be soft. do not let the world make you hard. do not let pain make you hate. do not let the bitterness steal your sweetness. take pride that even though the rest of the world may disagree, you still believe it to be a beautiful place.
concept: i am sending you so much love through the screen right now and by the time you finish reading this you will have received a little package of peace and love. there u go
✧ summary: On the verge of a broken marriage, Francis and Mary are more vulnerable than ever. Will they find it within themselves to forgive each other? /set in season 2.
✧ pairing: Francis & Mary from CW's Reign
✧ genre: romance, drama, angst, did i mention ANGST
✧ warnings: prepare to get your heart broken, s1 frary feels, whipped husband, soft soft scenes, pining, jealousy
✧ word count: 6.6k
✧ a/n: hello ! i've no idea who'll read this, since reign ended a couple of years ago, lmao. different than what i usually write, but i wanted to redo the end of s2 because i was not satisfied with frary's reconciliation. it seemed forced. i wanted to depict a more realistic & strenuous path that would bring them, eventually, together. i wanted them to deal & take responsibility for what they've done. now that those are my two cents, happy reading !
He's angry with her.
No, angry doesn't cut it — he is furious. He wants nothing to do with her anymore, or so he claims; her mere presence is like poison, bitter on his tongue, to the point it makes his insides churn.
His Queen. His light. His love.
It's all gone.
But then she looks at him with such penitence, as if she regrets it. As if she hadn't vociferated her love for Condé so vigorously just weeks ago. Could it all be gone?
She has chosen him. She has proven her loyalty — to France, to their marriage, to him. But it means nothing, not when he can't separate her beloved image from that of the traitor who had tried to take his country, his head and his wife.
"Will you ever be able to forgive me?"
Such dolor in her question. Where was that dolor when she had crushed his heart in her fist and scattered the dust of it at her lover's feet?
"Do you need my forgiveness for you to forgive yourself?" he provokes. "Or perhaps you don't think there's anything you have to forgive yourself for? That you were doing what needed to be done, in order to heal yourself?"
He's not even sorry when he sees the pain in her eyes. The fury, the jealousy that he's been harboring for a while comes in malevolent waves, and he's ready to drown in it, even at the expense of his wife's tears.
"I'm not proud of what I did, Francis. You think I wanted to find comfort in the arms of another man? I did what I had to do to find the strength to move on from what I've endured."
"And what about what I've endured? Do you have any idea what it's like to see the love disappearing from your wife's eyes, day by day, to be regarded with such...apathy, knowing that she spends every minute thinking about her lover? Do you have any idea what it's like to be pitied by one's mother and brother and the entire French court? You humiliated me."
Perhaps he was going too far, but there was no coming back now. The chasm between them was ever growing, and though they were in the same room, they were more far apart than ever.
"We were discreet...you know I never intended to hurt you." Her voice sounds defeated now, to the brink of tears, hands fisted in the skirts of her dress.
"Discreet?" He can't control the mocking laugh that escapes his lips. "Of course you were. Should I be just as discreet in someone else's arms? Should I ask another woman to mend my broken heart? Lola, perhaps."
She flinches at that, as if she's been struck, and the first tears roll down her cheeks. It hurts to see her like that, but it's almost the good, sadistic kind of pain. It fades quickly, however. No matter how angry he is with her, no matter how grave her betrayal, his love for her will always win.
His tone is gentler this time, but his words remain just as scathing.
"Isn't that what you proposed? That I take a mistress?"
She averts her gaze to the floor. Her face is rigid, tears still streaming, her body tense. All he wants now is to embrace her, to kiss her tears away, to lie that everything was going to be fine, that he can forget what she did.
But he can't.
"If that's what you want, I will respect your decision. But not...not Lola, please. Anyone but Lola. I won't be able to bear it."
She sounds so cold, so collected, but he knows her. She is anything but. It baffles him, how different her reaction is now, when weeks ago she was basically pushing him towards other women. Was her love for him really that fickle, or was she so shaken by her trauma that for months, she buried her feelings for him so deeply that they became nonexistent, and now they were resurfacing?
