#reignfic

[the-lost-book-thief]

The history nerd in me won’t allow me to write an historical story where my babies get a happy ending so angst filled modern AU it is. Lord help me, I’ve haven’t written anything in so long.

[infantacatalina-blog]

let your colours bleed                                        (and blend with mine) 

Mary learns that there is life after death. 'She is a wife without a husband, a queen without her king, a woman without the man she loves. She is still Mary, but she is Francis’ Mary no longer.' 

(x) 

[soonerwxgirl]

A Man for All Seasons Ch. 25 - Final Chapter

Title: A Man for All Seasons

Author: soonerwxgirl​

Rating: T

Pairing: Mary Queen of Scots/Sebastian de Poitiers    

The darkened room did little to lift the curtain of despair that had closed over Mary's heart. She sat vigil by Francis's bedside, maintaining a tight grip on his clammy hand. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead, but Mary was unsure how much of that was due to his fever, or the blaze being stoked in the fireplace. He tossed weakly about in the bed, tormented by the illness that flowed in his veins. Though so many things had changed over the past year, Mary would never wish Francis to be in such a state. She still loved the boy within, now barely visible under the yellowing, translucent skin. His vices had pulled him under, pulled him away from her, but the it was the illness that was decimating his body. She tried to remember him as he once was, the happy boy she had loved and cherished.

Gently, she rested her cheek against the hand she held tightly. She knew his time on Earth was coming to an end, the knowing look she received from Nostradamus had told her as much. Though their marriage had been far from ideal, France still needed it's King. And she was still his wife, if in name only.

Mary felt a hand on her shoulder, applying the gentlest of pressure. With a sad smile, she turned her eyes on Sebastian. She could see the redness in his eyes, fighting back his own emotions in the moment. France was losing a King, Mary was losing her husband, and Bash was losing a brother.

"I dislike mentioning it, Mary, but should Catherine be summoned? I fear his time is shorter than we would like to think," he whispered gently. Mary's sniffle came out as more of a gasping breath, but she nodded.

"Yes, of course. I can look beyond her past transgressions to give her a moment with her son," she acknowledged, knowing that should she ever be in a similar situation, she would bless the person who granted her the same courtesy.

He reached a hand to stroke her cheek, his thumb erasing the tear tracks that stained the flesh of her face, "you are so strong, Mary. Please never be afraid to show me your tears," Mary smiled at Sebastian, feeling the comfort only his presence could bring. Bash nodded, his reassuring grip relaxing from her shoulder as he left to summon Catherine.

"I know this is difficult, daughter, but be strong. James will need you," Marie reminded Mary from her seat in the corner. She held her sleeping grandson, having settled quietly in her chair in the corner after they rushed Francis to the room during the Christening. Marie moved slowly, placing James snugly in his bassinet which Bash had brought in earlier. She came to kneel by Mary, resting a hand gently on her daughter's knee.

"Much is about the change, Mary. Sebastian will need you more than ever, for the grief of losing a brother is a hard one to bear," Marie hesitated, watching her daughter's eyes glisten, "but most importantly, you will need a plan for yourself. James will be King of France. There is much to think about."

Mary knew her mother's words to be true. Would she stay in France and rule for James as Regent, much as her mother did in Scotland? Or would she take him to Scotland, and raise him with Sebastian at her side?

Part of Mary wanted to reprimand her mother for appearing careless and not allowing her time to grieve. But for a monarch, the time to grieve was best left to the darkness of night, wrapped in the warmth of a lover's arms when tears could flow freely. Unfortunately, the daylight was no time to grieve. Mary knew Sebastian's arms would be openly waiting, as would hers for him, but in the coming days, weeks, even months, the daylight would have to rule her emotions.

Looking back to Francis, he seemed to have calmed a bit, but his face was still pale and his breathing shallow. Marie moved back to check on James, and Mary tentatively reached to smooth the blonde curls from her husband's forehead. She had forgotten the feel of his skin under her fingers, but the texture was different than she remembered.

For a moment, his eyes fluttered open, catching Mary's eyes as she held her breath.

But the moment was shattered, as Mary heard Catherine clamoring down the hall. His eyes fluttered closed as the door opened slowly, thanks mostly to Sebastian who had a firm grip on the door handle. Catherine hurriedly entered in a flurry of rustling skirts and waving arms. She had lost some since of decorum in her motions, but to Mary's surprise she refrained from raising her voice. Her eyes met Mary's briefly, then shifted to chair Mary was occupying. Understanding the request, Mary stood, allowing Catherine to sit by her son's side. Mary drifted to the end of the bed, letting her weight rest softly against the feathered mattress. She felt heavy, so heavy with the burdens now upon her shoulders.

Catherine's weathered hand grasped her son's tightly. She brought it towards her face, her lips moving in a silent prayer. Mary watched thoughtfully at the woman before, the same woman who caused her so much pain, torment, and nearly cost her Sebastian's life. But before her now was not the Queen, but a mother who, too, was grieving for a son whose life dangled precariously from the edge of living. She kissed the hand she held, reaching to brush his forehead with the other. Though they had their own quarrels, the creases in his brow softened with his mother's touch.

They all either sat or stood in silence for some time, James occasional coos the only sound in the room.

"Why is Nostradamus not here?" Catherine asked softly, her question directed to the room at whole. Sebastian stepped forward to fill the void of silence.

"He should be back shortly. Lola was assisting him on making a tea to ease his breathing," he answered, tilting his head toward Francis. Catherine returned her gaze to Francis, though here eyes had never reached Sebastian's, her own silent way of showing her distaste for him. Bash politely nodded, bowing his head slightly.

"I want to blame all of this on you, Mary, but I realize I am partly at fault," Catherine spoke suddenly. Her voice held no condemnation but was spoken as one would almost praise a child, "but know this Mary, even if I am locked away in the tower for the rest of my life, nothing you could do would ever gain my forgiveness."

Mary bristled, wanting to lash out at Catherine. Who was she to speak of forgiveness? She was the same woman who drugged Mary and Francis, Sebastian and Lola, setting a course of events that would change everything. She was the same woman who attempted to have Sebastian brutally murdered. No, thought Mary, I will never be concerned with gaining her forgiveness.

"I care not for your forgiveness, Catherine," Mary whispered, the power of her words resonating around the room, "and it should be you who is begging for my forgiveness. Your sins are too many to count," she paused, knowing every eye in the room was on her, "and I hope you drown in them."

Catherine's lips puckered, distaste written clearly across her features. She opened her mouth, an angry retort ready on her lips, but Mary spoke first, "and because of that Catherine, you will accompany me to Scotland in the coming days, where I can keep a watchful eye on you."

"Already written Francis off, have you? Eager to be with you lover? Make more bastard children?" Catherine stood as she spoke, her voice still quiet but anger dripped from every word.

"Of course not, Catherine, for I love Francis dearly, but as a Queen yourself you should know I have to think of my son, the future King of France, and my own blessed country," Mary felt the weight of her burdens lift slightly with the sudden decision to return home. She would go to Scotland, with Sebastian, James, and Catherine, her prisoner forever.

Mary could feel the pride from the smile her mother gave her, knowing she had made the right decision. She need not look at Sebastian for his love to impress upon her. Catherine would never accept defeat, and Mary knew she would be fighting her discreetly until Catherine no longer took breathe.

"And who will rule France in your stead? You cannot be Regent from Scotland," asked Catherine calmly, though Mary could see her hands clinched in fists. She had not thought this far ahead, but knew there were some very capable men on the King's Council.

