Author's Note: I do not own Reign (nor, in fact, do I really want to rewrite history, but the storyline and pretty clothes have me hooked, what can I say?). I do not actually intend to keep writing Mash fiction (although I love them as a couple), but the way he held her was so beautiful, it plagued me and how here is five pages of resulting drivel. Enjoy.
He was roaming the castle, a frequent occurrence for him these days in an attempt to clear his mind. He'd been attempting to study foreign diplomacy, but Mary's confession of her open heart, followed the first kiss she'd given him since their engagement plagued his mind till he was nearly feverish. He was fairly certain that her presence in his mind had only increased without the distraction of his studies, but it felt good to be moving about nonetheless.
When, at a distance, he saw Catherine's guards, sans their royal charge, posted outside the royal baths, he hadn't immediately been alarmed. Although Mary had mentioned to him that she wanted to wash the day's event away earlier, the thought that the royal guard would actually allow Catherine to be alone with any of the French nobility, let alone Mary, Queen of Scots, was unthinkable, and so he did not consider it.
He would consider himself to be a fool for that lack of thought for months afterwards.
It seemed to happen slowly, in stages as he made his way down the long hall. At first, there was the faint sound of metal falling on the marble and one guard was only knocking insistently at the door. Then his voice raised, and was joined by the voices of his companions. Bash quickened his pace, and heard a woman's shrieks from within as the guards began to attempt to kick in the door. The door gave before he reached them, and a wave of sickly sweet steam poured from it that he smelt from several yards away. The guards entered, but froze just inside the doorway.
"Don't touch anything! It could be poisoned!" He barely caught the guard's caution before he pushed past them and took in the scene:
Catherine, arrayed in all her finery, was sprawled across the stone floor, gasping wretchedly, a dagger near her hand. But his eyes are only for Mary, his ears filled with the sounds of her fighting for life. He can barely say her name, he's so choked with horror. Before he knew what he was doing, before he could consider propriety or honor, he'd crossed the room, grabbing one of the large towels on the way, and was lifting her from the sizzling bathwater.
The thought crossed his mind, like a wayward butterfly in the midst of a hurricane, that this was the first time he'd seen her naked and that she was glorious, but it was obliterated by his fear. He set her on her feet, and wrapped her in the towel like a child.
"Catherine tried to kill me."
Her words are full of terror, and a dark fury blooms in his belly. He clutches her to his chest, taking reassurance from her slender, but solid and warm body beneath his hands. He spits out orders in a dangerously dark voice that rings with power, feeling for the first time like a king worthy of her, because he has the power to lock people like Catherine up in chains.
The vile woman lashed out, shrieking to Mary that she should have left when she had the chance, that he has secrets, that he will be her ruin. His stomach drops, because he knows that this is the truest thing that Catherine de Medici has ever uttered. But, when Mary, naked, shivering, and half-drowned, stiffens in his arms and snaps back a retort about how she knows him, how they are perfect because together they have killed Catherine, his heart swells and he presses his cheek to her forehead, cradling her head with his hand. As soon as Catherine has been dragged from the room, Mary falls back against his chest, limp, allowing herself to be weak in his arms.
He would have died for her the day he met her. Would have killed for her a hundred times over, had actually killed for her and would do it again. But now...Now, he wished he could open up his body to wrap around her, pull her inside his skin to protect her from all harm. Her near-death has made her more precious, more his than ever before.
She is sobbing into his neck, murmuring something about a girl with a scarred face and Catherine's daughter and being saved in the nick of time. He holds her tightly so that she will not have to support her slight body weight. He doesn't really pay attention to the words she saying, too engrossed in the fact that she is alive and in his arms and he will never let anyone harm her ever again. After a minute of this, she quiets and regains some composure. He loosens his grip on her enough that she can stand on her own feet if she wishes it.
"My robe," she murmurs into his chest. He spies it draped over a nearby chair and angles his body so that he can grab it without letting her go. He tries to wrap it around her shoulders, over the towel, but can't manage it while he's holding her so tightly. She gives him a faint smile and, ever so slowly, detangles herself from his arms. He immediately averts his eyes when she drops the towel, but she doesn't comment on this. A minute later, she touches his arm and when he looks at her, he has to restrain himself from sweeping her into his arms and carrying her as far away as his legs with take them.
She is so pale though, and still trembling so hard that her teeth chatter. It occurs to him that her body may have absorbed too much of the poison already, and he panics. She takes a step towards him, and falters, grabbing the edge of the tub to keep her upright. Ignoring her protests, he takes her into his arms, holding her with the same infinite tenderness that he had used to handle Isobel's baby, and carries her to her chambers.
The chambermaids scatter like a flock of birds when he bursts through the door, their lady wan and limp in his arms. As they recover from their shock and begin to curtsy, he shouts orders:
"Get me the physician. No, get me Nostradamus. No! Get me both. And get someone to wake my father, he needs to know about this. Now!" They scurry to do his bidding. "You! Get her something to wear, something warm. And you, fetch her ladies, quickly! And someone see to it that the guard on this door is doubled!"
The room is a flurry of action, and he picks his way through it, carefully making his way towards a chaise lounge near the wardrobe. As they approach it, he prepares himself to surrender her, even though every instinct fights him. She seems to have recovered herself a bit, and when he sets her down, she sits ram-rod straight.
"No, not that one," she says to the maid approaching her with a rosy pink gown in her hands. "The King is coming. The blue and white, with the lace instead."