"God, Mary. What have we become." He shakes his head, unable to swallow the lump in his throat. "I don't want Lola, I don't want any other woman, all I want is..." he halts, realising what he was about to say.
All I want is you.
And she realises too, for she suddenly looks up at him between teary lashes. Hope. Was there hope in her eyes?
"...all I ever wanted was you." he corrects himself, letting out a forced breath. "Though, I must admit, I am a hypocrite."
"Whatever do you mean?" she asks, wiping her cheeks aggressively.
"The day you...the day you left to be with Conde, the wine-tasting party...I slept with Lady Amelie."
The look of utter shock on Mary's face, followed by befuddlement is enough for him to guess that she has no idea who Lady Amelie is.
"Narcisse's niece." he clarifies, not without shame, pressing his lips together in a straight line. "It didn't mean anything and it was a one night stand without any expectations on either part, but that doesn't excuse it."
"Oh, please spare me the details." she hisses, disappointment and fury igniting in her brown eyes altogether. "So much for holding this marriage unsullied. We are no better than your parents. And I was a fool to believe otherwise, to believe that you...that you were different."
"We were different. But I failed to protect you and I will never forgive myself for that. You failed to inhibit your desires for another man. The problem is, Mary, that I will never forgive you for that either. There's your answer. We both ruined our marriage. I'm sorry I couldn't salvage it."
And with that, without throwing a glance in her direction, he turns his back to her and leaves.
***
He can't sleep.
He tosses in the cold bed, tries to shut off his mind and rest, but he can't. And despite the splitting headache and the dull pain in his ear, despite his weary bones, all of his thoughts are about Mary.
Is she asleep, dreaming of another universe in which she's reunited with her lover? Or is she struggling just as he is, with tears drying off on her cheeks?
He's been too cruel to her. She is easily hurt, fragile, especially after everything that she's been through. All he did was rage at her. But did she regret it? Would she take it back if she could? He surely would. And if it weren't for his son, little John, he'd regret sleeping with Lola too.
The question haunts him. Do you regret it, Mary? Or do you think it was a necessary evil, breaking my heart to heal yours?
He has to know, or he won't be able to sleep the entire night.
He gets out of bed with difficulty, each step feeling like a hammer striking him in the head. He's not well, that much he knows, perhaps that's why he gets the absurd idea of visiting Mary at such an ungodly hour. He should keep the little strength he has for tomorrow, for the daily affairs of the court, but he's drawn like a magnet to the one he loves, in hope of bringing her some comfort. Of apologising.
King Francis, you are dying. Your days are numbered.
He doesn't want Mary to know. He doesn't want her to pity him, to feign the love they once shared just because of his condition. But was it fair, to keep that from her?
Maybe not. But it was to protect her from the truth as well, to spare her the agony of knowing, at least for some days...
He barely reaches the door when his knees give out, all of a sudden, and his vision is engulfed by spots of blackness that soon become whole. He hits the ground with a thud, face down, forehead rammed against the stone floor.
Before he loses his conscience, all he thinks about is Mary.
***
Mary's alone at the breakfast table.
There is no make-up in the world that can cover the dark circles under her eyes. She had barely slept and she feels just as miserable as she looks, without Francis at the other end of the table.
He's usually on time. No, he's always a few seconds behind her, or at least he used to be, but he never let her wait for long. Now, when they sleep in different chambers and live separate lives, just as she once requested, it feels like she doesn't know Francis at all anymore.
It's like they're strangers, and she hates it more than ever. And it's entirely her fault.
"Is the king not coming?" she asks the guard nearby, who looks at her inquisitively, his eyes clearly saying shouldn't you be the one who knows that?.
"I'm not aware, Your Majesty. King Francis was not seen leaving his chambers."
She stares at the delicious crepes on the table without really seeing them. She should offer him space, especially after their last discussion. If anything, she's probably the last person he'd like to see. But she can't help but worry. Ever since he's fallen to the bed with fever and an ear infection, a while ago, she can't shake the feeling of foreboding that something bad is going to happen.
