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freyalor · 6 years ago

Note

Gloves.

With joy, Papillon.

Fandom : FrenchHistoryFriendship : Richelieu & Joseph Date and place :Paris, 1621Words : 4KRating : G (Warning : blood)

I quicken my pace, becausethis dark feeling in me has kept growing since this morning, and Godin his warnings has never led me astray.

The cobblestones of Parisare merciless with the soles of my feet, but this is my penance week,and no glory, no praise, no temptation can divert me from my faith. Ishall walk from the Ursulines convent to the Louvre barefooted, nomatter how filthy Paris can be in late September.

I pass the Palacegates as the evening sun declines and the horizon starts to burn withgorgeous shades of rosy red. The Lord, in his endless grace, hascreated the most magnificent blend of thin white clouds and vibrantlight to salute the day once more, but I cannot spare time to marvelat it, because this pain of bad omens twisting my stomach, Iknow what it means.

The doors of the Louvresopen for me with reverence, valets and Courtiers bowing politely onmy passage. I hear their murmurs, of course I do, the same I’ve beenhearing for fifteen years.

Devout man,apostolic soldier, an example of faith, somesay, but I am not moved by flattery. Lunatic,rabid monk, demented wolf of bigotry, othersspit, but I am not touched by villainy.

Only one thingmatters, one sole purpose guides me. And I feelit needs me upstairs.

I was walking quitepeacefully as I got out of the Convent one hour ago, but I fear I amalmost running by now, passing in front of the Queen Mother’s doorssnarling her servants out of my path. I only concede a brief halt onthe last doorstep before the study, accepting a wet cloth and a basinto clean my feet from the grime of the street.

My penance, as healways says, doesn’t require ruininghis rugs.

But the moment it’s done,I barge in and lock the door behind my back, the twist of anguish inmy guts almost sucking the air out of me. As darkness crawls up thewalls of the study I quickly search around, not even at a man’slevel, but right away on the floor.

It doesn’t take long, ofcourse, for my fear to be confirmed by a dark silhouette curled atthe feet of his desk.

I knew it, oh,Christ almighty, I knew it.

God, in his warnings, hasnever let me astray.

I rush at his side,falling on my knees to search him for injuries.

-”Eminence?” I call.

But he doesn’t reply.

I hastily brush hishair away from his eyes to inspect them. They are wide open, butunseeing, emptied of all light, warmth or hope. I squint in thereclining light, Lord above, that painin my guts, I knew what it meant.

I grip his cheek to turnhis head towards me, get a glimpse of the state of his mouth, andsqueeze my eyes shut for a second.

Christ in Heavens, notagain.

Why burden thismiraculous mind with such ghastly madness?

Were the hardships onthe way to his fate not enough a price to pay?

I take a deep breath tosteady myself before I examine him further.

His lips are soiledwith thick stains of dried blood, spread on his cheeks and jaw linein chaotic brushstrokes. His face itself is unwounded, but I knowwhat surely is. I blindly reach for his slender hands, bringing themout into the last fragment of light coming through the window, andexhale a low groan of dismay.

He ate himself raw.

-“Oh, Eminence,for God’s sake!”I scold him, my shoulders slumping a little.

No reaction, of course.

I look around. Nocandles have been lit. It means the fithas started long before dark. His fingers are glued with black clotsof dried blood, so I suppose he’s been lying there for at least onehour.

Very well. Verywell.

I gently let go of him andget up in a wince. I walk to the hearth, revive the fire and dropthree large logs in it. Then, as the first flames rise from theirembers, I light a few candles with them, and set the kettle to boil.I go for the drawer where he keeps his medicine, pick up theCarmelite herbs he uses to soothes his headaches, and count ten dropsin a large cup. I prepare his basin next, and fetch the discretewooden case where bandages are always prepared, right there upon theshelf, under a pile of ancient maps.

I carry everythingto the small bedroom next door that is everything herHighness Queen Mother thinks him worthyof, sweep his nightstand clear with my elbow, sending books andpapers crashing on the floor in the process, and drop the cup andbasin upon it instead.

