The Chevalier bounced off the desk, landing graciously on his feet when he heard the doors opening.
"Well?"
His question was left unanswered, for as swiftly as he had entered that room, the Prince moved on to the next one, suddenly blind and deaf to his lover's presence.
"Darling?" he tried again, but he only managed to make the other walk away from him faster. "Phillipe!" All tenderness was suddenly gone from his tone.
Monsieur turned his way at last, with red in his eyes, tears on his cheeks and impatience tensing his pale, marble-like features. The green on his eyes, known by everyone in court for the way they glimmered, like the gardens out the window or jewels in his brother's crown, shined no more. They had gone cold.
Noticing this, the Chevalier took a step back to get a better look at him, as if unable to believe his eyes.
"What's happened?" The answer to that question was written all over Phillipe's face; it had been but one last pull at the string of hope that suggested it might not be true. "Oh, dear..."
The lack of emotion in his tone made the Duke's lips twist with disgust, locks of black wavering about his shoulders as he glanced out the window; he couldn't bare to look at him. Like he couldn't bare to look at his brother- a title that all of a sudden felt too large for the King to be able to fill. God, evidently, couldn't have had it both ways. There could he no such thing as a just and graceful ruler that was also a decent brother.
"God have mercy-"
"Oh, pity really is a hideous colour on you," snapped Phillipe at his fake sentiment.
"Don't think for one second that whatever contempt I might have addressed her with in life keeps me from sharing your pain."
The Prince tried to dismissively smirk but he was unable. He found himself wondering, gazing upon the gardens his wife wished she could have surrounded herself with on her final moments, if his heart would ever be able to feel cheer again.
The Chevalier was vain; he was shallow, he was rude and he was insensitive- but he was also in love. And whatever rocky grounds his relationship with Monsieur might have been on given his only recently forgiven betrayal, the sight of his lover resembling a heartbroken, Godforsaken, lost child made him ache.
"My love," he prayed in a whisper.
A hand rose to caress his pale cheek but it was batted away at once. Two more attempts were made before he surrendered, holding his nose up in the air while the tip of his fingers smoothed his golden wig away from his face with a hue of superiority ghosting over his features.
"Very well." He held up a hand, palm down, offering it to Phillipe. "Come."
He eyed him like he had just made the most ridiculous suggestion ever heard under the ceilings of Versailles, wondering how he could care so little and yet claim to care so much, first praying to the memory of Henriette and then suddenly requesting he followed him as if he were in the mood for a walk around the palace.
"Come," the Chevalier insisted, fingers wiggling with expectation.
"Forgive me if I don't fancy a stroll around the gardens." He had meant to yell, but his bitterness had closed his throat, leaving his voice to sound hoarse and shaky.
"Would you, for once, stop behaving like a defensive child and just oblige?"
Phillipe's eyes widen slightly. He could have sworn he had heard his own voice instead of the Chevalier's; and as he did, on the exact same spot where he himself stood- he saw Louis.
A proud hand therefore brushed away all the remaining tears tainting his face and after having inspected it with a certain air of distrust, he took his lover's hand, who only repeated himself ("Come") as he led towards the bed they most nights shared. Phillipe remained clueless to his intentions even after he had taken a seat on the edge of the bed, pulling him down to do the same. When he leaned closer, he leaned backwards, but he didn't bat his hand away this time when he raised a finger to caress his cheek.
"Someone needs to help you carry your burden," whispered the Chevalier before leaning up, a hand cupping the back of the Duke's head to ensure he wouldn't shy away from him again, and pressed a tender kiss to his forehead.
Phillipe's eyes closed, and the tears that started streaming down his cheeks once again were of shame as well as mourning. Almost as if his brother's fear for conspiracy had been contagious, polluting his air for so many years, he had forgotten how to trust, how to let someone (even his own lover) come near him without the thought that a knife ready to stab him in the chest might be concealed behind their backs echoing on the back of his mind.
"Oh, Henriette," he lamented.
After all those years, he finally realized how he could have loved her better, how he could have been a more decent husband. The solution to all their marital problems was suddenly so clear now, when it was too late.
The Chevalier hugged his head to his chest and stroked it, like a nurse with a wailing newborn. Phillipe wanted to keep his eyes closed, but he was haunted by the image of his wife, looking up at him with eyes pleading for a mercy he couldn't provide while blood poured from her lips. His own hands clinging onto hers were tainted with her blood, and the sight that followed was that of the trail of red tracing the length of the bed he now sat on.
His eyes therefore opened. But even as he stared at the wall, he found no relief; everywhere he looked, he saw Henriette.
"I can still hear her screaming."
His pain and despair must have been heard in his voice, for he felt the other's hold on him tightening, like aware he needed such an embrace to cradle him or else he would fall apart. The Prince felt himself shaking with the sobs tugging at his throat, making his lips quiver as bitter tears of sorrow clouded his sight.
"She said she wanted to feel the sun on her face."
The Chevalier's sweet hushes encouraged him to find within him the strength to take a few deep breaths.
"Her suffering is over now," his lover reminded him. "And yours, my love, will fade."
"Will it?"
"If it doesn't, my sweet Monsieur," He kissed his temple. "then we shall suffer together."
"And you won't leave?"
A lady might be challenged by her future husband to climb up a rocky path for which neither her dress nor shoes had been designed. She would hesitate but the young man would assure her he would be there to hold her hand and guide her through it. "And you won't let go?" she would ask, still in doubt, almost pleading him not to.
That pleading tone is not the one Phillipe used. His, instead, stood for a bitter chuckle of disbelief. With his wife gone and his brother unrecognizable, he found it hard to believe anyone would be truthful to him for life- even (or perhaps, especially) the Chevalier.
Which is why he was caught by surprise when he proceeded to reach for his hand, bringing it up to his lips to kiss his knuckles, right before he whispered: "Never" into his ear.
"You're not usually this attentive."
He meant no offense; it was but an objective remark.
"You're not usually this upset," retorted the Chevalier.