a/n: Written for the daily challenge at the M/F thread over at fanforum, for prompt #2: "Wedding day" The past is in italics.
Mary was 10 years old the first time she daydreamed about her wedding day. It was a lazy day at the convent; the girls were running around in various games since for the first time in weeks there was nothing to do. She decided to sit by the top of a hill and watch them, but soon her mind wandered away to the grand balls she'd attended while at French court, or the beautiful gowns she wore there, or how she played with Francis every time they had the chance. She didn't miss the clothes that much, quite liking the simpler dresses the sisters gave her, neither did she miss the atmosphere at court, having to watch her every move to ensure it was proper of royalty. Life here was easier, that was true. But she missed her friend. And so she found herself imagining how things would be when she returned, and her thoughts all traveled back to her wedding. How it would be like. She hoped it would be spring, the weather hot and good for playing outside. She hoped flowers would be in full bloom so they didn't have to cut any live ones. And maybe she could convince the priest to have the ceremony in the open air, so everyone could enjoy the sun on their skin.
Mary is almost 16 years old when she marries Francis, on a chilly December day. The weather is frosty outside, the winter chill sneaking through the windows and doors of the church no matter how closed off. Her ladies flutter around her, fixing the train of her dress and securing her veil. None of it has her attention, she's enraptured watching the snow swirl outside the window, her own chest growing colder as if in tune with the weather. It's just minutes before she has to walk down the aisle yet dread makes her bones as heavy as lead.
Her tiny hands ripped little springs of grass as she lost herself in her daydream. In her wedding, she wanted to wear flowers in her hair, the kind that grew in the hills by the convent, white and beautiful, tangled in her curls. A beautiful dress made of silk that would run through her fingers like water. A dress she would be able to spin around in and make it spread out like a flower, so she could twirl like she was in full bloom. The last time she saw her mother was so long she can barely remember the day, but she hopes she will be there, smiling at her as she walked down the aisle. She hopes music would play, and the flowers outside would be bright and beautiful.
Her mother comes in and announces it's time, a strict expression in her face. She has no patience for her believe in the prophecy; she told her she was being ridiculous, that she should stop acting like a child and face the facts. And the fact is, she's marrying Francis, whether it pleases her or not. And it's happening now.
"Come out, Mary. And at least try and smile." Her mother orders, her demeanor cold and concerned only with the business at hand. She keeps her eyes downcast the whole time her mother speaks, hoping that she'll be able to train her features like a proper queen and keep tears at bay, not shed a single one. She hopes Catherine won't stare at her throughout the ceremony like she ran a sword through Francis' heart herself. That she won't come undone. Hoping against hope that she won't cause him more pain. My love, I'm so sorry.
She was just a child and didn't fully comprehend the meaning of the word love. She knew she cared for the friends she hadn't seen in years and Francis and even the queen back at court. She knew she loved God, and she loved her mother. But she didn't completely understand what it meant. It was what caused the tears when you had to say goodbye, or when a mother held it's newborn for the first time. Yet it was almost foreign to her. A word more than a feeling. Something you said in prayers, or wrote in letters or heard in church. For so loved God the world …With love, Mary. Love, love. The world bounced in her head as a girl, and she just hoped her wedding would be filled with it.
She understand what love means now. It isn't a word, it's barely a feeling. Love it's an action. It's the beating of your heart like a bird fighting out of its cage when you fall in it. It's the fact that you would give your own blood to keep someone else's heart pumping. She knows love now, and loss, and pain, and fear. And she would like to think that love could rise above it all but she knows, she believes that sometimes love is not enough. That sometimes it's just the outline of it that's left, the silhouette of a widow after her husband dies, or the cries of a child when their mother is ripped away. She thinks love could be worth nothing if she's the only one left feeling it, long after the other person is beneath the ground. She's thinking this as she climbs the steps to the altar, to marry Francis, to condemn him. I love you, she thinks. I love you, and I can't look at you. I love and I don't want to marry you. I can' be with you because it will be your end. And I love you so much, if I lose you I'll lose myself. Love. Sadness. Her wedding is filled with them. Both reside inside her chest.
She was 10 and she thought in her wedding day, she would be happy, oh so happy.
She is not. The prophecy weights on her like a nightmare she can't shake off.
She was a child and she thought her wedding day would be the beginning of her story.
She's a queen hardened by fear and loss, and love hurts in her chest as she hopes this is not the end.