May 22, 1774
Le Château de Versailles
Galerie des Glaces

"The King is dead! Louis XV is dead! Long live Louis XVI!"

France had to ignore it.

He had to. He had to push through.

He had to ignore the way his stomach rolled and churned constantly, and the way his heart pounded rapid-fire against the base of his throat, and the way his headache beat at his temples with unrelenting power.

Especially today. He had things to do today. A country to run, a King to settle in.

France paced back and forth in front of a temporary dais that had briefly housed Louis XV's throne for a night before he fell ill, wringing his hands so tightly he was practically throttling them. On his fourth or fifth pass, his stomach did a little flip. France clamped a hand over his mouth, staving off a single violent dry-heave. His eyes watered and thick saliva coated his mouth, but luckily he managed to hold the nausea at bay, lowering his trembling hand and hissing a breath out through his teeth. He quickly looked around, hoping the small clusters of nameless nobles scattered around the Hall of Mirrors hadn't noticed his momentary weakness. They seemed too involved in their own conversations to have noticed, and France was grateful, but his cheeks still heated up in embarrassment.

He had seen his fair share of monarchs in his long, immortal life. He should have been used to all of the symptoms by now: irritating chest pain that followed a monarch's death, and the sickness and anxiety that came with settling all of his affairs to make room for the Dauphin. The sadness and melancholia that came with losing a leader, regardless of whether or not they were loved. More anxiety over the new ruler. More sickness until they settled in.

"Calm down," he whispered to himself, sniffling thickly. "This is normal." He scrubbed his hands down his face. "It's always like this during a king-switch."

It was normal, but it usually went away in a few days. Four at the maximum. He was on day twelve.

National intuition told him that did not bode well for Louis XVI. It told him that public support for the new King was shakingly hopeful at best, and downright vehemently dreadful at worst. Still, France tried not to judge Louis too harshly, yet. France barely knew him, and a new king was always met with public skepticism. If he wanted to be fair to Louis (and in his optimism he was inclined to, despite not technically owing Louis anything yet) he could technically take part of the blame for his sickness off of his new King and put it on the grain riots that had been breaking out in some small villages around Paris recently. The gentle but ever-present pang of hunger that had bothered him even before Louis XV died told him that the harvests of the last few years had been abysmally poor. Grain supplies were growing increasingly short and the current stock in the storehouses was dwindling away day by day. The very first inklings of peoples' panic were touching on the edges of France's awareness, and he planned to bring it up to Louis as one of the first orders of business in their very first briefing together.

But that hunger pain was a small pain. Chronic. A constant backdrop to his other National problems. France had been enduring them for almost a whole year now. These new pains were acute and fresh, ringing National alarm bells in his head and his body that he couldn't silence. It was directly related to Louis, and he knew that. He hadn't spent centuries glancing over the shoulders of rulers to assume any different. A twenty year old king who was walking into the backlash of the Seven Years' War loss, the loss of countless French territories and foreign footholds, the War of Austrian Succession that Louis XV so carelessly joined, the entire country on the brink of debt, food shortages and riots, and general public discontent didn't hold France's vote of confidence.

Not that he couldn't be proved wrong - he certainly had been wrong before. His first impression of Charlemagne upon his earliest years as a Nation was that Charlamagne was too serious, too boring. Always bothering France to learn to read and write. Battle-obsessed, fighting for the sake of fighting just so that he wouldn't have time to play with him. Of course, he was a child back then, with a child's view of an adult like Charlemagne. He learned later, naturally, that it was all for infrastructure, expansion, and unification. Not war for the sake of war, or to spite him.

Sure, he was wrong before, and he was sure to be wrong again. But something stubborn jabbing him in the pit of his stomach that he was sure wasn't the pain of the riots left him feeling unconvinced that he would be wrong about Louis XVI.

The distant clang of the Versailles chapel bells ripped France out of his reverie with a start. 2:00 p.m. His crystalline blue eyes locked on the archway at the far end of the Hall of Mirrors for any signs of life. Louis should have arrived a half hour ago. After a few good minutes of staring he sighed in frustration, then exhaustion. His heeled shoes made loud, articulated clicks on the immaculate marble floor while he resumed his pacing. He adjusted the bottom of his silk, lavender vest, re-fluffed his gold cravat, and smoothed his skin-tight beige breeches.

