The Queen's Chemise
Disclaimer: Nothing recognizable is mine.
Note: This story was inspired by Aramis' claim in S1E3 about his needlework: "Stitching that's fine enough for the queen's chemise." I thought I'd give him a chance to prove it. Set post season 3. Unrepentant fluff :3
"Aramis! Aramis!"
The excited shouts were accompanied by the tapper of running feet and Aramis looked up from his paper work just in time to see the door to his office swing open and the young king rush in. Louis looked surprisingly dishevelled and paused to catch his breath now that he had reached the destination of his run. He clutched his short ceremonial sword in one hand and a piece of white silk in the other while gulping down big lungfuls of air; resulting in a look that was a fair contrast to his normal meticulously controlled regal attire.
It was an endearing sight and Aramis couldn't stop the smile that lifted the corners of his carefully trimmed beard and spread over his face as he rose from his seat behind the thick oak desk. The harvest report that he had been reading could wait.
"Your majesty." Aramis inclined his head in greeting as he stepped around his desk to stand in front of his king. His son - even if he could not publically acknowledge that fact.
The smile on his face froze for a moment as the minister noticed the look of panic and dread on Louis' face as well as the suspicious absence of his governess or guards. True, the young king had clearly ran the length of the corridor, but by now somebody should have caught up with him. The idea of his son not being adequately protected did not sit well with Aramis and he resolved to have the guard doubled once more as soon as he could.
His thoughts were interrupted though when Louis flung himself at the minister. "Aramis," he beseeched, "you have to help me!"
It was a confusing statement for no danger was apparent and Aramis carefully pried his son's arms from where the boy had clutched them around his neck so that he could shift backwards and look Louis in the eye. The smile never wavered and he nodded encouragingly at his son, promising to deal with whatever might have upset the young king.
Suddenly, he found he didn't mind the absence of Louis' governess all that much. He loved the occasional visits of the king and revelled in the opportunity to watch his son grow up that his position as First Minister bestowed upon him. Yet, despite his position, he was painfully confined to the laws of propriety and had to subdue his own longing for a more informal interaction with the young king.
Now, however, the king had outrun or outsmarted his minders and there was no one around to chastise any potentially improper behaviour. Aramis had noticed that Louis had forsaken the use of the royal 'we' and the simple fact that his son had come to him, amongst all the people at the Louvre who would willingly jump to do his bidding, for aid, warmed his heart. Athos had been right, even if he could not be his son's father by name, he had the chance to be so much more than just an advisor. And he had spent every day in office making use of that chance.
Instead of an answer Louis merely held out his right hand, the one that still held on tightly to the white silk material. Aramis took the proffered material, unfolded it, and very nearly dropped it in surprise when he realized it was a woman's chemise.
"Mother will be upset," Louis very nearly whined, but the comment helped his minister little in solving the riddle of why his distraught son would run unguarded through the halls of the palace while clutching a woman's undergarments in his hands.
Things started to make sense, however, when he turned the garment over and noticed the long tear in the delicate fabric.
"It is her favourite." Louis stated miserably, further confirming Aramis' suspicions that Louis had somehow managed to damage one of the Queen's chemises, probably by slashing it with his sword, if his guilty expression and the death grip he still had on the short weapon were any indication.
A small hand grabbing his arm drew Aramis' attention to his son, who was looking at him with impossibly large eyes. "Can you fix it?"
Aramis couldn't help it, he laughed.
The thought of what Porthos would say if he knew that Aramis was actually going to apply needlework to the queen's chemise, like he had often boasted he was qualified to do, shattered his calm facade. Louis looked at him part fearful and part disheartened and Aramis was quick to reassure his son.
"Yes, your majesty, I am confident I can."
He stood and lifted Louis up with him while the boy hang on to the chemise. Confidently carrying the king over to his desk, Aramis deposited him in his own large upholstered chair and opened the top drawer.
He did not need the things he kept in there for his everyday work, but he felt better knowing them close. His old pistol sat at the very top of the small pile of documents and things, meticulously cleaned and primed to fire as usual. When caught up with a difficult task or after dealing with a particularly obstinate council member, Aramis would often take it out and go through the old familiar motions of cleaning and reloading the weapon to quiet his racing thoughts.
He had certainly gotten a much better understanding of why the cardinal's heart had given out under the stress of his position since he had taken up the mantle of First Minister himself. Then again, he decided with a quick glance at his son who was following his every move with a barely concealed glimmer of hope in his eyes, the benefits of his position certainly outweighed the drawbacks.
"Ah, here it is," Aramis announced when his questing fingers closed around the worn leather case that held his medical supplies. It carried many memories, both good and bad, of lives saved, risks taken and adventures shared. It had served him and his brothers well, and today it would help save the young king.
Unrolling the leather case, Aramis selected his finest needle and thinnest twine and set to work. He set one careful stitch after the other, taking his time to assure the needlework would be as immaculate as possible. He could just about imagine how Porthos would react if he heard that Aramis had sewn the queen's chemise and done a sloppy job of it.
Next to him Louis started to fidget, clearly not impressed with his minister's speed and Aramis endeavoured to distract the young king. "How did this happen, your majesty?"
A quick glance at Aramis, at the torn chemise and then down at a minor fault in the smooth surface of the oak desk, preceded Louis' response. "I thought it was a ghost," the young king eventually admitted, his voice a soft mumble, barely above a whisper.
