mihrimahsultan

[mihrimahsultan]

⋆ For my muse to send yours a provocative painting of mine ;) xoxo

⋆ For my muse to send yours a provocative painting of mine ;) xoxo (Thomas)

Mihrimah ran her brush through her hair thrice before her lady came to her door - a girl who had long been a friend as well as a servant, who held a delicate frame between her hands. “My lady, this arrived for you - sent directly from English hands… I confess, I had a look! Only to make sure that the gift was suitable…” They flustered, as delicate fingers began to unwrap the parcel from packed parchment - unveiling a wooden frame with painted canvas lying beneath. “And I must warn my lady that this… this gift is not fit for the eyes of a young and impressionable Sultana. Perhaps I should be rid of it? Or hang it only in my chambers? ”The lady confessed, muffling a burst of laughter 

“What? Let me see! I must see!” Called Mihrimah, greedy with the unknown and the burst of laughter that came from her closest of ladies. “Go! Go! Fetch some lokum and let me see!” Mihrimah continued, forcing the others out from her chambers - banishing their laughter as Mihrimah fell to giddy bubbles of joy. 

Without patience, she took the painting, uncovering it from its last wrappings to unveil the vision she hadn’t seen before. Without prying eyes she almost burst into giddiness, her hands covering her lips that grew wet on look alone. “Oh Thomas, what have you done?” She asked, her hand yet clutching the necklace that lay upon her breast before covering the painting back - admitting her ladies in, but to not look. It had been rumoured that oil paint had been made to create a skin-like texture, but Mihrimah couldn’t quite imagine the material being used to morph the form of the Prince in such a provocative position. 

She kept it beneath her bed, for only her eyes or when a wave of desire overcame her.

[mihrimahsultan]

scream

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

The Hotel Saint-Pol was yet alight with festivities. There lay pairs of satin shoes, the scream of luxurious women and the howl of righteous men. Mihrimah shadowed the edge, keeping herself free of admirations or even the soft hand of friendships. Her mind itself was alone, weaving thoughts of what was to come, what was to drink and what there was to eat before she heard the bloodcurdling scream from behind the musical ensemble. A harp, a lute - every instrument swelled around the noise to muffle it from anyone else. With her translator occupied with the Sultan himself, Mihrimah was forced to push forward alone. 

Alone - it was a stance in which Mihrimah could never understand. She had been brought up within the overcoming love of the harem, taught to always assume that love would follow. 

“Merhaba?” She called, before repeating herself in various languages; Arabic, German, Mandarin - before calling in the Persian tongue, another scream bellowing as the Sultana picked up her satin skirts to run the length of the empty hallway. But she did not find the culprit or the mouth that made the scream - yet it remained in her mind, screaming whenever there fell silence. So she kept herself immersed with sound, within those festive halls. Where the brass hit and the woodwinds made music. For Mihrimah could ever be found in silence again, in fear of hearing that bloody scream. 

[mihrimahsultan]

princethomas​:

saffron from the fringe of the earth, wild saffron that has bent over the sharp edge of earth, all the flowers that cut through the earth, all, all the flowers are lost;

I am broken at last, I who had lived unconscious

– excerpt from eurydice, by h.d.

Upon gentle nightfall, which gave rise to the moon’s luminance, the Prince lingered at the garden’s edge to covet one further admiration. There, against lunar surface, which he envisioned traced soft as sand, loomed shadows of falsities dancing across its expanse. Waning gibbous hinted at darkness to come, but it was not looming, nor foreboding, to the undaunted heart of a man with conscience clear and thoughts light. 

Feather-weighted feelings titled eyes upward, as though in pursuit of flight, for the earth beneath appeared too dense now. The darkness had already come and taken its filling in weeks past, and the time for possibilities was before him - endless, or seemingly so, with direction for setting course. And surely, beneath an array of stars winking so wantonly - reckless, always reckless - he had lousied himself late with gratitude.

The swell of harp and vielle - whose melody distilled romance into abstraction - guided him toward her. She, just beginning to dispel herself from a state of unknowing, glowed radiant beneath candlelight, as though dew had kissed her where he longed to. And at her feet, beneath adoration’s gaze, he flushed, bowing low in reverent delight. 

“Your highness,” pulse strummed, in harmony to the song that surrounded. “I beg your forgiveness upon my delay, and pray I may make good upon my word, to covet your company above all others’, and to hope the courtiers whisper of our indulgence with envy.” Between them, he clutched a nosegay of rosa alba and chamomile, eyes rising with offering extended. “You are a vision divine adorned in England’s colors, but I thought it incomplete.” Timid fingers plucked one flower from the bunch, lifting it to be admired. “The white rose of York, of my family. Let none tonight wonder who is held in my affections, though – I am yet to know if I am absolved and held similarly in hers.”

 So lost in her thoughts, Mihrimah feared that she was lost to fantasy and wishful thinking. Her fingers linked; joined — latched — against her abdomen she almost feared that he were a figment of what she so craved. But he stood before her in bone and skin — presented as a golden Prince sent from Allah’s benevolent hands, melded by Gods, she felt her knees weaken at the mere sight of him. Later in life she would blame her solitude from within the Harem for her vulnerability for handsome men; how one smile crafted by angels was enough for the Sultana to feel lightness. 