Then I spin around andhead back to the study, rolling up the sleeves of my robes.

-“Alright, Eminence,let’s do it.” I huff, pointlessly I suppose.

I kneel next to him again,this time to shift him on his back and slide my arms underneath hislegs and shoulders. Groaning in effort I haul him up and move to hisbedroom. God, I used to be stronger than this.

As if my exertionwasn’t enough, that’s the moment he choses to blink back to reality,realise he’s being carried, and start strugglingagainst it.

-“For the love of God,keep still!” I hiss, and his squirming stops dead.

-“Joseph?” His brokenvoice tries as I lay him on his bed.

-“Whothe hell else?” I almost shout, andhe flinches in instinctive guilt.

As I leave him there tostride back towards the kettle I vaguely realize I am being too harshwith him again, but truly, I can’t help how enraged, howdisappointed I feel. I had hoped for this sickness of his to recedeas he ascended towards his rightful place next to the King, but ifanything has changed in those last five years, it has mostly been forthe worst.

What I had mistaken for atemporary condition, a sign that the Lord wanted this exceptional manon much higher grounds than the miserable town of Luçon, was infact, as I have been forced to admit later, a curse he would carryall his life, a further strain upon his resolute, yet unfortunatelyfrail body.

I wrap a handkerchiefaround the kettle handle and lift the pot out of the fire. I bring itto the bedroom to pour warm water in the basin, careful to spareenough to fill his cup of herbs.

He has laboriously sit upon the bed while I was gone, and he’s watching me now with meek,exhausted eyes, expecting my anger, no doubt, to break like thunderanytime.

But I stay silent instead,dipping the handkerchief in the basin with one hand, handing out hiscup with the other. He moves to seize it, but his fingers are in sucha state they wouldn’t keep a steady hold of a feather.

-“Don’t.” I grunt, andlift the cup to his lips instead.

He glances down athis hands and whines in deep shame, still taking a sip out of the cupwith quiet obedience. I make him drink all of it before I start,because I’ll have to peel those dried clots of blood off his skinand it shall hurt like hell.

I examine his sleeves.Those new bishop robes may be more suited for the Louvre than thecheaper ones he had in Luçon, but their sleeves are too tight to berolled up. I sigh, unbuttoning the whole frock.

-“We need to get rid ofthese.” I mumble. “I want access to your hands.”

He lets himself be handledrather calmly at first, watching my hands with a dazed frown, but themoment I start brushing the opened robes off his shoulders he letsout a panicked shriek, crawling away from me in confused terror, hiseyes blurred with renewed nightmares.

I freeze, hands suspendedin the air, feeling my heart miss a beat, not because of his fright,not only that.

Also because of thatsmell I sniffed on his exposed skin.

The smell of rancid sweatand sugared wine.

The smell of disgust.

The smell of her.

Oh, bloody hell.

Exhaling sharply, I sit onthe edge of the bed, watching him shiver and heave for a while, untilhe understands there’s no one else than me here, and slowly calmsdown.

I should have knownit was the Medici.She must have had one of her afternoon hungersagain.

It’s not what she doesto him, or what she asks him to do when she summons him alone in herchambers and dismisses her usual audience of witches and worms.Fortunately, she’s a dull-minded, unimaginative woman, and the sinsshe forces upon him are, after all, quite commonplace.

It’s not that,it’s her.It’s just her.

Her rotten teeth, herdecaying hairline. Her dusty jewels and heavy gowns. Her immense,disgraceful body, loaded with both fat and vanity, too cumbersome tobe washed more than once a month.

Her vile tongue, her wet,slimy lips, and her bottomless appetite for everything sugary andsweet.

Including Eminence’s paleskin.

Its been ten years nowshe’s been devouring his youth with famished chortles every day andnight. In less than five, his rich brown locks have turned to silvergrey, and deep lines of worry have crawled around the corner of hiseyes, his body marked by her ravages just as permanently as his soulis.