He glared tiredly up at the ceiling, absently stroking the purple ribbon in his hair and twirling the ends of his curly blond ponytail around his finger. Luckily for him, the golden frames around the ceiling art grabbed his attention and held it for a while, allowing more time to pass. He stared at the canvases, at one particular painting: Louis XIV in Roman armor, on a platformed throne with France behind and beneath him in the shadows. An inferior position, but one that he was happy to occupy with Le Roi Soleil at the helm. Louis XIV, an absolute force of nature, compelled France and everyone around him to bend to him like he was a god. It was well-deserved. Louis reigned alone, he reigned decisively, and brought about a peaceful and prosperous Golden Age that France flourished in. In the painting he was surrounded by Minerva, Mars, Glory, Tranquility and other Roman allegories, but no matter how much France stared it was impossible to make out every detail with the ceiling being so high. Even his sharpened senses as a Nation couldn't make out some of the finer details of the art, and it was one of the things he loved about Versailles. Everywhere he looked was something beautiful. Something artistic and colorful, something meaningful, with symbolic depth, and each time he looked he could find something new, some detail he had missed before. There was an entire world in the art on the ceiling he couldn't even see. He truly loved living there.

He guessed that by the time he finished staring another half hour passed. A whole hour late! This young man was not scoring very high marks already.

His stomach did another little flip.

"Mon Dieu," he breathed, massaging his temples against the continuous onslaught of his headache. He hoped Louis, whatever he was like, settled in quickly, if only for France's sake. Then France could actually get back to work at solving some of the issues he was facing and hopefully alleviate the majority of his discomforts. He had hopes that it would be easy for Louis XVI, since one of Louis XV's ministers disbanded the thirteen Parlement bodies across the entire country. Even if Louis XVI was an idiot, he wouldn't have to work too hard with France at his side and with simple systems in place around him.

France quickly scolded himself. "Look at you, already planning for worst-case scenario! You haven't even met him, stupid!"

That wasn't entirely true. Louis had been born in Versailles. France interacted with him as a baby and small child on a few short occasions. If France recalled correctly, he had an odd obsession with locks and lock-smithing. He liked taking them apart and putting them back together, tinkering with them, discovering how they worked, making keys. And he rarely talked. France hardly saw the boy at all, spending a majority of his time in Louis XV's offices and in his company. Shortly after, the Dauphin had been whisked away in Versailles for tutoring and the other menial aspects of a royal upbringing. Not like how it used to be in the Medieval Era when France himself would educate the Dauphin on politics, war, economics, the works.

As the National Representation of the Kingdom of France, only he and a select few ministers had the authority to advise Louis on any and every issue, but because his government was an absolute monarchy, he couldn't force his King to do anything. The King had ultimate power, and all final decisions rested with him. Louis could listen to France if he wanted to, or he could not. And if he did not, well, France was out of luck. Louis XV hadn't listened to him about a lot. He hadn't listened about the War of Austrian Succession. He hadn't listened to France about proper taxation. He hadn't listened to France when he told him to walk with more guards that one day since France had a bad feeling. He left France in lost-war-caused debt, social hatred of the tax systems in place, and he luckily survived that assassination attempt.

But at least, and he meant it sincerely, they had a blast together in Versailles.

Maybe he was overreacting. Maybe he was over-thinking Louis XVI.

Maybe he needed a drink.

He shouldn't be so stressed. France had done this dozens of times, with each new monarch, and he should know better.

France's heels and shoe buckle resumed their cadence, a click with a slight undertone of articulated clack as he slowly paraded back and forth like a puppy that lost its master in a thick crowd. He sighed again and finally decided to take a seat - not on His Majesty's throne. That would be treasonous no matter how elegant and stylish it looked. Plus, he had yet to discover the nature of this new King's temperament. He instead opted for a posh gold settee placed dejectedly off to one side of the dais. The gold clashed pleasingly with the soft, quiet lavender of his vest and coat, and matched the gold embroidered trim on both. France paused and checked his image in one of the mirrors, readjusting and re-fluffing. He flicked the back of his long coat out from under him before sitting.

