- Pronouns
- He
[X] Plan: Easy Living
We are a 3er son, we never deserve the presure that we are bearing
We are a 3er son, we never deserve the presure that we are bearing
Si Deus Nobiscum: A Polish-Lithuanian Scion Quest
- Thread starter Rolman
- Start date
- Mature Historic
[X] Plan: Easy Living
This plan is good for normalizing our psyche.
Maria is a wife in the most classic sense. Our emotional support and support, psychotherapist before psychotherapists. + There is confidence that during our absence she will not end up in a scandalous story (looks askance at the Ostrozhskys).
Lithuania will protect us from the bustle of the royal court, will allow us to get to know our people, and understand "what" we are fighting for.
courser - completely matches our temperament.
Fame can be earned, wealth can be captured, but it is nothing without will and determination. I don't see how Ostrozhskaya (who herself needs help) will solve our crisis.
Aesthetically, I like the Jesuits better, but this is also not a bad option.
This plan is good for normalizing our psyche.
Maria is a wife in the most classic sense. Our emotional support and support, psychotherapist before psychotherapists. + There is confidence that during our absence she will not end up in a scandalous story (looks askance at the Ostrozhskys).
Lithuania will protect us from the bustle of the royal court, will allow us to get to know our people, and understand "what" we are fighting for.
courser - completely matches our temperament.
Fame can be earned, wealth can be captured, but it is nothing without will and determination. I don't see how Ostrozhskaya (who herself needs help) will solve our crisis.
Aesthetically, I like the Jesuits better, but this is also not a bad option.
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[X] Plan: The Family
Solarstream
It's all in the cards
- Location
- Zombie World
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Plan: Easy Living
Kir the Wizard
The Sun King
- Location
- Ukraine
[X] Plan: Easy Living
Seems like it's more fitting, however....
[X] Plan: The Family
Will certainly lead to great political upheaval and interesting alliances.
Seems like it's more fitting, however....
[X] Plan: The Family
Will certainly lead to great political upheaval and interesting alliances.
I'm a sucker for power... Considering the king is not going to be our friend it seems reasonable to sure up support amongst our most powerful potential allies. Also this would probably make the family happy.
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[x] Plan: The Family
- [x] Princess Elżbieta Ostrogska.
- [x] Dubinki and Wilno.
- [x] destrier.
- [x] The Franciscans
- [x] Princess Elżbieta Ostrogska.
- [x] Dubinki and Wilno.
- [x] destrier.
- [x] The Franciscans
“Memento Amori.” June 26, 1573. Dubinki Castle, Grand Duchy of Lithuania
- Location
- United States
It's a funny thing: you hardly remember the wedding itself. You remember her coming with the dowry easily enough, how she wore her finest pearls, hair done up like an Italian, waiting with a smile. A full chest of gold and silver, a village's worth of serfs, some courser mares for Sztylet to establish a bloodline, a set of silver cutlery and cups, dresses for all of Mariana's ladies-in-waiting. It was humble, all things considered. Nothing like the tracts of the land that would've come with Princess Ostrogska.
But the ceremony was just too much; all of Wilno turned out in the streets and you hated it. Orthodox and Catholic clerics waving incense and flicking holy water, long readings of scripture, the sensation of every eye on you; peculiar, it is, the sensation is very different from those of your speeches. An itch-inducing sensation. Tomorrow is your birthing day.
And you hardly remember the feast, too, for that matter, as you ritualistically met gift with gift. Not much decorous downtime to speak with your new wife, ironically, and the dances were stiff and nothing like the flirtation of your first meeting. The food was the best money could buy. As was the wine — you knew that much.
No. What stands out clearly is when the night wound down, when you were left alone with the fresh-blessed marriage bed, the last of the revelers winding down outside. You were praying at the bed's foot when she entered. Praying while drunk, Goddamn you.
She took out the pins and you saw her hair down for the first time — before this was the first time without a headscarf. Less blonde and more honey-colored, the way it caught in the candlelight.
She began to take out her earrings, remove the necklaces, untie her corset. "I know how it works, you know," she says. Your stomach drops. "I stole an anatomist's book once."
Your mouth is slightly agape. Your head spins from more than just wine. You're not sure if you're being charitable or covering for yourself: "we don't have to."
She shrugs and snorts. "Well, you're the husband, and this is how any good marriage starts…" the corset comes off and you can see her real curves, trim on her frame but still there. She begins working on the dress itself, exposing the plain canvas shift beneath. She smiles. You think she's trying to hide some nerves of her own.
And you love watching it, knowing you'll be in this together, you feel a blooming, a heat; but something also is in your chest. It is pushing, gnawing, making your heart pound in all the wrong ways. You lose feeling in your hands and feet and your nose is numb. Your breathing quickens. Your lungs feel as if you have the flux again, wheezing and tight. You slump over the bed, landing on your elbows.
You stare at her and she stares at you. She smiles again. "What?" she asks. "Am I that..?" She chuckles. Her expression drops. "What?"
You try to talk but they're not words. You try again. And you begin to cry. She comes over with haste, wordless, and begins to massage your shoulders. "My lor— Stanisław, God be the judge for us, so if for some reason you don't want to… We can wait, He won't mind a little wait…"
You sob and try to get words out as the shaking begins. Your lips move and words come out but they're not words. This normally only happens during the quiet hours, when you're falling asleep or waking up. "No! No! It's not that — I do! That's the problem!" You climb onto the bed and make yourself small. "Crying! Look at me — crying! In front of you, in front of everybody! On my wedding night." In front of everybody? Why'd you say that?
She studies you with concern. "What do you mean?"
"I cannot be happy! It's like the pan fills up but goes off before I can get the shot down the barrel, I-I-I—"
"You were smiling out there. You weren't happy?"
"No– er– yes– I don't know! I couldn't focus. Everything was loud and everyone was staring."
"Please, Stanislaw, everyone gets rattled at a feast from time to time, I wouldn't—"
You beat your fists on the mattress as your nose runs. You care not about appearance. "You're not understanding! You're not understanding."
"I'm sorry." Nobody can think of what to say. It feels like a minute. She volunteers: "is it about something?"
"I'm not sure. I've been like this for as long as I can remember but… You know how my face was all mangled after I fought those outlaws?"
She keeps rubbing your shoulders. "God, how could I forget?"
"It's because one of them got on top of me. Tried beating me, strangling me. And I feel him still. Every night."
"Like the…" she gives an emphatic squeeze. "Like the Night Mare?"
"Yes. But so much worse. I see him when I'm awake. I can never move. I…. And I feel the bone in my neck crush and…"
"Oh, Stanisław." She slinks around you, hops up onto the bed and meets your eyes in a squat. She cups your face and you wince involuntarily. "But he didn't kill you. You're alive. With me." She gives you a gentle shake. "You're married now."
You shake your head. "There's just nothing I can do. Maybe I was meant to die—"
"Careful with that talk!" she seems serious. "There's no use questioning God; all it does is bring unwanted attention." She changes to a little grin, but her eyes are calculating something. "You know, you were speaking. Just now. As you were… fainting?"
"I try to talk and it doesn't work."
"But— but they were words." She looks up at the ceiling. "Like the Gift of Tongues? You know…" She quotes Corinthians: "indeed, no one understands him…"
"…for his soul speaks in mysteries." You know it, too. "Maybe." It feels strange to ask: "Have you ever seen God?"
"When I was a little girl, I saw angels everywhere." She looks a little sheepish. "I cried to the priest because I thought it meant I was a witch. I don't know where they went, but he said it meant I was blessed."
"I saw an angel too, once." You read her face. She's listening, of course. "Just last year, actually." Now she's really listening.
You tell her of the Reaping Angel in the doorway on your deathbed aboard the ship, of the relit candle. "Sometimes I feel watched. Like I'm under some sort of aegis."
"But it doesn't ever say 'not yet?' You don't know how you should die?"
"No."
"And you won't give up?"
"No."
"Then it's all just a test of His."