She lost him, maybe forever. What could be worse than that?
Her hurt ego and her shattered heart is telling her to eat breakfast and take her mind off her husband, but precisely because he is her husband, and she loves him, she can not.
She draws her chair back and notifies the guards that she'll come back in a few minutes, and heads towards their dormitory. Francis' dormitory.
She knocks tentatively on the door, but it's so faint that it can barely be heard. She takes a deep breath and knocks again, this time harder.
"Francis?" she calls out. "Are you in there? Breakfast is ready, as you well know."
Silence.
She has never been the most patient woman.
"I'm coming in." she announces, before letting herself inside.
For a moment she believes the chambers are empty, but she espies him on the bed.
Of course, he's still sleeping.
But as she gets closer, she realises he's not just sleeping. He's not tucked underneath the covers; his legs are not even on the bed, as if he fell asleep while sitting. The most surprising thing however is the dried blood on his forehead, right above his left eyebrow, that left a trail along his temple, down to his chin.
Had he gotten into a fight? But during the middle of the night...? Surely there was an explanation for this, but who would dare hurt a king?
"Francis." she utters with worry, kneeling by the bed, fingers trembling as she touches his arm ever so lightly.
He wakes up with a startle and she quickly takes her hand off him with an inaudible gasp. He seems disoriented for a second and looks around, observing the surroundings, before his eyes settle on her.
"Mary." he says, taking in her countenance as if he hadn't seen her in days. "How long have I been sleeping?"
"Were you supposed to sleep for long?" she asks with a confused frown. She perches on the bed, next to him, fixing him with insistence. "What happened? You're hurt."
There is such concern in her voice that he forgets the situation between them for a moment. He raises himself to a seated position with a small grunt -- his back hurts, and so does his forehead. But the pain becomes insubstantial when he realises how close they are now, so close that the skirts of her dress touch his knees and she is barely a touch away. She looks as beautiful as ever, though tired. She seems to notice their proximity as well, but he refuses to get lost in her chocolate eyes and breaks the tensed silence:
"It's nothing. I tripped and hit my head."
"You tripped?" she repeats, dubiety filling her tone. "I thought we were long past that. Tell me the truth."
"I tripped and fell down, hurting my head in the process. Sometimes it really is as simple and as silly as that, Mary, even for us royals."
The lies slip off his tongue way too easily. A pang of guilt settles in the pit of his stomach as they eye each other intently, either one too stubborn to look away. At last, she speaks, her eyes sparkling with emotion.
"Has the ear infection returned?"
She's so dangerously close to the truth -- not only has it returned, but it is terminal. The tremble of her voice and the way she watches him shrinks his heart to the size of a pea. He stares into nothingness because looking at her hurts.
He can't tell her the truth. Not yet. The news that he is dying would still be devastating to her, whether she bears the same feelings she did once or not, because it throws her right into the sea, amidst hungry sharks. She will be no longer the queen of France unless she marries his little brother Charles.
Just for two more days, he wants to delay having to look her in the eye and tell her that.
He gets up from the bed with a sigh, with the urgent need to get away from her. She is his life, she is everything he wants to live for, and a reminder that he can't.
"Mary, you needn't worry about that. I'm all right. Thank you for taking the time to awaken me. I'll see you at breakfast."
With that, he wishes to dismiss her, but it only makes her position herself in front of him. There's no looking away from her now.
"I do worry. I always will. And if you go out like this, so will the people. You look pale and you're wounded—"
"Please, it's merely a scratch—"
She interrupts him with a bossy tone:
"It's a cut. Now sit down and let me clean it."
That almost makes him smile, and he finds himself wanting to listen. But his heart, still torn in pieces, can't allow her to get this close.
Or perhaps it's screaming for her, but his ego chooses to mute it.
"That's very kind of you. But I have learned to tend to my wounds without your help."
His words have a double entendre and she understands it very well. She throws him a pained glance and pivots on her heel, leaving the chambers.