The music remained around them, the string of the harp bringing the Sultana back amongst skin and flesh as her cheeks rose to the softened hue of pink. Her hands loosening for him to take and guide; her knees all the more depleted by his surprise gift. The prepared white rose became the audience to a very real and innocent gasp, her mouth parting to reveal innards only hidden by the sheer quality of her crimson veil. “Hay Allah,” she whispered, fingers brushing his own — skin against skin — as she took the stem of the York rose into her debilitated grasp. 

 With everyone else in the room busy with joy, all eyes upon the couples who danced with such vigour — lovers making music, laughter bellowing around the reprisal of the room — Mihrimah dared to shift her veil. With the elegant manoeuvre of her hand, she swept the sheer material aside to allow him a slight glance upon her features. Olive skin, the soft curve of her nose, the full plumpness of her lips and the thickened curl of her eyelashes. Lifting the rose to her nose, Mirhimah inhaled — her eyes low and heavy with both nerves and excitement as he allowed his gaze to remain upon her true beauty for the first time — without lingering eyes, without the veil to distract and by chance perhaps for his desire only. 

With the swell of the harp, the change of tune, Mihrimah released her veil to fall upon her grace — to disguise her again to his full and enveloping gaze; to simmer — to allow the Sultana to think and wonder if his word were true. With the white rose held before her, as if she were ready for a portrait, Mihrimah felt her lids waver — seemingly all the heavier, her knees wavering as she reached forth to take his arm; a needy, shaken grasp before Mihrimah released in almost the same instance. 

“I think.... Will you take me to the balcony for some fresh air?” Mihrimah asked in her English tongue, the rose held prominent before her — for everyone to see, to wonder and gasp at. She would make weavings of it, of the delicate centre and its surrounding petals. She would have a portrait made of her and the flower; if the Sultan would allow it. If he wished for her affection then he would have it, and she would offer it only to him. With the translator lingering behind, acting as both chaperone and a decipherer of languages to the young Sultana who brought the Prince out to the cooling whip of a Winter’s breeze. Silence remained, but it was Mihrimah who suddenly broke it, once given the privacy they both seemingly required. 

“Am I alone in your thoughts?” She asked, the rose delicate leant upon the soft curve of her chest — her veil straying by the wind alone as Mihrimah pursed her lips and looked up to Thomas of England; gazing upon him as if he was made of celestial matter than realistic flesh and cloth. “Do you think only of I, Thomas? If this is the case, then I would admit that I do not think of anyone else. Only you linger, as this rose of York rests upon me.”

[mihrimahsultan]

scfiyc​:

The warmth of the harem reminded Safiya not just of her own home, but of her mother. It was nice to be surrounded by sights and sounds and food that was all a bit more familiar. Her mind may the adventurous sort, but she had to admit she had been growing more and more homesick every morning when she looked out her window at the ever gray Parisian sky as the seasons changed. She missed the way the glittering sun would bounce around the halls of her home more than she could ever admit. 

She grinned at her cousin her joy clear as she ate a Lokum herself. “How could I not love it? This may be the greatest event in all of Paris.” She said earnestly. “Dear cousin I must at some point come visit you all in the Ottoman Empire. If this is even a momentary glimpse of the beauty of your home then I must experience it for myself.” She had often regretted not seeing her mother’s home in person, she was so young she truly hadn’t travelled much at all in her life. But now it was all the more decided she must visit the Ottoman Empire. 

 Mihrimah’s love was immeasurable; a part of her (despite all reason) even cherished for her younger brother who was the very threat to Murad’s future. And so, her adoration and devotion to her cousins from Cordoba were offered the same level of love that was prepared for her own immediate circle — her hand reached forth to take the Princess’, to treat her more like a sister than a cousin made through brother and sister. “You must,” Mihrimah insisted, eyes narrowing before widening in complete and utter joy. “I am sure Hurrem would love to have you experience our world — and I would come to you in turn; if the Sultan would allow it,” Mihrimah laughed, clutching Safiya’s hand. 

The brass ensemble remained around them, coveting the room in the sound of home as Mihrimah turned to watch the meddah move to his pedestal. Thus far it seemed that her celebration of the Ottoman Empire had been well accepted, taken into its stride as the various ladies of Eurasia shared a copper plate of candies. With raven locks cascading down her back, Mihrimah turned to her material cousin (still hand in hand). Cordoba was on everyone’s lips; a realm that had rid the world of a historic Kingdom, a realm that now stood upon the stage as the new and shining light. Lips torrent or question or merely to praise, Mihrimah loosened her posture to fall back upon the jumble of soft cushions. “How do you feel, cousin? Having left Cordoba to be in Paris for the first time?”