She kisses you. This is the first time. With anybody, that is. You thought it would feel warmer. Kiss back, fool!
You do. They arc into a few more, a push and pull. She draws away. "I saw you at the feast and knew you were special." She wipes your snot off her face, unperturbed, with a giggle.
"I…"
"We've both seen angels!" Her hands leave your cheeks and gently rake your hair. "Don't cry when there's angels about. It's all just a test."
"It's all just a test," you repeat. You're beginning to get a grip, but still feel numb; you can't tell if you're shaking.
"I'm glad you're getting a confessor; he'll know what to do, this isn't the place for wives."
"You're more than a wife."
Mariana beams her biggest smile yet. "Oh, come now. It's been a day and we've met, what, thrice?"
You scoff through your tears. "Well, whatever this is, there's a place for you in it."
"Are you ashamed to cry in front of a woman?"
"I was," you say, drying your eyes.
Another kiss. You're readier this time. "But..?"
"But you've seen angels, too." You sigh. "It means I'm not going insane."
She looks a little scandalized. Playful, that is. "And we've caught Pius doubting the Lord's work!"
"And you don't at times?"
"Oh, everyday," she laughs. "I mean, look at the world–"
"Finally–"
"Look at it! Any child could ask why it'd be that God would let Livonia be ravaged, why He'd let anywhere be ravaged."
"This is what I've been saying!"
She laughs into it. "But you clearly don't pray enough! You don't look about and take in, I don't know, the way a tree branches out like a hand, like the veins under the skin. I'm not accusing you…"
You shake your head. Please, Mariana. "Oh, that's it, looking at trees will make me forget that man atop me and…"
"Don't– aw, well, you know, I don't mean to make light of anything." She extends her hands. "Come now, up you go."
You sit limp. It's not like you're genuinely pouting; everything just feels heavy. She lays flat and starts trying to heave you up. "Come now, Stanisław, I'm sorry, truly…"
Her shoulders pop in unison! You're laughing. You clench and unclench your fist – it's back. You end up sitting beside her, unfolding your once-jellied legs. She rubs your back and presses the top of her head into your cheek. You can smell the scented oils on her, rosemary and lavender and something from the Indies. The warmth of her shoulder. You focus on your own breathing as silence descends.
"Let me see your hand," she says; you realize you've been gripping the tails of your tunic white-knuckled. She exhales through her nose. "I was looking for blood."
"From my nails digging..? Oh, nails…" you snort. You snort at God.
"Do make sure you're not joking," she teases. Yet you very much want to make sure you're not joking. "What I saw, what I saw on your face and in your eyes…"
"What, you think that–"
"Yes. I know you haven't much faith at the moment, but don't forget the ship. What you just told me." She wraps her arms loosely around your shoulders. She leans in close to your ear. "Do trust a woman's intuition. There's something special about you."
You're numb enough to parry. "Pffp. You're a seductress."
"I'm not talking about loving you. You… You shot that deer on our hunting trip but I saw the way you look at birds." She withdraws. "It's alright, much has happened tonight."
"Poetic." You look at her. "What's it mean?"
She smiles. It's of a softer kind. "It's hard to explain. You… appreciate things."
A chat with van Gistel and Marszowski and your brothers – they talk about killing how peasants do slaughtering goats. Why does Sin seem to weigh so much more heavily upon you?
"I don't know what to say."
"Then let's to bed. I'm sorry if I'm not making sense." Mariana begins to climb back on the bed with a hand around your wrist; you come with her. Your head hits the pillow and immediately things seem far away. You finally, truly exhale. Lead-heavy. All of you. "Let me get out of my skirt and hose and shoes and things," she says. She leaves your view and you miss her as your eyes fall shut of their own accord.
You awaken unable to breathe, a horrible pain and pushing about your neck. You feel cold sweat and your eyes bulge out of your head and try to adjust to the light. You swing up to punch but cannot move your arms, you try and fail to buck your hips or kick or do anything. You're completely frozen as the silhouette manifests above you. He reeks of a man who lives in the forest and survives by killing. He is working on you right now. You cannot scream nor speak nor even whisper prayers as tears singe across the cool of your face. Your vision turns pinholes and pinholes into a telescope held in reverse and crack!
You're born again; you're screaming. "Stanisław!" Mariana. "Stanisław." You recoil at the hand that touches your face. "Stanisław." She shushes you and wriggles up to you. You're not under the covers but she is. In fact, you're fully clothed. She whispers calming words as you come back into your body.
You sit up. Your breathing grows less ragged. You look for moonlight out the window and can find none.
"I didn't want to move you," she says. "I thought it was for the best that you fell asleep so fast. You should get under the covers."
You do so mechanically, without undressing. She says nothing. You sigh and rub your face and stare at the ceiling. "It was the brigand," you say.
"I know." You feel a hand reach out and touch you around the ribcage, swiping your cloak aside to rest it on the fabric of your tunic. You exhale and rest your palm atop the back of her hand. "God is with you, Stanisław. It's all going to be alright."
You reach out to touch her and recoil back. "Cold!" she hisses, kicking her feet. She stifles a laugh. "What?" she splutters, "we're married!"
You know what you want to do but aren't quite sure how. You send out a fumbling hand.
"Cold, cold," she giggles, pulling your hand up against her and into the heat of her torso, you're not sure where. "At least warm them up."
You laugh from a place of indecision. She tenses under you as you move the hand around, slowly, tentatively – is it the cold or is she really tensing? – soft shoulder, the bump and dip of the collarbone, a gently vein-ridged neck. She guides your other hand to what must be her sternum.
"Why so far away?" You can tell she's smiling, even in the dark. You wriggle closer. "Kiss me."
You do.
But the ceremony was just too much; all of Wilno turned out in the streets and you hated it. Orthodox and Catholic clerics waving incense and flicking holy water, long readings of scripture, the sensation of every eye on you; peculiar, it is, the sensation is very different from those of your speeches. An itch-inducing sensation. Tomorrow is your birthing day.
And you hardly remember the feast, too, for that matter, as you ritualistically met gift with gift. Not much decorous downtime to speak with your new wife, ironically, and the dances were stiff and nothing like the flirtation of your first meeting. The food was the best money could buy. As was the wine — you knew that much.
No. What stands out clearly is when the night wound down, when you were left alone with the fresh-blessed marriage bed, the last of the revelers winding down outside. You were praying at the bed's foot when she entered. Praying while drunk, Goddamn you.
She took out the pins and you saw her hair down for the first time — before this was the first time without a headscarf. Less blonde and more honey-colored, the way it caught in the candlelight.
She began to take out her earrings, remove the necklaces, untie her corset. "I know how it works, you know," she says. Your stomach drops. "I stole an anatomist's book once."
Your mouth is slightly agape. Your head spins from more than just wine. You're not sure if you're being charitable or covering for yourself: "we don't have to."
She shrugs and snorts. "Well, you're the husband, and this is how any good marriage starts…" the corset comes off and you can see her real curves, trim on her frame but still there. She begins working on the dress itself, exposing the plain canvas shift beneath. She smiles. You think she's trying to hide some nerves of her own.
And you love watching it, knowing you'll be in this together, you feel a blooming, a heat; but something also is in your chest. It is pushing, gnawing, making your heart pound in all the wrong ways. You lose feeling in your hands and feet and your nose is numb. Your breathing quickens. Your lungs feel as if you have the flux again, wheezing and tight. You slump over the bed, landing on your elbows.
You stare at her and she stares at you. She smiles again. "What?" she asks. "Am I that..?" She chuckles. Her expression drops. "What?"
You try to talk but they're not words. You try again. And you begin to cry. She comes over with haste, wordless, and begins to massage your shoulders. "My lor— Stanisław, God be the judge for us, so if for some reason you don't want to… We can wait, He won't mind a little wait…"
You sob and try to get words out as the shaking begins. Your lips move and words come out but they're not words. This normally only happens during the quiet hours, when you're falling asleep or waking up. "No! No! It's not that — I do! That's the problem!" You climb onto the bed and make yourself small. "Crying! Look at me — crying! In front of you, in front of everybody! On my wedding night." In front of everybody? Why'd you say that?
