A Little More Time
"Little do you know I need a little more time."
"I'll wait, I'll wait.
I'll love you like you've never felt the pain.
I'll wait.
I promise you don't have to be afraid."
There was a resounding silence in the room for a long moment, and then Francis turned and left, leaving Mary staring after him as he had struck her.
Once out in the corridor he stopped and leaned against the wall, rubbing at his temples furiously. His head was aching with the stress of it all.
Without you, my heart is closed. As tight as a fist.
He had said the words in the heat of the moment, but they still rang with absolute truth. There would never, could never, be anyone else for Francis but Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots.
Even now.
Oh, he had seen the looks that passed between his wife and his cousin. Francis was no fool. He hadn't confronted her about it, not yet. He loved her, and he couldn't stand to be the cause of any more pain. Especially when he was still yet clinging to the hope that he was wrong.
How he prayed he was wrong.
"God, Mary," he muttered to himself, his hands finally dropping from his head as he finally moved to go back to his study.
She spoke of the future, of her heart, of time. He had so relied on time to bring her back to him, but it had brought her heart no closer to his. Francis knew now what it was like to miss someone when they stood in the same room.
He missed Mary.
He missed the exasperated eye roll when his mother was speaking.
The amused glances at the expense of nobles or foreign dignitaries.
He yearned for her smile, for her touch, the feel of her in his arms, in his bed.
Time.
Perhaps she just needed still more time.
And that was what Francis would have to believe, if he wanted to keep himself together and his heart from breaking.
He could give her that much. He could love her from a distance.
He had no other choice.
But until then, he would miss her like hell.