Summary: What do stars and men in power have in common? Sometimes they fall.

A/N: English is not my first language and this work has not been beta read.

Warnings: Terminal Illness, Major Character Death.

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He was not a cruel man, just a practical one. He faced the hard truths no one else could stomach.

That is what he said to his adversaries. That is what he had said to those Musketeers. That is what he had said to the Queen.

That is what Richelieu had always said to himself.

Years ago, he had vowed to see France to her rightful destiny as the master of the world. No matter what it took. Even if it meant damning his soul to work towards his goal.

And he did damn his soul. A thousand times over.

Several months ago, he had rued that his account with God was not yet balanced.

One botched royal assassination and several cover-up murders later, he was no closer towards settling that account.

His ruminations were cut short as a violent cough racked through his thin frame. Again. The bouts happened frequently nowadays. More frequently than ever. The week before, he had to the leave the Council in the middle of a meeting.

Doctor Lemay had prescribed bedrest until the vicious bouts of coughing abated. Richelieu had spent his entire life engaging with spies and assassins and treacherous courtiers. Lemay, notwithstanding his schooling and education, was a simpleton when it came to the art of deception.

Oh the bouts would pass alright. He just wouldn't be there to see it.

His ribs hurt. His lungs burned. His mouth tasted of copper and blood. He reached his frail hands for the glass kept on the nightstand.

The door to his chambers creaked ajar and a concerned servant poked his head through the gap. Richelieu waved him away as he took careful sips of the water, just enough to soothe his scorched throat and not aggravate it further.

The water helped. The coughs were now reduced to wheezes. He focused on his breathing. Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out. Such a simple action, taken granted for all his life.

He rubbed his eyes. He felt tired down to his bones. And yet, sleep eluded him.

He did not bother putting on his slippers as he got up and trudged on the cold stone. The sensation was grounding.

(He felt so light nowadays. Sometimes he was afraid that he would simply float away.)

He stopped by the gaping window. From here, he had a clear view of the night. It was an elegant one. Specks of light scattered all over the dark sky. Bits of diamond etched on ebony.

He stared and stared and stared.

And saw an errant streak of light slash through the night sky.

Falling star.

A falling soul, it was said. One that had been released from the Purgatory, on their way to Heaven and peace.

He wondered if that was what awaited him. Purgatory. He was under no illusions. He knew many of his deeds would not only be frowned upon by the Church, but downright detested and denounced.

(Hell, a treacherous voice whispered in his head. No second chances.)

Another one blazed past. And another, then another.

A heavenly display.

There were others who believed these shooting stars represented a fresh soul, arriving on Earth to inhabit a newborn's body and begin a new life.

A new life. A new life arriving as his is about to end.

The Queen was due any day now. He doubted he would be there to give the heir his blessings.

(He hoped it was a boy. Even if there was a fair chance the child might come to inherit his sire's dark, mop of a hair. At least the King had dark hair too.

For the sake of France, he hoped no one would notice.)

Another cough punched out of his chest. Then a second, then a third. He waited for this bout to pass.

It did not.

Tears streaked freely down his cheeks, the water clouding his vision. Black spots danced around him. Blood, which was merely a coppery taste in his mouth a few moments ago, congested his airway. He tried to maintain his desperate grip on the ledge but his legs gave away. He crumpled into a heap.

Still the coughs would not stop.

The black spots were growing now. They started to unite.

He was being tugged down. He was falling.

Far, far away a door slammed. Quick footsteps. Shouting.

Someone clutched his neck and lifted up his head. A useless action as he was still falling.

Falling, falling, falling...

Darkness.

(Peace.)

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Historical note: Richelieu was afflicted with Tuberculosis a.k.a the White Plague as it was known at that time.

A/N: Fellas, let me know what you think :D