"The Last Savoie" | Louis PK

[Monty Cobra 921]

Mons was surprised by the number of memories which contained Louis, going back so far as when he had been a young man—clever, ambitious. Though Mons had fallen quickly out of touch with Louis after the Savoyards had denounced him, Mons' memories of him were fond... and he felt a deep well of sadness when the news reached him that Louis, all too soon, was gone.

[TaraJess 2848]

Johanna Vuiller sat in her silent home, her husband and two boys out getting some fresh air. She needed the silence in that moment, for her mind was terribly loud. Sure, he left them all behind, but complicated feelings left them to still be friends, for she couldn't simply abandon those who called her Aunty. "My respectful, thoughtful boy... what have they done to you?" She quietly wept. His awful singing sat ringing in her ears, and suddenly she was overcome with regret for not giving him more of her time after Mattea's wedding. Quiet weeping grew to choked sobs, then long found silence again.

[Yeetboy0206 1574]

Estevot Heymor and the Devil in Black were two very different people, but they had the same center. They both desired above all else to help people, especially those they care for. And that was why when they heard that Louis, someone Estevot once took a great sword to the chest for, had been killed, Estevot and the Devil both agree on one thing. "The de Rouens must PAY."

Edited April 22, 2025 by Ryfin Chany
Filling in

[Maiyun 362]

Spoiler

 

 

 

Her dress was ruined.

 

It was not because of the tears from her incessant, pathetic weeping. It was not because of the dirt from when she had been flung from a horse and finally, finally rescued by reinforcements that had arrived far too late.

The jewel-toned, blue silks had been marred a murky, reddish brown from when she had sat quietly in the hall of her kingdom with a burlap sack cradled in her lap, the head of her love sat inside of it. Leaking, ever insistent, as what blood remained slowly escaped the crude wound of the beheading. 

 

Around her, the chatter and clamor of different people was heard. Her brother, intent on leading a hunt of some kind, guards that sat near her and made attempt to coax her from her stunned state. But all of it were muffled, sounds distant as though she herself were underwater. Only two sensations were present to Ardirnien then.

 

The warm, uncomfortable weight in her lap that was all that remained of Louis. A mangled head that would never again smile at her or call her some stupid, silly name in that strange tongue of his that her father so disapproved of.

 

The second of these was the strangling pulses around her heart, the seizing of an unseen pain that lanced through her in continued agony. Her heartbeat was loud in her ears, bringing with it the flashes of the night. The boy who sat at their table, the men who burst into the doorway with weapons brandished, Louis pleading for her to leave, and her stubborn refusal to move. But neither did she move to save him, the coward that she was. 

With every beat of her heart, she cursed her useless, powerless limbs. She saw the dismissive looks of well-armored guards she had never met, and a dull, almost bored gleam in the eye of Tiberias. 

 

She saw herself, hours prior. In a bid to console Louis from the murder of his brother, the possible death of his father if she could not convince the Tar, HER FATHER, to act .. Uttering the foolish words, sat next to him in the safety of her city:

 

".. Wanna get out of here?"

 

The memory brought with it a fresh wave of tears, cursing her folly. Her naivety. 

As pain seized around her heart once more, she moved up to her feet, although she never felt them actually touch the ground. It was as though she were a ghost, and in a way, she certainly could have been one.

 

Ardirnien climbed the stairs of the residential wing, her gaze trailing along the floor. Servantry parted swiftly from her path, eager to put a wide berth between themselves and the young woman who may have walked straight into them had they not otherwise done so. She stripped herself of the ruined silks, casting them to the floor and crossed to her wardrobe. Countless dresses of finery twinkled in the dim lighting of her room, pushed past so that she might draw out a plain dress of soft, black linen. She hung it on the door.