[mihrimahsultan]

drippedink​:

🌸

———— The invitation which arrived at her door late that night came as a slight shock to the young princess as she had never made proper acquaintance with the Sultana of the Ottoman Empire, merely passing by her frame at diplomatic events. These interactions did not seem to warrant a semi-private audience by her side, yet excitement bloomed in her once content breast. It was likely of good nature that despite their meeting, her reputation had preceded her enough to allow the other to find importance in her. Perhaps such developments could convince her Grandmother of her indispensability and value beyond her unwed hand. Antoinette found herself aiming to impress the others that would attend, donning the finest of the Sardinian gowns her father had made for her and letting her moon-lit hair fall in ringlets down her back. She packed a trunk with gifts for the Sultana; ornate jewelry from her homeland, delicacies that could not be found on French soil, and a gown of the purest plum color she could find. It seemed an ample offering that should satisfy Mihimah to the best of her ability.

At her arrival, she could not help her mouth from falling open in awe. The room was decorated in a far more picturesque way than she could have ever conjured within her mind. The pillows doting patterns unusual to her upbringing while musicians filled what little empty space there was with angelic sounds. “Sultana, I am honored by your invitation and found myself overjoyed at an opportunity to bask in your culture…” She began, offering the other a polite curtsy. “Since you seemed so very generous to provide us with such spoils, I have assembled for you a chest filled with some wonders of Sardinia, I do hope they will be to your taste.” She stated as she moved to take a seat beside the other, awkwardly patting down her dress which seemed far too eccentric in their current setting. When the other woman moved her hand filled with food towards her lips, she opened them and took it willingly. “My gosh, what is the name of this, it is delicious?”

Her invitation was sent to Antoinette due, mostly, to her connection within the Kingdom of France — surely to withhold it would be seen as rude and obnoxious! She was the cousin to their King, and a Princess in her own right from the now independent Sardinia. Mihirmah knew of it, of course. For such an island was known for its mystic qualities and history that had once belonged to the Ottoman’s predecessors, the Byzantine Empire. 

She had seen her; long ringlets of exotic blonde trailing behind her. Mihrimah thought her beautiful; a swan personified. But she would not admit to such a thing, as she fed her the slice of lokum, fingers trailing back to her own lap as she waited in anticipation. 

Once more it seemed that her invitation had been met with trunks of gifts — she had not expected it, and so her lips parted to reveal the poke of her tongue and the flush of her cheeks. “Oh,” she gasped, brushing her hands together to rid herself of any residue as she climbed back to her feet; approaching the chest that Antoinette of Sardinia had presented. Suddenly lighter than a feather, Mihrimahs’ head spun — hands softly and carefully presenting the gifts that included that rich plum dress. “I don’t know what to say, this is… I did not strike the invitation as a means to gather presents,” Mihrimah confessed, a hand ghosting over her lip, to expose her lack of words as Anoitnette remained by the lokum, her translator deciphering the languages.

“Lokum, it is a candied dish to snack on throughout the day… Antoinette, may I call you such? I don’t know what to say — these treasures will be cared for the rest of my life!” Mihrimah blossomed, arms outstretched to embrace the Sardinian princess as if they had been friends for years upon years.

[mihrimahsultan]

crownedprxncess​:

- &&. THE SULTANA’S INVITATION HAD been well received; although Yicheng had not had ample opportunity to involve herself with any notable members of the Ottoman Empire, she was quietly confident that such an invite was a shining testament to her ever growing reputation. One could never have too many Princesses befriended, Yicheng drew many similarities between her and the Sultana - both young, beautiful, highly educated and ambitious, the Ming Crown Princess was certain that a budding friendship could be achieved during the opulent celebrations. 

Mihrimah had endowed the harem with a dream-like quality, furnished and decorated with the utmost excellence and quality, Yicheng felt at home amidst a room filled with such promising young women, many of whom shared her same lust for power and popularity. The Sultana approaches and Yicheng is immediately mystified, such a pretty young thing equipped with a charming smile, it was like looking into her own reflection, ❝ It is unlike anything I have tasted before, ❞ She smiles warmly as the saccharin taste dissolves across her tongue, delighting her taste buds. ❝ I must have more !! ❞ She does not deny herself a second helping.

❝ Sultana, ❞ Yicheng gestures to her side as her ladies bow, bestowing Mihrimah with gifts of fine silk gowns and hand-crafted jewels, ❝ Please accept these gifts from my own personal collection, as a token of my thanks for this wonderful celebration - and as an ode to our newly blossoming courtship. ❞

Her view of the Chinese started and ended only with zeal. She had met Yicheng’s husband, Jianjun, whilst in Lisbon for the second summit; there she had breached a timid style of understanding and informalities that led her to extend her arms towards the rest of them. An Empire to rival (perhaps) her father’s, they were certainly due the insistent comradery of the young Sultana, who took to politics with friendly smiles and daring embraces. She had also met her younger brother at a dance, a brother who had taken her with a similar kindness she also bestowed upon anyone she dared to meet. What she didn’t know however, was that Yicheng had her own folly with a mutual friend — Prince Thomas of England.

In any case, she fed the Princess a lokum — her grin as wide as it could be as Yicheng flourished Mihrimah with praise. Only when she procured gifts worthy of her station, did the Sultana drop back with surprise. She had not expected gifts, it had never been part of her ploy.