She studies you with concern. "What do you mean?"
"I cannot be happy! It's like the pan fills up but goes off before I can get the shot down the barrel, I-I-I—"
"You were smiling out there. You weren't happy?"
"No– er– yes– I don't know! I couldn't focus. Everything was loud and everyone was staring."
"Please, Stanislaw, everyone gets rattled at a feast from time to time, I wouldn't—"
You beat your fists on the mattress as your nose runs. You care not about appearance. "You're not understanding! You're not understanding."
"I'm sorry." Nobody can think of what to say. It feels like a minute. She volunteers: "is it about something?"
"I'm not sure. I've been like this for as long as I can remember but… You know how my face was all mangled after I fought those outlaws?"
She keeps rubbing your shoulders. "God, how could I forget?"
"It's because one of them got on top of me. Tried beating me, strangling me. And I feel him still. Every night."
"Like the…" she gives an emphatic squeeze. "Like the Night Mare?"
"Yes. But so much worse. I see him when I'm awake. I can never move. I…. And I feel the bone in my neck crush and…"
"Oh, Stanisław." She slinks around you, hops up onto the bed and meets your eyes in a squat. She cups your face and you wince involuntarily. "But he didn't kill you. You're alive. With me." She gives you a gentle shake. "You're married now."
You shake your head. "There's just nothing I can do. Maybe I was meant to die—"
"Careful with that talk!" she seems serious. "There's no use questioning God; all it does is bring unwanted attention." She changes to a little grin, but her eyes are calculating something. "You know, you were speaking. Just now. As you were… fainting?"
"I try to talk and it doesn't work."
"But— but they were words." She looks up at the ceiling. "Like the Gift of Tongues? You know…" She quotes Corinthians: "indeed, no one understands him…"
"…for his soul speaks in mysteries." You know it, too. "Maybe." It feels strange to ask: "Have you ever seen God?"
"When I was a little girl, I saw angels everywhere." She looks a little sheepish. "I cried to the priest because I thought it meant I was a witch. I don't know where they went, but he said it meant I was blessed."
"I saw an angel too, once." You read her face. She's listening, of course. "Just last year, actually." Now she's really listening.
You tell her of the Reaping Angel in the doorway on your deathbed aboard the ship, of the relit candle. "Sometimes I feel watched. Like I'm under some sort of aegis."
"But it doesn't ever say 'not yet?' You don't know how you should die?"
"No."
"And you won't give up?"
"No."
"Then it's all just a test of His."
She kisses you. This is the first time. With anybody, that is. You thought it would feel warmer. Kiss back, fool!
You do. They arc into a few more, a push and pull. She draws away. "I saw you at the feast and knew you were special." She wipes your snot off her face, unperturbed, with a giggle.
"I…"
"We've both seen angels!" Her hands leave your cheeks and gently rake your hair. "Don't cry when there's angels about. It's all just a test."
"It's all just a test," you repeat. You're beginning to get a grip, but still feel numb; you can't tell if you're shaking.
"I'm glad you're getting a confessor; he'll know what to do, this isn't the place for wives."
"You're more than a wife."
Mariana beams her biggest smile yet. "Oh, come now. It's been a day and we've met, what, thrice?"
You scoff through your tears. "Well, whatever this is, there's a place for you in it."
"Are you ashamed to cry in front of a woman?"
"I was," you say, drying your eyes.
Another kiss. You're readier this time. "But..?"
"But you've seen angels, too." You sigh. "It means I'm not going insane."
She looks a little scandalized. Playful, that is. "And we've caught Pius doubting the Lord's work!"
"And you don't at times?"
"Oh, everyday," she laughs. "I mean, look at the world–"
"Finally–"
"Look at it! Any child could ask why it'd be that God would let Livonia be ravaged, why He'd let anywhere be ravaged."
"This is what I've been saying!"
She laughs into it. "But you clearly don't pray enough! You don't look about and take in, I don't know, the way a tree branches out like a hand, like the veins under the skin. I'm not accusing you…"
You shake your head. Please, Mariana. "Oh, that's it, looking at trees will make me forget that man atop me and…"
"Don't– aw, well, you know, I don't mean to make light of anything." She extends her hands. "Come now, up you go."
You sit limp. It's not like you're genuinely pouting; everything just feels heavy. She lays flat and starts trying to heave you up. "Come now, Stanisław, I'm sorry, truly…"
Her shoulders pop in unison! You're laughing. You clench and unclench your fist – it's back. You end up sitting beside her, unfolding your once-jellied legs. She rubs your back and presses the top of her head into your cheek. You can smell the scented oils on her, rosemary and lavender and something from the Indies. The warmth of her shoulder. You focus on your own breathing as silence descends.
"Let me see your hand," she says; you realize you've been gripping the tails of your tunic white-knuckled. She exhales through her nose. "I was looking for blood."
"From my nails digging..? Oh, nails…" you snort. You snort at God.
"Do make sure you're not joking," she teases. Yet you very much want to make sure you're not joking. "What I saw, what I saw on your face and in your eyes…"
"What, you think that–"
"Yes. I know you haven't much faith at the moment, but don't forget the ship. What you just told me." She wraps her arms loosely around your shoulders. She leans in close to your ear. "Do trust a woman's intuition. There's something special about you."
You're numb enough to parry. "Pffp. You're a seductress."
"I'm not talking about loving you. You… You shot that deer on our hunting trip but I saw the way you look at birds." She withdraws. "It's alright, much has happened tonight."
"Poetic." You look at her. "What's it mean?"
She smiles. It's of a softer kind. "It's hard to explain. You… appreciate things."
A chat with van Gistel and Marszowski and your brothers – they talk about killing how peasants do slaughtering goats. Why does Sin seem to weigh so much more heavily upon you?
"I don't know what to say."
"Then let's to bed. I'm sorry if I'm not making sense." Mariana begins to climb back on the bed with a hand around your wrist; you come with her. Your head hits the pillow and immediately things seem far away. You finally, truly exhale. Lead-heavy. All of you. "Let me get out of my skirt and hose and shoes and things," she says. She leaves your view and you miss her as your eyes fall shut of their own accord.
You awaken unable to breathe, a horrible pain and pushing about your neck. You feel cold sweat and your eyes bulge out of your head and try to adjust to the light. You swing up to punch but cannot move your arms, you try and fail to buck your hips or kick or do anything. You're completely frozen as the silhouette manifests above you. He reeks of a man who lives in the forest and survives by killing. He is working on you right now. You cannot scream nor speak nor even whisper prayers as tears singe across the cool of your face. Your vision turns pinholes and pinholes into a telescope held in reverse and crack!
You're born again; you're screaming. "Stanisław!" Mariana. "Stanisław." You recoil at the hand that touches your face. "Stanisław." She shushes you and wriggles up to you. You're not under the covers but she is. In fact, you're fully clothed. She whispers calming words as you come back into your body.
You sit up. Your breathing grows less ragged. You look for moonlight out the window and can find none.
"I didn't want to move you," she says. "I thought it was for the best that you fell asleep so fast. You should get under the covers."
You do so mechanically, without undressing. She says nothing. You sigh and rub your face and stare at the ceiling. "It was the brigand," you say.
"I know." You feel a hand reach out and touch you around the ribcage, swiping your cloak aside to rest it on the fabric of your tunic. You exhale and rest your palm atop the back of her hand. "God is with you, Stanisław. It's all going to be alright."
You reach out to touch her and recoil back. "Cold!" she hisses, kicking her feet. She stifles a laugh. "What?" she splutters, "we're married!"
You know what you want to do but aren't quite sure how. You send out a fumbling hand.
"Cold, cold," she giggles, pulling your hand up against her and into the heat of her torso, you're not sure where. "At least warm them up."
You laugh from a place of indecision. She tenses under you as you move the hand around, slowly, tentatively – is it the cold or is she really tensing? – soft shoulder, the bump and dip of the collarbone, a gently vein-ridged neck. She guides your other hand to what must be her sternum.
