When A King and Queen Are Crowned
When the throne room echoes with the chorus of "Long Live the King", King Consort of Scotland and the King of France, Francis de Valois, doesn't look at anyone. Not his mother, not his bastard brother, not the mother of his child, nor his Queen. Banners of FM are where HD used to hang, signifying Mary's and Francis' love, alternating with the fleur-de-lis. But Francis doesn't look at them at all; his country, and his crowning moment of glory as a King was above his family, always. He looks out of the window beyond the throne room, where his people are, now fed and satisfied, toasting to his name.
The carpet underneath him is red, borders of golden lace adorning it. There's a spot, imaginary now but still very real in Francis' mind, on another carpet, reserved for less glorious occasions. It reminds him of his first punishment at the hands of his father. Francis catches a glimpse of that very spot.
Palms are sweaty, legs wobbly, fingers trembling. Sceptre slipping, like the reigns of his rule. No one could think that a king being coronated would have worries like tripping over his cape. At this moment, anything can befall him, even an earthquake. Such effort to stay composed, to not move. There must be over a hundred people in the room, every single one perhaps questioning everything: his youth, his legitimacy, his rule, his authority. He's been raised as the future king of France and he can't recall all that he's learnt.
Mary moves, and he looks away, just a bit. He knows himself, he lives with his mistakes, he's no King, is he?
Concentrate. Being a king is a performance, he's heard. It's God's will, isn't it?
When the crown finally rests on his head, Mary's life with Francis flies by eyes in flashback. Oh, how he's fought for this. He deserves this moment, he does. He deserves to be the King finally. After all that he's been through. After having his birthright almost snatched from him by a bastard-born ("Oh, the humiliation," Catherine would say sometimes). After Henry's death. After proving that he deserves to rule his land and keep his people fed. True, Mary proved it, but on the King's behalf, of course.
Mary has no qualms about her coronation: she was not even a year old when she was crowned the Queen of Scotland, and was said to be a darling about it. She certainly couldn't mess things up now, except her gown perhaps.
Francis looks at her after a long time, and she fails to see that he isn't the man who thought this a coronation for a queen as well. He is entirely too consumed by himself, in himself, concentration perspiring as beads of sweat.
Mary is only proud. Of Francis. Happy. For Francis. Looking. At Francis. He has his head straight. He looks at none. Answers to none.
They are exactly what they look like. King.
And Queen too, of course.