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winter*eyedart* Been a while since I've written something, and this may count as most obscure fandom ever - of the entire friendslist, only ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lamath and fyrie probably know it.
But hey, everybody else has probably read The Three Musketeers. So just imagine that, with a Richelieu and Milady who look like this, plus a very compressed plot that ends with Milady poisoning Constance Bonacieux in the Carmelite-Luxembourg convent and throwing herself off the cloister's wall once the Musketeers sentence her rather than having her head cut off, plus Richelieu falling into disgrace and being ordered to remain in his quarters when the necklace affair fails. Supplemented by details from the Richelieu biographies I've been reading lately.
EDIT: This was written earlier and posted before I realised that ooops, posting priest-sex on Good Friday - not going to put me in any Christian's good books. Sorry?
Fandom: The Musketeers (Dutch Musical)
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Richelieu/Milady
Warnings: He's a priest, bishop and cardinal. She's a lady of ill repute. Do the math.
FEAR IS ENOUGH
by Beth Winter
The gates of the Petit Palais Luxembourg closed with a clash of metal. Not the calming sound of church doors, shutting out the profane world, not even the finality of cemetery gates. Just the annoyance of a drawer shutting in your fingers, a metal box you kick in the dark and curse on one leg.
Broken toes heal, and so would he.
Armand-Jean du Plessis, Cardinal de Richelieu, spoke to no-one as he passed under the paintings he had selected, by the tapestries he had bought. His guards scattered, and he did not blame them. Now was the time to lick their wounds. For all of them.
His copy of the Discourses on Livy was on the desk in his study, the Bible in his personal chapel, but he was in the mood for neither. All that was in his bedchamber was his prayer book. That, he could live with.
Prayer on patience. There was a reason the book opened there first, but that didn't stop it from hitting the wall with a thud. There was a reason for the scuff marks on the cover, too.
His robe pooled on the floor like the red pool had under Rochefort. Another of his creatures out of his reach. Her, too, and that was a greater loss, harder to replace.
There was new glass in the windows, as new as the paintings and the tapestries. Still not perfect. It distorted his face, made him look like one of the cathedral gargoyles, his hair disarrayed, teeth bared.
A knock on the door. A thud of wood on stone, his hand almost tearing off the handle.
Doctor Citois knew better than to look up at him. Joseph would, but Joseph was in Mantua, because there were always ten things at once, and neither of them had expected trouble of the Spanish woman.
"A guest for your Eminence," Citois murmured.
Eminence, still. Not Your Prisonership.
Either way, he wasn't seeing guests. Not now, not here, not in his place.
There were no words. Citois wasn't Joseph, but the small doctor knew him well enough. The door closed with the quietest of sounds.
Another door opened. His chapel. If he were a mystic, he would throw the book again, just to see celestial blood.
Only human blood, staining the edge of a cloak. A hand, clenched on the door frame.
"Eminency," Milady de Winter said.
The cloak was cheap, thin, and his grip tore the fabric. Blood on her face, an ankle she stumbled on, gasp of pain as her back hit the wall.
Fire in her eyes, and his own reflection.
"You gave him the letter," he growled. "Why?"
She spat at him, missed. A red spot on his shirt.
"You didn't tell me who he was," she rasped.
His breath hissed between his teeth. "And the faithful wife revealed all to her husband, and he let her walk free."
"And he sentenced her to death," she whispered.
Ragged wounds on her skin. Ankle, twisted or broken. Cracked ribs. There was a high wall around the Carmelite cloister.
He let her go, turned his back on her. "And yet you crawled out of hell to torment me."
His knee bent, folded under her kick, hit the floor with a dull sound. She pulled his head back by the hair, the pain momentarily blinding.
More pain, as he twisted and rolled, his fingers catching her shoulder. She fell with him, then she was under him, her arms pinned, her eyes closed.
"You discarded me!" she screeched, twisting to hide her face against her arm. "All I did and you-"
"Not without regret." His voice echoed. His cathedral voice, his preaching voice. "Not without regret, Milady."
Her wrists shook under his hands. "Why?" she asked.
"For the glory of God," he whispered. "Always for the glory of God."
"And France?" Her voice wavered. "God and man, Eminency. Do you know which you are?"
He was the one who averted his face now, his fingers slipping on the stone floor. His cheek rested on her breast. She smelled of dried blood and river water.
"You're a man, Eminency," she whispered. "You must acknowledge it sometimes. We all must."
There was a deep furrow bisecting the fleur-de-lys on her shoulder, sticky with blood. She bit down a gasp, then another as he turned his head, his beard rasping against the thin fabric of her chemise, against her skin. Under the blood and the river water, there was her scent.