“Oh!” She gasped, her hands raised to cover her mouth in shock before lowering herself to cradle the fine silks. “I had not — I did not —” She began, the Sultana finally at a loss for words before she put them aside with delicate intention. “Thank you, thank you so much. I will have them made into dresses, a fine and clear gift to express the relationship between China and the Ottoman,” Mihrimah mused, her fingertips running upon the surface of such woven garments before taking Yicheng’s hand with similar delicacy.

“Do you know of the Odyssey? The meddah begins his performance soon, and I would love to sit by your side when they mention the dire sirens.”

[mihrimahsultan]

queenalexandrina​:

It was obvious to all that the sultana had brought a piece of her home directly to an old French convent and upon stepping into its splendor, Alexandrina felt suddenly shaken by a deep sense of yearning. She missed the court of Aragon where she had grown up and she missed her family’s traditions, the sensations she associated with home, centuries of history cast out in a few short years left only to exist as increasingly faded memories. Indeed, before death came to claim her, she would see the Trastàmara restored and if she could not muster up another pointless war as some wished then other avenues would have to be explored. Finding favor in the influential Ottoman Empire could prove an opportunity and while the queen was certain her invitation was merely a formality due to her position as acting-hostess, she was determined to make the best of it and grateful for an evening away from men and their exhausting nature.

“Well, I certainly never thought I’d find this drafty old convent a comfort much less beautiful but this is…I have yet to find the words, truly!” Alexandrina exclaimed as she leaned against prettily embroidered pillows, the skirts of her gown billowing around her where she reclined. Plump lips parted, happy to accept the proffered sweet, unable to contain her smile as a rosewater flavored confection piqued her tastebuds, having always been at the mercy of a voracious sweet-tooth. “Oh, dear, now that I have tried such a treat I fear my craving shall never cease! My poor mother, I used to vex her so by stealing sugared juniper berries from our table but now I believe they pale in comparison to this delight. I do thank you kindly for extending your invitation and sharing such lovely customs with us all, sultana. I’ve come to learn that the French can be very set in their ways and they, or perhaps I shall have to say we, often require a push in the right direction.” The queen had to resist the urge to roll her eyes, for while she tried her hardest to assimilate with the courtiers she now presided over, they were prone like many to nasty gossip and if the Spanish queen was not spared than neither were King Philip’s guests from abroad. It would all change, once her reign was cemented and the name of Queen Alexandrina became synonymous with French ascendency for then she would be the one dictating what was considered popular or fashionable in Paris and no one would dare contradict her. “Fear not, there will be nary an unkind word from the jealous women of my court, not if they wish to remain in the good graces of myself and the king.”

There was no question whether Mihrimah would invite the Queen herself — but she had not simply asked her Royal Majesty because of her delicate throne. No, she had wondered  whether a simple invitation would do her justice. After all, Alexandrina was the daughter of a royal kingdom one squandered to history and the superior rule of her cousins of Cordoba. Yet, she felt no ill will towards her; and hoped that an olive branch would invite the Queen (still young when compared to others) to smother distaste and ill relations, but to in fact cultivate a, perhaps needed, friendship.

Popping the Turkish candy between her lips, Mihrimah laughed and slapped her lips together, humming out loud for her to hear as they sat atop of the many well fluffed cushions that scattered her beloved Harem. “You like it? How wonderful!” Mihrimah gasped, looking to her translator for aid — it did not matter if Mihirmah spent all day practising her foreign tongues, it seemed that there was always something she’d miss.

“It seems that we both have sweetened tongues,” Mihrimah grinned,  spreading her skirt round her, pooling herself in the richest of purples before turning to face the Queen in her entirety — offering her the undivided attention of a burning Sultana. “My thanks, your Majesty. But I am glad to report that I personally have only had a grand experience in Paris — everyone has been rather kind, and I continue to spread the good will from my homeland,” she retorted, her smile soft; though uneasy without a veil to cover her. 

But, if she was to extend such familial hands to the surrounding women, then she would put herself on display as a sister; a fellow friend for each and every one of them. Taking her hand into both of their own before her translator had finished the decoding, Mihirmah paused  her gaze round and eager, as if to look past Alexandrina and into a wealth of memory. “What is it like? To be Queen? I am sure that the culture divide wasn’t so far from your own but -—to become a Queen… you must feel the weight of the people on your shoulders!”

[mihrimahsultan]

STATUS: closed to @isabelofyork​ LOCATION: Couvent des Celestins TIMESTAMP: March 1459, Mihrimah’s celebration. 

Her heart leapt as the guards of the converted convent called the English’s Queens name. Mihrimah had thought that such a figure would’ve overlooked her invitation; but, she had heard whispers that she had her own ties within the Empire, but mostly due to her education. Alas, Mihrimah was overjoyed to see her, and bowed her head slightly to welcome her into her makeshift Harem. “Your grace,” she called, her hands joined, her veil pushed back to reveal the true features that graced her. “Thank you for coming, I’m overjoyed to welcome you into my celebration of the Ottoman Empire,” Mihrimah announced in English; much to the shock of her translator who stood in the wings.