 

On her bedside table, a half-drunk cup of now decidedly cold nightsap tea. It was tossed back, the cup cast carelessly to the floor where it cracked. Chips of painted porcelain were scattering the fine hardwood of the bedroom floor. She dragged herself beneath the heavy covers of her bed, curling inward on herself. As dreamless, alchemical sleep claimed her, the young royal prayed most earnestly to the angels above.

 

A prayer, a desperate plea, that tomorrow might never arrive. 

 

. . .

Unfortunately for her, it arrived all the same. 

 

[TheIchorDruid 1986]

The vineyard had grown wild in places, vines left to tangle over stone trellises without the discipline of pruning hands. It was still beautiful - sunlight filtering through swollen grapes, the breeze heavy with ferment and dust - but it felt abandoned. It felt like him. Constance had arrived days ago. She couldn't say how many. The ride was long and silent, and she hadn't spoken since. Her only company: a dagger, and a bottle. Each evening she'd sit under the old arbor overlooking the southern slope, blade resting at her side, wine staining her lips, and memory gnawing at her ribs.

 

She didn't eat. Didn't sleep properly. Sometimes she drank until her limbs went numb. Sometimes she drank trying to forget the sound of his voice - his laughter echoing faintly in the rafters of the old house, in the old letters tucked away in drawers, in the warmth that once lingered here.
 

She wasn't crying anymore. That had passed. Now there was only the slow erosion of self, the quiet drift toward something nameless and hollow.

She didn't hear the man approach until his shadow stretched over her.
 

Boots on gravel. An armoured figure, broad and silent, wrapped in steel and dark cloth. He didn’t speak at first. Just stood there, watching.

"You've found yourself a graveyard of memories," he said, voice like old stone.

She didn't look up. "If you're here to offer comfort, don't."
 

"No. I came to remind you," he replied, "that even when the path ahead isn't lit... it’s still paved."

She finally glanced up, eyes dull. "And if I've no will to walk it?"

"Then sit here. Drink. Let the ache take you. But know this - he's still gone. The world turns without him, and you stay still. That's not grief. That's surrender." His words landed sharp. Not cruel, but clear.

He crouched beside her, quiet. "You can mourn," he said gently. "But don't vanish. Live each day as it comes. Some days will hurt. Others might surprise you. But live them."

She stared past him, toward the hills where the light faded into rust and wine-dark clouds. Her voice cracked when she spoke again.

"He was the best part of me."

"Then let what's left honour him," he said. "Not waste in his shadow."

That night, when he was gone, she poured the last of the wine into the soil.

And the dagger stayed in its sheath.

 

[Demonica 678]

Rhiänwen sat in silence. Confusion gnawed at the edge of her thoughts, quiet but unrelenting. Death had never meant much, not to her, it couldn’t. That was the curse of the barrowborn. But this was different. It wasn’t the dying that troubled her, but rather the absence. That she would never again hear his voice, never offer a greeting, never say hello.
•────˖˖༻✶༺˖˖────•

Her hand moved on instinct, reaching for the gift he had once placed in her care. She lit the stray candles scattered across her room, one by one, their flames flickering. Then she closed her eyes, and against every oath she had once made, against every warning given onto her, Rhiänwen attempted to reach across the veil she had sworn never to cross.

[tcs_tonsils_ 3666]

Gaspard of Ashford watched as a brother he had barely known was slain.  Gaspard stood in the background, beside Edumond... They would never get to greet him... He was gone. "You were always my better, dear brother. And I was envious of your likability and demeanor. I had hoped to make amends with you whilst reclining here in the skies."

[sapphic_spidy 1089]

Alistair doesn't know yet. How could he? But he would not mourn.

 

"I should've pushed him off the roof when I had the chance." 

He'd said that phrase so many times, yet never could it have changed anything. He didn't, he didn't push Louis off the roof, he didn't stab him in the neck, he didn't shoot him with an arrow as he walked away. 

 

He knows too much, too much, yet Alice never did anything about it.

 

He threatened my kid.

