Work Text:
King Louis and his consort have brought two new lives into the new world.
The identical twins are born underneath a crimson sky in the decrepit royal palace of Grand Trad. Two girls, equally pudgy and adorable: Lillian and Henriette. One of them is ill, unfit for utopia.
Louis stares down at the masses that writhe and squeal in their handmade crib. His heart swells with…something. Something like unease, perhaps disgust.
Lillian was born with several of her internal organs on the outside of her body.
Louis did his best to stitch her up, using magic and medicine both in a frantic attempt to save her life. Everything outside was put back in, and Lillian survived. She struggles still to breathe and swallow and cries the loudest, every lungful of air agonizing. She requires constant attention and careful monitoring.
Henriette, on the other hand, is the epitome of health. She's fat, rotund, her cute little cheeks are rosy and her voice is strong, echoing down the castle halls. A voice that demands to be heard, that cannot be snuffed out. She has the makings of a strong leader like her fathers before her, a worthy successor for utopia.
Lillian, though…
Louis tries to feed her, but she won't latch. Most nutritional alternatives, she's regurgitated. Unless he finds something she can digest, she will starve.
If she doesn't starve, she will still have her mysterious illness to contend with. Louis has run every test he can, and he knows for certain she will never recover.
That is why Louis finds himself alone with his spawn in this dark and dingy tomb, feet nailed to the ground by his responsibilities while Will stubbornly seeks a miracle cure someplace else.
Should he fail, then, years from now, Henriette will no longer have a sister. She will find herself treading a lonesome path, despite her birthright as one half of a whole, separated for life by the whims of fate.
Lilian is not strong enough. She's not meant for this human world.
So Louis twirls the knife in his hand, moonlight catching on its blade, dancing on the wall like a specter. An invisible force is stopping his hand from crossing the threshold into the crib.
The weak must be culled.
Louis will repeat this mantra until he can move his hand. For as long as it takes.
Henriette rolls over and smacks her fat little arm on top of her sister. She squeals gleefully, as if she's found something she'd lost. Her pudgy little fingers close around Lillian’s smaller, fragile hand. Louis almost fears she may crush that delicate hand in hers, so his fingers rush to separate theirs.
The strong must subsume the weak.
The knife’s tip stabs into the wooden rim of the crib, pressing. Insisting. Begging to be let in.
The path to the throne is already caked in blood.
What would be one more drop spilled in the name of utopia?
His hands are trembling.
“Waaaaah!”
Lillian cries - loud, jarring to his ears, piercing through a barrier he failed to perceive before. Desperate tears stream down her pale cheeks.
She has Will's eyes. With that same idealistic sparkle in her pupils that shines brightly amidst a dark, ruthless world. That blinding splendor of innocence that shines through the tempest, the sunlight after a storm.
The knife clatters to the floor.
“Easy, easy,” Louis cooes, a sound so strange coming from him, tenderly pulling Lillian out of the crib, one large hand cradling her tiny head, upon which sits a curly tuft of blonde hair. She's light as a feather in his arms, thin and meek despite their best efforts to nourish her. She's crying, flailing her little arms as she screams her feeble lungs out over who knows what.
This is all she can do. This is the hardest that she can fight.
She's hungry, and he has nothing to feed her.
“Wooo, gooaaah!” Henriette starts screaming, too, from where she lays forgotten in the plush bedding of their crib.
Ah. In his fuzzing over Lillian, he's been ignoring the other child.
If he continues to hold her close to his chest, continues to keep her warm, clean, and pampered, if he continues to center and nurture this doomed babe– what will become of Henriette?
Sick children require a tremendous amount of resources and care, the former being harder to come by in an uncivilized world. They could pour everything they have into raising this doomed child, and then- what will become of Henriette?
Strength must be nurtured. The weak must be culled.
“But what have you ever done?” He hears said in his voice, uncharacteristically feeble. “What fault of yours is it that you were born ill? Whose sins have you been made to pay for?”
Whose tainted bloodline is responsible for Lillian’s deteriorating health?
Why can he do nothing but end her suffering?
Has he no other options?
Henriette is crying. Lillian is crying.
Louis is…
The sound of steel on tile slices through the air behind him.
“What's the matter?” his husband's voice whispers in his ear. He's not supposed to be back from his excursion so soon. “Aren't you going to do it?”
“Will,” Louis tries. He's unable to speak further.
Will's hand gingerly works the knife back into his hand, pushing his fingers closed one by one around the handle. "You've never been one to waver, Louis."
Of course, his husband will not do it himself. Just as Louis was the one to cast the magic spell that put an end to the old world, so too must he drive his blade into an innocent heart that needs not beat any longer. Will need only stand beside him.
Blade in one, life in the other. Louis’ hands have never quivered so.
“Get it over with, your Majesty,” Will’s voice purrs, “cull the weak.”
The weak must be culled.
Lillian shall become a noble sacrifice.
For Henriette’s sake.
“You falter, even now?” Will's voice is bitter as the winter frost, sending chills down his spine. “Prove to me the strength of your convictions. Prove to me that you are still fit to wear the crown.”
The weak must be culled.
The wailing weakness in his arms must not continue to suffer.
This is mercy.
“Cull the weak.”
This is just.
“Louis!”
Time grinds to a halt.
Louis whips around to see his husband frozen at the doorway, his lips parted in horror. Will's eyes catch sight of the knife and he's moving not a millisecond later, searing magla glowing on his skin, too swift for Louis to defend against.
Will, cloaked in the magic of his prince archetype, wrestles the knife out of Louis’ grasp and twists his arms behind his back, holding Louis in place.
Louis does not intend to resist. He delights in the arrival of spring and the warmth it brings.
“I'm sorry, I'm so sorry,” Will says, his voice trembling with emotion. “I'm sorry for storming out. I should've never left you alone with the girls.”
“Will!” Louis gasps, the odd sense of déjà vu like a slap in the face. “Is it really you?”
“Yes, yes, I'm here now. I'm here.”
Will, while cradling Lilian, turns him around and gently coaxes him to sit on the ground. Will reunites their daughters, cooing at them until they settle down, before he joins Louis on the floor, worry etched into his still-boyish face.
Louis can hardly believe he's returned so soon. The humid skin of his cheek tingles where Will kisses him.
“I will find a cure,” Will says. “Not just for little Lilian. You need help, too.”
Will embraces him. Louis sags into his hold, too exhausted to argue.
“Please, have hope in me, Louis.”