For the longest time, Philippe liked to blame his internal misery on how his mother raised him; and his father didn’t help either, just to be clear. But his mother, she was the one that kept referring to him as her little girl, she was the one that liked to dress him up in dresses when he was still a young boy. But he was only upset about that because everyone around him acted as if it was a bad thing, as if he shouldn’t like it; and yet he did. So what was there to be made of it all? Did he ever feel like less of a man because of this feminine side of his that his mother encouraged, because of the fact that, apparently, he could never be as great as his older brother? Yes, he did, naturally. But nevertheless, deep down, at some very basic level, he always knew that mom was right. He took the greatest interest in dancing, art, and fashion; his eyes sparkled when he saw elegant feminine clothing with soft frills and shoes with fancy ribbons. It wasn’t typical but it was his and in the end, he wasn't ashamed of it. He was offered the life of what was basically the life of the royal daughter with a few added benefits of being a man after all – and he took it with pleasure. It never held him back from anything; he wasn’t a weak man. He was still Philippe, Duke of Orléans, when it was appropriate, he still proved himself to be a better military strategist than the king and no one would ever convince him otherwise, and ultimately, he could bed whoever he wanted. His wives were responsibilities that he fulfilled without complaint (okay, maybe a little complaint, sometimes), but his lovers were where his real passion always lied. The only times when growing up in his brother’s shadow didn’t matter to him anymore were when he was on the battlefield and when he was with Philippe. And that surely meant something.
It was strange, looking at the people around you and seeing how much they've changed, how much they've grown. How much you've grown yourself, and all because of something as trivial as a simple lack of something.
OdpowiedzUsuńSomeone.
Chevalier was never the best with goodbies, nor was he with the separation that always followed. His heart ached, sometimes making him feel almost as if it was trying to dug a hole in his chest from the inside and escape through it, run ten thousand miles and leap itself onto the battlefield just to see Philippe again, touch his face, hear his voice; his bed was cold and too big for one person only - empty. Both the sheets and his own body, because suddenly there was something missing, a removed organ perhaps, and maybe, just maybe, it was because of that emptiness that he started to seek a friend. Someone who would understand, help, hold his hand when he needed them to and leave the room without question when he wanted to be alone. Princess Palatine was a good woman, straightforward, like a breath of fresh air in the staleness of Versaille's enormous rooms; she had a habit of seeing the good in people - not the best, maybe, but good. She saw the vulnerability in her husband's lover, and he in turn grew to respect her, treat her like a sister. A part of the family, respected, whose opinions and well-being with time start to matter more than one's own.
She was an angel, truly. And in the absence of Monsieur, it was him who became her guardian as she was becoming bigger with the life growing inside her - and then, after the life jumped out, now called Philippe too, his guardian as well. As ridiculous as it would have sounded to him a mere year ago, he matured; became a man rather than a peevish boy, yelling and taking offense in everything that would not go according to his plan.
If anyone told him then that in a year he would be holding his lover's newborn son and smiling at him as if he was his own, and then at his mother as if it was not a woman he once saw as a threat, competition, but his dearest cousin - if anyone told him that then, he would have laughed. Oh, how being left to one's own devices changes people.
The message came - victory, he would not dare think of anything else - a few weeks passed and the army was nearing Versailles. Chevalier's heart, though it seemed impossible, ached even more now, and some higher force was stretching every passing minute. Seconds turned into hours as he waited, impatient, trying to, as Liselotte told him a few days earlier, keep himself occupied; he spent a week tossing and turning at night, thinking what to do. A banquet, perhaps, and the king should agree, as it was not appropriate to welcome the victorious royal brother with nothing more than a glass of wine and a pat on the shoulder.
It shall be great, he decided. Splendid. The biggest party of the year.
It took most of his days, and did keep him occupied enough to take his mind off of less pleasant matters, should they occur. So occupied, in fact, that he nearly missed the welcomin ceremony - he certainly would be late, if it wasn't, again, for Liselotte. And there he was, standing right next to her on the main courtyard of the palace, as the horses stopped and the riders jumped off.
"He looks rough," she whispered, quietly enough for noe one besides Chevalier to hear, and all he could do was to nod slightly. He felt his heart hammering somewhere in his throat, and yes, Philippe looked rough with his disheveled hair and pale face, but that was what war always did to him, well, at least this one time a few years prior. But he was still his Philippe, finally home.