In truth, she had been practising such a tongue to make private conversation with the Queen’s first-born son; the legitimised Prince of England. It was shameless, but ambitious, for Mihrimah to try and converse with his mother; but, her heart was swollen for him and his family, eagerly grappling at the strands of York she could see, to make herself known and perhaps even a viable offer as a noble bride. Hopping from one foot to the other, the young Sultana gestured for the Queen to follow — her hands outstretched as she put the cuisine on display. “Here, I had various sherbats prepared for the day. Cherry, pomegranate, citrus… My favourite thus far has been the pomegranate. I feel as bold as a Persephone when I taste it. Would you like to try some?”

[mihrimahsultan]

thebeloveduke​:

          “Is it so plain upon me?” Nikita responded to her assertion, a smile on his face as he jested in response, looking down at himself as to observe what made it so obvious. The Rurik siblings, barring Rudolf, all looked the same, a mark of their father’s upon them. Dark hair, pale skin, and eyes that although varied in color seemed all be the darker shade of their professed hue. It made them, at times, unmistakeable. If someone had met another of his siblings, it became easy to pick the other members of their blood out of a crowd. “I applaud you on your accurate guess then, your Highness, although now I wonder if you have the high ground by what else you can observe about me,” he continued, again in good faith and in a happy tone. Reading people had been a happy byproduct of understanding the body language of horses, the same skills mapping over to human nature more oft than not. It appeared he had met another who could place someone without a single word.

     As she lowered her gaze from him, Nikita could not help but also look to his feet, scuffing a boot against the step, feeling as though he invaded upon something as the ladies exchanged glances and giggled. A light flush appeared on his cheeks. He found himself captivated, Mihrimah so different from those he had encountered in the past, only because he felt himself lesser for not knowing about his neighbors to the south. 

     “I am afraid I have not met your mother - a disservice on my part to both of our countries. I now regret working with various ambassadors from your country instead of meeting with your family directly.” The young Duke had heard tales of the Ottoman Empire, some covered in bias more than others. His mother had fled from the area after the fall of Byzantium, her words tinged with nothing but harshness for the Empire that existed there now. However, meeting the Sultana and hearing stories during his time working on the trade negotiations - as well as knowledge of his mothers less than stellar ability at accurate storytelling - made him even more intrigued as to the country. Ivan’s pursuit of alliance with the nation was in his mind, but natural curiosity into the woman and the ways of her culture also piqued his interest.

     When her smile turned on him after she finished looking upon the great Cathedral, he could not help but catch its contagiousness, giving her a smile in return. Although his heart pained from the occurrences of late, her joy was almost infectious. Not enough to forget why his hair was lopped short, his cheeks more pale, but enough to make him feel more at peace for even a moment in her company, the companionship with someone who he desired to know about both politically and socially. 

     Joining her as she walked, careful not to step on any of her flowing gown, Nikita gave a slightly nervous laugh, “I was at the summit, although I arrived late after handling a matter for my brother. From what you say though, perhaps we were fated to meet now instead, for the agreement between our countries has given me a renewed appreciation for out companionship. I must confess, I find myself ignorant to much beyond the basics of what your ambassadors told me. I would be honored if you were to tell me more about your home, as I hear it is something full of wonder, and a shame that I have yet to visit despite our proximity.”

 And so it had been a lucky guess that led Mihrimah to gain one single point in the rally between strangers. Though she knew little else of the other, she rolled back onto her soft heels and held herself before him as she would do with anyone else — as a Sultana, as a product of leisure and duty. Fingers interlaced, she pursed her lips and hummed from beneath their falling.

A hand reached out to rest upon the wall to her side, studying her as she rose her head to look towards the clouds; keep and eager eyes searching the gargoyles that sat above in wait for something. With her concentration she silently deduced that they were ugly creatures guarding the building from Infidels that just so happened to be, in this stance, her. She wondered what would happen if she entered — would they hop from their foundation to swoop below? Would they grasp her hair and silk, to carry her off for judgement? She laughed a little, muffling the sound with her hand from beneath her veil — deciding quietly, internally, to create a weaving or an image of it for her younger sisters. 

 By his side, Mihrimah lowered her gaze, listening as she inspected his way of speech. She watched as his lips moved, as his eyes wandered and his nose angled towards the pavement in fear of stepping upon her gown. Beneath the clouds of Paris she thought him quite handsome; for she knew due to her curiosity that her father and Valide had spoken at various lengths of a burning suitor from Russia. She didn’t know if it was to be the man before her — but he would be a relation, and would hold some sort of his features and affairs. With her hands laced, Mihrimah rolled her shoulders and straightened herself — only lowering her gaze to look at her feet once the dark of his eyes landed upon her. 

“Indeed it is, my lord. But I wouldn’t know where to start… the Ottoman Empire is a pleasure of treasure and wonder — the heat is where I thrive and the coast is where I find peace. You must visit, in fact I implore you to! After all, how can you exchange trade with my countrymen, without seeing its splendour?” Mihrimah asked, a brow raised from beneath the veil as her translator worked hard to decipher the language into fluid sentences. “What do you wish to know?”

