Spoilers for "In a clearing"

"Francis, wait!" He ran down the hallway, not caring the slightest about the soldiers and servants staring at him. What was he to them? A distraction, food for gossip, an inconvenience. A threat for some, though until recently, only for their own pride, not in matters of succession. In their worst nightmares, they wouldn't have imagined that.
He was nothing, and always would be. Or so they all had thought.

"Francis!"
The door slammed shut right in front of Bash, rendering the symbolic effect stronger than his brother probably had planned.
"Your Grace." One of the guards reached for the door handle, ready to help the new heir. Bash stopped him with a wave. "Give him a moment." And me too, he added silently.
Your Grace. If this sounded wrong already, how was he supposed to get used being called "your majesty"? It was a title he had never strived for, and not only because he had no right to it. He was no king, and he would never be, not really.
But he would be Mary's husband.

Bash sighed. If he could believe for one second he'd be at least as good a ruler as his little brother, he would not do this – but the way his heart raced when even thinking about Mary proved, more than anything Catherine could say, that it was wrong. He had not agreed to the plan thinking of France. He had thought about his little brother, whom he had loved and protected since the day he was born.
He had thought about the queen of Scotland, the most passionate, beautiful, headstrong and brave person he knew. How selfless she was, and how selfish, in that moment, he had been.
"The throne belongs to Francis."
The guard looked at him in surprise and then nodded almost imperceptible, and only now Bash realized he had spoken aloud. For a moment rage built up inside him at the man's insolence, but it was gone as quickly as it had come. The people at court didn't know about the prophecy. They only knew that their king was dancing to a Scot's tune; at night to Kenna's, at day to Mary's.
Bash took a deep breath. The fact that they were comparing Mary to that ambitious, stupid girl… it had to end. The whole madness had to end, and if he had to drag Francis to the altar.
"I can open the door myself. Make sure nobody comes in."

"Francis?"
"Your grace." Though obviously the words were meant to hurt, Bash was stung more by his brother's voice. The last time he had heard him like that was when their little twin sisters had died – he sounded flat, distant. Broken.
"Please, brother." He knelt down next to Francis' chair at the fire. "This is wrong, and you know it. Don't let her go."
"You shouldn't kneel in front of me. It doesn't fit for a king." Francis stood up, avoiding Bash's outstretched arm as well as his eyes. "You've got a lot to learn, you shouldn't waste your time with me."
"Francis." Bash forced his voice to stay calm. "I know you're angry, and you have every right to be, but you can't stay pitying yourself now. You…"
"I should be king of France! It is my destiny, not yours!" Suddenly Francis turned, roaring, and the brothers stood close, two flames, one dark and one fair, blazing with a passion that had nothing to do with the crown.
"I know." Bash touched his forehead to his brother's, and as Francis didn't move away, he added, "you know I didn't want any of this. You are my family and my sovereign and I…"
"You said yes anyway!" The moment of peace was gone, Francis pacing the room restlessly. The fire in his eyes was more than anger now; it was madness born of helplessness, as Bash had seen it often with Catherine.
"I had to, or she would have left! And who knew what would happen to France then, or Scotland!"
Of course, Francis called the bluff. "And you care for the fate of Scotland."
Bash swallowed. "I care for you. And you care for Mary."
"You know what?" Francis turned around, a wry smile on his face. "When I first realized she was in love with me, I felt sorry for you. I wondered how things would have played out if I wasn't the heir to France; I wondered how it would end up if the three of us were just normal people." His smile got brighter and colder at Bash's aghast face. "Well, I guess I know now. You won."
Bash shook his head, trying to ignore the turmoil inside his mind. He couldn't think of Mary now, couldn't think of their kiss, of their comradery,… "She wants to save your life, that's all. And I do, too."
"Spare me your excuses!" Francis' voice was full of pain, and Bash found himself longing to strangle himself, to destroy everything and everyone that hurt his little brother.
Like he had always done.

