Disclaimer: I still own nothing.

Pairing: Mary/Bash, (mentions of Francis/Mary and Olivia/Mary)

Summary: They were cursed from the beginning.

Author's Note: You are all so wonderful and supportive. You all sincerely brought me to tears with your reviews and amazing feedback on The scent that lingers. I was terrified (and for the record, I still am!) posting a fic to this fandom, and I've toyed and toyed and changed and changed this fic until I finally decided to post it, but my God, you guys literally took my breath away and made me so happy! You're support means the world to me and seriously, can we please have a very very loud applause for all the amazing writers and people in this fandom. I'm just starting to get to know some of you and you're all so amazing and wonderful…and yeah…I'm gushing. I'm just so happy that you guys welcomed me into this wonderful fandom and I hope you guys enjoy my little offering.

Any mistakes are mine and mine alone. As always, reviews are very much appreciated. There are a couple curse words (bloody and damn and piss) so I just want to put that out there, in case curse words make you uncomfortable. Thank you all so so much and I hope you enjoy!

The souls that balance joy and pain

One-shot

She look'd so lovely, as she sway'd

The rein with dainty finger-tips,

A man had given all other bliss,

And all his worldly worth for this,

To waste his whole heart in one kiss

Upon her perfect lips.

Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere – Lord Alfred Tennyson

"I'm the king of the castle!" He exclaims, jumping on the bed. His blonde hair frames his face like the golden crown he will one day wear and Mary finds her breath being taken from her body, ripped from her very essence, because even at this young of an age, she knows that this boy (soon to be man, inevitable king) will be her husband one day.

Mary giggles, as she stumbles to her feet and jumps next to him excitedly, "and I'm the queen!" It's not a lie; it's not a fanciful wish. It's the truth (and even at this young of an age, she knows the hardships that are in front of her, hears it in the whispers from her Uncle, telling her, warning her to be careful, trust no one but yourself.)

From birth, she's been taught how to sit, how to eat, how to talk, how to dress, how to act like a queen. She finds it unfair that she's never asked what she wants to be taught. She wants to ride on a horse, freely, her hair whipping behind her with the wind. She wants to learn archery. She wants to walk in the mud barefoot, feeling the moisture and dirt between her toes. She wants to swim in the lake with nothing on under the moonlight. (Mary wants a lot of things, and all of them point to a freedom that will never truly be hers.)

She jumps and mid-air she spins, landing on her knees and she laughs loudly, exhilarated and she gets back up and does it again, relishing in the way she is suspended in the air for a moment. She feels something in her veins, she feels her heart pumping loudly in her chest as she raises her arms and grasps nothing but air.

"Well, I'm going to rule more than you." Francis answers, in between bouts of breathlessness.

Mary doesn't answer and she wonders if he realizes his mistake (he may be the future king of France, but Mary is the future queen of Scotland and France.) She gasps loudly at the feathers that suddenly start to fall and she laughs gleefully, her face aching from her joy. She stops jumping and catches one, two, three feathers in her hands and turns to show Francis, only to frown as she watches him jump from the bed and walk out the door. "Francis?" She calls out, "Francis?" She gets nothing in response, but she hears vague little female giggles and a familiar laugh. (Molly thinks this should have been her first warning, but she always did believe that true hearts would win in the end…she learns the hard way, that no hearts win in the end.)

She plops down on the feather-covered bed and sighs. The duvet feels soft underneath her hands and the room is suddenly still, void of anything, long gone the laughter and exhilaration that filled it those few moments ago.

"Your Grace looks sad." A low voice remarks.

Mary's head snaps up and she sees Sebastian ("just Bash, your Grace"), he's tall for his age, his black hair unruly and his cheeks flushed from the cold. He smells like trees; he smells like grass, but most of all, he smells like freedom. She's never talked to him before, always in the company of her Uncle or Francis when in front of him. She's always found him interesting though, the bastard son…the favored son.

He reaches out and grabs a stray feather floating in the air and places it on the tableside, gently, almost reverently. "And where is Francis? Your Grace should not be left alone."

She shrugs, looking at him wearily, "he left." (It's something she'll say to him many times in the future, sometimes in angry, sometimes in confusion, sometimes in tears, most of the times in frustration, but there will be one time in the future when she whispers it, a hair's breadth between their lips and she will damn them both.)

"Then I will stand guard to the future queen to ensure no harm comes."

She gives him a toothy smile that he hesitantly returns. "Are you my King Arthur?"

Bash laughs and Mary frowns, it's slightly bitter with a hint of sadness and maybe even resentment. "No, your Grace. I'm afraid that out of all the knights, I'm doomed to forever be Sir Lancelot."

Mary doesn't say anything, instead she plays with the feathers, watching as they stream through her fingertips, until her uncle comes to a skidding halt, grabbing her by the forearm and hauling her out of the room. (The next day, she's sent to the convent, for your safety, her uncle tells her.)

Before she leaves, she turns her head around and sees Francis and behind Francis, she sees Bash looking at her, staring at her as if begging her to stay. Just stay. She doesn't.

Her hands are shaking, body trembling, head raised as she quietly leaves the door and stumbles into the wall. She presses a hand to her mouth, tears stinging and blurring her vision as she struggles to breathe. She turns around and ignores the looks of maids and servants as they stare openly at the future queen, walking and crying.