[mihrimahsultan]

validemahidevran​:

x

  “Your heart lends you to sweetness – whilst I do not wish to disavow the tendencies which make me adore you….I must draw you, towards caution, for I cast a dark eye, towards the Shah. I have no faith that his intentions towards the Empire, are less than villainous; but if he were to fall beneath your spell, I would find the prospect, most useful. Paris is indeed, a dulled city when placed beside our glittering triumphs – Europe lacks our brilliance, my love. If you were to marry one of its men, you must promise me, you shall not let your light, be snuffed out. The Princess of England is a product of its very best, and trembles beneath the weight of its growing dissent.” In pleasing tones, Mihrimah spoke in the highest spirit, unperturbed by bashfulness and delighted at the prospect of shinning off before her grandmother; for her part, the reflex’s of her granddaughter’s spirit, dazzled the Valide.  Scenes of devotion and praise were her triumphs; for the Sultana, was a child of pleasure. “The Parisian proclivity towards celebration, shall bode well, for an exhibition of your beauties - a garden affair, perhaps.” 

    A keen relish for the dramatic had revealed itself as part of Mahidevran’s character; it gifted her a world of delight, to command Mihrimah’s attentions, to cherish and exercise her perceived wisdoms, on the matter of England. “Years ago, when I was a lady of burgeoning renowned; for your nene was too, once young. Did you care much, for Lisbon? England is the pale, storming sea, to its sunny shores.” Mindless chatter rendered the Valide listless; yet plotting the prospects of her grandchildren’s futures, expanded her wings, making her flush like a flower. “If he has half his mother’s countenance, I am resigned to the notion he’s a handsome and enthralling young man – worthy to some extent, of your attentions. Do you wish to conquer England, my love? It shall never be a matter of if …. my blood courses through your veins, and your mother’s beauty, flourishes with Osman refinement. Tell me, for I make all rules, null and void to nurture your happiness – what traits, best suit you in a partner? A man of physical strength, a man of written word? Your father believes himself a proprietor of both, but if he talked less and thought more, we would be in a far better place.” 

Large, dark eyes moved upward to gaze upon her most treasured grandmother, her hands clasped around Mahidevran’s knee with a precious grip. She had hoped to sway her view upon the Persian Empire, but perhaps one word from her granddaughter would never have been enough — perhaps she would need more to wash away the foundations that had led to years of unrest between such grand, overwhelming Empires. With an exhalation that had seemed torn within such toughened lungs, Mhrimah lifted herself up, a hand yet perched upon the Valide’s knee. In truth, she trusted her opinion — but would still seek kindness as a weapon, to manoeuvre the world of diplomats with nothing but golden charms and good will. “I promise, grandmother, to take your wisdom to heart. If my future aligns itself with their harsh worlds I will not surrender to its pressures. I will soar above, for you and the Sultan. For my family,” Mihrimah promised, taking her hand to kiss before pressing it against her forehead. 

 She moved herself to lean upon the various cushions, an elbow pressed upon its soft embrace as Mahidveran shared her knowledge on what would come if Mihrimah was to choose England as her future home. She listened, keen to envelop every whisper, before loosening herself with the stretch of her legs and arms — satin and silk pooling around her luxuriously; a child of pleasure she had been, a child of love and desire too — it would be a sin to find herself in the lap of misery come the yearning years of her future. After all, as a Sultana, she had been bred to believe so. 

 “He is as handsome as a Prince may come, grandmother. He wears wonderful dark curls, with wonderful entrancing eyes. But there has been no spoken, formal promise — only the whisper of what could be. I heard that the Kings have one wife and one sole partner to split their heart with. Would he only have eyes for me? I’d like that perhaps… To not fear losing his eye — even if I grow to become ugly, if I lose all my hair,” Mihirmah laughed, loosening her garments, so she could breathe and dream like a girl who was not due to be hurled to heartbreak. 

 Smoothing her silk skirts, Mihrimah hummed and played towards a fantasy of her own. The Valide may write her future with her pen of destiny, but Mihrimah would have to decide what she wanted from life. With a slight grimace, she wondered if England would be the home built for her noble feet. Whether she sought to conquer its grey halls and colder skies — or would rather stay within the folds of Islam and its teachings. With her cheeks full of discomfort, Mihrimah rose to meet her grandmother’s eye, and held herself tall before freeing the cushions. “I wish, above all else my Valide, to be loved… To love and be loved in return would be my utmost wish. Then, after that, perhaps I would prefer to rally support for your majestic grandson Murad and to serve my father, your unflinching son… Do you think England, with all its faults, would love me? Do you think they’d look to the Ottoman Empire? To help? I fear that even I would face dismissal.”

[mihrimahsultan]

STATUS: open to @scfiyc @ofmarquessa @crownedprxncess @sfcrzas @isabelofyork @ofshiraz @queenalexandrina @jvanas @drippedink @amiraofcordoba @mairinarurik​ LOCATION: Couvent des Celestins, Mihrimah’s celebration TIMESTAMP: March 1459

 The old quarters were alight with brass ensembles, the drapery of rich purples and the singing of the meddah who quoted the tales of Achilles, the Greek whom refused to leave the safe and isolated haven of his military tent. The room that was once the sanctuary to Catholic nuns, was transformed into an Islamic Palace; a central hearth to the Imperial Harem of the Sultan.