As time only blackened hermind and thickened her face, Marie de Medici has turned into amonster of self-assured stench, and though many other men would makedo with this atrocity for the sake of the favours and privileges sheso freely distributes, this one lives every second spent in her bedas the cruelest of all tortures.

He’s not repulsed as Ican be by the carnal sins of this world, it’s not that. It ispainfully obvious how this man craves touch with every fibre of hisbeing.

He is destined for more,so much more than her, that’s all.

His mind, thoughmethodical and wise, has been drawn towards the delicacies of art andnature since his earliest childhood. He has a taste, a needfor the absolute, his eyes constantlylooking up to higher skies, and being trapped under the rancid weightof this mindless mare is an insult to his rare, refined soul.

I wait for his eyes toregain some focus, and since his hands are still useless, I reach outto tug his robes off his arm myself, reciting Deuteronomy to soothehis fear.

-“ TheLord himself goes before you and will be with you,”I whisper as I roll his black attire away until he’s bare to thewaist, “he will never leave you norforsake you. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged.”

He looks reassured,familiar with my voice reading out the Bible to him, so as I pick upthe basin, and lay it down on his lap to grab one of his hands, hebarely lets out a whimper of protest.

I plunge the handkerchiefin warm water and start rubbing dried blood off his fingers one byone. As I work, the nasty scabs reveal horrid wounds underneath; mostof them bite marks, though I suspect him to have used some kind ofblade at some point. He seems to discover, just as I do, the extentof the damage, and with a broken sob, he softly pleads:

-“I can’t do thisanymore, Joseph. I can’t…”

I know what he meansto say, and God be my witness I understand, but our sacred dreamsjust can’t affordto have any of this by now.

-“We have a purpose,Eminence.” I sternly remind him. “We have a-”

-“Stop calling methat way!” He cuts in, averting his eyes in self-hatred. “I toldyou already I am nota Cardinal.”

To his stunned confusioninstead of arguing I just let out a fond chuckle, releasing his cleanhand to reach for the other.

-“Of course you are.”I scoff. “You are, and you have always been.”

I wash his other set offingers with the same devoted care, his blood eventually turning thebasin water into a badly filtered Bourgogne wine in a sad mimicry ofJesus’ miracle. When my work is done, I discard the filthyrecipient and pull out the bandages box, sighing in concern at hisripped, abused skin.

This is worse thanbefore. This is worse than ever. Thecuts are deeper, the wounds nastier, some areas bitten several times.

Lord, he must have hurthimself for hours to force out, I suppose, the agony he felt inside.

I distractedly pat hisshoulder, then push him downwards onto the bed until he lies downthere, and pull the covers over him. I gesture him to roll on hisside and put his hands on my lap.

He obeys, soundless, numb,barely the shadow of the man he was last time I saw him.

I’ve been a fool.Evangelic duties or not, I shouldn’t have left him alone in theLouvre for so long.

His wits are remarkableand he has fierce adaptive instincts, it’s true. His knowledge ofnames, faces, facts and secrets is far greater than anyone suspects,and he has already managed to prepare the next three best profitablediplomatic moves for France regarding each significant force inEurope clear as day on maps and papers. He has made excellent use ofhis delicate speech and charming poise already, earning himself eyesand ears in places where his name hasn’t even been heard yet.

But this placeremains a nest of snakes and the Medici’s clique,even after Concini’s death, is still a bunch of the lowest breed ofhumanity. There will be no rest for him as long as she’s around,sweeping her salacious stare upon his skin.

I’ve been a fool.

Like it or not,Eminence’s nerves will need constant consideration, and my denyingthe strain our scheme for power is having on his sanity won’t helphim in any way. This kind of misjudgement is forbidden to me. As longas he’s not at the King’s right side day and night yet, he hasme, only me,to protect him from his foes, and from himself.

I’ve been a fool,a stupid fool.