"You need not worry about France, Catherine, for I will always have it's best interest at heart," Mary replied sweetly, and Catherine sneered in response. "What will become of my other children if I am in Scotland?"

"They are Francis's brothers," Mary answered, sincerity in her tone, "and I will make sure they have every luxury that can be afforded to them."

Catherine remained silent, contemplating Mary's words. She did not even look up when Nostradamus quietly knocked, handing a steaming cup of tea to Sebastian. Silence continued for awhile, Mary shifting uneasily from foot to foot, her thoughts drifting between returning home to Scotland, Francis passing away, and raising her son with Sebastian.

Soft sounds from the bed caused everyone's heads to turn toward him. Francis's eyes were open, barely, and his hand twitched outward.

"Francis?!" Catherine called, rushing back to the chair and reaching for her son's outstretched hand. He smiled weakly, his grip nonexistent as she grasped his hand.

"Mother," he started, his voice raspy from disuse.

"Here is some tea, Francis, it will help sooth your throat," Catherine urged, reaching over to raise her son's head and help him drink the warm brew Nostradamus recently brought. He coughed slightly, but his body relaxed briefly with the warm liquid. "You must rest my son," Catherine urged, a motherly demeanor overtaking her person once more.

Mary drifted away from the bed to sit by her mother. She gazed down at James, sleeping peacefully, unaware of the constant turmoil that surrounded him. Even during slumber, his little face smiled her direction.

"Mary?" A strained voice from the bed spoke. Mary stood immediately, moving to stand by Catherine.

"Yes, Francis?" He smiled at her, but his normal vibrancy and enthusiasm was gone from his face.

"I would like to speak with you privately, for a moment?" Catherine moved to dissent, but Mary placed a firm hand on her shoulder.

"Would you please excuse us?" Mary asked, glancing at Catherine, then around the Marie and finally to Sebastian. She saw sadness in her mother's eyes, but only understanding in Sebastian's. Marie moved to pick up James, but Francis spoke quietly, "please, let my son stay. I wish to see him."

"As you wish, Your Grace," Marie bowed, gliding out of the room behind a very reluctant Catherine.

"Please, can you - bring James - closer?" Francis stuttered, the words becoming hard for him to speak. It was if every last ounce of strength in his body went towards forming the sounds. Mary moved quickly, a dreadful sense of calm filling her body. James remained asleep, even as Mary scooted the chair as close to the bed as possible. Nostradamus concluded Francis was not contagious, that his illness remained confined to only his own extremities, so Mary felt no fear in resting the sleeping infant beside Francis. It was a struggle, but he drug his hand over to James, resting it gently on his stomach. "So - beautiful," he uttered weakly.

The scene before her brought tears to her eyes, but not for the reason she thought it might. Part of her would always regret lying to Francis about James, and she knew she would answer for this sin before her God.

"Francis ..." Mary started, unsure where her thoughts or words were taking her.

"Mary," he paused, taking a shakingly deep breath, "I have known for some time," he struggled, his breathing becoming more awkward, "not my son." The words in between had been lost with his shaky breaths, but Mary understood what he was saying. James was not his son.

"Francis ..." Mary started again, but Francis slightly raised a finger in protest.

"I have not been," he stopped to breath, closing his eyes, "the husband," another pause, "you deserve."

"Francis, please do not exert yourself. You need your strength to get better," whispered Mary, reaching out to caress his cheek.

"Tell Bash to take care of his son," muttered Francis, the words clearer than any other he had spoken, and Mary gasped, tears flowing freely down her cheeks. Her chest heaved with emotion, and her mind raced. What do you say to your dying husband?

"Can you forgive me, Francis? I do love him so," Mary cried, laying her head against the silken sheets.

"Easily, Mary," breathed Francis, the words flowing easier from his lips. Mary hoped the tea was beginning to help. "I was not the husband I should have been," he paused momentarily, eyes glancing back at James, "but it does not help the hurt, knowing he is not my legacy. I will not judge you, for God knows my sins as well, as He does yours."

"He will be King of France, Francis, and I want you to teach him as he grows, just as I will do," stated Mary, knowing Francis would never see James grow up. She did not want to acknowledge that reality yet.

"Always optimistic, my Mary," Francis chuckled, a harrowing cough emanating from his chest, "every time I close my eyes I do not know if they will open again on this Earth."

"Save your breath, Francis," whispered Mary, bending over the kiss his forehead, "I do love you, you know." And she did, but not in the same fashion she loved Sebastian. If things had been different, she might be expressing a very different sentiment when saying 'I love you', but she would not wish things to be different. Though she regretted the situation, she never regretted the path it led her on, or the choices she made. She loved Sebastian, and he was her rock. Without his love, she would never have had her beautiful son.

Francis had gone quiet after muttering an 'I love you too Mary', his strength exerted for the time being. She thought she even heard an 'I am sorry' muffled as well, but she paid it no heed. They said what needed to be said to each other, though Mary hoped it would not be the last time they spoke.

Glancing back, Mary noticed his hand on James had slipped down, and she reached to touch his hand but stopped. She watched his face, eyes roaming to his chest and back. There was no visible movement.

"Francis?" Mary whispered, gently touching his hand. There was no response.

"Francis?" Mary asked more forcefully, panic beginning to surface in her voice. There was still no response.

What happened next, Mary was not sure. She must have called for Sebastian, for he was suddenly by her side, James cradled in one arm and the other firmly wrapped around Mary's shoulders. She heard Catherine's anguished cries, the cries of a mother who lost her child. Her mother whispered words that Mary did not comprehend, a muffled sound blanketing her ears.

And somewhere, off in the distance, she thought she heard a bell toll.

It had been two years since Francis had passed away, a year and a half since Mary had returned to Scotland. Times had been difficult, trying to remember a country she had barely lived in. It had taken awhile for her advisers to trust her, a French woman in their eyes, but her mannerisms and friendliness had worked in her favor, and she easily gained their trust.

The shade of the willow tree provided some respite from the afternoon sun, though the heat was not overwhelming. The blue sky held few clouds, creating the perfect atmosphere for an afternoon outing. Mary had been in meetings with her advisers during the morning hours, and the fresh air had been a welcome change.

Her fingers tickled the blades of grass at the edge of the blanket, the fabric providing a soft cushion to the rocky soil. The sun reflected of the ripples of the Loch beyond Linlithgow castle. The wind carried the waves, along with the giggles of her son, rolling around happily in the grass. His curls, now dark brown like hers, bounced as he moved. Sebastian called cheerily after him, now getting to live in the complete roll of father.

She gazed lovingly at the man before her, now chasing James through the bluebells. He could never be her King, and he accepted that fact easily. Likewise, he could not be her husband, a fact made perfectly clear by her advisers. However, her nobles agreed to not push Mary towards a marriage out of duty. They would accept their Queen as she was, with a strong man at her side, loyal to her to a fault. In some ways, they viewed her just as the English viewed Elizabeth. She was a strong, personable, respectable Queen. She could rule Scotland with a strong, just hand, without a King Consort.

And likewise, she could love where she wanted.

And she knew she had placed her love in the right place. He glanced over at her, walking slowly towards Mary and stretching out a hand to help her stand. He pulled her close to his side, her head resting gently on his shoulder.

"It was a summer, much like this, when we took that first ride through palace grounds together," he whispered, reminiscing on those first few months of their budding relationship.