Mihrimah, sat upon the floor, surrounded by luxurious pillows embroidered in geometric designs, with her veil pushed back, as it always was when she kept herself within the security of the Harem. It was surely a sight to be seen, for the room was cloaked in colour and riches — leaving it to seem almost mystical, the very room becoming a peek into what Mihirmah’s upbringing had always been. The shapes, tastes and sounds were what formed the young Sultana, and what brought her to this moment, sat with only a handful of the ladies who had come to Paris’ summit.

“What do you think?” She asked, her eyes alight, as she reached forth to pluck a piece of Lokum, placing it between her lips with a slow motion — savouring the taste before her eyes widened in delight. She had hoped to dispel any foul rumour about the Harem, to let such grand and prestigious women into the Ottoman way of life. With the pop of her lips, Mihrimah reached forth to take another slither of Lokum between her fingers, gesturing for the other to open their mouth. “Do you like it?” 

[mihrimahsultan]

‘ mirhimah sultan, daughter of his imperial majesty sultan iskender, invites guests of king philip of france to join her in a feast to celebrate the multiplicity of her empire’s wonders.

Mihrimah had heard whispers of what people assumed the harem and the Ottoman Empire to be - and to be frank, she was upset. And so, she invited ten prestigious guests; all of whom hail from different lands, who may find some solace in her display of Ottoman tradition. With cuisine, entertainment and good conversation, Mihrimah hopes to celebrate her culture in both the name of her father the Sultan and to seek answers from her own soul, which have put in question what she yearns for from life. 

If you have been invited, this is what is on offer and what you may include in your own threads/graphics/self-paras/w/e !!

GUEST LIST: 

Princess Safiya of Cordoba Crown Princess Marquessa of Portugal Princess Yicheng of China Lady Isabella of Milan Queen Isabel of England Zeynab Shirazi of Persia Queen Alexandrina of France Queen Mother Juana of Scotland (Princess of Castile) Princess Antoinette of Sardinia Lady Amira of Cordoba  Grand Duchess Irina of Russia

ENTERTAINMENT:

Classical music (makamlar, mehteran, brass emsembles) Traditional Ottoman dance (one of the more popular pastimes in the Harem) Meddah (one person story teller) performances of the Odyssey & the Illiad (throughout the day) and Layla & Majnun (evening) Weaving! (Mihrimah is a keen weaver, making portraits out of thick wool at her distinction level. But, for this, there will be more beginner classes on carpets/wall hangings...)

CUISINE: 

Turkish Coffee Ayran (yogurt drink) Sherbat (spice cold fruit drink) Lokum (Turkish delight) Seker (Candies)

[mihrimahsultan]

A FLOTILLA OF OTTOMAN SHIPS MOORED ominously at the port of le havre on a brisk february morning –– unbeknownst to those gazing upon them, they harboured all manner of precious ottoman artifacts, including: musicians from the topkapı palace, dancers, storytellers, appetizing delicacies, and opulent decorations. after a fortnight, caravans filled with these imported accoutrements arrived to transform the couvent des célestins from top to bottom in magnificent hues of velvet, gold, deep purples and glimmering quicksilvers. finally, cariyes serving mihrimah sultan could be seen dashing between royal palaces, convents, and castles, each carrying a slip of parchment filigreed with gilt more coveted than the next: ‘ mirhimah sultan, daughter of his imperial majesty sultan iskender, invites guests of king philip of france to join her in a feast to celebrate the multiplicity of her empire’s wonders. ’ the guest list is as exclusive as it is formidable, with only a handful of eurasia’s influential women joining the sultana to take part in traditional dances, observing the extraordinary craft of a renowned meddah as he performs afresh from the odyssey and illiad; surrounding each activity are fantastic conversations, a sumptuous feast, and a titillating reimagining of layla and majnun. all the while, guests are encouraged to sip from priceless porcelain, indulge in specialties of the sultana’s homeland––such as coffee, ayran, sherbet, lokum, and seker––and marvel at the magic of the ottoman empire as it unfolds before them well into the early hours of morning … 

Keep reading

[mihrimahsultan]

week total : 115 complete total : 1390

points page   /   point tag.

[mihrimahsultan]

STATUS: closed to @prince-wen​ LOCATION:  Couvent des Celestins, feasting hall TIMESTAMP: February 1459

 She lay in wait with her ladies and a guard, the latter loitering back against the stone covered wall to keep a watchful and loyal eye upon the Sultana who had invited the Chinese prince for Ottoman cuisine and sherbat. Sat with heavy lids, Mihrimah covered her hand to muffle a yawn — for the convent in which she lay her head and refused to allow the daughter of Iskender to sleep peacefully. She wondered, was it by heed of the Catholic spirits that haunted such a building? Or was it by the issue of her heart, that seemed torn this way and that by dire wish, loyalty or familiar duty?