"Why so far away?" You can tell she's smiling, even in the dark. You wriggle closer. "Kiss me."
You do.
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“The Rule.” July 1573.
- Location
- United States
You are weak. You are falling to pieces. Turn to God. Saul on the road to Damascus.
You are weak and falling to pieces by your own fault, of course, by your sinning mouth and hands and mind. You have killed, you have poisoned yourself, you have possessed thoughts of lust and rage and it is on account of these that you find yourself tested now.
The wolves in Paris still chase you in your dreams. And there is the one that comes now where you're hunted as a fox, dodging arrows and booming shot.
The headaches come near-daily. They make you bitter and tired – a threat to poor Mariana – and by dinnertime you're near-drunk and falling half-asleep. These things we know painfully well.
You know, she knows, they know, and now he knows. Friar Gosiewski. He speaks very little; when he does it is in the imperative, unadorned and harsh. He is never not clean-shaven, never not awake or asleep when he is meant to be.
You wanted a Benedictine because, as the months went on, as Mariana never fell pregnant, you felt increasingly as if you were under a curse of your own making. The days began to blend together in a haze of wine and wandering, wine and wandering, from the Castle to Wilno and back for no particular reason, nearly everyday. You took up throwing dice with the burghers, sipping spirits, and even downing ale like a commoner. It took vomiting on the table in front of a bunch of Swedes for you to face the facts: God is letting you slip down the cracks. The cracks of your own unwatered earth, perhaps. For too long you have relied on rote, you realize: Ave Marias and Pater Nosters and meditations before your shrine to the Mother.
Now is the time for action. For change. Friar Gosiewski is happy to oblige.
His small head peers at you from its nest of thick brown robes. "My child, tell me exactly what it is that ails you."
You stammer out the complaints: the drink, the headache, melancholia, the nerves, the nightmares. How the usual meditations and rituals no longer bring peace. How surgeons and physicians and alchemists and astrologers — you've tried them all.
He nods along, brow knit, hand on chin. "You are troubled indeed."
"Indeed."
"Tell me — what are your desires?"
You never really thought about it. You're always at the beck and call of others; their whims come first. It feels silly: "to make this go away. To feel happy again."
"Did you forget, though, son, that suffering is the highest of the holy mortifications? Happiness and the light of God are sisters, not twins."
"I'm a killer." You blurt it out. "And a liar and oath-breaker and I'm covetous and–"
"Many in your worldly profession are. Many among you have souls in crisis." He smiles. "Or else there would be no need for personal confessors." He clears his throat. "The stain of Adam and Eve has merely grown within you, my child, and the goodness of your soul rejects it. There is a war within yourself."
You grimace. "A kind of spiritual… expulsion, then?"
"Yes, much like when the body is sick. Tell me, what do you know of the Rule of Saint Benedict?" he asks.
"A bit… We examined the Church Fathers in my studies."
"Then you have so much more to learn, my child." He rises. "The Rule is a good and Godly one and it is one that must be lived. We will restore you to good health yet."
Here is the way that you have chosen to live, the way to which God has drawn you:
Remember that all good comes through Him. The good within yourself is merely held on credit.
Prayer for the eight Hours, never to be missed. A mixture of sleep in the daytime and wakefulness by night. Study of the Book, which you must keep with you at all times, ought to accompany these prayers. Memorize the right psalms for the right times.
A pound of white bread a day, less fruits and vegetables, and even less meat and fish. Two meals a day. Sleep no more than eight hours.
You are ordered – yes, ordered – to create a garden in Dubinki and to tend to it every day possible. You end up planting turnips, broad beans, and a medley of flowers.
No wine except for that which becomes the Blood. Beer once a day, to be drunk from a clay pitcher as a serf.
Give shelter to all pilgrims, vagrants, lunatics, cripples, orphans, and widows. Honor the elderly and protect the young.
Answer sin with shame and sorrow. Fasting, prayer, and isolation is the cure.
Hate all strife as the utmost sin. Put to rest conflict between men and most importantly quiet your own will, your pride, your anger – peace within oneself is surrender.
Avoid amusement. Avoid dancing and music. Avoid excessive laughter and the frivolities that provoke it.
Be chaste. Cleanse oneself upon engaging in impurities, even with your own wife.
Pray for your greatest faults. Pray on your murders and your cowardice in the face of the murder of others. Pray for your anger and envy and impatience.
That the Rule must be upheld as much as your princely station can allow.
And you commit yourself completely. All your Father says when he hears of this is: "I was young and fearful once."
Your head pounds for a week or a two. You sweat and jump out of your skin at any and everything. You shed weight as you shed the bunkum of alchemy and astrology, of Tatjana's old yarns. You survive on bread and water and tend to the garden all summer, giving yourself a peasant's tan. Mariana merely watches, spends more time with her ladies-in-waiting. Marszowski is pushed away. You crop your hair short and try to speak less. You begin to wear blue daily to honor the Virgin.
The Thirty-First Psalm becomes a favorite. The Parable of the Sheep and Goats. The Fourth Timothy.
You feel clean, yet in the mirror you can see your ribs with ease.
You are weak and falling to pieces by your own fault, of course, by your sinning mouth and hands and mind. You have killed, you have poisoned yourself, you have possessed thoughts of lust and rage and it is on account of these that you find yourself tested now.
The wolves in Paris still chase you in your dreams. And there is the one that comes now where you're hunted as a fox, dodging arrows and booming shot.
The headaches come near-daily. They make you bitter and tired – a threat to poor Mariana – and by dinnertime you're near-drunk and falling half-asleep. These things we know painfully well.
You know, she knows, they know, and now he knows. Friar Gosiewski. He speaks very little; when he does it is in the imperative, unadorned and harsh. He is never not clean-shaven, never not awake or asleep when he is meant to be.
You wanted a Benedictine because, as the months went on, as Mariana never fell pregnant, you felt increasingly as if you were under a curse of your own making. The days began to blend together in a haze of wine and wandering, wine and wandering, from the Castle to Wilno and back for no particular reason, nearly everyday. You took up throwing dice with the burghers, sipping spirits, and even downing ale like a commoner. It took vomiting on the table in front of a bunch of Swedes for you to face the facts: God is letting you slip down the cracks. The cracks of your own unwatered earth, perhaps. For too long you have relied on rote, you realize: Ave Marias and Pater Nosters and meditations before your shrine to the Mother.
Now is the time for action. For change. Friar Gosiewski is happy to oblige.
His small head peers at you from its nest of thick brown robes. "My child, tell me exactly what it is that ails you."
You stammer out the complaints: the drink, the headache, melancholia, the nerves, the nightmares. How the usual meditations and rituals no longer bring peace. How surgeons and physicians and alchemists and astrologers — you've tried them all.
He nods along, brow knit, hand on chin. "You are troubled indeed."
"Indeed."
"Tell me — what are your desires?"
You never really thought about it. You're always at the beck and call of others; their whims come first. It feels silly: "to make this go away. To feel happy again."
"Did you forget, though, son, that suffering is the highest of the holy mortifications? Happiness and the light of God are sisters, not twins."
"I'm a killer." You blurt it out. "And a liar and oath-breaker and I'm covetous and–"
"Many in your worldly profession are. Many among you have souls in crisis." He smiles. "Or else there would be no need for personal confessors." He clears his throat. "The stain of Adam and Eve has merely grown within you, my child, and the goodness of your soul rejects it. There is a war within yourself."
You grimace. "A kind of spiritual… expulsion, then?"
"Yes, much like when the body is sick. Tell me, what do you know of the Rule of Saint Benedict?" he asks.
"A bit… We examined the Church Fathers in my studies."
"Then you have so much more to learn, my child." He rises. "The Rule is a good and Godly one and it is one that must be lived. We will restore you to good health yet."
Here is the way that you have chosen to live, the way to which God has drawn you:
Remember that all good comes through Him. The good within yourself is merely held on credit.
