Louis XIV
Versailles
Words: 1.093
*Trigger warning* infidelity, power imbalance, court intrigue, public scrutiny, emotional distress, gender hostility, sexual situations (Non-Explicit)
The fountains sang that night exactly as his letter promised—
a low, liquid music that seemed to fill the air between you with something living.
Louis waited by the window, the silk of his shirt undone at the throat, his hair loose in the candlelight. There was no crown, no ring, no scepter; only the man who had built a palace to trap his own loneliness.
When you stepped inside, he smiled in that small, boyish way that still startled you, the one that stripped away every title he owned.
“I was beginning to think the moon had stolen you,” he said.
“Perhaps it tried,” you answered, crossing to him, “but I’m rather difficult to keep.”
He laughed—a sound quieter than any music in the palace—and opened his arms.
The night unfolded as so many had, full of easy conversation and the warmth of two people who no longer needed to perform. You spoke of the Queen’s newest charitable plans, of Philippe’s sharp-tongued humor, of the architect’s latest scheme to drain yet another section of forest for gardens.
At one point, he lifted your hand to his lips. “You and my brother,” he mused. “You conspire.”
“Only to protect you from yourself,” you said.
“Then I am in good hands.”
He held your gaze a little too long after that, and the quiet between you deepened into something that felt holy. The kiss came naturally, unhurried, the kind that forgets the world is waiting to make it a sin.
Morning crept up like a thief. You had fallen asleep beside him, your head on his arm. He stirred first, murmured your name, and then lay still for a long moment, watching the light play across your hair.
“Do you know what I envy?” he asked softly.
You blinked awake. “A king? Envy?”
He smiled. “My brother. He may love as he pleases. I must pretend that every affection is for France.”
You touched his face. “Then let this one be for yourself.”
He turned his lips into your palm. “It already is.”
By the end of that week, the Queen requested you again—alone. Her apartments smelled of lavender and paper; she was writing letters by the window, her rosary set aside.
When you entered, she gestured for you to sit without looking up.
“They are saying,” she began, her tone even, “that the King no longer dines where he used to, that he prefers his evenings quieter.”
“They say much, Your Majesty.”
“Yes.” She set down her quill. “And I find that, for once, I do not mind.”
You said nothing. The Queen rose, walked to the window, and studied the gardens below. “When he is content, the court breathes easier. Even I sleep better knowing his temper has cooled.”
She turned to you then, a faint smile touching her lips. “You have brought him calm. Do not lose yourself in it.”
You inclined your head. “I will try.”
Her gaze softened. “And if you must fall, fall gently. There are few mercies at Versailles.”
You left her chambers more humbled than before. It was a strange thing—to be pitied and blessed by the same woman.
Philippe appeared later that afternoon, catching you in the corridor outside the chapel.
“My brother smiles at breakfast,” he said without preamble. “That hasn’t happened since the treaty with Spain. Congratulations.”
You laughed under your breath. “I doubt France will thank me for it.”
“Oh, France never thanks anyone,” Philippe replied, offering his arm. “Walk with me. I have just endured an hour of courtiers rehearsing moral outrage about your supposed wickedness, and I would much prefer a conversation that involves wit.”
You took his arm, grateful for the ease he carried like perfume.
As you strolled through the gardens, he lowered his voice. “He’s different with you. Less sun, more man. It suits him.”
“That sounds like disapproval.”
“It’s admiration,” Philippe corrected. “You make him dangerous in a way I can respect.”
You looked at him sidelong. “Dangerous?”
“Because he might finally want something only for himself.” He paused, watching the fountains burst in perfect rhythm. “I’ve seen my brother crave power, obedience, glory. Never peace. Until now.”
You didn’t trust yourself to answer. He patted your hand. “Just remember, ma chère, the brighter the light, the darker the shadow. The palace adores him, but it will devour you if you let it.”
“I know,” you said quietly. “But it’s too late to turn away.”
Philippe smiled, bittersweet. “Then at least let me know when to bring the lantern.”
That evening, another gift waited in your room. Not jewels this time, but a book: Essais de Montaigne, bound in dark leather, a thin ribbon marking a single page.
You opened to it and read:
“If a man does not keep himself to his own measure, his passions will consume him.”
Beneath it, in his hand, a single line:
You are my measure.
You pressed your fingers to the words, feeling the heat of them.
And still, Versailles whispered. Montespan no longer bothered with veils; her remarks grew sharper, her allies more eager to echo them. Yet when she tried to enlist Philippe’s amusement, he deflected her effortlessly.
“Do you not find it tragic?” she demanded one evening after supper. “A king so blinded by… infatuation?”
Philippe smiled. “On the contrary, Madame. I find it refreshing that he can still see at all.”
The court laughed. Montespan smiled too—but her eyes promised the kind of patience that ends in ruin.
Later, when you told Louis of it, he only sighed. “Let her rage. She is noise. You are quiet. I prefer quiet.”
“Quiet is easily broken,” you said.
He looked at you then, a long, steady look that held both promise and peril. “Then I shall build you walls she cannot breach.”
“Walls,” you murmured, “or a cage?”
He smiled faintly. “Whichever keeps you safe.”
The spring turned toward summer, the air heavy with roses and rumor. The Queen still sought your counsel in private; Philippe’s loyalty, irreverent as it was, steadied you; and the King’s affection deepened into something that frightened you with its constancy.
He began calling you mon ancre—his anchor—whenever the council exhausted him. In return, you called him simply Louis.
And every night, when the fountains sang and the palace slept, you crossed the marble corridors to where he waited—no longer as guest or secret, but as something perilously close to equal.