“Prepare the sherbat for his Grace,” Mihrimah called to her closest companion, tapping clean nails upon the table before hearing approaching, light footsteps. She had met him on the dance floor; and what a gentle soul he had been. Without query or the approval of the Valide, she asked him to join her beneath the Couvent, in the feasting hall where the nuns and visiting men of the cloth would’ve dined before their Holy walls had become a place of sanctuary for the Islamic realm of the Ottoman Empire.

Once he was announced as the young Prince of the most beautiful China, Mihrimah rose to her feet and bowed her head; only lifting herself to look upon him through the sheer drapery of her veil. “Your Majesty, welcome. I wanted to express my gratitude; I would’ve been quite lonely if it hadn’t been for your kindness… Come, I had an assortment of delicacies prepared… I thought we could talk, bond our countries in a way. After all, it is quite rare to find a soul I find so familial so soon.”

[mihrimahsultan]

✿ (did I already do this? idk)

FRIENDSHIP.     childhood friends  /  work buddies or coworkers  /  family friends  /  friends with benefits  /  smoking buddies  /  adventure buddies  /  fake friends  /  recently friends  /  party buddies  /  friendship of need  /  dying friendship  /  circumstantial friendship  /  partners in crime  /  old friendship  /  [ your muse ] is the good influence  /  [ your muse ] is the bad influence  /  [ my muse ] is the good influence  /  [ my muse ] is the bad influence  /  opposites attract  /  ride or die  /  frenemies  /  roommates or flatmates  /  penpals  /  exes to friends  /  enemies to friends  /  other .

ROMANCE.     childhood sweethearts  /  [ your muse is mines ] childhood crush  /  [ my muse is yours ] childhood crush  /  exes  /  exes to lovers  /  forbidden lovers  /  highschool sweethearts  /  secret relationship  /  opposites attract  /  long distance  /  unrequited [ from your muses side ]  /  unrequited [ from my muses side ]  /  unrequited [ from both sides ]  /  skinny love  /  friends to lovers  /  enemies to lovers  /  spurious relationship  /  power couple  /  newly entered  /  soulmates [ metaphorical ]  /  soulmates  [ literal ]  /  awkward  /  turning toxic  /  toxic love  /  cheating [ on your muse ]  /  cheating [ with your muse ]  /  other .

ANTAGONISTIC.     dangerous to each other  /  dangerous to others  /  unpredictable  /  rivals  /  petty  /  developing into sexual or romantic tension  /  based off family matters  /  based of off circumstance  /  based of professional matters  /  based off misunderstanding or lies  /  conflict of ideology  /  betrayal  /  hero - villain dynamic  /  enemies  /  fight club  /  friends turned enemies  /  lovers turned enemies  /  exes turned enemies  /  other .

[mihrimahsultan]

✿ (for zeynab)

FRIENDSHIP.     childhood friends  /  work buddies or coworkers  /  family friends  /  friends with benefits  /  smoking buddies  /  adventure buddies  /  fake friends  /  recently friends  /  party buddies  /  friendship of need  /  dying friendship  /  circumstantial friendship  /  partners in crime (!!!! PLEASE)  /  old friendship  /  [ your muse ] is the good influence  /  [ your muse ] is the bad influence  /  [ my muse ] is the good influence  /  [ my muse ] is the bad influence  /  opposites attract  /  ride or die  /  frenemies  /  roommates or flatmates  /  penpals  /  exes to friends  /  enemies to friends  /  other .

ROMANCE.     childhood sweethearts  /  [ your muse is mines ] childhood crush  /  [ my muse is yours ] childhood crush  /  exes  /  exes to lovers  /  forbidden lovers  /  highschool sweethearts  /  secret relationship  /  opposites attract  /  long distance  /  unrequited [ from your muses side ]  /  unrequited [ from my muses side ]  /  unrequited [ from both sides ]  /  skinny love  /  friends to lovers  /  enemies to lovers  /  spurious relationship  /  power couple  /  newly entered  /  soulmates [ metaphorical ]  /  soulmates  [ literal ]  /  awkward  /  turning toxic  /  toxic love  /  cheating [ on your muse ]  /  cheating [ with your muse ]  /  other .

FAMILIAL.     siblings [ half ]  /  siblings [ step ]  /  [ my muse ] is an older sibling figure to your younger sibling figure  /  [ my muse ] is a younger sibling figure to your older sibling figure muse  /  [ my muse ] is a parental figure to yours  /  [ my muse ] is a child figure to your muse  /  guardian figure  /  legal guardian  /  adoptive child  /  foster child  /  [ your muse ] is taken under mines wing  /  [ my muse ] is taken under yours wing  /  other .

ANTAGONISTIC.     dangerous to each other  /  dangerous to others  /  unpredictable  /  rivals  /  petty  /  developing into sexual or romantic tension  /  based off family matters  /  based of off circumstance  /  based of professional matters  /  based off misunderstanding or lies  /  conflict of ideology  /  betrayal  /  hero - villain dynamic  /  enemies  /  fight club  /  friends turned enemies  /  lovers turned enemies  /  exes turned enemies  /  other .