Prayer for the eight Hours, never to be missed. A mixture of sleep in the daytime and wakefulness by night. Study of the Book, which you must keep with you at all times, ought to accompany these prayers. Memorize the right psalms for the right times.
A pound of white bread a day, less fruits and vegetables, and even less meat and fish. Two meals a day. Sleep no more than eight hours.
You are ordered – yes, ordered – to create a garden in Dubinki and to tend to it every day possible. You end up planting turnips, broad beans, and a medley of flowers.
No wine except for that which becomes the Blood. Beer once a day, to be drunk from a clay pitcher as a serf.
Give shelter to all pilgrims, vagrants, lunatics, cripples, orphans, and widows. Honor the elderly and protect the young.
Answer sin with shame and sorrow. Fasting, prayer, and isolation is the cure.
Hate all strife as the utmost sin. Put to rest conflict between men and most importantly quiet your own will, your pride, your anger – peace within oneself is surrender.
Avoid amusement. Avoid dancing and music. Avoid excessive laughter and the frivolities that provoke it.
Be chaste. Cleanse oneself upon engaging in impurities, even with your own wife.
Pray for your greatest faults. Pray on your murders and your cowardice in the face of the murder of others. Pray for your anger and envy and impatience.
That the Rule must be upheld as much as your princely station can allow.
And you commit yourself completely. All your Father says when he hears of this is: "I was young and fearful once."
Your head pounds for a week or a two. You sweat and jump out of your skin at any and everything. You shed weight as you shed the bunkum of alchemy and astrology, of Tatjana's old yarns. You survive on bread and water and tend to the garden all summer, giving yourself a peasant's tan. Mariana merely watches, spends more time with her ladies-in-waiting. Marszowski is pushed away. You crop your hair short and try to speak less. You begin to wear blue daily to honor the Virgin.
The Thirty-First Psalm becomes a favorite. The Parable of the Sheep and Goats. The Fourth Timothy.
You feel clean, yet in the mirror you can see your ribs with ease.
Last edited:
X: February 21, 1574-February 27, 1574. Wawel, Kraków, Polish Crownlands.
- Location
- United States
To see them made the difference of a year into an island. Their dress so similar to what you wore only recently, swaggering with their rapiers and peaked velvet hats and gold earrings, trousers billowing, faces recognizable and indeed familiar by name; these foreigners were family for a very long while. More than a few light up with recognition and wave – you reluctantly reciprocate – but no sign of Pierre d'Arces or the wise Seigneur de Montaigne or even the friendly wolf-man-oddity Gonsalvus give you reason to stay withdrawn.
After all, the new King is far from a friend, and possesses clout in mountains miles-high in his homeland. Any Frenchman could be a spy. You find it easy to be suspicious these days. What a rude awakening last year was.
You take it all in: one of Wawel's great halls brimming with a major portion of the French court. Their camp outside the city walls mixed with the nobles' and dignitaries' and lordling hustlers' to create a little city, a worthy rival to Warszawa's sejm camp. Who'd've thought of such a thing? The powdered faces of Paris mingling with mustachioed men in furs and long tunics, the Kraków streets flecked white with Western ruffs. We live in times of change indeed, times of danger. Times, you worry, of savagery. What will become of a Gallian Polonia? You feared that it could be nothing good.
Yet you wish you could've seen the entry of the Walezy column into the city; indeed, the sight was head-spinning, they say, banners and attendants and valets stretching for miles, carts full of silver and gold, the streets lined with every cast and caste of man, woman, and child. It certainly seemed like it could've been partly true. At least the coming of a tyrant was done with an evil fanfare, you thought to yourself darkly. For the people do always appreciate majesty.
Wherever he went, a little bubble would form around him. The King-elect would simultaneously attract and repel, pulling all men in a given radius close to him until they collide into the royal person's invisible wall some few feet shy of the body. It is a peculiar phenomenon you easily recall from France. Your hazy memories of Wawel in the days of Zygmunt August couldn't tell you anything about how things used to be. Hopefully such behavior is normal, and not distinct in its character.
More than once did you make eye contact with the Frenchman, and more than once did you both balk. The next day came with the seal unbroken.
Packed into Wawel Cathedral like salting fish, you took up a prime, princely position in pews close to the altar, sandwiched between your brothers and the brothers Zborowski. Regal Jan, proper Andrzej and the bulldog of a little brother, Samuel. They're introduced as friends of the family in the long wait for the beginning of the ceremony. The attention turns to you as brother Krzysztof mentions your years in France.
Samuel grunts. "Your Serene Highness, do tell us: how does such vanity exist beside bloody war?"
Andrzej smiles and gives the hand for 'you go, please.'
"I think it's because they're vicious from the cradle," you say; it's your honest answer, nevermind the exceptions. "The powdered faces and the golden everything is to hide themselves. It's not their fault."
"Oh?" asks Andrzej.
"I think when a man is born into war and opulence it's the only thing to be grasped in life." You scoff. "Half of them don't even learn Latin."
Andrzej chuckles. "It's rather exciting, isn't it, Your Serene Highness?"
"I beg your pardon, sir?"
"That we've elected a man from a race of wealthy, vicious fools to be our king." He smiles and crosses his arms. "We will play his favorite lute pieces as we pluck him."
Septimus is looking around saying "Careful, careful…" as Samuel laughs boisterously. Krzysztof calls Andrzej a good man.
"He's certainly out of his element," agrees Septimus, still waving for quiet.
"I don't know, sirs," you say, somehow dividing your eye contact amongst the four of them. "He's as smart as he is mean. Any man can be taken off-guard"
"Maybe so, Your Serene Highness," says Samuel, "but him and what army, eh?"
"You know, Your Serene Highness' cousin the Prince Court Marshal and I came upon him commanding a siege," says Jan, "bearing the big news for him, no less. Indeed, it was a good siege, but nevermind – we had him swear to the Confederation on the spot, right there in his tent. Like it was nothing. Such was the size of our delegation."
"Indeed. Stronger together," agrees Samuel. "The caving-in type."
"People-pleasing," you say, feeling like a hypocrite. "But he's strong! You've seen what he can do."
You must have summoned him – heads and turn and a wave of shushing fills the Cathedral as the musicians begin to play. Once-muffled cheering pours into the cathedral as its heavy doors open. The King enters.
The chorus swells in the singing of a psalm as the doors shut behind him, and you're able to lean out into the aisle: he looks, as ever, like Prince Alexandre, but something is changing in him. His coronation robes, his posture and soldierly forward march – he is the King. The King. You think him to be no King, yet the air somehow vibrates around him. He looks stately, his handsome face framed in gold thread, light dancing on his blemishless skin.
You turn your attention to the altar, the lightning rod between man and God. Father is somewhere up there, clustered among the most elite, hidden behind cardinal red and peacock feathers. You cannot see him. The Lord will bless this reign, hopefully, you think bitterly. For you and many others will do no such thing. The Archbishop presides over the crown jewels, waiting atop the altar. The King moves toward his traditional seat to await blessing and crowning. But right as he makes himself comfortable, a booming voice makes you jump in place.
"My King!" A thousand heads turn at once. The voice is close to you, across the aisle and not far from the front. People are shifting in one spot. "My King!"
The Frenchman looks around in a squat, eyes wide, half-sitting; he stands up again.
You recognize that voice! "My King, I have something for you to see!"
Lord Firlej emerges from the crowd, a scroll under his arm, clutching a quill and inkwell in one hand. He speedwalks up the aisle to meet the King. Alexandre makes sure to project. "And what may I– we, do for this subject?"
Cheers and jeers begin to emanate from the crowd. You clap your hands over your mouth in a bid to not laugh. The Zborowski brothers subtly pat each other on the back.
"In France it is said that Your Majesty did assent to our Confederation on the freedom of faith. So, sign, King, you promised! Before your loyal people!"
The King forces a snarling grin. "We shall sign it, surely. Is now the place, my lord?"