She has taken all the light with her.
***
Breakfast is so tense that she doesn't even feel the taste of the food. They're seated at the head of the table, meters away from each other, and she feels so despondent sitting like this, as if they were strangers.
Francis seems unabashed by the fact, though, just as she once was when her thoughts were about Conde. It's just a facade, she knows it. He eats at a slow pace, mechanically, hardly sparing her a look. She feels deeply ashamed and betrayed at the same time. How could she ruin their love like this?
How could she have kissed anyone but him?
How could he?
Because he betrayed her, too. Perhaps not to the extent that she did, but still. If she ever came across this Lady Amelie, she would surely give her a piece of her mind, though she shouldn't. It wasn't really her fault. Who wouldn't want to be the mistress of a young, handsome and kind king?
The thought of another woman touching him makes her blood boil. She can't help but glare at him across the table, with such intensity that he probably feels it.
He raises his eyes and almost flinches at the acidity of her gaze.
"Mary, what's wrong? If you don't want us to eat together—"
"No!" she exclaims, loud enough to startle the guards. Her expression automatically softens and she adopts a more intimate timbre: "No, I do. Of course I do. I'm sorry, I was...reminiscing unpleasant memories."
He doesn't question her any longer, but oh, how she wishes he did. She misses her Francis. The one who cares about her more than anything in the world, the one who cares about how she is feeling. If this one does, he conceals it all too well.
Her anger vanishes into thin air as she takes in his countenance: his golden curls, the stitched cut above his eyebrow, his clear blue eyes and his majestic attire. Perhaps she should match his outfit; it's been a long time since she last wore red.
They stay quiet for a long while, until he's almost finished with his breakfast and she barely touched hers. She's adamant, her gaze never relenting.
"Should I be concerned?" he wonders, at last, taking a sip of tea. "You're particularly observant today."
The remark brings heat to her cheeks. It's unbelievable, how bashful the distance between them has made her; it's almost like they're back in time, when she has just arrived at the French court. And the more Francis ignores her, the more she craves his attention.
"I like looking at you." she admits without preamble, the shadow of a sheepish smile playing upon her lips.
Her declaration finally elicits a reaction out of him. He stops midair with the cup in his hand, eyebrows raising slightly in surprise as he watches her. He fumbles for words, mouth opening and closing. He was clearly not expecting that.
But before he gets to reply, the guard by the door announces:
"Your Majesties, Lady Amelie."
The name hits Mary like a poisonous, terrible arrow, right in her heart. She sucks in a breath, feeling like wanting to gag the very little food she had eaten. She should've prepared herself for this moment. It just didn't cross her mind that she could still be here, at court. She stares desperately at the platter of fruits as the heels of Lady Amelie echo in the room.
She is, to be blunt, a female version of Francis. Porcelain skin, bright baby blue eyes and golden locks accentuated by her pink and very feminine, flowy dress. She looks like a young and innocent fairy, so untouched by the world's darkness. Perhaps that's what Francis saw in her.
But she looks nothing like me, Mary thinks, throwing her a venomous glance. What was it with him and the blondes?
She grips the skirts of her dress with such force that her knuckles turn white. She maintains a modulated timbre, but if looks could kill, the girl would drop dead any second now.
"You have quite the nerve. I suppose it runs in the family."
Lady Amelie freezes for a moment, unnerved by the hostile greeting. She looks at Francis with doe eyes, as if she were asking for help, and that angers Mary even more.
"Your Ma-Majesty, I..."
Francis puts the girl out of her misery and gets up from the chair. Ever the gentleman. Each step towards his paramour feels like shards pronging her.
"What is it, Amelie?"
Oh, so they are on a first-name basis now? How endearing.
But she keeps quiet and swallows her pride because she has put Francis through this as well, and even worse. How could she demand anything else?
Lady Amelie beams with a soft and coquettish smile at him, if not clandestine.
"I have some very urgent matters to discuss with you. Could we step outside, to get some fresh air?"