"Francis." His own voice was broken now, too, and at once, the expression on Francis' face softened. "I know you didn't want to hurt me, Sebastian", his tongue almost stumbled over the infrequently used name, "but you did, and not to save me. You allowed my mother and my fiancée to make their superstitions a matter of state, so you…"
"It's not a supersti…"
"You claim to save my life but you're robbing me of it! You're taking away every chance for me to be happy!" Tears were rolling down Francis' cheeks now but his eyes still were burning, and with deep relief, Bash realized that his brother had not yet given up completely. He would never resign that easy, he would always fight – at the expense of his life if need be. That was what made Catherine and Mary fear for his life.
That was what would make him the best king France could have.

"Do you believe it? Do you believe Nostradamus' prophecy?"
It was a delicate question, and one Bash had asked himself a dozen times since Mary had proposed to him. "I'm not sure", he admitted. "I think you can always fight destiny. On the other hand… he's been right more often than he's been wrong."
"Yet now you seem to want me to become king all the same. What am I to make of this, brother?" Francis spit out the last word. "What do you want, truly? Forget the throne, forget Nostradamus… what do you want?"

This, at last, was an easy question to answer. "I want you to live."
"With Mary?"
Bash closed his eyes. "Yes."
"Liar!"
"She loves you." Even now it hurt to admit. "She'd try to be content with me, knowing that she saved you. But deep inside… she'd always wonder how your life together could have been."
"Do you really think that?"
For a moment, Francis sounded like the naïve boy he'd been five years ago, and Bash bit his lips not to snap at him, and then suddenly his brother's arms were around him, holding him close. "I'm sorry, Bash. I'm so sorry."
Fighting tears, Bash went into the embrace. "It's okay, little brother. Just take back your throne, okay? I'll tell father I can't do it. I bet he knows anyway."
Francis chuckled. "You wouldn't have made that bad a king."
Bash stayed serious as he gently held his brother at arms' length. "Promise me, Francis. Promise me you will not let her go."
"I'm not sure if that's up to me." Francis sighed.
"Then make it so it's up to you."

"You love her." It wasn't a question. "Don't deny it. I knew it even when she was a child. You've always loved her."
Bash looked down. "Yes."
Francis shook his head. "Then why do you want me to take her?"
"Because I love you more." Bash reached for his brother's shoulders. "Because I believe the two of you will have a wonderful life together, the life you deserve. And I promise I will give anything to protect you. I will fight for you, for both of you, until the day I die."
"Bash…" There were new tears in Francis' eyes. It had been an unspoken truth that they loved each other, and that Bash accepted his little brother's reign, but he had never shown just how deep his devotion was.
"Promise me you make her happy."
"I promise."
"Good." Bash forced himself to smile. "Then let's go. There's a throne to regain."

And I promise I will give anything to protect you.
Bash's hands were shaking slightly as he took out the crown and held it high for everyone to see. The crown of the king of France. So much for his promise.
Next to him, Mary stifled another sob, shaking as well. Her skin was pale as death itself against her black clothes. The brightest fire at court – so bright that, for a moment, she had almost engulfed both brothers, had almost turned them against each other – had gone out, it seemed. Ash and tears was what remained now that the golden flame was gone. The king of France.
The grip around the crown tightened as Bash fought against the tears. "I'm sorry, brother." He wasn't denying Francis the honor of being a king, but before being that, before being a husband and a father, he had been his brother. The little brother Bash would have done everything to protect.
But he had failed.

Tell me it was right. Tell me I didn't condemn you that day!
When he placed the crown onto the tomb, Mary cried openly. Bash looked at her, searching for a trace of strength in her eyes, for a spark of joy at the memory of the man they both had loved more than their own life. Tell me it was right.

"I'd give anything to spend my life, however long, at your side."
He didn't know where the words came from suddenly, but they made Mary stop crying. She looked at her husband's brother, and for a moment Bash saw life in her eyes again. It was one of the strongest memories of the past years – the first time that Francis had declared his love officially, against all odds, and with a sincerity nobody could doubt. He had finally fought for his luck, for his love.
Bash closed his eyes and let the tears fall.

Mary turned away, not wanting to destroy the comfort Bash had found.
For her, there was no such relief, and never, never would be.