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.
Louis XIV
Versailles
Words: 1.156
*Trigger warning* infidelity, power imbalance, court intrigue, public scrutiny, gender hostility, emotional distress, sexual situations (Non-Explicit)
Summer deepened over Versailles, turning the air thick with perfume and rumor.
The roses in the Orangerie grew wild from neglect; even they, it seemed, bent toward the same sun that ruled France.
And the sun, for all his divine duties, spent his nights with you.
It had been three months since that first invitation to his chambers, and what began as quiet companionship had become routine—dangerous, intoxicating routine. You knew the path by heart now: the corridors that creaked less, the corners where guards pretended not to see. His attendants had grown used to your presence; a few even greeted you with soft smiles and respectful bows.
Louis had made no formal declaration—he didn’t need to. Versailles had declared it for him. The King’s new favorite was no longer rumor, but fact.
The difference was subtle, but you could feel it everywhere. The servants bowed deeper. Ministers sought your counsel before speaking to him. Even foreign ambassadors eyed you as though measuring your influence.
Philippe found the whole affair endlessly amusing.
“You’ve replaced a war, ma chère,” he told you one morning, escorting you through the colonnade. “When my brother is with you, France sleeps peacefully. You’ve achieved what no treaty ever has.”
“And when I am not with him?” you asked, arching a brow.
“Then the ministers pray you return before he burns them all alive.”
You laughed despite yourself. “You speak as though I hold his leash.”
Philippe smirked. “You do. You just haven’t realized it yet.”
That night, you found Louis in his study, pacing before the open window. Parchments covered his desk—maps, decrees, petitions—but his attention was elsewhere.
He looked up when you entered, his expression softening immediately. “I was beginning to count the minutes,” he said, and you wondered if he meant it.
You curtsied playfully. “Then allow me to make them worth the wait.”
He crossed the room and kissed you before you could breathe another word. The papers fluttered, forgotten.
When he drew back, he studied you with that quiet intensity you were still learning to endure. “You’ve been with my brother again.”
“Of course,” you said, smiling. “He amuses me.”
“I’m not sure I like how easily you say that.”
You touched his sleeve. “He amuses me because he speaks of you. It’s his favorite subject, whether he admits it or not.”
Louis’s mouth twitched. “He’s never known when to hold his tongue.”
“He worries for you,” you added gently. “He told me as much.”
“Did he also tell you that I’m the most stubborn man in France?”
“I didn’t need him to.”
That earned a laugh, and the tension dissolved like mist. You stayed with him until dawn, talking of nothing and everything. When you left, the horizon was bleeding pink, and his voice followed you down the hall—low, fond, tired.
“Tomorrow, then.”
But peace at Versailles was never more than an interlude.
By midsummer, Montespan struck again. Her campaign was not loud but insidious—a web of whispers spun with the precision of a spider. She planted seeds in salons, let envy water them.
She has bewitched him.
She advises him in state matters.
The Queen tolerates her because she must.
And perhaps worst of all:
The King plans to elevate her—make her Marquise, perhaps Duchess.
It wasn’t true. Not yet. But rumor in Versailles didn’t need truth; it only needed repetition.
One afternoon, as you crossed the gallery, you heard them—the courtiers who never lowered their voices enough.
“Her beauty is unremarkable,” one woman whispered. “It must be witchcraft.”
“Or ambition,” another replied. “Widows make excellent climbers. No husbands to shame.”
You kept walking, head high, every step deliberate. But when you reached your chambers, your hands shook.
For the first time, you considered leaving.
That evening, Philippe appeared without invitation. He closed the door behind him, his usual smirk replaced with concern. “The wolves are restless,” he said. “You’ve heard?”
“I have,” you said tightly. “They think me a sorceress now.”
He shrugged. “Better that than dull.”
“Philippe.”
He sighed, dropped the act, and sat opposite you. “They won’t stop. Montespan’s pride was wounded, and she knows how to wound back. The only thing that silences gossip in Versailles is spectacle.”
You frowned. “You mean to give them more to talk about?”
“I mean,” he said, “to give them something they don’t understand. Stay visible. Smile. Attend the Queen. Walk in the gardens. Let them see you untouchable. If they think you frightened, you’ve already lost.”
You studied him. “Why do you help me?”
“Because,” he said, rising, “when you steady him, you steady France. And because—” he paused, smiling faintly “—I like you. You remind me of myself, if I’d been born sensible.”
The Queen’s invitation came two days later.
She greeted you in her private salon, a book open in her lap, her ladies dismissed.
“Sit,” she said. “You look pale.”
“I’ve been the subject of lively imagination,” you admitted.
“I know,” the Queen said simply. “They send me letters—anonymous, of course. They tell me I should despise you.”
You froze. “And do you?”
She looked up then, eyes gentle, unwavering. “No. I pity them. You are what they cannot be: loved without permission.”
Your breath caught.
She reached across the table, her fingers brushing yours. “Do not let them shame you. If you must endure this place, at least endure it as yourself.”
“Your Majesty, I—”
“Enough,” she said softly. “Be kind to him. And be kinder to yourself. The rest will pass.”
You left her rooms with a weight lifted, though you could not yet name what it was.
That night, Louis found you waiting in the gardens, by the fountain of Apollo. The air shimmered with the scent of jasmine and water. He looked weary—too many hours of counsel, too many battles fought with quills and egos.
When he saw you, his shoulders dropped. “I’ve heard what they’re saying.”
You opened your mouth to protest, but he stopped you with a raised hand. “Let them. You are not their scandal.”
“Then what am I?” you asked quietly.
He took your hand, pressing it to his heart. “You are the reason I still believe this place can hold something true.”
And in that moment—beneath the glow of torches, the murmur of fountains, the perfume of night-blooming roses—you almost believed him.
You kissed him, there in the open air, where anyone could see. For once, you didn’t care. You belonged not to rumor, nor to favor, nor even to the sun that ruled the world—
but to the man who had learned, finally, how to love as a mortal does.
Philippe would later joke that he saw the glow of that moment from halfway across the palace.
And perhaps he did.
Because for the first time in his reign, the Sun King did not shine alone.
