notes; so, i've been wanting to write in a lot more different fandoms, and i just finished watching 1x13 of reign, so i decided to write a marycentric piece—it follows the arc of the show, for the most part, and is probably 90 percent historically inaccurate—; hope you guys like this xx
sing me lonely songs
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She is born in the midst of a harsh winter—
They say the midwife had offered the name of 'Snow', but Marie de Guise was never one for irony; it is a hard, difficult birth, and she is but a few weeks old when her father passes away - it is something of blood wounds and gory battlefields, but she has not even begun to speak yet. There is a flurry of snow around, and with heavy heart, Marie de Guise announces, Mary, Queen of Scots; she has the blood of the King, and Mary will grow to be a Queen; that is her duty, from the beginning of it all, to be the Queen Scotland is in need of.
At night, there is a fire—it is a beast, with licking ashes that tear down the castle walls, as the people revolt against their leaders (we cannot be ruled by an infant, they say) and animals gallop and children scream— and her mother sends her way to the convents, to be raised by nuns, and tells her that one day, it will be safe for her to return.
She is born the Queen—long may she reign.
.
The sun rises to better days—
Mary is seven upon arriving at court; it is glamorous, to say the least, with servants flocking around the castle—it is nothing of the steel walls and dusty rooms back in Scotland, and she wants it more than anything, the luxurious lifestyle; asphodels and amaranth-painted flowers line the walls, with sculptures and colored murals upon the bright white walls, carved out of dreams.
She meets Francis—the boy she will one day be engaged to; Catherine de Medici, his mother, nods him forward. Hello, he mutters, kicking his foot upon the ground, I'm Francis.
Mary, your Grace - enchanted. The words have been long rehearsed, spoken slowly with an air of grace, but they come out rushed in the presence of royalty, and Mary already feels the heat rising to her cheeks. You have a lovely home, she settles for; compliments, the septas back in Scotland have taught her, are the best choice of words to greet royal members, people who will always want to hear how wonderful they are.
Why don't the two of you go upstairs? Catherine nudges—she has a warm and lovely smile implanted upon her face, but there is something deceitful behind her eyes, as though she does not yet trust the girl. Francis, you can show her your toys.
The blond-haired boy with angel curls and trusting blue eyes leads her up the staircase—they trample each other's feet awkwardly, laughing as they bound up the stairs, and by the time the night is over, chasing each other through the winding staircases of the castle, bare feet (fancy shoes discarded at a young age), they are already friends. The boy with dark brown hair and charming green-blue eyes—that's Sebastian, Francis tells her, my sort-of brother—tells the two of them stories, fanciful tales of adventures; he is not one of them, though, that much Mary is aware of.
But all good things must come to an end, and Catherine reckons there is rumors of Englishmen coming to French Court—it is no place for a Scottish girl, much less the Queen of Scots; so, they send her away—
(She is still a queen in her own right—long may she reign.)
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Mary of Scots, almost eleven years of age, makes her first friend—
Katerina Le Folur is a pretty, little girl with rich curls of chestnut hair—all the other girls say that the boys will be running after her one day, and Katerina slyly replies, I do not want boys, girls. I want men. They worship her, the girls at the convent; therefore, it is no wonder that Mary hears of this new girl, and quickly, the two of them become friends (allies).
They play childhood games, gossip about things at French Court, scandalous rumors that if which they were older, could be thought of as treasonous talk.
One day, Katerina sneaks into Mary's chambers and steals a diamond necklace (it's all Mary has left of her father, really); Mary awakens in the midst of the night and yells for the guards. Katerina Le Folur swears revenge as she is dragged away by Scottish guards with golden uniforms and heavy faces—the rest of the girls start to avoid Mary, Queen of Scots, and she does not make the mistake of making a friend again.
Marie De Guise visits for her eleventh birthday—half of the welcoming party had been slaughtered by invading English forces upon the way to the convent, out in the middle of nowhere, quite a good place for allowing for oneself to be lost—with wrapped present (gold necklaces, money, of course, very predictable things, but they are beautiful nonetheless) and as she braids her daughter's hair, tells her, Queens cannot afford to make friends, Mary.
It's quite lonely here, mother - couldn't I have my friends from Court come here? Greer, Lola, Aylee, Kenna—they would make nice company here at the convent.
Darling, they have families too - they have duties to perform. They are your friends, yes, but they are also ladies of Scotland who have more duties to do then keeping you company.
How were you able to do it, mother? Not having company or friends - being alone?
Marie De Guise takes a small breath; she smells like roses. I reminded myself that I was to be the wife of a King, and these people are my subjects—I am above them all, and if I managed to find one to make friends with, I wouldn't be sure if they were friends with me because of my power or if they were truthful individuals; more often than not, assume the primer. Do not mistakes - you cannot afford to do so.
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Her mother sends post two and a half years later, and does not bother to come this time.
It contains words of returning to French Court—you are almost of age, Mary; you are to be wed to young Francis before your sixteenth birthday, and you will prepare for life at French Court from now and onwards— and it speaks of brighter, happier days (for Scotland) for her. You smell of lavender, your Grace, the girls at the Convent tell her such.
Is there a problem with that? She replies back, indignantly, age of thirteen - almost of age, Mary thinks.