The order of how things happen doesn't matter. The second himself, Quill, and the baby were drawn into things, a death threat, it all stopped mattering. It was pure hatred. He was willing to play the game. Act sad or angry where it suited Louis's perception of him. Play the part of the emotional fool. Wait until he had his chance, or his proof, and maybe he wouldn't have to be the one to do the man in at all. 

 

Kid, Alice called him. Some grab at power. 

Refer to me as Baron Treuberg.

A phrase he has never told to anyone. He doesn't like flaunting his power. The point was that he had it, and Louis didn't. Did it work? Does it matter?

 

He's still spiraling into that paranoia. That something will happen to him before the adoption papers are finalized. That his kid- his clearly elven kid- will end up in a human orphanage, like how Louis promised.

 

He doesn't know, how could he?

But he'd be so relieved if he did.

 

Spoiler

the conflict rp was very very fun and i always love getting to write alice lying!! he hated louis but i thought louis was a fun little guy o7

 

[Xayshi 49]

The loft was still when morning came, though the sun had long since risen above the pines. Pale light filtered through the narrow window, soft and cold, washing the wooden room in a gray hush. He hadn't slept.

 

Boromir sat slouched at the desk in his bedroom loft, shoulders heavy beneath a wool shawl that had slipped from one side. His tunic was creased, one sleeve rolled up, the other forgotten. He looked like a man made of stone—solid, unmoving—but inside, the sea raged.

 

It was the day after it had happened. His eyes were bloodshot, ringed in the bruised shadow of grief and fury. Not the kind of grief that weeps and begs. No. This was the cold, hollow kind. The kind that coils behind the ribs and waits. The wooden beams above felt heavier somehow, like they were sinking inward. Or maybe he was.

 

The quill sat in his hand, stained with ink but unmoved. The parchment in front of him bore only a name—written at the top with a trembling hand, then left untouched, as though he couldn’t bring himself to write the words that would follow it. As though saying them out loud, even to paper, would make it all real.

 

He stared down at the paper, wanting to write—no, needing to.

 

He drew a sharp breath through his nose and sat straighter. The quill hovered again. The words would come. They had to.

 

He dipped the quill into ink, slow and deliberate, and began the first line—not for closure, not for peace—but because to say nothing would be to forget. And he would not forget. Not him.

 

Louis

 

 

I write this with trembling hands, though you will never read it. The ink runs like the tears I can no longer hold back, and every word feels far too small to carry the weight of your name.

You are gone. And not by time’s natural hand, nor in the glory of battle—but stolen. Taken by cruelty, by injustice, by hands that knew no right.

I can still hear your laughter, echoing in the halls of my memory. You were light in shadowed places, a soul bold enough to stand when others turned their gaze.

And now I sit here, ink staining my fingers, trying to say goodbye to someone I would have stood for, fought for, died for—if I had only known. If I had been there.

I'm sorry I wasn’t.

I always believed that death is a release from suffering. But... now it is just an ache. An emptiness.

Why did you have to die?

We had so much more to talk about….so much more to do.

I always believed that I was strong. That I could do anything. But now I feel so weak.

I hate you for leaving me, and yet I love you with all my heart.

I hope wherever your soul has gone, it is far from here—far from the chains of this world. I hope it is bright, and warm, and quiet. I hope you finally have peace.

I've got it from here, meneit ami.

Farwell.

 

 

[Sarven 2619]

Theodemar looked into the roaring flames within Kretzen's square, the Templar-Duke bore a grimace, his eye shed a tear, for the young boy he had remembered the lad he had known all those years ago, one who he enthusiastically cheered on,

'You will beat me some day' 

And yet...

That day never came.

 

"A flame that burned ever so brightly... snuffed out by cravens and bastards,"

"May you never rust in your rest... lad."

"For vengeance will be had."