"Oh, but it is, King!" Cheers are beginning to defeat Firlej's hecklers. The Frenchman almost jogs in place. He says something inaudible, shakes his head, and quickly swipes the quill across the scroll. A large portion of those in attendance burst into applause. The bishops and cardinals sit with legs crossed, glaring.
"Cheer in your minds, sirs," says Septimus quietly. "But cheer loudly."
"I am a rude man!" declares Firlej, turning his attention to the cathedral at large. He's won. "Undeniably so. But with indecorous gusto shall we inform any man, King or not, of our laws and our privileges, and of our dedication to such!" He launches into a speech, the assembled lords losing themselves to sejm-style cheering and jeering. The Archbishop Uchański sits statuesque.
Andrzej Zborowski turns to you. "And this is exactly what I was hoping for," he says, beaming. "Welcome indeed to our nobles' republic."
The rising of the Archbishop to begin Mass cuts short Firlej's speech. The firebrand retreats into the crowd as the Catholics – yourself included – become much more serious. You're aware of its weaponization, but the ritual cannot be stopped and so comes the time for prayer and surrender. And may the surrender of any honorable nobleman belong only to God.
Such was the toast that night; you abandoned Friar Gosiewski's precepts to sin in celebration, eating every meat but chicken and washing it down with good wine.
You find Lord Firlej speaking with none other than Andrzej Zborowski – a fellow Protestant, you recall – and shake the former's hand heartily as he smiles through his beard.
"Now that was a show, Lord Firlej!" you say. "Way to show the man!" you manage to not curse.
He rumbles a laugh. "Hopefully, it'll make some woodblocks. But the rumor mill will do fine, too." He shakes your hand again. "Thank you, Your Serene Highness. And congratulations on your marriage"
Lord Zborowski gets a handshake as well. You remember Sierotka's rant on court life and exhale. The fatigue is growing. The headaches are still near-daily.
You take Lord Zborowski in before he speaks, goblet in hand: skinny and taller than you, the perfect opposite to his stout and short brother, he's got an odd, sort of bird-like handsomeness to him. He styles his mustache and beard into points. "Indeed, may God bless your union. You know, I'm surprised this is only the second time we've spoken, Your Serene Highness," he says. "After all, we both want a Habsburg."
No no no. The Zborowscy went hard for the French option from start to finish.
He studies you. "You weren't aware, lord prince? Well, it was a bit of a lost cause this election…"
The months have convinced you of the righteousness of the cause. See how he's pivoted. You grin. "After seeing such a shout-down, sir! As if the Emperor could ever tread on us."
"Precisely. As if there isn't everything to gain. We have our figurehead for now. I look forward to working with you, Your Serene Highness." He still looks friendly, but something's wavered in his tone. "May we take a walk, Your Serene Highness?"
You agree and excuse yourself from Firlej, who peers over his nose with interest, and find some alcove in a palace corridor to speak. "As you may or may not know, I'm rather close to the King, what with my being his traveling companion and all," explains Zborowski. "So I'm a bit of a minister to him, a representative of our will. And, as a favor for your standing up for the Emperor, I just wanted to warn you: the King is already quite upset with you. Both from some squabble in France, I'm told, and from your speech." He grimaces. "Which, obviously, he's heard about. Lord prince, I'll try and talk some sense into him, but you ought to prepare yourself."
"For what exactly, Lord Zborowski?"
"For something pointed, Your Serene Highness. Not quite sure yet."
You feel nervous yet the wine makes you not care. You joke to Firlej that you're going to be executed for your speech and he wishes you Godspeed. The morning after is when you truly begin to feel like your head is on the block. Your brothers and father worry for you. They remain in Kraków in solidarity.a
The King called upon you a week after his coronation, early in the morning. No warning from Zborowski.
"I think my head's on the block, Mariana," you tell her. "Anything could happen short of being arrested."
"They've got laws, Stanisław; I don't think anything is going to happen to the family. This won't be like Lublin."
"But then what do you think'll–"
"I think you're going to be gloated at, or scolded like a schoolboy, or maybe handed some sort of undesirable task." She speaks smoothly and clearly, quietly calming. She chuckles. "He's going to try and scare you."
"No… No… Maybe if this is one of our he-men. He's got some sort of plot, I know it."
She rolls her eyes. "Well, plot or not, he's the fish out of water, not you." she taps your nose. "Just remember that he may need you. Older brothers thrash little ones, but there's still a reliance." A kiss. "You'll be alright," she says.
Ten minutes' wait before the usher allows you to see His Majesty.
He does not rise when you enter the royal bedchamber; the King sits at his desk and rotates in his chair to face you. You bow deeply and he addresses you in French. "We are pleased to see you in good health again, Radzivilius Princeps. Or, we have been advised to use 'Your Serene Highness.'"
You're frozen up. "I am honored, Your Majesty," you say, as if to dip your toe in the water.
"We call upon you this day because we have further been advised that you are without office. We understand that an Imperial Prince ought not suffer such a fate, we think, and this realm is in need of passionate men for passionate work."
He grins. "However. And we care not if it leaves this room: in memoriam of your heroic stands for veritas et iustitia – for we figure you prefer Latin – we are in a rather stormy mood. Thus, your job shall be of a lowly nature for that of your birth and nature. You shall be an example. We also would wager that it will take a decent while for His Serene Highness to prove himself."
He cares not for your reaction."However, a friend has convinced us to offer you but one mercy. You may not know your office, but you may choose how to serve us. Shall you be in our household, shall you be as a steward, or shall you live in a soldier's tent?"
Zborowski's gesture of goodwill seems to have been genuine, even if he couldn't properly warn you. Why is he being your friend all of a sudden?
In any event, a (perhaps dis-)passion takes you over. It is time to either say what you want or say what you must. You reply:
[] "In Your Majesty's household."
Hellfire. Stay at Kraków under the King's thumb.
[] "As a steward of Your Majesty's."
Goddamn. Surely something dreary and provincial.
[] "In the armies of Your Majesty."
Damn his eyes. Either dangerous or boring.
[] "I shall have none of this, Your Majesty."
Oh? OH?!
After all, the new King is far from a friend, and possesses clout in mountains miles-high in his homeland. Any Frenchman could be a spy. You find it easy to be suspicious these days. What a rude awakening last year was.
You take it all in: one of Wawel's great halls brimming with a major portion of the French court. Their camp outside the city walls mixed with the nobles' and dignitaries' and lordling hustlers' to create a little city, a worthy rival to Warszawa's sejm camp. Who'd've thought of such a thing? The powdered faces of Paris mingling with mustachioed men in furs and long tunics, the Kraków streets flecked white with Western ruffs. We live in times of change indeed, times of danger. Times, you worry, of savagery. What will become of a Gallian Polonia? You feared that it could be nothing good.
Yet you wish you could've seen the entry of the Walezy column into the city; indeed, the sight was head-spinning, they say, banners and attendants and valets stretching for miles, carts full of silver and gold, the streets lined with every cast and caste of man, woman, and child. It certainly seemed like it could've been partly true. At least the coming of a tyrant was done with an evil fanfare, you thought to yourself darkly. For the people do always appreciate majesty.
Wherever he went, a little bubble would form around him. The King-elect would simultaneously attract and repel, pulling all men in a given radius close to him until they collide into the royal person's invisible wall some few feet shy of the body. It is a peculiar phenomenon you easily recall from France. Your hazy memories of Wawel in the days of Zygmunt August couldn't tell you anything about how things used to be. Hopefully such behavior is normal, and not distinct in its character.
More than once did you make eye contact with the Frenchman, and more than once did you both balk. The next day came with the seal unbroken.
Packed into Wawel Cathedral like salting fish, you took up a prime, princely position in pews close to the altar, sandwiched between your brothers and the brothers Zborowski. Regal Jan, proper Andrzej and the bulldog of a little brother, Samuel. They're introduced as friends of the family in the long wait for the beginning of the ceremony. The attention turns to you as brother Krzysztof mentions your years in France.
Samuel grunts. "Your Serene Highness, do tell us: how does such vanity exist beside bloody war?"
Andrzej smiles and gives the hand for 'you go, please.'
