It starts with her dancing barefoot in a rain of feathers, beautiful and uninhibited. It starts with their eyes locking across a crowded room, the crowd fading out, his world narrowing down to just the two of them. It starts with him thinking he could stay in that moment forever, that he could spend an eternity drowning in the depths of her eyes.
Or maybe it starts the first time he ever sees her, young and wild, with leaves tangled in her dark hair and her eyes bright with laughter. Maybe it starts with a little boy who doesn't understand words like bastard and queen and how the two don't intersect, who doesn't understand why he can't play with the child queen, who watches her go off with his brother. Maybe it starts then.
He can never have her. He knows that. Repeats it to himself every night as he stares up at his ceiling and sees only her face. Closes his eyes and sees her smile.
He can never have her.
He can never have her.
He knows that.
They run away together. And there's something kind of beautiful in the way she takes his hand, her palm pressing against his, despite the men chasing them and the shadow of Francis's cries still on Mary's face. And for the first time he allows himself to hope.
He keeps expecting her to disappear. He feels like he'll turn away and when he looks back, she'll be gone. But she stays. And stays. And stays. She's the last thing he sees at night and the first thing he sees when he wakes up. And if some mornings they wake with their limbs entangled and his arm thrown over her waist, neither of them mentions it.
He never wants to go back.
He comes back to court in chains. And maybe this was the way it was always going to be. He reached too high in loving her. And this, these chains on his wrists, is his way of paying for it. And he thinks he's probably going to die, but he remembers Mary's smile and the way her hand felt in his and the taste of her lips, and it's almost worth it.
He sleeps restlessly, his mind consumed with crowns and dark hair and smiling eyes and he never wanted this. Never reached for his brother's throne. All he wanted was her. All he's ever wanted is her. King, a voice whispers in his brain, you're going to be king. And he doesn't know whether to be elated or terrified. All he knows is the only place he feels calm is at Mary's side and he'll do anything to stay there.
He sits in his brother's seat at the table, stands in his place to welcome guests, does everything that is expected of Francis. He feels sometimes he'll look in the mirror and see blonde hair sprouting from his head. I'm not him, he wants to shout, I'm not him.
"You don't have to be him," she whispers against his lips.
He doesn't say anything, just pulls her closer, opens her mouth with his, feels her sigh into him. But still, he wonders.
"Marry me," she says and his heart stops. He never could refuse her anything.
"Don't count on sleeping tonight wife," he whispers on their wedding day.
Her answering smile takes his breath away. She's going to be my wife, he thinks, just the thought of it bringing a smile to his lips, she's going to be my wife.
He thinks he's never seen anything as beautiful as Mary as she approaches the church. She's adorned in only a simple servant's gown, her hair loose and free, but there's something so regal about her it almost hurts to look at her. The cold adds brightness to her cheeks and eyes and the nervous smile she gives him melts something at his core.
"Are you ready?" he asks, tucking a dark curl behind her ear.
"Are you?" she asks. A challenge.
"I've never been more ready for anything in my life," he replies, his hand still cupping her cheek, and it's true.
He kisses her and thinks I'm yours. So totally and completely yours.
He wakes up wrapped around her, their limbs so entangled he can't tell where she ends and he begins. He buries his head in her neck, breathes in the scent of her hair, and tries to decide how he could be this lucky.
"I love you," he whispers into her neck.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
"I'm fat," she complains with a sigh as they walk down to dinner one night.
"You're not. You're beautiful."
She looks at him askant and he laughs, wrapping his arms around her middle, his fingers spread out across her pregnant belly, and kissing her cheek.
"I like it," he whispers.
She pushes him off with a laugh, "You like everything."
"I like everything with you," he replies and pulls her to him, kissing her deeper than he probably should in the middle of the melts into him, her mouth soft against his. When Mary pulls away, they are both breathless.
"I like everything with you, too," she whispers. A confession.
Francis returns. Bash thinks that it should be a big deal, but it's not really. He takes in the sight of Mary, radiant and very pregnant, and Bash sees something tighten in his eyes, but he congratulates the two of them in a polite if not entirely genuine manner. He leaves within a fortnight.
"Bash," she says her voice breaking the silence of the still night.
He turns to find her staring at him, biting her bottom lip. His eyes follow the trail the moonlight leaves across her face, gliding down her brow bone, the slope of her nose, her bottom lip, the tip of her chin. He doesn't think he'll ever get over how beautiful she is.
"Yes," he replies.
"I love you."
It starts with a prophecy and backstabbing and fear, but it ends with love. That's what's important. It ends with love.