_________ has died || @mcnsieur || Accepting!
It had taken everything Louis had to let his brother go back to war. He’d seen what it had done to his brother the last time, but he knew that his brother loved it, all at once. So, he had honored his promise and had let him go.
To casual observers, people would think that Louis and Philippe were not close, with the way they bickered. But overall, that’s what it was. Even when it was over important things, that was just how they were. Something had told him that he needed to head out to the war, so he had done just that. Upon arriving, he had a sick feeling in his stomach, a feeling that weakened him, made him feel like he could collapse.
It was then that someone appeared as he approached the tent, their face ghastly white, uncertain how to tell the King, that his brother had been killed. He had said something about how Philippe had been the bravest, had died saving their own people, had died doing what an army of men could not. Louis heard the words, he heard the words talking about how brave his brother was, and how it wasn’t weakness that had killed him. But, he was having a hard time standing, and that was when it happened: he collapsed to the ground, unable to speak, as his advisors and guards tried to help, but all he could think was that his brother was gone, the person he loved the most, the person who could anger him more than anyone, the person who was his best friend, and most annoying influence in his life, all at once.
Louis XIV was a man who didn’t show his emotions well, didn’t convey just how hurt he felt, unless it was to the two people he loved the most, and now they were both gone. Trying to pull it together, he stood up proud and looked at the man who had told him the news.
The man stammered, trying to tell him that as soon as fighting ceased, they’d bring him back in, so he could be taken back to Versailles for a royal burial. But, Louis wasn’t going to hear it, and he grabbed his sword, and headed into the battle that was weakening in favor of them, not caring what happened, not caring that he was supposed to be the diplomatic King.
It did not take him long, until he found him and his face went white, the tears escaping, with a simple word escaping his lips.
He heard the word halt in the distance, knew the other side had retreated, other than those who could not make themselves leave, as the French held them off, while their King was on the battlefield. He knelt down, brushing his hair off his face, and it was then that he moved to lift his brother, picking him up to carry him, the tears still falling, as he tried and failed to remain stoic.
He would collapse again, feeling completely alone and vulnerable once he got him back, but for now, he had to carry his brother back. He had to carry his brother on his back, in his arms, because just like Philippe would do for him without a thought, Louis did it without thought, too.
Louis XIV was King of France. He was the State. But he was also a brother, and even though his brother was gone, had died a hero, he would be a brother until the day he died.