[Me_llamo... 603]

Cesare G. Roa had previously been talking with Beatrice Rovare about Louis, noticing the disrepair falling on Louis' previous vineyard, noting it strange that he had left it like that "We should take care of it for him, until he comes back, aye?" he said towards Beatrice

 

Although Louis never came back. After hearing the news Cesare contemplated what to do, he had heard the Savoie and the Rouen's had a blood feud previous "Justice shall be served, Louis" he said, putting a fist to his chest before finishing the wine Louis had given him

[nikoisniko 165]

'Dear Louis,

I miss you.
And I always will.'

The young Derelli wrote those words with trembling hands, tears soaking the page. Frustration and grief surged through her as she crushed the letter and hurled it to the floor.

. . . 

 

“Louis? . . ”

The news fell upon her like a weight too heavy to bear. The Rostova could only stand there, frozen in disbelief. Her heart refused to accept what her ears had heard. 

 

. . . 

 

Sabrina was a storm of emotion—anger, sorrow, and hatred—directed at the man she once loved. A man who, even now, mourned the vineyard they once shared, a place woven with their laughter and memories.

. . .
 

"What if we had a vineyard together?"

She had asked it playfully once, a fleeting dream voiced at a Savoie family dinner.
 

"We can do that!"

He had smiled back, eyes gleaming with the hope of a future they believed was theirs to hold.
 

. . .
 

“Sabrina, what do you want?”
 

“All I ever wanted... was to stay at that vineyard with you. More than anything, Louis.”
 

. . .

“This isn’t goodbye, Louis. It’s just... farewell.”

. . .
 

That vineyard had once overflowed with joy, filled with friends, laughter, and the sweet perfume of ripening grapes. But time had weathered it—grapevines now bare, wine bottles gathering dust, their once-glowing candlelight now extinguished. Only one still burned: a quiet flame for Aleksandr.
 

. . .
 

She said nothing when she heard the news—no words came. Instead, she walked alone to the vineyard, her footsteps light, but her heart unbearably heavy. At the table where so many shared the warmth of Ash-Derelli wine, she gently placed a single white flower.
 

 

" I know you’re not here. And you never will be.
But I need to say this anyway.

You weren’t a good man.
You weren’t a bad one either.

You were just... hurting.

I saw it in your eyes the last time I saw you in Eredmar. You looked tired—like something in you had already given up. Time changes people. Sometimes it heals. Sometimes it breaks them. I think it broke you.

nonetheless, I hope you found some kind of peace. "

 

The still night answered only with the soft chorus of crickets. She brushed her hand along the dust-covered table, the wood worn but familiar beneath her touch. 
 

“I must go home to my family now,  goodbye Louis."
 

Tears spilled silently down her cheeks. She didn’t wipe them away at first—just stood there, remembering. Then, with a final glance, she dried her eyes... and walked away.
 

For the last time.

[hopey 364]

Guarded by her chamber door, Ilmariël-Nárpedril wallowed in a discomforted silence. Dry was her throat, a dread engulfing her from the mere utterance of Louis' death. A suffocating guilt clawed at her, as if she deserved not to mourn. It was she who pushed him aside, hoisting needless hostility upon him over an argument unworthy of her ire. She was at fault, reluctant to mend their ties, disgusted by the idea of civility-- a kindness that should've been afforded. The acknowledgement of such came too late, for her anger seared too bright; an unforgivable frailty. It took his death to come to terms with her mistake, to comprehend her cruelty. With thinning lips, Ilmariël sought her cousin, praying apologies could be given elsewhere.

[Ryanark 2738]

Spoiler

pov

 

 

[don dada 579]

[x]

 

"All of them, Lord?" spoke the young squire,  

whose presence were debatable due to his      

allegiance to another.                                           

 

"All of them. All de Rouens." The Nornish-  

elder spoke without pause, nor restraint.        

Simply pure conviction.                                   

 

"Leave no ******* stone unturned. And if      

they hide, show them how our people felt      

at the tavern."                                                       

Edited April 21, 2025 by westside