"I think it's because they're vicious from the cradle," you say; it's your honest answer, nevermind the exceptions. "The powdered faces and the golden everything is to hide themselves. It's not their fault."
"Oh?" asks Andrzej.
"I think when a man is born into war and opulence it's the only thing to be grasped in life." You scoff. "Half of them don't even learn Latin."
Andrzej chuckles. "It's rather exciting, isn't it, Your Serene Highness?"
"I beg your pardon, sir?"
"That we've elected a man from a race of wealthy, vicious fools to be our king." He smiles and crosses his arms. "We will play his favorite lute pieces as we pluck him."
Septimus is looking around saying "Careful, careful…" as Samuel laughs boisterously. Krzysztof calls Andrzej a good man.
"He's certainly out of his element," agrees Septimus, still waving for quiet.
"I don't know, sirs," you say, somehow dividing your eye contact amongst the four of them. "He's as smart as he is mean. Any man can be taken off-guard"
"Maybe so, Your Serene Highness," says Samuel, "but him and what army, eh?"
"You know, Your Serene Highness' cousin the Prince Court Marshal and I came upon him commanding a siege," says Jan, "bearing the big news for him, no less. Indeed, it was a good siege, but nevermind – we had him swear to the Confederation on the spot, right there in his tent. Like it was nothing. Such was the size of our delegation."
"Indeed. Stronger together," agrees Samuel. "The caving-in type."
"People-pleasing," you say, feeling like a hypocrite. "But he's strong! You've seen what he can do."
You must have summoned him – heads and turn and a wave of shushing fills the Cathedral as the musicians begin to play. Once-muffled cheering pours into the cathedral as its heavy doors open. The King enters.
The chorus swells in the singing of a psalm as the doors shut behind him, and you're able to lean out into the aisle: he looks, as ever, like Prince Alexandre, but something is changing in him. His coronation robes, his posture and soldierly forward march – he is the King. The King. You think him to be no King, yet the air somehow vibrates around him. He looks stately, his handsome face framed in gold thread, light dancing on his blemishless skin.
You turn your attention to the altar, the lightning rod between man and God. Father is somewhere up there, clustered among the most elite, hidden behind cardinal red and peacock feathers. You cannot see him. The Lord will bless this reign, hopefully, you think bitterly. For you and many others will do no such thing. The Archbishop presides over the crown jewels, waiting atop the altar. The King moves toward his traditional seat to await blessing and crowning. But right as he makes himself comfortable, a booming voice makes you jump in place.
"My King!" A thousand heads turn at once. The voice is close to you, across the aisle and not far from the front. People are shifting in one spot. "My King!"
The Frenchman looks around in a squat, eyes wide, half-sitting; he stands up again.
You recognize that voice! "My King, I have something for you to see!"
Lord Firlej emerges from the crowd, a scroll under his arm, clutching a quill and inkwell in one hand. He speedwalks up the aisle to meet the King. Alexandre makes sure to project. "And what may I– we, do for this subject?"
Cheers and jeers begin to emanate from the crowd. You clap your hands over your mouth in a bid to not laugh. The Zborowski brothers subtly pat each other on the back.
"In France it is said that Your Majesty did assent to our Confederation on the freedom of faith. So, sign, King, you promised! Before your loyal people!"
The King forces a snarling grin. "We shall sign it, surely. Is now the place, my lord?"
"Oh, but it is, King!" Cheers are beginning to defeat Firlej's hecklers. The Frenchman almost jogs in place. He says something inaudible, shakes his head, and quickly swipes the quill across the scroll. A large portion of those in attendance burst into applause. The bishops and cardinals sit with legs crossed, glaring.
"Cheer in your minds, sirs," says Septimus quietly. "But cheer loudly."
"I am a rude man!" declares Firlej, turning his attention to the cathedral at large. He's won. "Undeniably so. But with indecorous gusto shall we inform any man, King or not, of our laws and our privileges, and of our dedication to such!" He launches into a speech, the assembled lords losing themselves to sejm-style cheering and jeering. The Archbishop Uchański sits statuesque.
Andrzej Zborowski turns to you. "And this is exactly what I was hoping for," he says, beaming. "Welcome indeed to our nobles' republic."
The rising of the Archbishop to begin Mass cuts short Firlej's speech. The firebrand retreats into the crowd as the Catholics – yourself included – become much more serious. You're aware of its weaponization, but the ritual cannot be stopped and so comes the time for prayer and surrender. And may the surrender of any honorable nobleman belong only to God.
Such was the toast that night; you abandoned Friar Gosiewski's precepts to sin in celebration, eating every meat but chicken and washing it down with good wine.
You find Lord Firlej speaking with none other than Andrzej Zborowski – a fellow Protestant, you recall – and shake the former's hand heartily as he smiles through his beard.
"Now that was a show, Lord Firlej!" you say. "Way to show the man!" you manage to not curse.
He rumbles a laugh. "Hopefully, it'll make some woodblocks. But the rumor mill will do fine, too." He shakes your hand again. "Thank you, Your Serene Highness. And congratulations on your marriage"
Lord Zborowski gets a handshake as well. You remember Sierotka's rant on court life and exhale. The fatigue is growing. The headaches are still near-daily.
You take Lord Zborowski in before he speaks, goblet in hand: skinny and taller than you, the perfect opposite to his stout and short brother, he's got an odd, sort of bird-like handsomeness to him. He styles his mustache and beard into points. "Indeed, may God bless your union. You know, I'm surprised this is only the second time we've spoken, Your Serene Highness," he says. "After all, we both want a Habsburg."
No no no. The Zborowscy went hard for the French option from start to finish.
He studies you. "You weren't aware, lord prince? Well, it was a bit of a lost cause this election…"
The months have convinced you of the righteousness of the cause. See how he's pivoted. You grin. "After seeing such a shout-down, sir! As if the Emperor could ever tread on us."
"Precisely. As if there isn't everything to gain. We have our figurehead for now. I look forward to working with you, Your Serene Highness." He still looks friendly, but something's wavered in his tone. "May we take a walk, Your Serene Highness?"
You agree and excuse yourself from Firlej, who peers over his nose with interest, and find some alcove in a palace corridor to speak. "As you may or may not know, I'm rather close to the King, what with my being his traveling companion and all," explains Zborowski. "So I'm a bit of a minister to him, a representative of our will. And, as a favor for your standing up for the Emperor, I just wanted to warn you: the King is already quite upset with you. Both from some squabble in France, I'm told, and from your speech." He grimaces. "Which, obviously, he's heard about. Lord prince, I'll try and talk some sense into him, but you ought to prepare yourself."
"For what exactly, Lord Zborowski?"
"For something pointed, Your Serene Highness. Not quite sure yet."
You feel nervous yet the wine makes you not care. You joke to Firlej that you're going to be executed for your speech and he wishes you Godspeed. The morning after is when you truly begin to feel like your head is on the block. Your brothers and father worry for you. They remain in Kraków in solidarity.a
The King called upon you a week after his coronation, early in the morning. No warning from Zborowski.
"I think my head's on the block, Mariana," you tell her. "Anything could happen short of being arrested."
"They've got laws, Stanisław; I don't think anything is going to happen to the family. This won't be like Lublin."
"But then what do you think'll–"
"I think you're going to be gloated at, or scolded like a schoolboy, or maybe handed some sort of undesirable task." She speaks smoothly and clearly, quietly calming. She chuckles. "He's going to try and scare you."
"No… No… Maybe if this is one of our he-men. He's got some sort of plot, I know it."
She rolls her eyes. "Well, plot or not, he's the fish out of water, not you." she taps your nose. "Just remember that he may need you. Older brothers thrash little ones, but there's still a reliance." A kiss. "You'll be alright," she says.
Ten minutes' wait before the usher allows you to see His Majesty.
He does not rise when you enter the royal bedchamber; the King sits at his desk and rotates in his chair to face you. You bow deeply and he addresses you in French. "We are pleased to see you in good health again, Radzivilius Princeps. Or, we have been advised to use 'Your Serene Highness.'"