Inept to speak my remorseotherwise, I carefully grab his wrists and kiss his abused knuckles four times with the same devotion I would have for the Christ’s ownshroud.

-“My Eminence.”Ibreathe against the stigmata of my mistakes, and he closes his eyesin sheer sorrow.

-“Please, Joseph!” Hecries. “I don’t deserve your care. I am not the man you see inme, I never will. Why do you keep pushing me upwards while I’m sovisibly worthless?”

Hell,I hate it when he speaks that way. Iknow it’s just his nerves talking, but mercy me, it feels like aninsult to the very face of the Lord.

-”Look at me,Ezechielli” He breathes, “look at me, I am a monster. This dreamwe have, God’s mission as you say, you would have accomplished itbetter on your own.”

-”Shut it.” I grumble,busying myself with the thin strips of bandage.

But he doesn’t hear, eyesblurred, face half-buried in his pillow, shivers of exhaustioncrawling up his spine.

-”Youcould be Cardinal, you could be Minister.” He raves on, adrift.“You already have the reputation of a Saint. I know your feet arebleeding too, Joseph, with the mortifications you impose yourself aspunishment for the sin you’ll never commit!”

-”Shutit, you idiot!” I yell, and hisshocked stare darts up to my face though a veil of tears.

I can’t look at himtoo long, because as he keeps praising my virtues while he drags hisown soul into the dust, he’s being so wrongI could slap him in the face.

-”I’ll tell youof my sins, Eminence.” I hiss, focusing on taking care of hiswounds instead. “I’ll tell you why it has to be youalone, right next to the Sun, beaming in red cardinality on the verypages of future history.”

He doesn’t say a word,lying frozen in his bed, his wide eyes fixed upon mine, his bleedinghands offered to my care with unquestioning trust, looking soinnocent I almost cannot breathe.

-”Do you know why Imortify myself?” I blurt out, transported. “Because I am acoward. Those sacrifices that need to be made to achieve our holypurpose, those sins that need to be committed for France to be rebornout of the dark ages into an era of light, those horrid acts, thosefilthy deeds, only you are brave enough to carry them out.”

-”Joseph…” He tries,his barely bandaged hand moving towards my face, but I fear his touchwould only turn me to dust, and I inch away from him.

-”I was the one toadvise you to seduce the Medici” I go on, cutting stripes of whitefabric with my teeth and wrapping them around his skin, “becausethe young King had not yet the strength to seize the power that wasowed to him, and if the influence we needed had to be given to you,alas, it could only be by this fat whore.”

-”Joseph, we bothagreed…”

-”Yes, we bothagreed, but I remain safely tucked in your shadow, pushing youforward to damnation while I relish in the comfortof being true to my holy vows!”

I hate the fact that myeyes tingle, but it is the truth of God spoken through my mouth, andas I brush a damp strand of hair off his worried brow, I feel onlyhumbled by the strength, the purity of him.

-”And here youare, my Eminence, your magnificent soul offered as sacrificial lambfor the sake of our vision, burdened with ailment and pain,misunderstood, despised and tortured. Here you are, oblivious to yourown martyrdom, elevating me to the heights of saints, so I beg you,for the love of God and everything you hold dear, right now, justbloody shut it.”

A single tear pools at thecorner of his eye before it sinks into the pillow. He complies tomy will and doesn’t speak at all, but the determination of this mancan’t be ignored as he makes a painful effort to haul himself up onhis wounded hands, stare into my eyes for a second and drop aninfinitely soft, trembling kiss on my cheek.

He lets himself fall backon the bed then, and gives me a tired smile.

I cross his brow, wipingfeverish sweat off his skin as I whisper :

-”Andthe peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard yourhearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”

“Amen”, he gentlysays, his voice devoid of all belief.

I expect him to sleep, Godknows I bloody would, but he insists upon me checking thecorrespondence he has prepared today for the officers and governorsof the South instead, since we need to know how many allies he couldcount on in his dearest, greatest endeavour: the utopia he calls theState.

