A Tragic Love Story
If it wasn't so worth it, this wouldn't be - oh, this wouldn't be -
The bad before the worse,
and the storm before the storm
and I haven't even reached the bottom of this ocean floor.
Theirs was a tragic love story.
From the beginning with a prophecy Nostradamus whispered into Catherine de Medici's ear, it was destined to be so. All that they had was a false hope and belief that Francis would survive it, along with his conviction that the prophecy was rubbish. He had never believed in things such as magic and prophecies, and it would be his downfall in the end.
All images of his death are tied to your union. You will be blamed for the death of the queen's firstborn. You will blame yourself most of all. I see Francis, barely older than he is now, cold to your touch. You are wed, but childless, he had told her.
Mary herself sometimes had doubts, even after she returned and married him. Nostradamus had said that her husband's fate had changed, but he had seemed so very convinced of it before. Sometimes she worried that he had been blackmailed and forced to lie about it, even by Catherine - but then she remembered that Catherine had been willing to slit her wrists and die to convince Mary that there was nothing to gain for her, and she shook that off. She was happy, now, with Francis, she told herself. He was infuriating sometimes with his need to be right in everything and his overprotectiveness, but he was hers, and she loved him.
It's you, it's always been you, she sobbed as she hugged Francis before their wedding, and she meant it.
Then she was raped, partially as a result of his poor decisions, and while she knew it was irrational, she blamed him for it. She didn't want to. She still held so much love for him in her heart but it terrified her to be near him, to even hear the sound of his breathing, and so she buried that love and committed herself to finding something that would make her happy and heal her heart. She found Louis, and when she touched him, she wasn't afraid. So she clung to him and held on, just trying to keep her head above the waves that threatened to crash down over her and drown her.
And then Francis became sick. The memory of the prophecy returned as she stood outside in the snow with Lola and she couldn't keep the fear from her voice as she spoke. Are they worried he has some kind of brain fever? She loved him, she remembered that now, and she had pushed him away so hard, but she couldn't lose him completely - not this day. Once she had tried to push him away for his own happiness, and now for hers, but she wanted to come back to him and apologize, she just didn't know how, and now she was going to lose the chance to do so. So she sat on his bed, the bed where they had once made love, and she cried and held his hand.
I remember when I couldn't be this close to you, she said, or even hear the sound of your breath. I cling to that sound now. I don't want it to end.
Francis woke up then, and she was brutally reminded that they were not in a good place. He was angry, and Mary knew that he had every right to be. For the first time since her assault, he was fighting her back rather than just taking it, and not knowing what else to do or how to move forward, she fought him back. She was slipping rapidly, teetering on the edge of self-destruction, and now she was going to lose Conde too. The thought of destroying his life along with her own hurt her and took her breath away, and so she clung to him and sought a way to save him in desperation.
He took advantage of you when you were at your most vulnerable. He knew the horrors that you had endured, and saw an opportunity. He stole my wife!
The affair isn't Conde's fault! she exclaimed. It's mine. I turned to him so many times. I turned to him because I couldn't turn to you. Because the thought of coming back to this room again - where those men assaulted me...because the love...in your eyes made it feel like I was drowning, and I couldn't do that, I had to survive.
Conde was a traitor, and he was lost to her. She knew that she couldn't save him now but fought in vain to do so, and in the end, she stabbed him in the gut and allowed him to be tossed into the dungeon. Because she truly cared for him, but she cared for Francis more, and no longer would she risk her crown, her husband's crown, and Francis himself for someone that refused to be saved.
Because I love you, Francis. I always have. Always, she said, and once again she meant it.
She came back to him and opened her heart once more. They found their way back to each other as lovers would, and he didn't make things strained. In fact, he seemed hellbent on making every moment a fun one, rather than focusing on politics and the duties of the Crown. He was dying, as she would come to find out, and it would be just as Nostradamus had predicted so long ago.
She had wasted so much precious time with Conde, and she was going to lose Francis just when she had gotten him back.
He died lying in her arms, her fingers on her face, and sobbing, Mary left the bed and turned to Bash. He had brought Delphine, and Mary begged her to bring Francis back. The seer was unsure at first, but Mary pushed her toward the bed. Bring him back, please! If the price for his life is mine, I will give it, just bring him back.
And he was revived, and all was right again. They were both delirious with happiness, secure in the certainty that many long, golden years of their reign and their marriage stretched out before him.
You are my most precious possession. Our marriage - our life together. Francis, I never want to leave you. You are my home.
But toying with fate, as they would come to learn, was pointless. He died saving her life from assassins, lying beneath her and pleading with her to take care of his family, and Mary learned then and there that Nostradamus had been right. She did blame herself most of all. It was her fault, he had died saving her, and as she would later tell Catherine - if she could do it all again, she would give absolutely anything that he may live.
In that moment she could do nothing but lie there and sob helplessly against him, running her fingers again and again through his curls. She would never love anyone the way she had loved him. He was her one great love, and she would never find anything like that again.
It had always been him.