note: This is my first ever 'fan fiction' story and I apologize in advance if it's a bit wobbly. Please review and tell me what you think as I intend to upload further chapters.

A few things that are different than in the show:

- Diana des Portiers died before Henry married Cathrine

- Kenna never had an affair with the king

- Leith is not a kitchen boy, but a low noble lord

disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters or story lines from the CW show 'Reign'. There are no copyright infringements intended.

1.

The carriage came to a still abruptly, and the impact ungently ripped Mary from her dreams. The image of his face was fleeing from her mind and her ears were still ringing with the words he had so hopefully said at their last encounter.

‚Wait for me, Mary!' the hope ringing in his words only furthered the guilt in her heart. She had promised him to wait, to stay at his side and her betrays disgusted her. He wouldn't understand why she had ran from his offered arms and there was no explanation she could give, to satisfy his questions. Worst of all, she knew that he deserved to know why she had left him. She bit down on her lip, feeling her head pounding with the weight of her situation.

There was nothing she would rather do than run into his arms and forget that the prophecy had ever been spoken. The cursed words, for telling his certain death if they were to marry. She would be the one to cause it, left childless and alone and blamed for his passing. The thought made her breath shake and she tried to push the ghastly images from her mind without much success. She would have to find a solution, maybe there was another way. She could ask Nostradamus himself, force him to help her; after all he was the one who had put her in this position.

She shook her head in an effort to clear her head keeping a cool mind. Her initial pan - running back to Scotland to find another alliance for her country - had failed and now she would have to figure out another way to make things right, to save him. She had never planed on returning to French court. The thought of having to face him again, to see the hurt in his eyes and to know that she was the cause, it frightened her. It had been cowardly of her to simply run without offering him so much as the glimpse of an explanation, but she had seen no other way. And still, she was completely ignorant as how to proceed next.

And then there was Bash to consider. The king would be furious with them both, though Henry wouldn't dare touch Mary. She was an independent queen herself. But Bash was a French subject, the king's bastard son and only allowed at court by his fathers good graces - which would surely be gone now. She had promised to keep him save, to protect him from his father, from Cathrin and - as much as it pained her to entertain the idea - from his own brother, the one who's life she sought to protect most of all.

One of the guards helped her from the carriage. The usual trumpets announcing a royal arrival that normally accompanied her stayed silent. No doubt in order to keep up the illusion that she had never left in the first place. The king would hate to admit that the Scottish queen, a mere girl and his claim to the English throne, had slipped through his fingers.

She was ushered into a side entrance, surely to keep the gossip at bay, and was told that the king was expecting her in the throne room. She hadn't seen Bash since the guards had taken him into their custody at the tavern they had been hiding at. He must have already been brought to the dungeons, chained to wall. She prayed they hadn't tortured him yet, maybe she could convince the king and spare him that fate. She hated the thought of Bash having to endure pain for her benefit, for going along with her plan, though reckless it might have been.

She hurried along the corridors leading to the throne room, garnering looks of bewilderment and surprise from nobles and servants alike. Just now remembering how she must look, not at all decent or presentable in the least. Her hair was disheveled, kept in a long and messy braid with pieces of her dark chocolate locks pocking out. The dress she had hastily secured around her waist was wrinkled and muddy from the days of riding and nights spent on filthy beds. Also she hadn't taken a bath in days and her usual lotions and oils, which kept her body smooth and her skin soft to the touch, were a luxury that her escape on horseback hadn't offered. She tried her best to rearrange her messy hair, tucking some of the loose strands back into the braid and smoothing over the front of her dress in an hopeless effort to look more like the strong independent queen she longed to be, not the scared and trapped girl she felt inside.

Getting closer to the throne room, she could sense her heartbeat rise and her breath grew shorter and more hitched. Her feet were aching from all the walking and riding and she couldn't bring her mind to focus on the task ahead. She must keep a clear head, calm the king's anger and make him understand. She felt sick, the king scared her and after all, she was just a young girl, a queen only by name. She had never had to rule or make any hard decisions regarding her life as a queen and the country that was hers by blood before this day. That was the job of her advisers, her mother, ruling in Scotland in her stead. She was the king's equal merely on paper, and she hadn't the faintest idea how to make her pleas before him heard, let alone garner his and the other courtiers' respect.

Before turning the last corner, she halted in an empty hallway to collect her thoughts. Her mind was racing and her stomach seemed to be wound in an impossibly tight knot. She was thankful for not spewing out the contents of her stomach right then and there.

It was then that she heard them, footsteps approaching her from behind. They must belong a man's boots by the sound of them. She knew, even before she could turn to face the approacher, even before she felt his breath on the bare skin of her neck or before her nose could detect the smell that was so distinctly his. She knew and in the same breath could feel her heart drop inside the thighs cage of her chest.