Francis looks back at Mary almost apologetically, but she averts her gaze swiftly with a painful flutter. She can't interfere. She gave up that right when she decided to kiss his cousin.
"It's all right, you can speak freely here."
"Please, I insist. Unless you're indisposed? You're injured..." she reaches for his face, but he draws back as if struck by lightning, clearing his throat.
"I assure you I'm fine. Shall we?" He gestures towards the exit curtly.
But Mary doesn't notice his uncomfortable demeanour, his tensed posture. All she notices is him walking away with the woman he had slept with.
What could possibly be so urgent? A harrowing thought comes to her mind.
What if Lady Amelie is pregnant?
"Francis."
Before she thinks about it, his name leaves her lips with desperation and she has leapt to her feet. Her voice is trembling, and the walls are closing in on her, suffocating her.
"We haven't finished our breakfast."
He watches her with a blank expression, surely noticing the tears that sparkle in her eyes. And yet he pretends not to.
"You can finish it without me. I'll see you at dinner."
At dinner...
By the time he is gone and the dining room is empty, so is her heart.
***
Three hours later, the door of the chamber flings open and his mother strides in in a haste, locating him by the table. She throws him an anticipating look, to which he replies with a nonplussed expression.
"Hello to you too, mother. What is it?"
"I'm impressed. Easy on the eyes, not too bright perhaps, but very...fruitful."
He places the papers back on the table, more confused than ever.
"Is there a problem with the new kitchen maid?"
Catherine de Medici rolls her eyes in a dramatic manner.
"Your mistress!" she exclaims, throwing her hands in the air. "Ah, lovely to see you taking into consideration my advice."
"There's no mistress. Lady Amelie is..." he sighs, covering his forehead with his palm and accidentally touching his cut by doing so. He flinches slightly and lets his arm fall back by his side — but his mother notices, and brings her hand to her mouth.
"Francis, what happened?"
She scurries to him, cupping his face and examining his wound.
He's getting a bit weary of that question.
He places his hands atop of his mother's, uttering in an assuaging tone:
"It's nothing. I merely tripped. Now, who told you about my inexistent mistress?"
Catherine, just like his wife, seems unconvinced, but doesn't press him. For now.
"Mary, of course. Poor thing was storming out the castle, bawling her eyes out. Entirely deserving, if you ask me..."
He drops his hands suddenly, his face paling and his senses extremely alert.
"Mary was crying?"
His mother studies his face, probably catching the note of concern and love that lies behind his question.
"Well, yes. Jealousy does that. I would know." She says with a dry laugh. "Though, if I may say...I think it's more than jealousy. I saw her watching you last night. She wasn't looking at her king. She was looking at her husband, and one she is very much in love with. Her affections must have returned."
Hope blossoms in his heart with such vigour; it's like for the first time in months, he begins to see the light at the end of the tunnel. He begins to see in colour, and the world falls right into place, as it is supposed to be. He tries to smother it, afraid of the repercussions if he doesn't. He can't survive another betrayal. If he allows himself to hope, there's no going back.
His mother rubs his arm up and down as a sign of affection.
"You do with that information as you please. A piece of advice? If you want to reconcile, go to her. If you want her to suffer, don't. She might despise you for it, but she'll also love you more. That's how a woman's heart works."
He doesn't comment on that. He has no idea how a woman's heart works, if anything, he's only interested in Mary's — but is that worth something if she doesn't feel the same?
Catherine stops by the door, looking back at his son with an all-knowing, but melancholic smile.
"As for the tripping, I'll bring the best physicians from Florence, and the Netherlands, and the moon, if I have to."
"Thank you, mother. I mean it."
"I know you do."
As he is left alone in the bureau, his thoughts roam all over the place. However, he has long made the decision regarding his wife.
***
The dark and heavy clouds presage rainfall. It was a beautiful spring day, but, fittingly enough, the sun was covered within the blink of an eye, and a chilly gust makes Mary's hair a tangled mess of curls. The only thing holding them somewhat in place is the golden diadem on it.
The weather is so much like her innermost.
