Disclamer : Versailles belongs to its rightful creators and owners.
Summary : The price to pay for greatness was humanity.
Author's note :English isn't my first language, it's French. If you spot any mistakes or weirdness, please feel free to notify me ! This is also a translation from a OS I wrote a year ago.
This story is part of the writing month challenge from TheWritter1996: Write a one-shot per day and share it for an entire month. For more challenge, I decided to go one different fandom per day.
The price to pay
His eyes hooked on Henrietta, Louis couldn't believe what was happening. It was a nightmare. It could not be real. He knew Death, he had lived with her for so long despite his young age! But his mind refused to accept that Henrietta was dead.
Henrietta.
His cousin.
His friend.
His lover.
His confident.
Henrietta... had just left them.
He could feel a hole in his heart, an emptiness in him, a true devastation. He raised his eyes to the sky, his so terribly dry eyes despite his yearn, his need to cry. It was visceral, however no tear managed to roll down. And he sadly knew why.
This was the result of his upbringing.
His mother and Mazarin had raised him as a king and not as a man. A king could cry for his realm, for his people, never for himself or for his pain. The king always had to dominate the man. The king always had to be first before the the man and the king, those two entities always in conflit, the king always had to be victorious. Louis knew he was a human being yet, sometimes, he felt like something else. He was some kind of creature, of experimentation, to create the king the kingdom needed. He didn't blame his mither nor the cardinal. His poor mother had done her very best and in a fiery and bloody France, she had been more than a great queen, she had been a great king and she had loved France so much she wanted to leave it a king worthy of it, worthy of protecting it, a strong ruler. The test was a success. He was already nicknamed "The Great". But the price for this gretaness was his humanity. And here was the proof of it: he had just lost a dear friend, close to his heart, he could feel all the pain her departure caused, it was beyond words, he was broken down, yet he couldn't cry, he couldn't let his feelings out, simply because he was never taught how to. Nonetheless, the man craved being out, to let out of all that was weighing on his heart, to be more human, closer to his family. When Philippe had come home changed from the war, he had wanted to help his little brother. He could still remember his icy wrath towards the Chevalier de Lorraine. Beyond the sting of betrayal, what had upsetted him the most was that the knight had broken Philippe's heart. He managed to have some time of connexion, where a bond and a closeness had been able to be created, like creating the Etiquette or the fireworks. Sadly, it never truly last. Maybe the man would never come out. Or not as often as he'd like him to. It was his cross to bear and he bore it with a good heart, because he loved France. He had received it as an inheritance from his father, from his grandfather and it deserved better than troubled times. He was born in the lignage of those born to rule over the kingdom of France and centuries of kings had flown by before his birth. He had to show himself worthy of this, always. To compose between the man and the king. Explaing the education his mother gave him to ensure the king would always win.
However, while he was holding Henrietta's hand, so cold yet always so soft, despite his understanding, he loathed it with every fiber of his being.
He wanted to cry and he could not.
And the saddest thing of all was to know he'd never be able to, condemned to lock away his feelings until the end of his days.
The End