She takes deep gulps of fresh air when she reaches outside, relishing in the cold sting as it burns its way through her lungs. She walks determinedly, destination unknown (but always there, in the back of her mind, she wants to go home. She wants to be in Scotland, with people she knows, with her mother, she wants the familiarity of her own country) but what she does know is that she wants to put as much distance between her, Francis and Olivia as possible.

Stupid, she thinks wildly, so stupid. She feels tears of humiliation come steadily as her vision starts to disappear behind shedding tears.

She vaguely hears her name being called and she ignores it, striding forward. It isn't until she hears the voice get louder and louder (first with amusement, then with agitation, then with warning and finally, when he realizes that she's not stopping with fear…she's having a sense of déjà vu) and feels hands grip her forearm and haul her back towards a solid chest, does Mary look up, straight into the darkened woods.

"You, Your Grace, are one day going to be the death of me." Bash says. His voice is breathless, but Mary can detect a slight hint of worry and fear (truer words have never been spoken and if there is one thing in her life that Mary regrets, it's the consequences of her actions. It's the pain and despair she will cause Bash.)

She wrenches herself away from him and twirls around to face him, eyes blazing and breaths coming out in little huffs. "You said he had me." She says, her voice breaking, "why would he look elsewhere? It's clear that he cares for you, loves you even," Mary mocks, the words people have spoken to her blurting out of her mouth, "he killed for you, you will rule next to him, you're his future wife." She laughs and it's bitter and hollow and Bash winces at her intensity. "I'm a pawn in my own life." She admits, breath catching as a sob wrenches from her throat. "While Francis is in the castle, the bloody castle with Olivia, whom by the way is welcomed with open arms from the Queen, while simultaneously plotting my bloody death, taking for all intents and purposes a proper piss on our alliance-"

Bash barks out a laugh. "My, my, the language."

"This isn't funny." Mary snaps. "How am I…how can I…I don't even…" she looks at him, words failing her, shoulders deflating and she feels the anger and humiliation leave her, instead feeling an overwhelming amount of sadness. "No one wants me." Bash frowns, staring at her, their bodies a few feet apart. "I'm all alone." And then, because she hasn't been humiliated enough, she cries. Shoulders hunching and long-lost childhood memories of always having someone watching her, of being inside, of never being allowed to be free, of having others die for her, because of her, come for the forefront of her mind, haunting her, taunting her with the burden she will always bear.

Forgetting all pretenses of who they are and who they're supposed to be, she leans forward and places her head on Bash's chest. She can feel his heart beat rapidly and loudly and she feels his arms slowly and hesitantly wrap around her, enveloping her in his warmth, soothing away the demons and haunting memories (how many times in the future will she seek solace in his arms? Too many to count, too many to think about.)

"I am here." He confesses quietly, only the wind and woods as their sole witness, "I will always be here for you, Mary."

(She knows. She thinks she's always known this, ever since he came into the room, all those years ago and placed a stray feather on the tableside, vowing to protect her from any harm.)

"You know," she says softly, her voice raspy but quiet, as if afraid to disrupt their surroundings. Night has fallen but they stay outside, sitting on a bench, overlooking the lake and watching the moon illuminate the grounds, "Sometimes, I envy you."

"Me?" Bash asks incredulously. "why would you ever envy me?"

"Because," she says, peeling herself away from him and frowning at the sudden emptiness that fills her and ignoring the way her body aches to inch closer to him, "you know what freedom is like. You are able to do anything you please. Nothing matters. You do not…this," she gestures to the castle, "effectively means nothing. You have the will to come and go as you please and not be judged for it. You are free, Bash. Nothing is holding you back."

"There is everything holding me back." He admits quietly, hands spread out against the bench, pinky finger grazing hers.

She bites her lip and curls her hand into itself, her nails making crescent moon marks from her nails, as she feels the loss of warmth he exudes.

He clears his throat. "You said sometimes."

"Pardon?"

He shrugs, "you said, sometimes, I envy you. What about the other times?"

She gives him a small smile, "a queen has to have some secrets."

He lets out a small laugh, that turns into a chortle, that becomes uncontrollable and Mary follows suit, his smile, his laugh, his genuine spirit, infectious. It also keeps her from blurting out a truth that has been bubbling inside of her since that day all those years ago, when he took a stray feather and placed it on the tableside, gently, almost reverently, vowing to protect her from any harm.

(Sometimes, I envy you and sometimes, I wish you were the future king of France and not Francis.)

(Sometime in the future, Mary will look at Bash and say, "you once told me that you are doomed to forever be Sir Lancelot. That makes Francis King Arthur and me, Queen Guinevere. We were cursed from the beginning then."

"Always wanting what we can never and should never have." Bash finishes for her.

"You're wrong." She tells him, stepping closer to him, until their lips a hair's breadth away from each other, "he left and you have always been my freedom."

"You, Your Grace," he teases quietly, breathily, "are one day going to be the death of me."

There is the soft pressing of lips and she damns them all.)

Hi all! Hope you guys enjoyed! Just a quick note: in the story I spell Lancelot, well, as Lancelot and although the poem spells it out Launcelot…there have been debates about the proper spelling and pronunciation. I'm going with Lancelot. It's what I was taught and it's what I'm familiar with. The same goes with Lord Alfred Tennyson, I know that it's between Lord Alfred and Alfred Lord, but through school, I always knew it as Lord Alfred and again, if this is wrong, I sincerely apologize. I don't mean to offend anyone.

Again, thank you all so so much. It truly does mean a lot to have your support. I hope you all enjoyed and you guys are all just so awesome!

MAD LOVE AND RESPECT,

BB