Aramis fought the urge to sigh and cast a quick glance heavenwards. Those Prussian delegates.
The meeting with the representatives of Prussia-Brandenburg had been vital to ascertain their continued support against the Habsburgs but the servants of the German delegates had been a carefully coiffured menace. Not for a second had they stopped prattling on about the famous white ghost of a woman, which supposedly haunted the Berlin castle. They spun tale after tale about its history, suggesting a sad love affair had been the reason for the tragic death of a former baroness and caused her to remain in this world, waiting upon unsuspecting victims and scaring them until the very blood drained from their faces and left them as white as the ghost woman herself.
Setting his needle and thread aside for a moment, Aramis turned towards the young king. This was potentially more serious than merely a torn silk shirt. He reached for his son's hand and, taking it in his own, placed it on Louis' chest over his heart. "As long as we have faith in our hearts, ghosts will hold no powers over us, nor can they cause us harm."
To his surprise, though, Louis merely looked at him sheepishly. Glancing back at the half-stitched chemise, the king exclaimed, "But it was so exciting."
As his son's face lit up at the admission, the excitement of youth and the allure of adventure lent a gleam to his eyes and Aramis' matched his smile with one of his own. "In that case, you majesty," he said indicating the broken chemise and picking it back up to continue his work, "I think you have soundly defeated this apparition."
A few more minutes passed in silence while Aramis finished his needlework, eventually breaking the thread and holding the repaired garment up with a flourish for his king to examine.
It was at this moment that the door opened.
"Aramis have you - Louis!" The queen regent gazed at the two occupants of the room in shock. Her mouth uncharacteristically open as she tried to make sense of the image before her eyes, her first minister holding one of her undergarments up to her son.
"Your majesty?" A silent question from behind her startled the queen and she hastily collected herself. "The king is here, Lady Helene. Safe." She turned and closed the door quickly, preventing Lady Helene or any other attendants from witnessing the scene she had just stumbled upon.
When she whirled back to face her wayward son and highest advisor, Aramis at least had the good grace to look flustered. She almost felt her anger cool at the uncharacteristic sight, but she had spent too many minutes searching the corridors, worry for her son's well-being consuming her, after Lady Helene had reported that she had lost sight of the king just outside the laundry rooms.
"What is going on?" She demanded.
She glared at the man she trusted above all others, but it was her son who answered.
"Mother," he exclaimed and grabbing the chemise that Aramis had practically dropped on the table in his haste to move the piece of clothing from sight, hurried across the room to stand in front of his mother. "You mustn't blame Aramis, mother. He helped me repair your shirt. It is as good as new, perhaps better."
The excitement in her son's voice, coupled with the hopeful way in which he had spoken the last two words, cooled her anger faster than cold water could douse hot embers. She crouched down to be at eye level with the king and good-naturedly held out her hand to inspect the garment herself. Her son's words had been confusing at first, but as she looked at the garment an image of what had transpired in the room prior to her arrival started to form in her mind. Finding the repaired tear almost immediately the queen ran an appraising hand over the neat, small stitches that had expertly fixed the damage. She threw a glance in Aramis' direction that was equal parts bemused and surprised, but her son's words drew her attention back to the king almost instantly.
Having seen her appraising look the boy asked quickly. "You are not angry then?"
And the queen found that she was not. How could she be in the face of her son's hopeful expression and the knowledge that her first minister, Louis' father even if the boy would never know, had helped him cover up the damage? She had not been pleased that Louis had escaped from the watchful gaze of his governess but now found that she could not possibly begrudge Aramis the moment he had been able to steal with his son, their son. Although the First Minister would have to explain the exact circumstances of how the chemise had been damaged in the first place.
She threw another look at Aramis, who had abandoned his place behind the desk and was approaching the royal majesties in the middle of the room, before looking back at her son. "No, Louis, I am not. You have made amends for the things you broke, which is a valuable lesson learned."
She gave her son a hug before moving the silk chemise to her left hand and reaching with her right for Louis' arm. "Now you should apologize to Helene, for the fright you have caused her." The queen reached for the door and opened it, ushering her son outside to the waiting Lady Helene.
Closing the thick door and turning back around she looked at her minister with one eyebrow slightly raised and a gentle curve to her lips. "You are a man of many talents, Aramis."
He dipped his head in agreement and when he raised his eyes again a rakish smile was on his own lips. "I am but a humble -"
The queen's lips on his own stopped any further words - it seemed that the quality of his needlework did hold up to the test.
The End
A/N: This was my first Musketeers fanfiction ever and was the result of a very unexpected but vicious attack of a 'fluff bunny'. I never thought I would write a post season 3 story of all things (and was actually working on a pre-season hurt/comfort piece before the plot bunny struck) but once I had this idea it needed to be written. I would love to hear what you thought about my first foray into this amazing fandom.
This story is part of the Fête des mousquetaires challenge for October - Monsters and Manes (for more information on the Fête see the fanfiction-net forums)
On History: There actually was a ghost in the Berlin castle. It was first mentioned in 1625 and kept appearing in stories about the castle until the 19th century. Also, Prussia-Brandenburg did fight alongside the French against the Habsburgs in the 30-year war, so I think a visit of dignitaries from Prussia to Paris might be a reasonable setting (and that's probably more than enough history lessons for such a short fluff piece :D)