Her hands rest in her lap, the skirts of her black dress billowed out around her, as she stares at the pond ahead with bleary eyes. She is cold, but she can barely feel it. She's numb; she probably has been here for a very long time, and her stomach protests with a growl of hunger. This is not how she should spend her day, crying out of pity for herself and out of jealousy. She has important, Queen-like things to do, and yet she finds no motivation nor desire to do them. The only one who brings an ephemeral smile to her face is her loyal companion Sterling, who's been sleeping next to her the entire time, occasionally snoring.
In this particular moment, she envies her dog.
"May I join you?"
The voice that seemingly appears out of nowhere startles her.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. I thought my desperate calling of your name for the past hour would've given it away." Francis says, attempting a charming and whimsical smile.
No, not attempting — it was a genuine smile. She realises, with a painful beat of her heart, that she hasn't seen him smiling in so long, and that she missed it more than anything.
He's not bare-handed. He has a blanket with him and a basket that smells absolutely delicious.
"It wasn't that desperate." She replies with a weak tint of playfulness.
"Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots and France, did you really ignore your King?" He jokes, draping the blanket around her shoulders.
She gives him a thankful look, wrapping it tighter around herself. At this point, Sterling wakes up, his tail wagging in a frenzied rhythm as he sees the newcomer, more so that he's carrying baked goods. Francis leans forward to pet him on the head, and takes out a ham-filled croissant that the dog grabs without hesitation, freeing the spot next to Mary as he goes to savour it in the grass.
"It's your word against mine." she jests.
Now that he's here, next to her, all the resentment she felt is gone. She's just glad to see him, with no guards around, without the pressure of their duties, at least temporarily.
"You didn't answer my first question." He reminds her on a more serious note.
"You have Sterling's approval, clearly." she says, motioning to the pleased deerhound that watched Francis with all the love in the world confined in his eyes, anticipating another croissant.
"Do I have yours?"
She meets his expectant gaze, and they look at each other for a while. He looks better than he did a couple of hours ago; he looks alive.
"Always."
He gives a faint smile at that, as if he's reining back his true emotions, and takes Sterling's place, his shoulder touching hers. He settles the basket on the ground and reveals the contents of it: berry and chocolate scones, apple pie, miniature cupcakes, cheese and fresh bread.
"Your favourites. I don't think I've missed anything."
"Are you trying to fatten me up?" she grins, stuffing her mouth with cheese and bread, in a very unladylike manner.
"Very. So no one can take you away from me ever again."
They both look surprised that he said that. She halts, gulping down the food.
"No one ever did. Not truly. And no one ever will."
"You say that, but how can I believe you?"
The question is rhetorical. He doesn't expect her to answer, but she does:
"Do you believe me when I say that I love you? Because I do. Despite everything, I will always love you."
He thought he'd be so happy to hear her say that. In fact, he dreamed of this moment -- of Mary coming back to him, of her proclaiming her love for him. And he is happy, but not to the extent that he expected, because his joy is overshadowed by doubt and jealousy.
"You told Conde you loved him too, didn't you?"
She darts a tired glare in his direction.
"I thought I did, at the time. But Lola was right. I had mistaken gratitude for love, only I was too blinded by my own pain to notice yours. I was selfish, Francis, and I betrayed you. And because of that, I wanted to tell you that..." she inhales, mentally preparing herself for what she's about to say. "I will tolerate your mistress. You deserve to be happy, but I've brought you nothing but suffering. I will accept that your heart is no longer--"
"She's not my mistress!" he interjects, his voice an octave higher, making Sterling give a startled whimper. His hand tightens into a fist in an attempt to regain equanimity, tone strained but calm. "She came asking for my blessing, she's getting married to some count."
"Really." she says, incredulity marking her words. "Is that all she asked of you?"
"She...she urged me to reconsider her position at court first."
She can't help the exasperated roll of her eyes and the disapproving shake of her head.
"Of course she did. Do you know the ghastliest thought?"