There were only a few strips of dark fabric around her waist, and he didn't want to wonder about whether the dress had been lost before her fall, during or after. The hem of the chemise was wet with river water. It left rusty smears on his fingertips.
He sat up, pushing her chemise up past her knees. A shallow gash ran along the left calf. The woman grimaced when he squeezed the ankle, but did not scream. Twisted, not broken.
There was a cabinet of medicinals next to Richelieu's bed, the contents tailored more to his fevers than to wounds, but there were bandages enough. Old habit, from his cadet years, from before there was a prayer book on top of the cabinet.
Milady grimaced again when he picked her up, but she made no comment as he carried her to the bed. She lay back on the covers. As he taped her ankle, her eyes closed again.
"Anything else?" he asked quietly. His fingers remained on her foot, her toes curling as he rubbed the sole.
"My ribs," she whispered. "I fell..."
The chemise unfastened in front, and she did it for him as he helped her sit up, her back against his chest. He pulled the last two pins from her hair. She pulled it forward, over her crossed arms.
Only two gasps. One when he touched her skin. One when a rib slid into place.
His shoulder was braced against hers as he pulled the bandage tight and tied it. The torn fleur-de-lys was in front of his eyes. It would heal crookedly, the brand unrecognizable.
"It's broken," he whispered. His finger traced the new outline, the wound a figure thrown over the flower. Mary and her lily. An angel, burn-winged, thorned.
The brand was hard and smooth under his lips. She moaned.
His other arm was around her waist. Her fingers wrapped around his wrist, pulled it higher.
There was rain against the window. His hands fell away. He raised his head, let it fall back, his eyes closed.
She turned and kissed his chest. "Troublesome priest."
"Demon," he whispered, his fingers sliding up her arms. "Harlot."
Her arm pulled back, shot out. He caught it before she could hit him. She cried out when her head hit the bed. Then again, when he bit her shoulder.
Later, she just cried, and he held her, long into the night. Once she quieted, they spoke of sin and repentance and the fact that fear was enough. What use there was for love?
FINIS
Comments?
lamath and fyrie probably know it.But hey, everybody else has probably read The Three Musketeers. So just imagine that, with a Richelieu and Milady who look like this, plus a very compressed plot that ends with Milady poisoning Constance Bonacieux in the Carmelite-Luxembourg convent and throwing herself off the cloister's wall once the Musketeers sentence her rather than having her head cut off, plus Richelieu falling into disgrace and being ordered to remain in his quarters when the necklace affair fails. Supplemented by details from the Richelieu biographies I've been reading lately.
EDIT: This was written earlier and posted before I realised that ooops, posting priest-sex on Good Friday - not going to put me in any Christian's good books. Sorry?
Fandom: The Musketeers (Dutch Musical)
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Richelieu/Milady
Warnings: He's a priest, bishop and cardinal. She's a lady of ill repute. Do the math.
FEAR IS ENOUGH
by Beth Winter
The gates of the Petit Palais Luxembourg closed with a clash of metal. Not the calming sound of church doors, shutting out the profane world, not even the finality of cemetery gates. Just the annoyance of a drawer shutting in your fingers, a metal box you kick in the dark and curse on one leg.
Broken toes heal, and so would he.
Armand-Jean du Plessis, Cardinal de Richelieu, spoke to no-one as he passed under the paintings he had selected, by the tapestries he had bought. His guards scattered, and he did not blame them. Now was the time to lick their wounds. For all of them.
His copy of the Discourses on Livy was on the desk in his study, the Bible in his personal chapel, but he was in the mood for neither. All that was in his bedchamber was his prayer book. That, he could live with.
Prayer on patience. There was a reason the book opened there first, but that didn't stop it from hitting the wall with a thud. There was a reason for the scuff marks on the cover, too.
His robe pooled on the floor like the red pool had under Rochefort. Another of his creatures out of his reach. Her, too, and that was a greater loss, harder to replace.
There was new glass in the windows, as new as the paintings and the tapestries. Still not perfect. It distorted his face, made him look like one of the cathedral gargoyles, his hair disarrayed, teeth bared.
A knock on the door. A thud of wood on stone, his hand almost tearing off the handle.
Doctor Citois knew better than to look up at him. Joseph would, but Joseph was in Mantua, because there were always ten things at once, and neither of them had expected trouble of the Spanish woman.
"A guest for your Eminence," Citois murmured.
Eminence, still. Not Your Prisonership.
Either way, he wasn't seeing guests. Not now, not here, not in his place.
There were no words. Citois wasn't Joseph, but the small doctor knew him well enough. The door closed with the quietest of sounds.
Another door opened. His chapel. If he were a mystic, he would throw the book again, just to see celestial blood.