You should smell like roses, another one of the girls chimes in. Princes like girls that smell like roses, she says, as though she has much experience in this matter; the girl has smiling blue eyes and limp blond hair, gaunt and sickly features, but smells like the porridge at the convent, and for a moment, Mary stops counting down the days until she returns to French Court, because more than anything else, the convent is her home. A home that smells bad, without her family, but it is a home of people who would lay down their lives for her, and that, more than anything else, is what she would like to be able to rely on.
She is the Queen of these people—long may she reign.
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It takes three years before Catherine de Medici and King Henry decide for her arrival—
Her bare feet trod up the royal staircases, carpeted with scarlet thread which frays beneath her toes; she fingers the banisters and memories seep through the crevices of her mind of a childhood—she had played here with Francis, silly little games; Sebastian had stood on the sides, and pretended that he was too old to play in games—; later that night, she discards her pointed shoes and dances barefoot with her friends, and as everybody joins in and she dances beneath the fiery lights, Mary thinks that everything will be wonderful at French Court.
(She is a Queen of her own country, but she will be Queen of France as well—long may she reign.)
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Mary has witnessed the abominations of Catherine and decides that when she is Queen (if they ever get around to deciding when the alliance of Scotland will be most fruitful), she will rule the people with love. She has heard that fear does naught but lead to rebellion and beheadings and such, and wonders why the people have not beheaded their Queen—
Fear—it is a writhing snake with two-fanged venom, sleeping in the murky shadows, snapping out in the dark of the night where it marks its prey; nobody is safe with a beast of iron and steel veins roaming the countryside—controls them. Be careful not to play too close to the fire, the voice behind the tapestry with the invisible hands and prophecies, whispers. You will get burned.
She does not listen, instead growing closer and closer to the fire, farther and farther of course—Mary calls herself brave, but she thinks deep down, that she is stupid for following what she would like to do, for forgetting about her people, her duty—and never obeys.
(Mary, Mary, quite contrary.)
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She loves Francis more—always have, always will—and sits down and talks about adventures and battles and plans for the future.
She loves Bash too—always have, always will—and rides on horseback, without the inconvenience of silly dresses that get in the way, and feels a rush of exhilaration through her veins, an adventure. She was the Queen of Scots, and he was her lionheart, and there were moments—a few precious moments—but it was all short-lived, and those moments of the past would become a haunting memory.
.
In these days, these times, you must choose—to be happy or to be powerful, her mother acknowledges, and it is not the first time Mary has wondered if this is for her mother or for her.
She tilts her head higher, and says, Mother, I will make my choice. I will marry the son of King Henry, and I will be the Queen of France, strengthen the alliance and use it for the benefits of Scotland, and we will be safe once more.
Which son, is it then? It is not a question, darling. You will marry Francis—and that is the final word.
I love both of them, mother, she admits, and Mary thinks that this is not who she is supposed to be; she is Mary, Queen of Scots, one day Queen of France, and she should not have been so careless and foolish to fall in love with two boys (brothers, no less) because she is a Queen, and Queens cannot afford to make mistakes; Kings can do such, and get away with it, but Queens will be executed and decapitated under reasons of treason and adultery, and she cannot even begin to fathom the humiliation of it.
I love myself and I love my country—that is the duty of a queen. You will marry Francis, as he is the legitimate heir to the throne, the rightful King of France (one day, my son-in-law), and because there is no doubt that the people will think he is not a rightful king. As for the bastard however, well, he's useless - his birth was useless, and he was meant to do nothing but leech off his father—
His name is Sebastian, she corrects, voice a little headstrong; this is her mother, however. Mary does not have to be anything but herself. Catherine has told her that she would rather have a daughter-in-law who wasn't a Queen in her own right, implied that she would rather have one who would do everything she said (Olivia, Mary remembers, would have been suitable), but that is not who she is, and she will not change herself.
Bastard and Sebastian; they sound quite similar, don't you think?
I will not be bullied by you, mother - I will make the decision that is best, she repeats the words; Mary will make the choice that is best, but it is filled with complications and disaster and heartbreak, and inevitably, something will go wrong.
For you or for your country? You are the queen of Scotland, Mary. You will do what is best for your country; you owe this to your people, you have own this to them since you are born. It is a sad fate to be a Queen, Mary thinks; there had been days where she would rather have been a simple peasant girl at the convent, without the responsibility of a nation, thousands of people's lives on her head.
Is there any room for my choice, for what I believe will make me happy?
Maire de Guise lets out a small laugh. Darling Mary, happiness is for the poor—the poor can afford to make mistakes. You are the Queen, for God's sake; if you are to make a mistake, all eyes are on you, and not only you, but all of Scotland, will pay the price. Her mother stands from the mattress and exits the room, not before saying, I'll tell Catherine that you've made your choice.
.
She marries Francis, in the aftermath—
The nobles raise their glasses to the newlywed bride and groom, and she lets a delicate smile grace her features—it is nothing of the wide, unconstrained smile that she had first greeted Francis with so many months earlier, because she is the Queen of two countries from now on, and she must change— and sips on a glass of fruitful wine; outside the castle gates, at night, she peers out the paper windows of the castle walls and examines the people, in celebration.
(Mary of Scots, Queen of France— long may she reign.)
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notes; oh god i'm almost at 100 stories, c: