought His Majesty a promotion, did it not? If you hadn’t set him on that path as you did, well—perhaps things would have turned out quite differently.

[ Bernadotte made a small squeak of protest, turning slightly to his companion—but Magnus continued unabated, even as they moved to the solarium. ]

—Would you ever believe, back then, that the man who served under you would one day become a king?

[ Bernadotte winced slightly, gaze shifting away as if he could physically sidestep the question. He knew Magnus meant well, but he had spent years justifying it to himself, learning to bear the contradictions in his own history, but Kléber’s presence stirred something uncomfortable in him. He was certain the man was already forming his own judgments, weighing the past against the present, even if he had been welcoming thus far. Bernadotte had always been perceptive—annoyingly so. Brahe, however, filled any gaps in conversation with the kind of ease Bernadotte envied in the moment. ]

Ah, but where are my manners? Magnus Brahe, at your service. His Majesty doesn’t speak of his past often, so I had to piece things together myself. If I may say, you have a lovely home,

[ Bernadotte’s gaze moved toward Damas as Brahe yammered on about the decor. It felt steadier to focus on the man than to dwell on Magnus’ unrelenting enthusiasm. ]

... Heliopolis, was it? A well-earned celebration, then.

[ Bernadotte half-expected some remark in response, but Magnus latched onto the mention immediately, glancing between both Kléber and Damas. ]

His Majesty spoke of it as though you’d conjured victory out of sheer force of will. I’ve read accounts, of course, but to hear it from you—! And a pyramid-shaped sandtorte? How clever! Now that is craftsmanship I would love to see.

[ Bernadotte gave a long-suffering shudder of a sigh, though he was relieved that Magnus had taken the lead in conversation. The younger man’s exuberance was genuine. Still, he inclined his head slightly, finally allowing himself to settle, if only a fraction. ]

It’s good to see you again.

[ Kléber receives a wooden crate, its surface rough with the marks of handling, the lid secured with thick twine. Pressed into the wax seal keeping it shut was the royal emblem of Sweden. ]

[ Upon opening it, there would be several bottles of beer nestled within. ]

Kleber opens the box, a fond smile on his face.

"This is the best apology a man could get."

He will write a letter after he recovers from his birthday bash and it will arrive at Bernadotte's residence, with a bottle of homemade Chambord.

"Jules; I do hope this finds you and your companion well. Thank you for the wonderful birthday gift; it is much appreciated. I do hope that our.... discussion... in the past has left you with no hard feelings. After all, it had been a long time since you last encountered me, and things have changed, as you saw, for the better."

"Pray, do visit me at Chaillot, and bring your companion, if you wish to. You two will always be welcome here, even if we disagree on some of the finer points of the Republic and her politics."

"Imagine my surprise, when from the afterlife, I saw one of my most capable subordinates rise to rule, as a King, even. A man who once was effusive in his Republican values of "Mort aux Tyran" becoming a King himself - tell me...Karl, is it now? - tell me how you balanced your former Republican values with that of Royalty. Madame tells me you did well, and sheltered both our mutual Friend, General Moreau, as well as General - well, Marshal - Ney's boys afterwards. A commendable action for a man I well esteemed."

"Enclosed with this letter is a bottle of Madame's homemade Chambord liqueur - she cultivates the fruits herself to make this, and our dear mutual friend General d'Hautpoul supplies the cognac from his estates, the honey sourced from the hives here at Chaillot. It is a liqueur most... sensual.. on the palate."

"Salut et Respect;

G'al Jean-Baptiste Kleber, Armee de l'Orient, ret."

[karlxivjohan]

[ The streets of Chaillot were quiet in the late afternoon, the golden hues of the sun dipping below the rooftops, casting shadows over the cobbled paths. Bernadotte walked at an even pace, his boots clicking softly against the stones, but his hands remained tucked behind his back—almost reluctant, hesitant. Beside him, Magnus walked with an easy confidence, gloved hands adjusting his coat against the breeze. With their attire, it would appear that they had both thought the weather would be much, much colder. Magnus was the first to speak between the two of them, his voice easy yet pointed. ]

You’ve gone all the way to Chaillot, and yet you still look as though you’d rather be halfway to Stockholm.

[ The corner of Bernadotte’s mouth twitched and his eyebrows furrowed, though he did not look back at Brahe. ]

It isn’t that.

[ The former Marshal quickly shot back, adjusting the collar of his greatcoat. ]

No? Because you’ve been wearing a face—

I don’t see why we needed to do this. I sent the beer. That was sufficient.

Sufficient?

[ Magnus would let out a soft chuckle. ]

You sent him a box, Your Majesty. Kléber responded with a letter, an invitation, and a bottle of liqueur. You don’t think ignoring it would be impolite?

I would call it self-preservation.

[ Bernadotte clicked his tongue, rolling his shoulders. ]

The last time he and I were in the same room, I was—

[ He cut himself off, waving a gloved hand vaguely before shoving it back into his coat pocket. ]

Difficult?

Disagreeable.

[ Bernadotte corrected, though there was little true argument in his tone. At this, Magnus only hummed. ]

And it’s not as though he was the picture of patience, either. I would not fault him if his opinion soured.

No, but he invited you, Your Majesty. I would venture to guess he does not think poorly of you now.

Or he wants to see what sort of monarch the loud-mouthed Republican became.

[ His gaze remained fixed ahead. They were close now—the estate just beyond the gates, where a flickering lantern swung gently from a post. He sighed, bracing against the moment of decision. Magnus smirked faintly, giving Bernadotte’s shoulder a pat. ]

Go on, then, or would you rather I knock for you?

[ That earned him a glance, something caught between irritation and begrudging fondness. With a final breath, Bernadotte stepped forward, straightening his coat as he strode up to the door. He raised a fist, hesitated for only a fraction of a second, then knocked. ]

[ Kléber receives a wooden crate, its surface rough with the marks of handling, the lid secured with thick twine. Pressed into the wax seal keeping it shut was the royal emblem of Sweden. ]

[ Upon opening it, there would be several bottles of beer nestled within. ]

Kleber opens the box, a fond smile on his face.

"This is the best apology a man could get."

He will write a letter after he recovers from his birthday bash and it will arrive at Bernadotte's residence, with a bottle of homemade Chambord.

"Jules; I do hope this finds you and your companion well. Thank you for the wonderful birthday gift; it is much appreciated. I do hope that our.... discussion... in the past has left you with no hard feelings. After all, it had been a long time since you last encountered me, and things have changed, as you saw, for the better."

"Pray, do visit me at Chaillot, and bring your companion, if you wish to. You two will always be welcome here, even if we disagree on some of the finer points of the Republic and her politics."

"Imagine my surprise, when from the afterlife, I saw one of my most capable subordinates rise to rule, as a King, even. A man who once was effusive in his Republican values of "Mort aux Tyran" becoming a King himself - tell me...Karl, is it now? - tell me how you balanced your former Republican values with that of Royalty. Madame tells me you did well, and sheltered both our mutual Friend, General Moreau, as well as General - well, Marshal - Ney's boys afterwards. A commendable action for a man I well esteemed."

"Enclosed with this letter is a bottle of Madame's homemade Chambord liqueur - she cultivates the fruits herself to make this, and our dear mutual friend General d'Hautpoul supplies the cognac from his estates, the honey sourced from the hives here at Chaillot. It is a liqueur most... sensual.. on the palate."

"Salut et Respect;

G'al Jean-Baptiste Kleber, Armee de l'Orient, ret."