"We were together through summer, fall, and most of winter before you had to disappear," Mary stated, remembering those horrible moments thinking Bash was truly dead, "and then I finally got a have a spring with you."

"We have been through a lot, you and I," added Bash, placing a gently kiss on the top of her head, "both good times and bad."

"My man for all seasons," Mary breathed, closing her eyes and breathing in the scent of fresh air, Sebastian, and freedom. Under her head, Mary felt Bash's chest rumbled as he laughed, a genuine mirthful sound. This time he turned to face her, capturing her lips sweetly with his in way only he could do.

"I love you, Mary," muttered Sebastian, the words full of emotion.

"And I you," replied Mary, stroking his cheek, "now go chase down that wild son of yours."

Laughter filled the air as they both laughed, turning around to find their son. James was happily picking bluebells, his tiny fist crushing the flowers.

"James!" Called Bash, opening his arms wide. The boy quickly forgot his flowers, running happily into this father's arms. The movement of the golden flag above their heads caught Mary's attention, the red dragon rippling in the breeze from the loch.

This was her joy. This was her life. This was her family. And this was her Scotland.

And back in France, with Lola curled into his side, Nostradamus smiled.

[soonerwxgirl]

A Lady in His Shield  Ch. 5

Title: A Lady in His Shield

Author: soonerwxgirl​

Rating: T

Pairing: Mary Queen of Scots/Sebastian de Poitiers   

From the moment his lips departed hers, Mary's heart never quit pounding. It reverberated through her chest, filling every pore of her being. It had been unexpected, but not unwelcome, the beautiful pressure of his mouth on hers. She could still feel the tough texture of his sun-loved skin against her lips, the roughened man beneath her fingertips. It had been frightening, the feelings coursing through her veins, and yet fantastic at the same time. And to think, the whole incident had occurred just three days prior.

Three long, miserable days.

It was rough to reconcile whether Sebastian had been disgusted by her actions, or upset with his own since he had abruptly left her in the large sparring room. She had not seen him since. Maybe it would be for the best, lest their emotional masks betray them to their companions. Or worse, they would betray themselves, and all they were working so hard to accomplish would crumble.

To deny her attraction to Bash was futile, and now that she had seen his feelings in return, her mind tumbled endlessly. Until less than a month ago, her future seemed crystal clear. She would wed the now King of France, uniting two countries and two monarchs. Now, she could not imagine looking forward, facing her new French court, without this daring General by her side.

"I must not do anything to dishonor my country," Mary whispered to an empty room.

It would not be dishonorable to love him, a traitorous voice whispered in the back of her mind, just to act on it.

Mary had never thought it would be easy to fall in love, though the stories of love at first sight were plentiful. But she always thought they were just that, stories. Fantasies for little girls. And yet here she sat, alone in her room. She was afraid to confront the man who would escort her to her future husband, afraid she would throw herself into his arms.

"Mary?" Lola asked, peeking around the edge of the open door, her face etched with worry.

"Yes, Lola, please come in," beckoned Mary, grateful for the distraction from her traitorous thoughts.

"I have been asked to inquire if it would be acceptable to start our journey to French court tomorrow, as opposed to next Saturday?" Mary sighed in relief. This would be perfect for both her mind and her emotions.

"Yes, Lola, I think that would be most acceptable. Most of our belongings have been packed already," smiled Mary, praying this was a good sign. The sooner she could be in the French court, in the presence of her husband-to-be, the better.

"I will let the Duke know then," Lola acknowledged, watching Mary closely. Of all Mary's ladies, except maybe Aylee on occasion, she was the most perceptive. "Mary, can I ask you something?"

"Of course, Lola," Mary replied slowly, sensing her friends hesitation. Lola glanced cautiously around the room before approaching her Queen, reaching for Mary's hand as only she could do in such times.

"What is wrong? Everyone has asked after you these past few days," Lola squeezed Mary's hand in encouragement.

"Oh Lola," paused Mary, wondering to what extent she should, or could, confide in her friend. She wanted nothing more than to share her emotional burden with someone she trusted, not to burden them, but to seek guidance. But then, the more who knew about her indiscretion with Sebastian the greater chance of her future husband finding out. If Francis found out her reputation had been tainted, and most importantly by who, then it could jeopardize everything they have worked so hard to rebuild.

Mary found her courage, praying her words were the best choice, "Lola, what lies before us will shape not only our future, but the future of France. I do not think I am fit to be Queen."

Her friend's brow rose at the admission, a questioning gaze on her face. "Mary, why on earth would you ever think you are not capable. You were born to be Queen, you are a Queen already."

"Yes, but I am so far away from my country," whispered Mary sadly. She barely remembered her native Scotland, and there were days when she wished her fate would be different. That she could be sitting on her rightful throne, ruling her country, instead of waiting to be Queen of a country in shambles.

"Scotland will always be with you, Mary, and you have us to always remind you of home. And you have already made friends with the King's general. Has he not assuaged any of these concerns? He seems so attentive."

"Of course he has," Mary replied hastily. There was a hint of admiration as Lola mentioned Sebastian that Mary did not like, but Mary kept her thoughts to herself.

"Of that I am glad," Lola smiled overzealously, fidgeting nervously with her fingers at the same time. Mary was unsure of this new attitude towards the Duke, but continued to let it be. "Will you be joining us downstairs for dinner?"

"No, thank you, I am rather tired and would like to rest."Lola curtseyed in acknowledgement, watching Mary closely as she left her chambers.

Mary settled back on her lounge chair, willing her thoughts of Lola's sudden possible interest in Bash, and her own situation in general, to slow.

She prayed for a moment's peace, and rest.

But rest never came.

It was as if a tempest roared endlessly within Mary. The raging tide of emotions carried her on an endless flow of waves. In less than a month, her world had gone from comfortably predictable to an infinite unknown. All her short life, she had known who she was, and what her duties to Scotland, and possibly France, would be. The Lord and Lady Carme had been open and honest with her, and she loved them for it.

It had been about two months ago when the Lord Carme had summoned Mary to his library. The practice was not unusual, but Mary had still sensed a change in the air. And then when the Lord Carme had bowed, a custom she had made him forego years ago, she knew for sure.

Her time had come.

Time to step into her duties. Her duty to be the next Queen of France, and marry the King.

Marry the King.

A man she did not know, though his deeds and manners were unprecedented. When Lord Carme handed her the note, written in the King's own hand, she sighed.

Mary had not known if you could tell much of the man by the way he wrote and expressed himself on paper. The flowing script intrigued her, and seeing her name written by the man she would call 'husband' sent a small flutter through her heart. She trembled, scared of the future that the small piece of paper embodied. Her trembling had lessened as she read the graceful words, realizing her moment had truly come. She sensed greatness in him, regality seeping from the penmanship.

"He is a good King, Your Grace," Lord Carme had spoken, understanding Mary's momentary unease, "and you will be a great Queen."

"You have raised me well, and I thank you for it," Mary had replied in earnest, knowing the time she spent in safety with the Carme's was more than she and her ladies could have imagined. They had been gracious hosts, especially as Mary had been a young girl when she first arrived, but she was also grateful to call them friend. She had reached for the Lord Carme's hand, holding it tightly in both thanks and honor.

Mary held her right hand, remembering the feeling of comfort that simple handshake with Lord Carme had given her, assurance that she was destined for greatness. And yet now she questioned everything.

