After us, the flood ("Wind" entry)
Title: After us, the flood
Rating: PG-13 for description of illness
Genre: Angst/Romance
Characters/Pairings: Reinette/King Louis XV (Reinette/Doctor in the background)
Author: templeremus
Word Count: 840
Summary: Love at the end of the slow path. Spoilers for The Girl In The Fireplace.
Reinette could not say for sure when she first understood that she was dying. The realisation had crept up on her, in the quiet way that some people are said to fall in love.
By the time that she could no longer leave her rooms, winter still had its claws in deep. Men darted from their carriages to the palace steps, hunched and shivering in their best coats. Their urgent footsteps rang out on the floor below, belying the soft, measured tones in which they spoke to one another. Though she was unable to make the words out, Reinette guessed that they were speaking of her, or of what would happen after her. Her death, like her life, was state business. It needed careful attention.
Fortunately, certain matters were still under her control. Though the king sent for various doctors in quick succession, she found reasons to dismiss them all. One clucked and tutted while he prodded at her, as if she were a recalcitrant child or a simpleton; another kept checking his pocket watch whenever he thought himself unobserved. Their examinations were supposed to last an hour at most, but with the curtains drawn it was hard to work out how much time had passed. The servants were forbidden to wind the clock in her bed chamber. The ticking noise had intruded upon her dreams, and made her uneasy.
After the final doctor had gone the hours slid into each other, pressed together like the pages in a book. Morning and evenings became one long twilight, always a moment away from sleep. Whenever she felt well enough, she would draw. The king had a table made up that could be extended across her bed, with an easel mounted on it for her sketchbook. From the window the view was grey, the gardens bleached of their summer colours. She called for red chalks and drew the figures from her dreams instead, working quickly, muddying the white sleeves of her nightgown where they had brushed against the paper.
The girls who came to strip the bedding exchanged anxious glances, as though they had been asked to wash out something obscene. At one time, Reinette would have cared about their gossip. After all, it was on scandal or its imputation that women with power like hers could be broken. Now, however, she was at peace. Everything that needed saying had been said, or else written down. She still hoped for a visitor through her fireplace, but only half-consciously, just as she hoped to see the garden blossom again. The passion behind the idea had gone, and so had the terror which used to occupy her waking moments: the fear of a life without the possibility of escape. One way or another, escape was coming. All she had to do was wait.
The king, naturally, knew nothing of this. He would have taken her acceptance for despair, and grieved twice over. When they were together he was kindness personified, forever wracking his brains for the latest gossip or the ideal compliment to pay her drawings. After she grew too tired to continue he burnt the sketchbook for her, dropping the pages into the fire one by one. There were scenes in it which she barely understood herself: visions of a future glimpsed through doorways, in memories that were sometimes hers and sometimes not. It would not have done for other people to know of such things yet. They would have to take the slow path, learning as they went, feeling their way towards the stars over generations. She watched the paper curl and shrivel in the grate, and slept the whole night through.
One evening, towards the end, she woke struggling for air. On previous occasions the fit had passed after a minute's hard coughing, but this time her chest seized and her vision went dark. The chamber-maid thumped her between the shoulderblades, forcing up phlegm mixed with blood. For the first time in weeks, Reinette was afraid. The maid was a child, barely past fifteen, and her attempt at bravery made her sound younger still.
"I helped my mother through four labours, Madame. I ain't about to swoon over a little blood. Now, you just sit tight while I rouse the others."
The wait seemed longer than any she could recall. The maid had placed a candle by her bed and she watched the flame, keeping her eyes open until they swam. Outside, the girl's alarm went round the palace. He arrived at her door still part-asleep, the hair sticking up on one side of his head. She thought of how she had laughed when she first saw him in his night-shirt; he had looked so very un-kingly, like an actor divested of his costume. It was then that she had realised just how much she could love him. No one else in this world, in this age, would come close.
By now she had some breath back, though not enough to waste any. She said: "Promise me you will not be lonely."