I find myself, thus, goingback to the study to pick up his writing of the day, and sit on thatplain chair next to his bed to read it aloud, just like every otherdamn day.

I find both of usdiscussing probabilities and exchanging intel, clicking back into ournatural ways as if nothing happened, his cautious, analytical mindacting as the guardrail of my uncompromising impetus.

We agree upon a fewmodifications, that I write in the margins of his letters myself,since his reddened, throbbing hands are sealed in layers of bandages.

We agree, above all, uponthe fact that any further building of the State will have to waituntil the King is truly King, because no one in the Medici’sentourage has the even half of the ambition we need.

He sighs, then, thwartedby how far from reach his beloved dream remains.

Even in his own rooms inthe Royal Apartments of the Louvres, secured as the Queen Mother’slong-term favourite, even here, so far away from Luçon, from Blois,from exile and even disgrace, he’s still devoured by how incompletehe is.

A taste, a need forthe absolute. Heis destined for so much more, that’s all.

He’s destined for a placeright next to the Sun.

History is lying there inthis bed, locked within a brilliant mind, boiling to be given thepower it requires to change the balance of the whole continent,waiting in despair for a twenty years old man who still needs torealize he’s being robbed of his own crown.

History is lying there,sealed within a vibrant heart, already drawn towards the King byforces far beyond mankind, God’s mighty will showing itself inshining evidence through this man’s unquenchable feelings for youngLouis.

-”Be patient, Eminence.”I reassure him, stiffly patting his shoulder some more. “Soonenough, the red robes you deserve will be granted to you by thefilthy monster I made you crawl underneath, and each one of thosewounds will be atoned in glory.”

He bites his lips,smothering a bitter smile. I know he doesn’t share half of myfaith, but it’s not the first time my own conviction supports usboth, and it won’t be the last.

-“Withcardinality,” I hammer, ardent, “you will gain access to theRoyal Council, and I swear to you, all you’ll have to do, then, isspeak out those dreams you’ve been writing about for years. You’lljust have to talk, Eminence, and he willknow. He will see your worth. He’s no Bourbon if he doesn’t. He willsee you for who you are, and when he’ll grow strong enough to useyou, he’ll call you at his side, you, the only eagle that can flyright into the Sun. He’ll keep you under his protection, thegreatest servant he ever had, and he will love you then, I promiseyou, just as much as you love him.”

With that, he rasps aspiteful laugh, and blatantly rolls his eyes at me, shifting awayuntil he’s lying on his back, his hands carefully raised one inchabove the sheets.

I let out a dreamy smile,because, truly, can I blame him for his disdain?

-“You think Idon’t know what I’m talking about right?” I throw him, defiant.“How can a monk speak about love, well, learn, youngman, that I have been in love before.”

He has a small start,turning back towards me with wide, suspicious eyes, and his disbeliefisn’t truly a surprise. My tempted heart has been sealed long agoin a steel armour forged in the flames of faith and holy purpose, andthough this man is the only one I trust with my life, there are stillparts of my pastI kept hidden from his sight.

-“Would you think it sostrange,” I ask, laughing good-heartedly, “knowing I have been atthe Pluvinel Academy just like you, to think I too have known, in theblessed carelessness of my youth, the beauty of a woman?”

He sits up a little, then,his bright stare fixed upon me, and leans towards me in untaintedinterest, his own suffering forgotten in the raw curiosity his mindhas always been fuelled by.

-“What was hername?” He timidly asks, and I find myself stunned by how difficultit is to summon back her name to my lips.

-“Isabelle, Ithink.” I mutter, frowning in the struggle to recall her face fromthat part of my memories I left for dead so long ago. “She was theyoungest daughter of our neighbours in Montfort.”

I see him ready toask for more details, but I am not sure Ican remember much more, so I raise a finger in front of his nose andjust add:

-“Now, thecalling of God was already strong in my heart, but my mother and thatyoung girl were both resolute souls. There has been a day where I hadto lock myself in my room in Tremblay, while both women kept knockingon my door, reciting poetry, and imploring me to come out andaccompany them to a ball.”