She had sent Lola away quickly after dinner, having not rested earlier in the afternoon. She needed time to think before they left. Even though it was summer, the mountains chilly evening air gripped the castle and Mary tried to find comfort in the abundance of furs on her bed. But no luxuries afforded a Queen could keep her mind from drifting back two months, when her fate was sealed in summons from King Francis. And just as quickly, her mind floated back to the present, a very different face appearing in her thoughts. A very different vision of a man in her head. Even in her mind, she could still smell his musky sweat from fencing, sense his aloof presence, hiding just behind a door she could not open.

She would leave tomorrow. Leave the only safe home she had known in France. Leave the family she thought of as her own. Leave to become the Queen of France, wife of the King. She could not begin the journey without saying goodbye to him. She needed to apologize for her behavior, let him know she would not speak of it to the King.

The cold stone floor shocked Mary as her feet found their footing. She slid her feet into the lined slippers, enjoying the soft feel of the fabric. Her fingers brushed the blue silk robe draped on the end of her bed. It was not the most appropriate attire for her short journey, but she quickly dismissed the time and effort needed to lace a dress.

The moonlight from the windows cast shadows on the stone walls, but it gave Mary enough light to she her path. She would miss the stillness of her current home, with no guards in the halls and no torches lit. It gave her some semblance of a normal life, a common life.

But she was far from normal, and far from common.

A light shone from under the door at the end of the hall. She had only seen him enter it once, but remembered the location vividly. There were no voices from the other side, so Mary hoped he was truly alone. Her hand shook as she raised it, hoping her knocking would not wake other inhabitants.

She heard his footsteps approach the door, the large wooden edifice swinging open with a groan.

"Luke, please, I told you I did not …" the frustration in his voice was evident to Mary, and she gasped in response. He raised his head, his eyes widening at the realization that it was Mary at his door, and not Luke. He did not finish his sentence, instead he just stared at the woman in front of him, a sort of wonder shining from his eyes.

"Mary," he breathed, not a question in his tone, but more of an unmeasured longing. They way her name had fallen from his lips sent shivers through Mary.

They stared at each other for a few moments before Bash's fingers gently wrapped around her forearm and pulled her into his room. Her eyes watched him as he slowly closed the heavy door, the latch barely making a sound as it shut. Time seemed to slow down as the Duke swiveled to face Mary.

"Why are you here?" He whispered, his face remaining stoic as he spoke. Mary had been so determined to visit Bash, but now that she was here the words left her. "Mary, you really should not be here."

"I have missed you," the words escaped her lips before Mary realized her confession. She watched him close his eyes and sigh, "I thought you were unhappy with me. I did not want to start out our journey tomorrow without talking to you. There is much that needs to be resolved," Mary continued softly.

His head tilted questioningly at the young woman in front of him. He had never met someone so honest and truthful in his life. It was refreshing to just be in her presence. It was also intoxicating. Sebastian felt the pull towards her just as he did a few days previously. The need to wrap his arms around her and pull her close fought to possess him, and he felt his feet moving forward involuntarily. The skin of her cheek caressed the palm of his hand, but he did not even realize he had reached for her.

"I am sorry I have avoided you. I was afraid I had displeased you. I have, have I not?" She whispered, her mind chastising herself for the direction the conversation was heading.

"Of course not," he sighed, "if I have any displeasure, it is at myself. I took advantage of you, and for that I hope you will forgive me. Your good opinion means more to me than most."

"There is nothing to forgive, and no advantage was taken, I assure you," Mary responded with a bit more force than she intended, her emotional struggle winning over her choice of words, "and my opinion of you remains unchanged…"

"But this cannot continue," he whispered, his thumb tracing the line of her cheek.

"I realize that," Mary interrupted, her voice trembling, "but I cannot forget it either. "

"Oh Mary," Bash hummed, closing the distance between. He leaned his forehead against hers, enjoying being in her presence again. He realized putting the distance between them the past few days was not the answer. Closing his eyes, Bash struggled to find his breath, "there are many things I want to say to you, but now is not the time. Just know, when we return to court, you will always have a loyal servant in me," he paused, opening his eyes, "and there I go again, bringing tears to your lovely face."

"It is not fair, Bash. I have been raised all my life to be both Queen and wife, and I have never questioned my duty. Never," she cried in earnest, the tears feeling hot against her already flushed cheeks, "and then I met you, and I have questioned everything since. Promise me I will never lose your friendship and guidance?"

Sebastian had promised himself three days ago that he would never kiss Mary again, not for lack of wanting to, but for sake of his own sanity, and both their lives. But as he pulled her into his arms, whispering gently in her ear, he decided that was one promise he needed to break.

It did not matter that her lips were salty, stained from her tears. It did not matter that in a few hours, they were leaving for the French court. It did not matter that she was destined to marry his brother. Nothing mattered at all, except the two of them in that moment.

It was not overly passionate, or horribly chaste, but the kiss was full of longing, and an unspoken promise. They would stand by each other in all things, and be each other's confidants. But they knew the line would have to be drawn there.

It was over too soon, their brief respite from the real world, and Mary nearly gasped at the loss of contact as he broke their kiss. Silently, she wondered what she might have done wrong to be denied this man, knowing a love and not being able to return it.

"Best you get some rest, Your Grace," said Bash, reverting back to a more formal tone, "we have an early morning and a long journey ahead of us tomorrow."

Mary sighed, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill again. "You too, Bash. And please know you are very dear to me, and will always be. I could not imagine a better man, or friend, guiding me along this journey."

"I will be your guide as long as you need me," Bash stated genuinely, bowing slightly. Mary chuckled through her tears, wishing him a good night.

He watched her as she walked down the corridor. Just like the feeling that washed over him the first day he met her in the meadow, he knew he was destined to be by her side, in whatever way he could. He had a week to settle his emotions, lest Francis know the minute he saw him. A week to learn indifference without it seeming rude.

She was long absent from the corridor when he finally shut the door, laying himself down on the bed before their journey started. Much like the empty corridor, he would walk down the way alone, his only company being the love he held in his heart.

But never in his hand. And with that, he got no rest.

[soonerwxgirl]

Of Trials and Tribulations

Title: Of Trials and Tribulations

Author: soonerwxgirl​

Rating: T

Pairing: Mary Queen of Scots/Prince Louis of Condé            

Glancing out the window, Francis could see a crowd already gathering on the green. He had less than four hours to make the final decision to issue the royal pardon. But how could he? If events actually played out, a part of him would die as well, but to issue a pardon would be to admit weakness, show his political enemies that he was not a true King.

"But do not true Kings show mercy?" Lola had asked gently that morning, gently rocking their son to sleep.

Francis sighed, eying Lola wearily. Yes, it was his duty as King tobe merciful, but a great wrong had been committed against him. There was a difference in being merciful and being weak.

"I am being merciful, Lola," Francis paused, the words forming on his lips but halting on his tongue, "I have paid for the best executioner in France."

Lola looked away, hiding the tears in her eyes. Francis hated causing her further pain, but it was inevitable. In the time he had known Lola, all they had known was pain and torment.

"Has he asked you to marry him?" Francis asked quickly, not wanting to recognize the anguish in his own voice.

"Do not change the subject, Francis, you are trying to distract me," humphed Lola, the stern look she tried to give him eliciting a small chuckle from his lips, "and yes," she whispered, "he has."

"Will you accept?" There was a touch of sadness in the way Francis asked the question, but neither party wanted to acknowledge the implication. He would miss her company, much as he had enjoyed it during these last few bleak months.