No sooner had he touched the cushion that the sounds of voices began to echo at the far end of the Hall of Mirrors. The King's Master of Ceremonies, whose name escaped France, entered first and pounded a tall rod off the floor, catching everyone's attention. "Le Roi!" he cried, and most of the nobles snapped to attention, hurrying to line up along the walls to catch a glimpse of the King as he passed. France stayed where he was but jumped up as an entourage rounded the corner and strolled in. He was expecting to come face-to-face with King Louis Auguste XVI himself. Instead, he was met with a small crowd of young, energetic gentlemen all carrying on their own boisterous conversations that echoed through the Hall. Headed by one of Louis XVI's cousins, the soon-to-be Duc d'Orléans, the group paraded their way toward him.

France tried to keep his face a mask of neutral confidence despite his intense hatred for the future Duc d'Orléans. He was not a kind man, and he walked around with Louis and the other Princes of the Blood with his long, thin nose in the air and a haughty smirk on his face, like he knew something that no one else did. Like he had a secret, and he was winning the unspoken game that was being played at all times. Monsieur le Duc sported a light orange, almost peach-colored jacket despite the fact that blues and purples were in style - he still seemed to entertain the notion that he was the trend-setter at Court when others like France and Marie Antoinette unintentionally upstaged him at every opportunity. Embroidered with shimmering gold at the seams down the long front and around both jacket pockets was a mess of swirls and flowers. His entire vest was embroidered in the same way, simultaneously drawing France's eye and repelling his gaze with its complexity. His breeches were a white color that left him, overall, looking bland and paled out.

He caught France's eye and made a point of looking France from head to toe, his tiny, dainty lip curling in a grand display of disgust. France blinked innocently back at him, but placed the unspoken challenge there in his eyes, scheming to rile up Monsieur le Duc. He and France liked to play a little mean-spirited back-and-forth. At Versailles, the higher ranking noble was meant to address the lower, and under no circumstances was the lower noble to speak to the higher unless addressed. Some days, France was the lower noble, and the Duc d'Orléans would strut up to him and speak to him like his social blessing was a gift, and the only thing keeping France at Versailles. Some days, after France would spend particularly long days with Louis XV, he would speak to the Duc d'Orléans first, only to ruffle his feathers and make him seem like the inferior noble.

The Duc d'Orléans stopped in front of France and they stared each other down. He raised his eyebrows expectantly, waiting for France to drop into a bow first. France only smiled, but the gesture didn't reach his eyes. They flared instead, and France hardened the light blue, placing the weight and depth and raw power of hundreds of years of knowledge and experience behind them. The Duc faltered, confident smirk twitching down slightly, and he lowered himself into a bow first.

"Monsieur Bonnefoy," he said, and though Monsieur le Duc won the addressing game, France won the bowing game.

"Your Grace," France said back, bowing in reply. He stood on the tips of his toes and peered around the Duc d'Orléans, making an obvious show of being interested in addressing others in the room instead. He met eyes next with the Comte de Provence and the Comte d'Artois, Louis XVI's two younger brothers. Like Louis, France barely interacted with them, but they knew each other in passing, well enough to say hello to each other. The Comte d'Artois's large, round eyes brightened and he smiled warmly, waving from his hip so the others wouldn't see it.

Still no Louis XVI.

Then again, France wasn't sure if he'd even recognize him.

The Duc d'Orléans stepped aside and let France pass, and he bowed to Louis's brothers next. The older Comte de Provence kept to strict formality while the younger Comte d'Artois leaned in to France's ear and whispered, "Sorry we're so late. His Majesty was a little . . . nervous to see you again. He's very shy."

France remembered Louis XV's complaints about him. Barely speaking when directly spoken to when he was a child, forgoing conversation now for the hunt. France heard even worse rumors from the Court when he still stood next to Louis XV. He heard about the awkward royal couple that were too shy to consummate their ill-favored union. He knew the things that were whispered about the talented locksmith Louis who was too timid and embarrassed to "find the keyhole." Derogatory pamphlets and smear campaigns aimed at both Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette found their way from the streets of France and into Versailles, passed from hand to hand and laughed at behind closed doors. France had always just ignored the rumors and the whispers and the papers, strategically avoiding the realization that he may soon have a coward on his hands, and no heir.

The Comte d'Artois pulled away from France and gestured behind him to a young man. Over six feet tall and towering well over France's 5'9", if Louis would have stood up straight he would have looked kingly based on height alone. He lost a few inches because he kept his head down, eyes on the floor. His powdered wig held two white curls on either side of his full face, hiding a lightly brown natural color. He had thick lips and soft, padded wide eyes which added to his meek appearance. His eyes flicked up to France momentarily, through his lashes, and greyish-blue connected with vibrant, crystalline blue. Louis straightened his back, like he wanted to stand up tall to France, but a blush colored his face and ruined the effect. His eyes flicked elsewhere and he played at the lace trailing from his sleeves, a nervous tic.