He doesn't have time to ponder the strange request, for her ladies a pouring through the open door. They are surrounded in seconds, their cries of concern and gentle hands taking his place. He lets them sweep her away, turning away again as Greer helps her into her nightgown. Kenna makes quick work of finger-combing and braiding her wet locks, crooning in Gaelic the whole time. While Lola turns down the bed, Greer helps Mary to her feet, the folds of her nightgown cascading to the floor. He can see now why she'd ordered for the blue and white gown. It accentuates her pallor, and her dark eyes and hair are stark in comparison. It's low cut too, showing not only the curve of her breasts, but also the hollows of her collarbone and the bones of her sternum. She looks lovely, but fragile. It makes her look pitiable, and in order to kill Catherine, she needs to garner as much pity as she can from the king. When they are done, they tuck Mary into the bed, propping her up on pillows. Only when she is settled does Lola beckon him back to Mary's side.
He is there in an instant, sitting near her head, and she chooses to prop herself up on him rather than the pillows Lola has so carefully arranged. While he pulls her close and strokes her hair, her shoulder, her the nape of her neck, the girls disperse themselves around the bed, planting themselves like flowers, when, in reality, they are her guardians, her talismans against evil. He feels privileged to be counted among them.
She has collected herself in the presence of her ladies, and he is awed by her self-possession. Awed, and gratified to know that with him, she let herself be vulnerable, trusting him to take care of her. She angles her head to meet his gaze and holds it. He wills himself to be strong, channels every ounce of his strength, his love for her, into his eyes.
The court physician arrives, followed shortly by his father, and then Nostradamus, who is yet under guard. Henry turns white, then red when he sees Mary, and mutters something about the seventh circle of Hell beneath his breath. While she is examined, Bash and the King go to the royal baths, where Bash shows him the dagger on the floor, the bathwater that has turned an acidic shade of green, a small gilded box in visible in the water.
After Nostradamus sees the bathwater, smells the traces of sweetness in the air, he declares that he does not know the origin of the poison, but that he thinks it lethality lies in the vapors it creates, not the bathwater itself. He believes that Mary will suffer no permanent harm from being immersed in the poisoned water. The court physician supports this diagnosis, adding that Mary seems to have not suffered from nearly drowning either. Her fingers and toes are of a good color, and she has ceased coughing up water. He prescribes warm wine and sleep, though Nostradamus suggests that washing the poisoned water's residue from her skin.
Once she is declared to be healthy, Henry takes his leave, promising that he will want the whole story in the morning. Nostradamus and the physician take their leave also, while Greer and Kenna personally oversee the filling of a new bath, this time in a much smaller tub that has been moved into the chamber. When the bath is prepared, her ladies are very firm in their insistence that he take his leave. When he looks to her for her approval, she nods, but squeezes his hand, conveying so much by wrapping her pale, icy fingers around his that she might as well have been squeezing his heart. Lola kindly suggests that he take his own bath, and then firmly leads him from the room.
He orders the guard on the doors be tripled, and waits until the reinforcements arrive. With instructions for no one, absolutely no one to enter the room, he forces himself to leave. He returns to his chambers, and half-takes Lola's advice, by dunking his head in a bowl of water, toweling off, and changing his clothes. He looks towards his bed, but knows that he will not sleep this night, and goes back to sit watch outside of her chambers.
Over an hour later, Lola leaves the room, sees him sitting at the threshold and smiles softly, shaking her head. When she returns with wine from the kitchens, she has brought him a tankard of it as well. He takes it gratefully, and sullenly watches her disappear into the chambers again.
Another half an hour passes, and Lola is back: "She's asking for you."
He is on his feet and in the room before Lola can say whether or not she approves. She lays on a divan next to the fireplace, which is ablaze, a blanket over her legs and a shawl about her shoulders. When she sees him, she smiles, and extends both hands to him. When he takes them, he notes with satisfaction that they are not trembling, nor are they as icy as they were when he left her. He kneels next to her, can't help but kiss her knuckles, and then her forehead.
"How are you feeling? Is there anything I can get you? Another blanket? More wine? Water? Anything?"
"Sit with me?" she asks, moving her feet so that he can. Once he is settled, she dismisses her ladies and the servants. He prepares himself to be admonished, for not taking proper care when he'd realized it was her in the bath, for his brazen rescue that could have ruined her honor in the eyes of the French court.
When she says, "Clarissa is Catherine's daughter," he has to backtrack a bit. She is leaning towards him, her eyes bright. For a moment he wonders if a fever has set in, if he ought to call for the physician again, but there is a clarity in her expression that puts him at ease in regards to her physical health.
"What?" He resists the urge to take her oh-so-earnest face in his hands, to hush her and stroke her hair until she falls asleep.
"I was dying, Bash. The poison was in my blood, I couldn't feel my arms or legs. I'd inhaled water. A few moments more and Nostradamus says my mind would have been permanently damaged." He feels all the blood drain from his face as she speaks, seeing her death in his mind's eye. "I knew I was dying, and right as I gave up hope, I saw a face above the bath. And then I was pulled from the water. Now, I'm not sure, because I was rather focused on trying to breath at the time, but I heard my rescuer call Catherine 'mother,' plead with her to get up." She leans forward, clutches his hand. "And Catherine said she was supposed to be dead. And in light of Agnes' revelation...Catherine's dead baby must be Clarissa. It's the only thing that makes sense."
"So, what does this mean? What can we do?"
"I am afraid of what Clarissa's next move may be. She has access to the entire castle. She knows everyone's secrets. I don't know where her loyalties lie, or if they have shifted now that she knows that Catherine is her mother. We have to be careful. She could be capable of anything."
She looks so solemn, so weary, and the threat of almost losing her is so fresh, that he cannot bear it any longer. He pulls her into his arms, pressing his lips into her hair as he holds her like the lifeline she is.
"Then we shall be very careful indeed."
~*~Fin~*~