"I think I will. He promised to take me away from court after all this ghastly business is over. I do not think I could stay here afterwards," her words trailed off to a whisper, and she became suddenly interested in an unruly lock of her son's hair.

"I understand you do not want anything to do with me, and I am sorry."

Lola stood, gently rearranging their son in her arms as she smoothed the wrinkles from her skirts. They watched each other for a moment, unspoken words breaching the silence.

"I will beg your permission to not be present this afternoon," Lola paused, gathering her courage to speak the request on her mind, "and as the mother of your son, I will beg you for one more thing."

"What will you beg of me then?" Francis sighed, sadness seeping from him.

"Leave the castle gate open, Francis. I have prayed every moment for a rescue. Do you not think he will come?"

His eyes darted to hers, bloodshot as they were and highlighted by the darkened sleepless skin around them, and yet they held her gaze firmly. "He is risking his life if he does. And if he were to come with an army, he is risking war as well." His words sounded final, but Lola could hear the indecision between the phrases, the words spoken more out of duty than from personal conviction.

She placed a gentle hand calmly on his shoulder, her fingers applying the gentlest of pressure. "But would you stop him if he did?"

It was an honest question. Lola watched the haunted figure before her, having seemingly aged decades in a matter of months. She hoped to see an emotional change in her former lover, and though his words left doubt in her mind, his face remained the ever stoic King. At least, in her opinion, he did not immediately say no. It was still a triumph, albeit small. Francis had remembered thinking the same thing during the trial, after the rumors of a possible rescue surfaced. Would he stop Louis?

"I thought not," Lola whispered, leaving Francis to ponder the dreadful task ahead of him.

The trial had been arduous, though it only lasted a week. Francis had listened in anguish as account after account of their treacherous transgressions had been told aloud. First by servants, maids and guards, and then even by a few nobles.

Her expression did not change throughout the trial, even when listening to the accusations. Francis did not know how he expected her to act, but he hoped to see some remorse written across her pretty face, though the prettiness was now damaged by months of lying and deceit. Instead, the warmth he remembered in her eyes was gone, along with the warmth in her heart. She remained cold, her emotions hidden away behind many impenetrable walls, walls Francis had become increasingly accustomed to over these many months. If he had been honest with himself, she had retreated within, shutting him out even before she had been so brutally violated. The crushing weight of what she had been through wracked Francis to the core, especially knowing she blamed him for everything. It was the final proverbial nail in the coffin of their relationship. And yet, her feelings towards others close to her did not seem to experience the same downward spiral.

Most of the evidence had been circumstantial, and Francis was not so sure his mother had not paid for some of it's fabrication. But it had been Leith's testimony, along with several illicit letters found in their respective chambers, that had led to her conviction. Francis had remembered her resoluteness throughout the trial, unyielding to the accusations and words thrown at her from her once adoring French subjects.

"Mary, Queen of Scotland and France, you hereby stand accused of treason against our most sovereign King Francis, and against France," the registrar paused, letting his words echo in the great hall, "You stand accused of treason, having committed adultery with Louis I de Bourbon, Prince of Condé."

Though rumors had spread quickly through the castle, there were still some who did not know of what Mary had been accused, and with whom. The murmurings around the room gained strength, like the growing rumble of thunder from an afternoon storm. Francis had convened an ecclesiastical court to try Mary, and the robed Bishops and Cardinals had judged her mercilessly, even before the evidence had been brought forth.

"Queen Mary, how do you answer the charges brought before you today?"

"I will one day answer for my actions before God, as I am a Queen in my own right, divinely appointed to guide my people in this world. I will not answer to any other than Him."

Francis, sitting on his throne in the center of the hall, refused to look away from Mary. He was amazed at her brazenness. Gone was the timid, loving Queen he once knew. The world had corrupted her, Louis had corrupted her, and now she thought her actions were above earthly reproach. Closing his eyes, he rested his head against the back of his throne, the warm wood radiating strength through him. He felt the power of the position, and he would need to exert that power now. He could not be seen as a weak King, unable to punish his Queen for her actions. He knew it was unfair, a King's right to a mistress when a Queen held no such right, but his opinion did not matter. In the eyes of the rest of his court, and the eyes of monarchs throughout Europe, he had been wronged, and drastically so.

His own musings had dampened the outraged whispers that shot across the hall with Mary's answer. He cleared his throat ominously, all head in the room turning toward him. All heads except one. Mary refused to meet his gaze, eying instead the crown on his head.

"Registrar, you may dispense with the evidence." Francis commanded. The short stubby fellow nodded, turning back towards the court.

"The court will now hear the evidence against Queen Mary. Will Brigitte, serving maid to Queen Mary please come forward."

As the testimony began, Francis closed his eyes and let the words wash over him. He thought killing his father to protect his wife would be the hardest thing he would ever do in his life. But this? Nothing could compare to knowing the wife you loved, the wife you sacrificed for, had not been content with your love. She had loved him, yes, but it had not been enough. It was never enough.

Someone had asked him once, if he had feared losing Mary's love. Honestly, he had. He had told her France would always come first. And yet it was not his love for France, nor his duty to France, that cost him Mary's love. No, it was his own love for her, that fierce sense of protection, that pushed her ultimately away. Looking back on it, Francis realized he should have told her everything from the beginning. Would it have prevented Lord Narcisse's blackmail? He was not sure, but it would have kept them together. Or at least he hoped it would have.

In the back of his mind, Francis always assumed that if he lost Mary's love, it would be to his brother, Sebastian. He had promised to give Mary the world, asking very little besides her love in return. Francis could see how that adoration was tempting, for who would not want to be loved for their person and not their kingdom. And then along came Louis, Prince of Condé. The young, handsome noble had immediately won Mary's friendship, though Protestant sympathizer he was. He was very much like Bash in his love, honesty, loyalty, and adoration. He would even risk the axe to be with Mary.

It was slightly discomforting for Francis that Louis was not standing beside Mary, facing the same trial for their treason. Leith had caught them in their romantic tryst, but he had been all alone, unable to apprehend both Mary and Louis. She had urged him to run, save himself. He had, but not before promising to rescue her, even if it meant war. Leith had conveyed all that transpired to Francis, and as he still listened to evidence, he mentally wondered if Louis would hold good to his word and rescue Mary. And if Louis did, would he stop him?

Mary grew tired of the accusations, many of which she knew were falsified. One stable-hand had confessed to seeing them rutting in the straw like animals, at which Mary outwardly laughed. The Bishops scowled at her, which made her laugh even harder. She may have been with Louis on more than one occasion, but never in the stables, so openly visible to possible trespassers. She sensed Catherine's hand in the testimony, and that of several others, and it pleased her to know she had ruffled the Dowager Queen's feathers.

But then Leith was called forward, and Mary cringed. She knew him, and of his love for Greer. He knew he was a kind-hearted soul, and would honestly tell the truth. And she knew Francis would believe every word he said.

"I took it upon myself that day to scout the eastern portions of the castle grounds, for their had been rumors of vagrants and thieves causing trouble for those passing on the roads. I came upon the old gamekeeper's cabin, the one that has been unused for years, and noticed smoke coming from the chimney. I thought I had caught the scoundrels I was looking for, but then I saw them..."

Mary closed her eyes as Leith continued, easily remembering that blissful day she had spent in that run-down cabin.