"Poor man," France thought miserably before he could stop it, "He'll be eaten alive if he's not the least bit confident." He quickly banished the thought away.

"Votre Majesté," the Comte d'Artois said softly, as though afraid Louis would crumble under the force of his voice. "Allow me to re-introduce Monsieur François Bonnefoy."

France stepped up to the man, staring up into his face from the height difference. To his dismay, Louis's eyes slid away from him to the floor, the wall, anywhere but his face. France swallowed the uncertainty that rose in his throat like bile and still laid his best charm on thick. He flashed his most dazzling smile, delicately offering his hand, palm up, to Louis XVI.

"Votre Majesté," he purred smoothly, bowing his head.

France could sense Louis' red faced hesitation, and he raised only his eyes to see the King's body turn slightly. He glanced almost pleadingly at one of his brothers, who nodded. Louis finally pressed his soft hand in France's. The Nation dropped to a knee before him and kissed the crest of Bourbon House on his ring before releasing his hand.

"Do you remember me?" France asked without raising his head, taking the initiative in the conversation. He created a slight breach of etiquette by addressing the King unprompted, but most of the nobles were regulars to Versailles and knew of France's elevated position. He looked up from his position on the floor and Louis's eyebrows furrowed as he nodded quickly. "Do you know who I am?" Another quick nod.

A soft voice squeezed itself from between Louis XVI's tiny lips, ". . . yrrmgrrdfathsdvs . . . " He trailed off at the end.

"Pardon?" France asked, craning his ear towards him to hear better. He lowered his eyes so as not to intimidate Louis further.

"You were my grandfather's advisor," Louis mumbled.

"Yes," France affirmed, looking up again to press his sincerity upon Louis. He said in a quieter voice, "And his grandfather before him, Louis XIV, Le Roi Soleil, and his father Louis XIII, and as far back as Charlemagne that I can remember. I am to be your advisor as well." Louis looked distant, like he was worlds away from the conversation, thinking of something else. France's heart clenched, and he felt like an important chance to get Louis to trust and listen to him was slipping away from him. "Look at me," France commanded before he considered the social or political implications of ordering the King around. Louis's eyes widened as they slid back to meet his. Whatever it was that made the Nations immortal, allowed them to heal at an extremely advanced rate, and caused all kinds of unpleasant reactions when something bad happened to their countries, France put it there in his eyes. All of his power, all of his influence. "I am the National Representation of the Kingdom of France, at your service." Louis froze, captured in the depths of his Nation's throes. Something immediately changed in Louis's eyes. The timidness abated, a fierce flash of sharp wit and bookish intelligence shone in the soft greyish-blue, and France read the true resolve of Louis XVI: completely capable of the responsibility placed upon him, just indecisive and unsure. Louis believed himself to be unprepared and inadequate for the job. But at least he seemed like he cared, which was all France could ask for at the start of a king's reign. For the first time, his nausea abated and his headache seemed to uproot from his temples, growing smaller in his head. He breathed his first easy breath since Louis XV's death and slowly let it out.

France looked away first, and lowered his head, breaking the spell he placed over Louis. He wasn't supposed to get up, not until His Majesty told him to, so he respectfully stayed in his position, kneeling in front of the uncertain man before him.

Waiting, waiting, waiting awkwardly in the silence for someone to say something.

Finally, Louis asked in a stronger, firmer voice, "How shall I address you, Monsieur Bonnefoy, la Person- Personnification Nationale du . . . Royaume de France?" He said the words as though unsure. Like he believed France a bit, but not entirely, and was having trouble committing to believing him. "I have never addressed someone of your . . . title."

"It's not a title, Votre Majesté," France said, choosing his words very carefully. "The . . . nuances of my . . . existence and my . . . position at Court cannot be passed on the way an office can. Just Monsieur Bonnefoy is perfectly fine with me. When addressing me to others, Philippe IV called me Monsieur de la Couronne back in 1285 and I always liked that. Or Monsieur Bonnefoy, Ministre du Roi, though that's not exactly my 'title' either, per se-"

"What social rank, or social position do you fill, Monsieur?" the Duc d'Orléans asked suddenly. He knew of France's position from before. Clearly he was trying to force France into diminishing his position in front of Louis. "With no title or land designation, you can't purport to lord over any duchy, any county, not even any march. You do not usurp the Princes of the Blood. or even a low noble with a title. So how do you pretend at advising the King?"