Rating: PG-13 for description of illness
Genre: Angst/Romance
Characters/Pairings: Reinette/King Louis XV (Reinette/Doctor in the background)
Author: templeremus
Word Count: 840
Summary: Love at the end of the slow path. Spoilers for The Girl In The Fireplace.
Reinette could not say for sure when she first understood that she was dying. The realisation had crept up on her, in the quiet way that some people are said to fall in love.
By the time that she could no longer leave her rooms, winter still had its claws in deep. Men darted from their carriages to the palace steps, hunched and shivering in their best coats. Their urgent footsteps rang out on the floor below, belying the soft, measured tones in which they spoke to one another. Though she was unable to make the words out, Reinette guessed that they were speaking of her, or of what would happen after her. Her death, like her life, was state business. It needed careful attention.
Fortunately, certain matters were still under her control. Though the king sent for various doctors in quick succession, she found reasons to dismiss them all. One clucked and tutted while he prodded at her, as if she were a recalcitrant child or a simpleton; another kept checking his pocket watch whenever he thought himself unobserved. Their examinations were supposed to last an hour at most, but with the curtains drawn it was hard to work out how much time had passed. The servants were forbidden to wind the clock in her bed chamber. The ticking noise had intruded upon her dreams, and made her uneasy.
After the final doctor had gone the hours slid into each other, pressed together like the pages in a book. Morning and evenings became one long twilight, always a moment away from sleep. Whenever she felt well enough, she would draw. The king had a table made up that could be extended across her bed, with an easel mounted on it for her sketchbook. From the window the view was grey, the gardens bleached of their summer colours. She called for red chalks and drew the figures from her dreams instead, working quickly, muddying the white sleeves of her nightgown where they had brushed against the paper.
The girls who came to strip the bedding exchanged anxious glances, as though they had been asked to wash out something obscene. At one time, Reinette would have cared about their gossip. After all, it was on scandal or its imputation that women with power like hers could be broken. Now, however, she was at peace. Everything that needed saying had been said, or else written down. She still hoped for a visitor through her fireplace, but only half-consciously, just as she hoped to see the garden blossom again. The passion behind the idea had gone, and so had the terror which used to occupy her waking moments: the fear of a life without the possibility of escape. One way or another, escape was coming. All she had to do was wait.
The king, naturally, knew nothing of this. He would have taken her acceptance for despair, and grieved twice over. When they were together he was kindness personified, forever wracking his brains for the latest gossip or the ideal compliment to pay her drawings. After she grew too tired to continue he burnt the sketchbook for her, dropping the pages into the fire one by one. There were scenes in it which she barely understood herself: visions of a future glimpsed through doorways, in memories that were sometimes hers and sometimes not. It would not have done for other people to know of such things yet. They would have to take the slow path, learning as they went, feeling their way towards the stars over generations. She watched the paper curl and shrivel in the grate, and slept the whole night through.
One evening, towards the end, she woke struggling for air. On previous occasions the fit had passed after a minute's hard coughing, but this time her chest seized and her vision went dark. The chamber-maid thumped her between the shoulderblades, forcing up phlegm mixed with blood. For the first time in weeks, Reinette was afraid. The maid was a child, barely past fifteen, and her attempt at bravery made her sound younger still.
"I helped my mother through four labours, Madame. I ain't about to swoon over a little blood. Now, you just sit tight while I rouse the others."
The wait seemed longer than any she could recall. The maid had placed a candle by her bed and she watched the flame, keeping her eyes open until they swam. Outside, the girl's alarm went round the palace. He arrived at her door still part-asleep, the hair sticking up on one side of his head. She thought of how she had laughed when she first saw him in his night-shirt; he had looked so very un-kingly, like an actor divested of his costume. It was then that she had realised just how much she could love him. No one else in this world, in this age, would come close.
By now she had some breath back, though not enough to waste any. She said: "Promise me you will not be lonely."