He seems to make atremendous effort to picture that,and again, it’s only natural.

All I ever speak,all I ever act upon in his presence is God’s own will, from whatpour into my cup to every advice I ever give.

I have burned withthe Lord’s holy word since I learned how to read, yetunsure God’s plans for me until they were revealed to my face.Indeed, though I forgot everything about Isabelle, I remember thefirst time I saw those dark, fervent eyes all too well, in a squalidroom of the presbytery of Luçon, where his careful, yet ferventvoice felt already heavy the sound of glories to come.

I knew I couldn’tignore the glorious path that had been laid out for me anymore, then,and as I called him, “Eminence” was the only name my lips couldform.

-“You didn’tsuccumb.” He breathes, a bit admiring, perhaps.

-“Never.” Istate. “They went to that ball alone, while I sat in my roomcopying ‘The life of Saint Francis’. Twice.”

And before he even startsto snicker, my finger above his face turns into a stern warning.

-“And don’t rollyour eyes at me again, I still have your ‘Perfection of theChristian Man’ on my nightstand in Saint Honoré!”

At that he lets out hisfirst laugh, and I feel blessed already.

We share a few moments ofpeaceful silence, and I put the diplomatic letters away on the buffetto pick up the Bible instead, clearing my throat before I read a fewverses to him, in the hope of lulling him to sleep.

But before I do hesoftly pulls at my sleeve, flinching in pain as his fingers barelycan take a hold of the fabric, and nods at his hands with anguish.

-“This will neverheal until a few days.” He muses, his voice threatened by guiltagain. “Yet, I have managed to get myself invited to the Generalsreview ceremony tomorrow morning. The King will be there, you see,and the only pair of gloves I own will not hide those bandages.”

I look down at the layersof linen around his skin. Some of them are already stained in freshblood while others make his fingers too thick to fit in the tight,merciless satin gloves that came with the new robes.

I chuckle, then,because I can’t help it. God, inhis warning, has never led me astray.

I fumble in mypilgrim bag, the one I keep hanging on my shoulder at all times,giving as only answer to his questioning look:

-“Do you know why I wasat the Ursuline Convent this morning?”

-“For a sermon, Isuppose.” He tries.

-“Yes, but notonly.” I correct. “You will be delighted to know that SisterJeanne Espérance, who has been living there for twenty years now,besides being the most devout soul of her order, also happens to bethe best seamstress in Paris, especially with very fine leathers.”

I pull out a thincardboard case, then, and hand it over to him. Puzzled, he gentlypushes the lid open with the only side of his left thumb that’sstill undamaged, and gasps as he discovers, wrapped in delicatetissue, a pair of brand new black gloves.

-“It’s roe deerskin.” I explain. “Not as fashionable as the fancy silkennonsense worn at Court those days, but having the remarkableadvantage to be lenient withbumps and bruises.”

While I speak, Ilift Sister Jeanne’s excellent handiwork out of the box and gesturefor him to extend his hands again. I slowly, carefully slip theslightly extensible leather gloves on, taking my time around theworst of his wounds, until all signs of his burden are hidden fromthe world.

I admire the resultfor a while, then lift his fingers to my lips, murmuring my oath toembrace his curse at last as the necessary darkness to his light:

-“ AgnusDei, quitollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis. »

He shakes his headin perplexity again, but sinks into the bedwith a reassured sigh all the same, smiling brightly at his glovesbefore his eyes flutter close and he falls asleep just like that,with his hands still in mine, wearing the token of my friendshiparound the marks of his martyrdom.

I stay with him, asI stayed so many other nights, perched on the side of his bed, myeyes fixed on his face with the same certainty I had as a child,gazing at the Christ Himself, as my journey had just begun, in theold house of Du Tremblay.

#Cardinal Richelieu #Father Joseph #french history #Louis XIII #13PROMPTS #prompt fic

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