„Mary", his voice was hoarse.

The sound clawed at her heart. But there was a certain strength and brevity to his words, an underlying coldness that made her shiver.

She slowly turned to face him, all the while careful to keeping her eyes directed at the embellished tiles on the floor beneath her. She couldn't dare meet his gaze and be confronted with his accusing eyes. The thought alone already hurt too much. He was her weak spot, the missing piece in her armor. But she must stay strong, for she couldn't allow herself to waver now. After all, she tried to remind herself, she was doing this for him, so that he would live. She tightened her demeanor put on a mask of indifference, praying he wouldn't be able to detect the hurt and grief in her voice as she spoke.

„Francis" her voice sounded surprisingly calm.

„You came back …" she could simultaneously hear the hope and incredulousness in his words.

„Yes" she answered, fiddling with the leather strap, wound around her torso, to keep her fingers from shaking. „On Bash's behalf." she added quickly and her racing heart betrayed her her cool exterior.

„Why are you doing this Mary? We were happy and you left without any explanation, running off with my brother? You swore you'd wait for me!", he spat the last words at her and the anger in his voice was contorting his features.

With her eyes intently directed towards the floor she could still make out the change in his posture. When before his shoulder were slumped and his stance slightly crooked, resembling that of a broken man, he was now straightening himself out, allowing the dauphin take the place of the hurt boy. She could feel his glare, mercilessly tucking at her cold and unwavering facade of indifference.

His eyes bore into her and she couldn't bare it any longer but the fear of tell him why she really left gripped her heart like an iron fist. Cathrin was right, he would try to talk her out of it, and he would be successful, swaying her with logic and positioning her heart with dreams of a sweeter future. She couldn't allow it. She had to put as much distance between them as the confines of the castle would allow it. If she let him get close, he would see through her lies in a second. He knew her too well, and she wouldn't be able to hide the pain in her own eyes.

So she turned, meaning to flee along the corridor into the throne room. She felt his hand grabbing her by her right arm, keeping her in place. His touch, which was normally so familiar to her body, felt different. His grasp was hard, unwavering, and even though she had her long sleeve dress as a protective layer between them, she couldn't help but shiver at his touch.

He forced her to turn and her body complied following his unspoken command. His other arm reached for her chin, barely touching her skin for she flinched away, forcing her gaze to meet his. Her whole body froze in place and she could already feel herself drowning in those all too familiar eyes. Two orbs the colour of ice glaring at her brown ones mercilessly and it threatened to overwhelm her. The look of anger at her dishonesty and betrayal in his eyes made her heart quiver. She knew she had hurt him and she knew she would have to hurt him even more, if his life was to be saved. Her throat tightened and she felt her breaths become more urgent as her facade finally crumbled and her mask fell from her face. A single tear escaped onto her cheek, which she hastily sought to wipe away with her free hand, only now realizing her arm was trembling.

He tightened his grip on her arm, leaning his torso into hers, „Mary, talk to me, please!"

There was pleading in his words and she could see the ice in his eyes melt and turn into two pools of blue water. He might have wanted to seem cold and abrasive, she realized, but he too couldn't keep up the charade.

„I can't Francis, I can't. … I …" her voice faltered and she wasn't entirely sure what she had wanted to say in the first place.

What could she say, what in god's name could she tell him to convince him to leave her be? His presence was overwhelming and as much as she willed herself to stay strong and cold towards him, her own body betrayed her. Her skin was craving his touch that made her come alive in his hands, her ears longed for the steady rhythm of his heart beating against hers and her mouth lusted to taste his.

This was all to save his life, she forced herself to remember. Her eyes suddenly swam with images of Francis cold to her touch, dead in her arms. She felt the uncomfortable pounding sensation in her head and her thoughts were messily twirling through her mind. She couldn't get lost in the memories of what they used to have or the dreams of a sweeter future together that would result in his certain demise. She needed to stay strong for the both of them. She would not allow herself be the cause of his death, never.

She ripped her arm from his grasp with all the strength she could muster, using the moment of surprise to her advantage. She hastily hurried away form him and nearly tripped over the seam of her own dress in the process. Behind her, she could hear him call out her name, time after time, begging for her to answer him. She tried to ignore the blatant tone of hurt in his slightly raspy voice and with all her might focused on the corridor before her. Thankfully his calls grew more muted with every step, and she silently thanked god he wasn't chasing after her, as his longer legs could have easily caught up with her.

A frightening sense of relieve washed over her when she finally reached the throne room, gladly facing Henry's wrath if it meant escaping Francis' pleading eyes.