"I do. And I regret what I did more than anything—"
"She won't be the last." she interrupts, tilting her head and fixing him with a painful gleam in her eyes. "You condemn my affair with Condé, you doubt my feelings for you, and you have no trust in me anymore. And whilst my act of treason is much more reproachable, yours is a good second. We can't trust each other anymore, that's clear. We're barely husband and wife. You will never forgive me for what I did, but neither will I. Because I have no guarantee that it won't happen again, that another Lady Amelie won't throw herself at your feet when you're most vulnerable."
Anger ignites in his veins once again, making his cheeks burn with both shame and bitterness.
"I slept with Lola when we were separated. My heart was crushed and I thought I'd never see you again, whilst you found comfort in the arms of my brother." His blue eyes are crystal-like, focused on the horizon. "I slept with Lady Amelie because of the same reason, but instead of Bash was my cousin. This time, however, the pain was unbearable. I have not only lost the woman I loved, I lost my wife. I know that's no excuse, but to me, nothing mattered anymore."
He finds her eyes once again, his smile so bereft of happiness that it's heart-wrenching.
"And a part of me, as childish and stupid as it is, wanted you to feel a quarter of the pain and betrayal I did. I regret it more than anything. The last thing I ever wanted was to hurt you, yet I've failed myself as much I've failed you."
"Love isn't supposed to hurt, is it? But we've loved one another until we bled, and even after that. I am sorry too, Francis." she apologises, hand extending towards him automatically.
She caresses his cheek gently, her touch light as a feather, and yet he still stirs slightly under it. He used to nuzzle into her palm and kiss it, but now he only looks at her in shared tragedy, the tears in his eyes a mirror of her own.
She lets go and gets up, holding the blanket around her shoulders in place. She leaves without a word, Sterling following her trail.
He doesn't.
***
Francis spends the rest of the day hearing discontent farmers and doing the usual paperwork, until his eyes get bleary and his pupils heavy. It's already dark outside, and he feels so emotionally drained and tired that he has no desire to leave the bureau.
He allows himself to set his head on the table, his cheek resting against international documents.
Mary didn't come to look for him. He feels the weight of her absence pressing on his chest, constricting his heart. Their earlier discussion was so painful and tensed; he had come to her with the intention of making amends, of trying to forget all of their problems for a while, but the exact opposite happened. There's no point blaming himself now. He tried, he really tried to set the past — and Mary's betrayal — aside. But he doesn't want to think about her now. He is too tired, and all he wants to do is sleep.
The sound of the doors opening has never been more irritating.
"Your Majesty, Lady Lola."
Luckily for him, the visitor is anything but. He raises his head and meets her blue eyes, that are so panic-stricken that he immediately jerks up, his senses more alert than ever.
"Lola, what is it? Is John okay?"
"Yes, of course. This is not about John. It's..." she sighs, a sympathetic glint of sadness flashing over her face. He knows that look. He knows that look very well. It can only be about...
"Mary. She is gone." she continues.
It is at this point that he notices the letter in her hand, with Mary's sigil on it. His throat constricts and his stomach drops in a painful pang that has nothing to do with hunger.
"What do you mean gone? Gone where?"
"One of her guards just approached me, he had a message for me, and this letter for you. He said Mary decided to retire to Scotland for some time, and he had instructions to deliver this only after Her Majesty has left."
"She...she wouldn't. She can't have gone. Not without talking to me first, not like this..." he mutters, the shock of it all so great that he can barely think, or talk. He watches Lola helplessly, a myriad of thoughts roaming through his mind.
What was Mary thinking? What on earth was she thinking?
He takes the letter from Lola with trembling hands, tearing it open and unfolding it. His sight is so out of focus at first that he has to blink repeatedly for the letters to form into words.
Mary's words.
Francis,
I did not leave because I wanted to escape the reality between us. I left because I realised how much pain my presence brought you, and I couldn't bear hurting you anymore. Some time apart would do us good, at least I hope it will assuage you, so that when I return, you will withstand my company. As much as I crave yours, only time can make things better. Scotland is unstable, it needs its Queen more than you need me.