You're frozen up. "I am honored, Your Majesty," you say, as if to dip your toe in the water.
"We call upon you this day because we have further been advised that you are without office. We understand that an Imperial Prince ought not suffer such a fate, we think, and this realm is in need of passionate men for passionate work."
He grins. "However. And we care not if it leaves this room: in memoriam of your heroic stands for veritas et iustitia – for we figure you prefer Latin – we are in a rather stormy mood. Thus, your job shall be of a lowly nature for that of your birth and nature. You shall be an example. We also would wager that it will take a decent while for His Serene Highness to prove himself."
He cares not for your reaction."However, a friend has convinced us to offer you but one mercy. You may not know your office, but you may choose how to serve us. Shall you be in our household, shall you be as a steward, or shall you live in a soldier's tent?"
Zborowski's gesture of goodwill seems to have been genuine, even if he couldn't properly warn you. Why is he being your friend all of a sudden?
In any event, a (perhaps dis-)passion takes you over. It is time to either say what you want or say what you must. You reply:
[] "In Your Majesty's household."
Hellfire. Stay at Kraków under the King's thumb.
[] "As a steward of Your Majesty's."
Goddamn. Surely something dreary and provincial.
[] "In the armies of Your Majesty."
Damn his eyes. Either dangerous or boring.
[] "I shall have none of this, Your Majesty."
Oh? OH?!
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- Location
- United States
when you get so horny you have a panic attack. mariana probably would be into crystals and stuff were she alive today thats my reckoning. she almost realized you're a main character
also it was kind of funny watching "easy living" pick the extreme ascetic option i will not lie but you guys do you
also it was kind of funny watching "easy living" pick the extreme ascetic option i will not lie but you guys do you
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- Pronouns
- He/Him
If we go with the royal household, faith will probably get us through the personal embarrassment and conversations with the king, and it's still socially respectable to be a servant to a king. I don't trust our ability to cope with the mockery of our peers if we are given a position in provincial obscurity.
Yeah, I fucked up on that one. A starvation diet isn't what we need at all, but I'm glad for the discipline and the reduction in our drink. Hopefully those close to us will remind us that we still need to be in shape.
I didn't really expect a confessor to be Joe Rogan levels of insane.
And poor Marianna, she got the opposite of a good husband.
[X] "I shall have none of this, Your Majesty."
[X] "As a steward of Your Majesty's."
I don't think we're at all ready to fight yet, and I'd rather not play the king's games. But if we must, I'd rather it be something relaxed so that we may recover.
Edit:
If prayer can get us through the mental abuse of the king, then it can get us through the mockery of our peers. I'm not too worried about that part.
What I am worried about is our marriage not working out well at all, and our ability to do well at our post. We're not ready to fight quite yet, so the military is out, and the court is going to be Hell for us (as the text notes).
Provincial administration might work well with our focus on discipline, order and improvement through Labor and Prayer, and our paternalistic affection for the peasantry.
But I think that the winning move for personally is to not play at all. I'm sure this will land the Family into very hot water, though. Waiting for our experts to weigh in.
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I've got couple of three things to say.
1) Stanislaw's choice in confessor seems to be a bit of a backfire
2) Lord Firlej has balls made of titanium
3) The King has just been pressed publicly and came off looking quite weak IMO (without spoiling what happened IRL, I don't think we're going to have worry about him for too long)
[X] "As a steward of Your Majesty's."
Even if it's provincial and minor it's could still serve as useful experience for the future, we could also spin it as an example of the King being petty in his rule no? Handing a Radziwil a minor post seems like quite an offense to one of the major families of the Commonwealth.
1) Stanislaw's choice in confessor seems to be a bit of a backfire
2) Lord Firlej has balls made of titanium
3) The King has just been pressed publicly and came off looking quite weak IMO (without spoiling what happened IRL, I don't think we're going to have worry about him for too long)
[X] "As a steward of Your Majesty's."
Even if it's provincial and minor it's could still serve as useful experience for the future, we could also spin it as an example of the King being petty in his rule no? Handing a Radziwil a minor post seems like quite an offense to one of the major families of the Commonwealth.
- Location
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As you may have seen in an earlier Sertorius post: this really happened.
Sertorius on the Cultural Value of “Fantasy”
Sertorius
Rebellious Legate
- Location
- Roma Invicta
Actually rich nobles tended to be as such more often than not. Having no worries about food or money, they could do whatever they wanted and sometimes that lead to various eccentricities and quirks.
You wanted it, you got it. The Rule of St. Benedict was actually historically very important, as it was the first such ordinance in the Western Church. The famous quote ora et labora (pray and work) is taken directly from it. All the monastic orders in later centuries up until today based their ways upon the Rule of St. Benedict. It was the template, upon which everyone else worked to codify their own standards.
The Zborowski family was a prominent one in the Crown. There are 6 Zborowski brothers, with only three seen here and all have risen high. Jan Zborowski may be currently the most famous (he was the one that went to bring back the King from France and is currently the Court Crown Hetman, having commanded the war efforts in Livonia with successes), but it was his brother Samuel that would rise well above everybody else. He will become the first great infamis of the Commonwealth, a legendary and infamous adventurer, troublemaker, murderer and even a Hetman of the Zaporozhian Cossacks. The "Zborowski Case" in about ten years time from now, will shake the Crown to its core and bring about the downfall of the entire family, slipping it into obscurity.
I have to say a few words about the second (after freedom) most important thing for the nobility of the Commonwealth. I'm talking about fantasy (yes, you heard me right). It's hard to explain exactly what fantasy was, since it's a very cultural-specific thing. However, I shall do what I can. It may be understood as a combination of charm, wits, honour, eccentricity, valour, high alcohol tolerance and oratory. The nobility showed a great deal of respect to men, who behaved according to certain cultural standards, that were understood as fantasy. It is exactly why the various scoundrels and murderers mentioned here were protected by the general nobility and held in high regard (with the exception of their victims of course) as paragons of fantasy. Any man can become an infamis in absentia. However, to be a true infamis required a great deal of fantasy, therefore in time the term ment not just criminals, but heroic outlaws Robin Hood-style. Of course the vast majority of them were terrible people, but for the noble populus they personified what it is to be a truly free nobleman, that can do whatever he wants.
In short, fantasy is sort of rogue-ish, not the knight in shining armour type thing.
A few examples:
A noble, that can drink a lot of alcohol all night, while entertaining his fellow men with funny and witty tales, is a man of fantasy.
A noble, that gives a fine speech before a crowd, while mentioning some Roman classics at that, is a man of fantasy.
A noble, that ties a naked Catholic priest to a horse and has him run around blindly in a crowded town, is a man of fantasy.
A noble, that generously buys everyone drinks while overpaying, is a man of fantasy.
A noble, that dresses in outlandish colours with gems and silver, is a man of fantasy.
A noble, that sneaks into a tent of an enemy general in the middle if his own camp to abduct him and escape unharmed, is a man of great fantasy.
A noble, that whips half a town of serfs just because they forgot to remove their caps while he was moving past them, is a man of great fantasy.
A noble, that escapes the dungeon of his hated foe by pretending to be somebody else and returns with an army behind his back to exact revenge, is a man of great fantasy.
To compare, Lord Firlej's stunt above, was a a sign of great fantasy, since he was able to do such an outrageous act and get away with it.
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I knew going in that the period had a kind of "swashbuckling" quality, but thank you for the marvelous explication on the fine points! And noting the seeming love for practical jokes. Firlej really is peak Fantasy isn't he? A cannon-toting, big-bearded titan who interrupts coronations and stands for what he believes in. Now there's a Sarmatian.
Sertorius
Rebellious Legate
- Location
- Roma Invicta
Yep, exactly right. His stunts were very in-character for a Sarmatian noble of the time. Like I said before, Firlej was a force of nature for the Protestant cause in the Commonwealth, not only thanks to his great wealth, but also because of his fantasy, that made him likeable enough, despite not being Catholic.