"Are we pushing our luck, my love?" Mary whispered, a hand trailing down Louis' chest, slipping beneath the covers of the worn down, but useful bed. His eyes closed, groaning against her touch. He stilled her motions quickly, rolling their bodies naturally so he pressed against her, hovering gently over her and admiring the way her hair spilled about the roughened pillow in a darkened halo. He steadied himself, lowering his head so their lips could meet, dancing a waltz they were both now so accustomed too. She relished the feeling of his body against hers, their arms and legs entangled.

"If you mean are we being reckless, I think we both know the answer. But luck? I am lucky to have the love of such an amazing woman," his words ghosted over her face as he kissed her cheeks, her brow, and her chin, finally capturing her lips again with his.

"You flatter me so," Mary whispered, reaching a hand to trace the edge of his face, "and I hope you know I do not take your love for granted, for I love you so."

"And I you, my dearest, sweetest Mary," he sighed, joining their bodies and not just their lips. It was wonted for Mary to be with Louis, and she now longed for the feeling of his body against hers, moving both inside her and above her. She had once thought she would never enjoy such an experience again, but he made her feel safe, loved, and wanted. She pulled him as close as she could, closing what little distance was left between them. Being removed from the castle, they felt uninhibited, their voices raising together in pleasure and enjoyment of their coupling.

Through all this, they had never heard Leith enter, so shocked he had been at the scene that he said nothing at first. Mary whimpered in pleasure, her head rolling to the side before briefly opening her eyes, a panicked scream escaping her lips when she saw Leith.

Louis was clothed and in front of Mary in the blink of an eye. Mary whispered in his ear to run before it was too late. His eyes never leaving Leith's, he adamantly refused, but Mary was confident.

"You must go now," she whispered, "we are now doomed. But whatever happens, I want you away from here."

"If I leave now, you will be unprotected. Francis would try you for treason," argued Louis. Mary had managed to slip a robe around her shoulders, readying herself to distract Leith.

"If you love me, then protect me away from the castle. Go." She urged.

"I will be back for you, my love, an army at my back if needed. Do not worry." With his words, Mary had lunged the opposite direction from Louis, and Leith jerked towards her. Louis easily escaped through the open doorway.

Mary drifted back from thoughts, her cheeks flushed with remembrance. The court had gone quiet after Leith's testimony, and she knew she would be found guilty.

The court took less than an hour to announce Mary was guilty of treason, condemned to execution barring the King's pardon. Mary knew Francis well enough to know a pardon was out of the question. In that moment, she dared to meet his gaze, which she had felt on her person through the long week of her trial. Written clearly across his features was disappointment, anger, pain, and even loss. They weaved a tangled web, and that web they could never escape.

She said a quick prayer as the guards escorted her from the great hall, hoping that if she were to meet her creator on the executioner's block, He would judge her with mercy.

Francis remained at his stop near the window every since Lola had left him that morning. They were minutes from the execution, Mary was already in position near the block, but Francis could not bring himself to order the axe to swing. Then, the thunder of approaching horses echoed inside the castle grounds, and all those on the green became restless. It was not the sound of one horse, but multiple horses that brought Francis to his feet. He stood at his window, overlooking the scene and within eyesight of the executioner, who had ultimately been waiting for his signal. Francis motioned to him, telling the executioner to hold his hand.

Mary had raised her head, her expression hopeful as she lifted her head from the ominous wooden block. She looked much like a novice, dressed in dark grey with her hair in a bun, waiting to take her vows, such a stark contrast to the reality of facing an execution, devoid of all finery after her guilty verdict.

The nobles around the square had begun to disperse, sensing the impending unrest amplified by the clattering of horses hooves. Guards moved to protect the castle, their commander glancing up towards Francis' window perch. Again, he made a motion for them to stay their arms, wanting to see if the invading army would make the first move. He saw him then, riding gallantly through the middle of his troops, and red and gold colors of Navarre streaming around him. He stood apart from his men, his exotic coloring and dark hair different than most others, but than so was he. He was different.

He was bold, and daring, and cunning. He was not as reckless as his brother who rode beside him, and yet the fact they were riding side by side, armed for battle, just proved their heedlessness.

Mary screamed for him, reaching blindly towards her lover. Mass chaos then ensued as Louis himself let out a war cry, brandishing his saber as he forced his way over to Mary. The castle guards were slow to respond to the threat, so taken by surprise they were by the advancing legion.

With ease, Louis advanced on Mary, both the executioner and the ladies who accompanied her vanishing in the throng of scattering people. Francis watched as he cut her bound hands, sheathing his sword in a rapid blur. His hands grasped her freed arms, hauling her easily onto the horse in front of him. Arms around her waist, Louis grabbed the reins, turning the horse quickly and urging it onward.

With a clattering of hooves, Louis and Mary were gone. King Antoine had stayed a ways back from the fight, calling back their men once Louis had rescued Mary. The castle grounds were strewn with injured guards, though Francis noted none were killed. The Price of Condé had been deliberate in his attack, aiming to strictly rescue Mary, and hurt as few people as possible.

"So you let him rescue her?" Catherine muttered from the doorway behind Francis. He swiveled towards his mother, noting her demeanor was not one of disapproval, but more of amusement.

"Is it so wrong to wish her alive?" Francis responded weakly.

"Considering how she treated you, her husband, I am a bit surprised, but I do not think it is wrong," she conceded, watching her son with a calculating eye, "though many a King would have severed her head for much less than adultery."

"Yes, well, I am not them, am I?"

"Do you at least feel free now to court the mother of your son?" Catherine never felt the need to be subtle, for beating around the bush was not her style. She valued being direct and to the point.

"Lola is engaged to Lord Narcisse, I am afraid. I have lost my chance with her for good."

"Nothing is ever truly lost, my son, except maybe Mary. She has lost not only you, but most likely she has lost her way in this world."

"They are both lost to me, mother. I will have to being anew."

"The Lord gives us these trials and tribulations to test our soul. God had blessed France with a strong King, and He will continue to do so."

Francis nodded weakly, not feeling like a strong King. He would have to be, though, to move France forward. He would forget about Mary and his treaty to back Scotland. He would forget about the Prince of Condé, and any positive relations he had with Navarre. He would forge France forward in a new direction, away from the darkness that had shadowed the country, ever since his father's madness.

"I pray He will mother."

 I pray He will.

[mariapurttt]

Henry \ Catherine angsty fan fiction. In English :D

[yoshi-09]

Mercurial (ch. 1)

Title: Mercurial Author: yoshi-09/yoshi09 Rating: PG/T Summary: Gapfiller for what happens at the end of s1e6-- after Francis told Mary, right in front of Bash, that she “can spend time with others” as long as it wasn't Bash and then Francis leaves. Takes place while Francis was getting comfort from Olivia, leaving Bash and Mary alone to do whatever they want for the rest of the day. Ch.1 - Apollo

“You have feelings for me.” It was a question, delivered as a statement. There might have been surprise in his tone, had he not been so wary with Francis' departure— from the events that took place the night before. The cost of two lives, for the price of one. Bash wasn't sure what this meant, if the indifference he felt now was a reflection of the “bloodlust” the pagan in the woods cursed him with in his last breath, or if it was shock from the ease in which he shoved the man from his horse, a man which he had got to know for a night. He had children, a family, he had misguided morals with right intentions. “It is done.” he had said— would that be the eulogy that buries both? Bash felt dark. What to do when you fight the monsters, only to realize you are one yourself? The cost of two lives. For the price of one. It was a philosophy to contend with another time, for now, there was just Mary.

Mary's reply was slow, but not with hesitation. “I— enjoy your company.” Fitting words from a monarch well versed in navigating the treacherous path of politics.