Only human blood, staining the edge of a cloak. A hand, clenched on the door frame.
"Eminency," Milady de Winter said.
The cloak was cheap, thin, and his grip tore the fabric. Blood on her face, an ankle she stumbled on, gasp of pain as her back hit the wall.
Fire in her eyes, and his own reflection.
"You gave him the letter," he growled. "Why?"
She spat at him, missed. A red spot on his shirt.
"You didn't tell me who he was," she rasped.
His breath hissed between his teeth. "And the faithful wife revealed all to her husband, and he let her walk free."
"And he sentenced her to death," she whispered.
Ragged wounds on her skin. Ankle, twisted or broken. Cracked ribs. There was a high wall around the Carmelite cloister.
He let her go, turned his back on her. "And yet you crawled out of hell to torment me."
His knee bent, folded under her kick, hit the floor with a dull sound. She pulled his head back by the hair, the pain momentarily blinding.
More pain, as he twisted and rolled, his fingers catching her shoulder. She fell with him, then she was under him, her arms pinned, her eyes closed.
"You discarded me!" she screeched, twisting to hide her face against her arm. "All I did and you-"
"Not without regret." His voice echoed. His cathedral voice, his preaching voice. "Not without regret, Milady."
Her wrists shook under his hands. "Why?" she asked.
"For the glory of God," he whispered. "Always for the glory of God."
"And France?" Her voice wavered. "God and man, Eminency. Do you know which you are?"
He was the one who averted his face now, his fingers slipping on the stone floor. His cheek rested on her breast. She smelled of dried blood and river water.
"You're a man, Eminency," she whispered. "You must acknowledge it sometimes. We all must."
There was a deep furrow bisecting the fleur-de-lys on her shoulder, sticky with blood. She bit down a gasp, then another as he turned his head, his beard rasping against the thin fabric of her chemise, against her skin. Under the blood and the river water, there was her scent.
There were only a few strips of dark fabric around her waist, and he didn't want to wonder about whether the dress had been lost before her fall, during or after. The hem of the chemise was wet with river water. It left rusty smears on his fingertips.
He sat up, pushing her chemise up past her knees. A shallow gash ran along the left calf. The woman grimaced when he squeezed the ankle, but did not scream. Twisted, not broken.
There was a cabinet of medicinals next to Richelieu's bed, the contents tailored more to his fevers than to wounds, but there were bandages enough. Old habit, from his cadet years, from before there was a prayer book on top of the cabinet.
Milady grimaced again when he picked her up, but she made no comment as he carried her to the bed. She lay back on the covers. As he taped her ankle, her eyes closed again.
"Anything else?" he asked quietly. His fingers remained on her foot, her toes curling as he rubbed the sole.
"My ribs," she whispered. "I fell..."
The chemise unfastened in front, and she did it for him as he helped her sit up, her back against his chest. He pulled the last two pins from her hair. She pulled it forward, over her crossed arms.
Only two gasps. One when he touched her skin. One when a rib slid into place.
His shoulder was braced against hers as he pulled the bandage tight and tied it. The torn fleur-de-lys was in front of his eyes. It would heal crookedly, the brand unrecognizable.
"It's broken," he whispered. His finger traced the new outline, the wound a figure thrown over the flower. Mary and her lily. An angel, burn-winged, thorned.
The brand was hard and smooth under his lips. She moaned.
His other arm was around her waist. Her fingers wrapped around his wrist, pulled it higher.
There was rain against the window. His hands fell away. He raised his head, let it fall back, his eyes closed.
She turned and kissed his chest. "Troublesome priest."
"Demon," he whispered, his fingers sliding up her arms. "Harlot."
Her arm pulled back, shot out. He caught it before she could hit him. She cried out when her head hit the bed. Then again, when he bit her shoulder.
Later, she just cried, and he held her, long into the night. Once she quieted, they spoke of sin and repentance and the fact that fear was enough. What use there was for love?
FINIS
Comments?
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2007-04-06 07:51 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-04-06 07:55 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-04-06 08:00 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-04-06 08:06 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-04-06 08:06 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-04-06 08:07 am (UTC)Hey, good timing in posting this! =^___^=
(no subject)
Date: 2007-04-06 08:16 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-04-06 08:18 am (UTC)And even with the food, it's more excitement about making certain traditional dishes.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-04-06 08:27 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-04-06 08:29 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-04-06 10:05 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-04-06 10:31 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-04-06 10:12 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-04-06 10:33 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-04-06 10:35 am (UTC)... need to see this musical. BAD:
(no subject)
Date: 2007-04-06 03:32 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-04-06 04:16 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-20 02:46 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-20 05:34 pm (UTC)