I look forward to seeing you again next month. And I can only pray that you do too.
Sincerely and forever yours,
Mary
He reads it again and again under Lola's crestfallen scrutiny, until he can almost recite it by heart.
I look forward to seeing you again next month.
He tosses the letter on the table, rubbing his face in distress. Is that really what she felt, that her country needs her more than him? Perhaps that's what his actions made her think the last couple of days; but it's only natural that he can't get past her betrayal so easily, is it not? Does she really think that everything is done between them, broken beyond repair?
It is, in some way. It undeniably is, but he's willing to turn a blind eye to it, because he loves her. He loves and needs her more than he needs air.
"Guards." he calls out in an authoritative voice. "Ready my horse and five other riders. We're going to Scotland."
If the guards are surprised, they don't show it. Maybe it's impossible to faze them, after having his father as King.
"The Royal Troop, Your Majesty?" one of them inquires.
"Under disguise. I don't want it to be official, we'll draw too much attention to ourselves. I want discretion."
"But Francis..." Lola chimes in. "Don't you think it's better if you respect Mary's decision? She needs time to think everything over, to heal, as do you."
"I don't have time." he hisses, harsher than intended. He sounds so frustrated, he realises, so desperate that he's out of control. "Leave us now, I'll be with you in a moment." he commands the guards.
His attention turns to Lola again once they're gone, who's watching him with apprehension, as if she fears what he has to say.
"What do you mean you don't have time?"
He sighs, feeling like he's aged thirty years in the span of these months.
"I am dying, Lola. The ear infection is terminal and I can do nothing about it."
Her eyes immediately fill with tears, and he looks away, unable to face the pity and affliction in them.
"Oh, Francis. I am so, so sorry. Does Mary..."
"No, of course she doesn't know. I have to tell her before it's too late. And I don't want to live the remaining days I have without her by my side."
She wipes the tears off her cheeks and walks to him, wrapping her arms around his neck. He reciprocates the hug, patting her back softly.
"Don't worry. You and John will always be cared for. This is your home as much as it is mine. My mother and Mary will protect you no matter what."
She nods, taking hold of his hand and squeezing it.
"You are the best friend anyone could ask for. And a wonderful man. It's time you forgive yourself for your mistakes. Mary will too."
He doesn't respond to that. And ten minutes later, he's off to Scotland.
Off to find the love of his life.
Until his mother stops him at the gates of the castle, that is.
She stands with her chin jutted out in front of his horse, and even he finds her frightening.
"My dear, be reasonable." she attempts a placid approach, palm raised in the air in an appeasing manner. "You are the King of France, you do not have the luxury of chasing capricious wives."
"This is not a caprice, I drove Mary away. And I'm going to bring her back."
"You're going to get yourself killed!" she hisses, trying to keep her voice down. "Mary will come back by herself just fine, she has plenty of guards at her disposal. Guards which you don't have."
He sighs, every second that passes feeling like another mile added between him and Mary.
"The majority of our men are in Scotland, I will not rob the castle of the rest of them. I'm going as Mary's husband, not the King of France. You have to respect that."
"I will not respect nor condone foolish decisions!" she counters, her face contorted by both worry and rage.
"Guards," he calls out to the men situated at the gates, "escort the Queen Mother back to her chambers."
"Francis!" Catherine protests, trying to yank her arms free of the guards' hold and failing.
As they take her away and the gates are opened for the King of France and the five men accompanying him, he hears his mother's screams all the way to the forest.
If you die because of Mary, I will curse her name for all eternity!
hi, i love your jk fic !!! i was wondering if you were going to write a fourth part to it :)
hi, lovely ! (^-^*)ノ count on me to answer this 487465 years later. first of all i'm very very happy & grateful that you like it ! the thing is, i don't really have an answer to your question. i might, or i might write something else entirely, i have had little to no inspiration. i took a very long hiatus from writing, and when i did write, it had nothing to do with our jungkookie, but !! maybe one day ! i wish you the best morning/afternoon/evening ! /smooches.
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