Bash didn't smile. He simply nodded, as if the news wasn't new to either of them. The silence thickened, grew stagnant, staled. Bash itched to ride. Perhaps it wouldn't be too late to find the man at the bottom of the cliff. He died for telling the truth— a cheat dies an honest man. Too many ironies today. A burial would serve better justice. But his feet would not move, Mary's gaze held him there, filled with questions she didn't want to ask, to which Bash had no desire to answer. She looked worried.

“Are you alright?” Bash asked.

As if the question reminded her of her ability to speak she spoke all at once. “Bash, are you alright? What happened in the woods? You were gone for nearly half of yesterday and return this morning. Francis spoke so ominously and I've never seen him so bitter—”

“—Francis will be fine.” Bash cut in. His words were subdued but one would think Bash shouted with how quickly Mary held her tongue. Bash looked apologetic. “What I meant was, he just needs to be away from... us, for awhile. To clear his thoughts.”

“And you?” Mary asked after some time, her eyes searching his face openly. “Do you need to be alone?”

“I don't know.” Anger, Bash realized suddenly, grounded him. With Mary trying so hard to understand him, to soothe him, was jarring and made it difficult to gather his thoughts. Maybe he needed to find Francis to argue with some more—

“Where are you going?”

Mary's words halted him. He hadn't even realized he started walking away, his feet already making decisions where his mind could not. He said the first thing he could think of, “Riding.”

Bash continued walking— in the opposite direction Francis went— now that his feet had instructions, he seemed more firm in his countenance, more determined. Ride. To where? To the man who deserved a burial. Would anyone think it strange if they saw him? Burying some random stranger, some prisoner, with no one else for miles around? He pushed the man in a ravine didn't he? No one would be looking there— no one but his own demons. Bash shook his head, these thoughts won't help the situation. How long until sundown? Perhaps several hours. Enough time to give the man a proper farewell, find out he has a family with some well placed bribes, send some funds to ensure his wife and children are well fed— Funds. Bribes. Now he's thinking like his mother. There was no problem big enough that couldn't be solved with money. A true de Poitier. Would she be proud of him to see that his “bleeding for a woman he can never have” was figurative when all the blood spilled was of others? Should she even know? He couldn't even remember the man's name. Montague? Montaigu? Montaine? Bash shook his head. Something with an M. Marquis. Yes, Marquis was his name.

Bash shoved open the stable door with less rapport than usual, startling his horse, and all others within the stable. Bash went to his automatically, a gloved hand placed gently upon his muzzle, and the white stallion neighed gently, sensing his unease. The horse leaned down and Bash sighed, closing his eyes as he leaned his forehead against the length of it's nose.

But what is a name, an alibi, money compared to the loss of a life? Nothing. Had it been him in the woods who would grieve him? Bash had no wife, no children. His mother certainly, his father— Stop. It wasn't Bash who died in the woods, it was his hand that did the deed for two others. Prices. Prices to pay—

“Bash.” Mary's voice.

Two lives. For the cost of one.

He opened his eyes again, feeling tired, so much more tired, as if his thoughts had exhausted him physically.

“Mary,” he said, his voice rough and dry with some emotion he couldn't quite put a name to. He didn't look at her, but knew she was standing scarcely two meters from him, keeping her distance, as she was wont to do sometimes when she was unsure of herself. Her hands were clasped before her in that mild, neutral manner that all women of noble birth seemed to excel at. Composure.

“Bash, you are unwell.” Mary said, her voice edged with uncertainty despite the finality she delivered her words with.

She shouldn't see him like this. She shouldn't be here. Why was she here?

“When did you come in?” Bash was a hunter, he was aware of his surroundings innately. Mary sneaking up on him was... unsettling.

“Not a minute after you entered. I followed you the entire time, did you not notice? I thought you slowed your stride so I could keep up?” She took a step closer. And another.

Bash didn't answer. When Mary was involved it was so much harder to think clearly. All other thoughts plaguing him stilled, as if every fiber of his being was attuned to her small, steady footsteps, amazingly quiet and graceful— Bash wondered briefly what it would be like to take her out hunting— and then his thoughts took a standstill as she stopped as close as she could beside him without making his horse uncomfortable as she was still a stranger to his steed. What an insignificant thing to notice, Bash thought, but how that spoke wonders for her character, for her thoughtfulness. She was much too good, she had a heart that was too warm in a prison of a much colder court.

What did it say about her though, that she chose to follow him and not Francis?

“Why follow me?” he asked, still unwilling to meet her questioning gaze. His words were careful, but the meaning behind them anything but, “why did you not go to Francis?”

She hesitated, as if she hadn't thought about this before, nor the implication behind them. But it was a short pause and had he not been raised alongside those who thrived in the dalliances of court he might not have noticed. “You told me yourself that Francis needs to be away from us for awhile, to clear his thoughts.” her recovery was seamless, the words he said echoed back to him flawlessly. Oh the game they both played. His eyes flicked to hers momentarily, and she met his levelly before glancing away. Her short gaze read like an open book: deep concern so heady he felt himself unconsciously lean just a breath closer to her, he wanted to reach out, pull back the loose hairs that swept over her cheek, reassure her, soothe her— would she pull away from his touch like their first kiss?—

These were dangerous thoughts.

Mary continued on, as if she too was suddenly realizing she might've been better off not following at all. Yet, she stayed. She tried to lead the conversation into safer waters. “Your horse. Does he have a name?”

Bash was not in the mood for light chatter but he welcomed the opportunity to change topics. “Apollo.”

“Apollo? As in the god of art, music, poetry and archery?” She smiled a little, eyes on his horse, “You might as well have named him Bash.”

“Ah, but Mary, that would require talent with instruments.” he quipped dryly.

“You play people well enough,” she took a step closer to his horse and by doing so made her a step closer to Bash, cutting off any response Bash might have come up with. “Hello, Apollo.” She moved her hand steadily from her side, keeping it within the horse's line of vision, and moved it gently toward Apollo's muzzle, making her intention clear to the horse and giving him every opportunity to shy away. When the horse didn't, Bash saw more then heard her mouth the words, “This is good?” to the horse before her fingertips gently swept the hairs on Apollo's snout, and when the horse gave no sign of discomfort, she pushed the rest of her hand and palm along his muzzle, smiling gently. The horse neighed softly, as if encouraging her to not be afraid.

“You are gentle. Like your rider?” she said pleasantly, her voice so low it was near whisper. Her hand was making a caressing motion up and down the long snout and Apollo's large eyes blinked in response. “My name is Mary.” she replied.

“Would you like to go riding with me?” Bash asked suddenly. She looked up at Bash.

“I'm afraid my mare is out of the stables right now.” She was gently petting his horse, absentmindedly. Her countenance more relaxed now than Bash had seen in a long time.

“I did not mean with your mare... I meant, with me. With Apollo.”

And suddenly she was tense again. Her eyes held his for a second, two, and Bash could see her swallow, whether to clear her throat or because she was weighing her options quickly, as quickly as she could before the amount of time passed polite— and abruptly she stepped away from him, as if just realizing how close they were, succeeding to loudly, and quite possibly painfully, bump into the slightly ajar stable door behind her. His horse was charmed, Bash however, was not.

He closed their distance once more, kneeling to check her ankle before Mary quickly assured him that she was fine, just fine, please get up. Which of course, by doing so, only succeeded in placing their faces once more a hairsbreadth apart.

