Red Duke (vignette)

Author: Taelle

Fandom: Three Musketeers

Pairing: Richelieu/Aramis

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: neither Aramis nor Cardinal Richelieu belong to me, but both of them should by now be in public domain.

Thanks to CC for beta reading this.

«So, Red Duke? Amusing, quite amusing. It’s your idea, I know…”

Aramis wouldn’t raise his head.

“I hope Monsignor will forgive my boldness. I dare to assure Monsignor that I did not mean..”

“Rene!”

This sharp command finally made him raise his eyes; and he regretted it immediately, seeing deep and sincere regret and maybe even offense on the Cardinal’s face.

“Rene…” he repeated, raising a hand to cover his big grey eyes.

“I really did not mean anything offensive,” Aramis said gently and less impersonally. “It was just that the name fit so well…”

“I know,” the Cardinal said, putting his head down and giving his companion a penetrating look. “I’m used to your wit, my dear Rene. But I can’t get used to you behaving like you do now, being so distant, keeping so far apart….”

“Aren’t we a world apart now?” Aramis said softly. “What can the Cardinal and a King’s Musketeer have in common? Rene whom you have known, Monsignor, doesn’t exist any more.”

“Oh, right,” Richelieu chuckled, “that amusing nickname of yours… But it was Rene d’Herblay who had been admitted into this room — after all, how can I know Aramis the Musketeer well enough to invite him?”

Aramis bit his lip, not for the first time berating himself for coming. He could have ignored the note — its tone suggested that no punishment would follow not coming to the call. It wasn’t written by a Prime Minister or a Cardinal — after all, he had received such notes before, in Luçon…

They weren’t in Luçon now, and yet he came. He came, telling himself that he couldn’t miss a chance, that he could bring misfortune on his friends otherwise. Only here, in the surprisingly modest office of the most powerful man in the realm, he remembered that the only thing Armand Jean du Plessis, Cardinal Richelieux, had never allowed him was practicing self-deception.

“Well,” he said finally, “you called Rene, and Rene came, even though there’s only a shadow of him in Paris, a shadow suitable only for creeping into secret meetings. But why? What do you need, Monsignor?”

There was a slight smile on the Cardinal's face, and Aramis realized, horrified, that he was starting to lose self-possession. So that was what he wanted… From their first meeting the then bishop of Luçon had teased him with amused looks from those grey eyes, confused him with serene half-smiles, leading him down the roads the young seminary student had never wanted to travel.

“Only a shadow of Rene left? I don’t think so, my dear friend. Actually, I called you to check whether Rene is still here. You know, I’ve been missing him. It’s all very nice that you’re playing soldier with your Musketeer friends, but that’s not what you were meant for, not at all. You’re wasting your time here, Rene.”

“Wasting my time?” He was starting to get angry. All his life Rene d’Herblay, sometimed called Aramis, took pride in his patience and evenness, his ability to behave nicely with everyone and for everyone. Nobody, but nobody could get him angry. Nobody except for the bishop — for the cardinal — for Armand. “Let me remind you, Monsignor, that I am not in seminary any more, and you cannot lecture me as some schoolboy who did not do his lessons.”

The Cardinal shook his head sadly.

“I know you aren’t a schoolboy any more, and I’m glad of it. Do you think I want to lecture you for not doing your lessons? I just want you to be my friend, Rene…”

I’ll be damned, Aramis thought, if the cardinal’s voice did not tremble at the last phrase. Almost without thinking he stepped ahead and went down on one knee near Richelieu’s armchair.

“Monsignor…”

A strong narrow hand caught his own and squeezed his fingers.

“Rene, my dear Rene… Let there be musketeers and funny names, but will you start hating me next?”

“Never,” Aramis breathed out and pressed his lips to the cardinal’s hand. “How can I hate you, Armand?” He lay his head on the cardinal’s lap, pressing his cheek into the scarlet fabric of his robe, and closed his eyes, forgetting for a moment about his friends, his regiment, the queen, the court…


Outside the cardinal’s trusted valet shook his head, sending away the page who came in with some errand. The cardinal was not to be disturbed.

Crossposted to lit_fic, rarelitslash, swords_n_laces and taelle_writing.