Of course he would try something like that. France smiled, knowing if he did not he would let his rage at the Duc show through. "My friend Gilbert put it best: let's just say that I am low enough in the social hierarchy to get yelled at, but high enough that I can yell back, Your Grace." France raised his eyes and stared hard at him again. Monsieur le Duc's mouth snapped shut, clearly not expecting that kind of reply and unable to come up with a suitable response.

"Do you enjoy hunting, Monsieur Bonnefoy?" Louis asked softly, shocking France out of his anger. He blinked, momentarily forgetting that the King of France was right in front of him and that was who he should've been addressing.

"Oh! Well . . . sure! About as much as anyone else. But I'm afraid my occupation affords me little time for some frivolities. I'm a man of the indoors at heart and I enjoy most indoor pursuits."

Louis nodded and frowned, like he had lost the only thing he wanted to talk to France about. Poor man, did he lack social tact as well? He scanned the floor, finally settling on, "That's an exquisite jacket."

"Thank you!" France said, and he flashed another dazzling smile, already trying to draw Louis in. The faster France made him comfortable, the faster things could get done. Fine. If Louis refused to talk, then France could keep the conversation going. "I have a bit of a passion for clothes. I know there's a court stylist here, but I have a tailor in Paris who makes all of my clothes. I've been patronizing their business for years. I'm not a fan of the powdered wigs, though, if I'm honest." Not that Louis asked. "I know it's the style of the upper class now and everybody wears one, but . . . " He hated those powdered wigs. They were itchy, they smelled after a while, they looked ridiculous - even to him! And if a fashion statement upset France, well, then it really had to be bad. He forced a chuckle, praying it sounded more natural than that. "Please, hide this hair?" he asked, twirling a piece around his finger.

" . . . "

" . . . That was a joke," France quickly remedied.

"Ah. I see."

France paused, searching for the best way to wrap up the small talk to they could talk about something important. He looked into Louis's eyes one final time, but softened his own. "I can say, without a modicum of pretense, that I look forward to our partnership. There's still much to explain, but it's something we must discuss alone." From his kneeling position on the floor he let his arm elegantly curl a few times in front of him in a cordial motion of a bow.

Louis took a deep breath as well. His shoulders rose and fell, and France felt like he was thinking the same thing.

"Rise, Monsieur Bonnefoy de la Couronne." France did gratefully. "I think . . . " Louis began, " . . . We will go hunting," he announced softly, spinning on his heels. France noticed that even after their little exchange and what appeared to be a confidence boost, his eyes never ventured above anyone's vest buttons. He began to walk out of the room and the nobles lined up bowed as he passed.

France started and followed after him, protesting loudly, "Ah, wait! I was hoping to discuss what I mentioned earlier with you now-"

"His Majesty is very tired," the Duc d'Orléans said, shaking his head as though to scold France's excitement. "I'm sure after after a nice relaxing hunt to recharge, he'll be ready to discuss whatever you need, Monsieur Bonnefoy." He lightly pulled Louis's arm, and Louis offered no resistance.

France followed hastily and ran around the group, stopping directly in front of the King. "Votre Majesté, this isn't something that should wait. I'd like to explain the . . . nuances of my position, and-"

Louis waved him aside. "We will talk later. Monsieur le Comte," he said, turning to another of his group, "Tell my wife I will be away for the rest of the day."

He left without another word to France.

France's first impression: timid. The rumors were correct. But Louis was also quietly observant, sharp, and he possessed the ability to analyze and critically think. He was just too afraid of a misstep. He probably just wanted to be well-liked.

Which was fine, he quickly tried to rationalize. "They called Louis XV le Bien-Aimé, the well-liked! It'll be fine! You'll be fine!"

Was he the kind of ruler France needed in a time like this? Absolutely not.

France ran a nervous hand through his sunlight colored locks, messing up the ribbon and pulling out the ponytail.

It was going to be a bumpy ride. And France wasn't sure if his stomach could handle it.