Bash stepped back at once, a wry smile pulling the corner of his mouth. “With such a ghastly reaction you'd think I proposed marriage.”

Mary laughed uneasily. “I didn't mean to— what I meant was—”

It still was a new and altogether ridiculous experience to Bash that Mary, Queen of Scotland, could get flustered around him. He opened his mouth to say something to help calm her, but she was still speaking:

“I just met your horse and would Apollo be comfortable with a new rider, well two riders, on him? Just, of course you would know your horse better than I and I can't make any judgment based on my experience with past horses— in Scotland, in the convent, all of our horses are rotated so as not to get comfortable with any one rider, but rather all and— Bash?”

All her words paused as his right middle and forefinger pressed lightly along her left wrist. The barest of touches and yet it was so pleasant he found himself stilling with her lest she pull away.

“Apollo will be fine. Are you fine?” His eyes searched hers thoroughly.

“Yes.”

“Come with me?”

Mary hesitated. Then— “Yes.”

Bash's face brightened and he saw Mary flush at his lack of discretion. “Yes?” he repeated.

“Yes.” she confirmed.

He outright grinned. “Now I do wish I proposed marriage.”

Mary glowed with embarrassment. “Bash you are mad.”

“Yes.” he mocked, lightly. His fingers dropped from her wrist and he felt something tug at his heart at the loss. He opened the stable door.

  Also posted to Ao3 and fanfiction.net

[leianaberrie]

The Wolf and The Huntress

The Scent

Lola fumbled with her buttons while he watched her watch him through the glass. She smiled a little and stopped when he just stared.

“I won’t come back again,” she snapped.

“That’s what you said the last time.” He sounded bored.

She twirled on him, blinking back tears of anger. “Can’t you pretend that you care, even just a little?”

He blinked. “And you? Do you care about me? What about Colin?”

She flushed and looked away.

There was an uncomfortable silence. Then he sighed, and got out of bed. She looked up to see him walking towards her, his body lean and hard, dense with scars and muscle. She swallowed. The Hungry Wolf, they called him. And she could see why.

He touched her cheek and despite herself, she leaned into it. “It would not do to fall in love with me, Lola.”

She pulled back. “Because of your French nun?” The moment she said the words, she regretted them.

His eyes narrowed. “What?”

“Nothing.” She said hastily and tried to turn away, and he pulled her right back. “Let go, you’re hurt-”

“So you’ve been listening to tavern gossip, have you?” His voice was still gentle, but now a softness that coated poison. “Have a care, Lady Lola that you don’t become tavern gossip, yourself.”

She gasped “You promised me. My reputation…”

“Means nothing to me. So I would counsel you to look to it, yourself. If you go about asking for stories about the Bastard of France, it’s only a matter of time before people start wondering why. And start wondering where you go and what you do when you’re supposed to be in service of your mistress.” He smiled then, unkindly. “Not that I care.”

He turned his back to her, walked away. He was completely naked and she was fully clothed but she was the one who felt the most vulnerable.

“Your nun would care,” Lola hissed, because he was hurting her without even trying and she needed to lash out. “Wherever she is, she would care and she would despise you for this.”

Did she imagine that his shoulders seemed to stiffen? Otherwise he made no sign that her words even touched him.

“Make haste, Lady Lola, before your mistress comes searching for you.”

There was a knock on the door and a guard’s voice.

“Lady Lola, the Queen demands an audience.”

Lola shrieked.

Francis raised an eyebrow. “Speak the Devil and he appears.”

“Lady Lola, do you have company?”

A chorus of giggles followed. Oh no, that meant Mary and one or two others – Kenna, at least if the giggles meant anything.

Francis opened his mouth to speak and Lola flew across the room to cover his lips with her hand.

“Be quiet,” she begged. “You’ll ruin me!” In a raised voice, she said, “Give me a moment to be decent.”

“My lady, Her Majesty…”

“I’m sure Her Majesty does not wish to see me at my chamber-pot.”

The giggles increased.

Francis’s lips were smirking beneath her hand. She pushed him towards the inner door. It was like pushing a hill. “Hide.”

“You jest,” he said. He was not whispering, but his voice was low enough at least.

“Loh-lah, are you hiding a gentleman in your chambers?” That was definitely Kenna’s singsong lilt.

“I.beg.you,” Lola said, pleaded. “I beg you. Don’t ruin me.”

He looked at her, considering. “You will owe me for this.”

She shivered. Even then, she knew she was dooming herself. “I will. I do.”

He turned away, slipped behind her screen and into the adjoining room.

“Mary, it seems like Lady Lola might be busy at the moment…”

Kenna fell silent as Lola flung the door open.

“You were saying?” Lola asked, glaring at her.

Kenna glared back. “Oh don’t be so fussy. As if you’d ever do anything to sully your perfect reputation.” She flounced into the room, Aylee giggling a little in her wake. Lola would have gone in right after them but Mary’s hand stopped her.

Lola turned to her friend’s gentle smile.

“I’m sorry, Mary, I really was…”

“Don’t be silly, Lola. We just wanted to give you these,” she handed over the ropes of pearls in her hands.

“Oh my Queen, oh my! What did I ever do to deserve these?”

Mary hugged her. “You’ve been my friend… the friend of the soon-to-be-wife of the next King of England.” She laughed, and there was no hiding the bitterness in her eyes. “My future husband has a generous father and I am a generous friend.” Her eyes twinkled then. “Besides I feel guilty that you’re stuck in the castle all the time with things like speeches and seating arrangements while I’m out and about with the others.”

Lola’s mind flashed briefly on all the ‘work’ she had got done today and reddened a little. “That’s OK, Mary. Please say hello to Greer for me. I hope she gets better soon.”

“Of course, I will.” Mary smiled, then nodded at the other two. “Kenna, Aylee, come along.”

Lola looked back to see Kenna standing in front of her inner door, a hand reaching for the knob.

“Kenna!”

Kenna dropped her hand and stared at Lola. There was undecipherable look in her eyes.

“Kenna, would you like to stay with Lola and work on my speeches while Aylee and I go over to Kinross?” Mary asked.

Kenna looked at Mary, then at Lola.

Lola swallowed.

“What is it, Kenna?” Aylee asked. “Is there really a man in there?”

Kenna smiled. “In Lola’s rooms? I’d have better chance of finding an elf than a man.” She brushed past Lola and left.

Aylee smiled in her usual sweet manner. “I’d have helped you with the speeches…”

“Oh go on you,” Lola gently shoved her through the door. “Stop feeling guilty, all of you. You know I love writing speeches.”

She curtsied to her Queen and closed the door on Kenna’s prying eyes. She waited until she couldn’t hear their footsteps again, then she bolted it shut and leaned against it, breathing deeply as she closed her eyes.

She opened them to see the Wolf’s eyes drilling holes in her face.

For the second time, Lola shrieked.

“Who.was.that?” he asked. His voice sounded like if he was being tortured.

“Who?”

“That wo… those women. Who were they?”

“My friends… my Queen.”

“Give.me.names.”

She stammered out their names, too confused to say anything else.

“And their features? How do they look like?”

“What?”

“Describe each to me. In detail. Leave nothing out. The color of their hair, their eyes.”

“Dauphin – I don’t understand…”

He took a step towards her and she recoiled. His eyes were boring into her face like daggers, searching, searching, searching for what? The images of her friends in her eyes? There was a desperation in in his eyes that she had never seen the like of. It frightened her beyond words.

He gave her one last searing look and then with a snarl, he was gone.