Versailles: The King's brother

Chapter 7: A Treaty

Philippe

"You just couldn't stay away, could you?", Philippe tightened his grip on the reins to his new muted white steed; it was a male, more stubborn than Philippe and twice as hard to ride as Fleur, his now deceased female horse whom he had now morbidly assumed had maggots coming out of her cream white fur. Such a shame, he felt, he would've liked to have ridden her back to camp in a victory trot. If only she hadn't shifted left and had the shrapnel fragments of a cannon bursting bury themselves into the side of her neck and throw him off, only to have her lifeless corpse land on him in a heap of mane, saddle, and hoof. Shame, he thought again.
Approaching the camp, he noticed the ten-charriot-long centipede of the royal court laid dormant on the side of the road. They were here, and they were waiting. Walking through the blue and white striped tents with wet mud, firewood smoke, and horse shit filling his nose he made his way to the center arrondissement. All of his men - what was left - stood silently, their eyes pasted forward towards the tent in front of them.
From within, the soft patter of clapping could be heard. Had Louis truly done it? Had he come to an agreement with the enemy? Was everything Philippe had done for nothing? Philippe felt heat rise up into his cheeks and fists, fuming with betrayal. Leaving the back of his horse, he stomped up to the entrance of the tent; what caught him off guard, though, was the uproar of shouted cheers that came not from in front but behind him. He turned towards his soldiers; they knew what had happened within that tent, what it meant and symbolized. Yet they didn't care; they cheered for Philippe, they cheered for themselves, for the undeniable truth that although all they suffered and lost was for naught they were proud of their sacrifice and of the undisputed dent they made in their enemies forces. Holding back tears, Philippe brought his arms up to his sides, palms up and open as if absorbing their energy. Turning towards the tent, he noticed the curtains to the entrance parting and faces poked through such as the puffy, aged eyes of Louvois, along with the glare of distain that could only ever be done and replicated by the Queen, followed by the strange eyes of Spanish uniformed soldiers glaring Philippe down, their hands purposefully re-adjusting their grip on their bayonets. He noticed his brother instantly, for he was the only one refusing to turn around. Remaining seated, Louis put the feather quill to his side and folded his hands in waiting. Philippe bit down on the insides of his cheeks and raised his arms higher. The cheers loudened.

[Written June 24th, 2018]

*This chapter was short, I know, but these next few weeks might be a little busy because I am going to get my wisdom teeth out at some point in July and I have applied to be an intern - tomorrow marking my interview - so bear with my personal on the update and please stay patient with me. thank you.*