Prologue
Hers were the hands that forever flailed for something, anything, solid to grasp onto and anchor themselves, only for everything they touched to splinter into shards.
Hers were the hands that did not hold but clenched the reins of her kingdom and never let go, no matter how her fingers bled.
Hers were the hands that gripped a needle that swept the full compass of human experience; that grew mottled from being chafed and calloused and healed and excoriated open time and time again.
Hers were the hands that wielded power doggedly, recklessly, gracelessly, but wielded it all the same.
1522
Unblemished, smooth fingers that glide across the keys of the virginals or pluck the strings of a lute. They cup her mother's chin as she embraces her, clutch her father's shoulders as he carries her around ("This girl never cries!"). And when her hands can go unnoticed by reproachful adult eyes, they sneak extra strawberries from the table. When her governess notices her sticky red palms, she affects stern disapproval, clucking that a princess should master self-control. But Mary knows it is for form's sake only, because Lady Salisbury never truly begrudges her charge anything that her hands reach for.
1527
Kisses brushed across her knuckles from ambassadors and princes.
Glossy brocade fabric folding in her fingers as she sketches a curtsey.
Her father's great paw encircling hers as he leads her onto the dance floor.
A quill tucked in her fist, brushing her cheek as she drafts letters and translations in Latin, French, Greek, Spanish, her penmanship impeccable.
Her hands must execute the innumerable duties of a princess, and execute them all she does, to perfection. But still, some whisper that her hands could never, and should never, execute the duties of a queen. Guardedly they whisper, but whisper nonetheless.
1533-36
Dirt has embedded itself in her pores, her broken nails, her fraying hemlines left tattered by months of poverty. A rosary, its wood pearls smoother than her skin, spools around calloused and contusion-stippled fingers. All other possible sources of consolation are beyond her reach: her mother's presence, her father's protection, the counsel of good men like More and Fisher, her royal status, her rights, her books, her virginals and her lute, her childhood. All stolen, all snatched from her unsuspecting hands. All that is left for her to cling to is this rosary. She clutches it so tightly it cracks.
1536-1537
Her hands are drenched in ink.
The pope's absolution washes away the stain upon her immortal soul, but nothing can ever wash away the stains upon her hands.
Ink soaks whatever her hands graze (black blots blooming and swallowing everything just as that black growth upon her mother's heart must have choked it).
When she holds little Edward at the font, some of the holy water trickles onto her fingers. Perhaps it will cleanse her hands, just as his fledgling soul was purified of sin. But deep down, Mary knows that only blood and fire can truly erase the ink.
1540
Her skin is pitted and pocked with wrinkles and varicose veins. And after Mary's pleasant conversation with the new queen, ten red crescents stand out starkly against the sea of wrinkles.
Her fingers should have a ring upon them, should be stitching a gown for a coming child and lacing through her husband's fingers. But all they have are scars that will never fully heal and the ugly ravages of age and bastardy and a hollow, empty, aching emptiness. Although the Savoyard ambassador's embrace goes a long way to fill that terrible void, if not the one in her heart.
1542
As her father is currently between queens, Mary acts as hostess at the Christmas festivities, and her hands are wonderfully occupied. Pressing coins into the outstretched palms of the poor folk. Clapping in time to lively galliards and corantos. Grasping a partner's hand as she begins the first dance of the season. Pinching too-serious little Edward's chubby cheek, hoping to coax a smile out of him. Comparing her handspan to Elizabeth's, seeing if her sister's hands are wide enough to play an octave on the virginals yet.
Her hands are still gnarled, but they glow rosily with health and vigor.
1550
Twisting and untwisting, twisting and untwisting, in a ceaseless tempo.
Elizabeth and Edward stiffen away under her embraces. Heresy is engulfing everything in England, including her siblings.
The wine nearly spills in her trembling hands as she receives the body and blood of her savior. This is the crux of her faith, the sacrament that the new regime wants to eradicate.
Twist, untwist, wring and twiddle. When her hands are not twisting, they clasp in prayer, beseeching God as they have never done before. She clutches the crucifix of her rosary so tightly she imprints the Cross in her palms.
1553
They are folded into tight, tight fists at her side as she rides into cheering London, to hide her peeling skin and nails falling out. The past few weeks have not been kind to them. But she presents them proudly at her coronation. They hold the orb and scepter, steady the surprisingly heavy crown, sign with a flourish her first act as queen, enshrining her legitimacy in English law. In the end, she had to wrench back what was rightfully hers with her own hands, rather than have it placed in them, but she holds it now, all the same.
1554
Ink smears her shaking hands. The hands that send little Jane to the block and Elizabeth to the Tower.
(Will her skin ever be cleansed of ink?)
But her hands also entwine with her husband's- her husband's- hand as they kneel at the altar, joining in holy matrimony. They splay out across his muscles in bed as though examining a bas-relief. They clamp over her mouth to stifle her screams and crumple the silken bedclothes in pleasure. When she is away from Philip, her hands glide over her belly, imagining she can already feel it swelling to accommodate her son.
1555
Her hands are swollen and bloated, and pale from the lack of sunlight inside her confinement chambers.
(Did her mother's hands ever look like this?)
Even in confinement, her hands are engaged- signing orders, laws, death warrants to staunch the flow of Protestant heretics that seem to scramble out of the crevices like cockroaches. After years of her hands being empty, they are suddenly full, fuller than she ever imagined they would be, and she is finding that it is a onerous, slippery burden to bear.
It will all be worth it when she holds her son in her arms.
1556
Firelight casts her trembling and twitching hands in red and gold, with purple-black shadows. They have shriveled, crumpling in on themselves, as her pregnancy turned out to be false and her husband deserted her. One finger juts out at her ministers, accusing them.
(Did Cranmer's hand look like this as he thrust it into the fire first?)
This is God's punishment, her hands declare, for not being harsh enough on heretics. Burn more, she orders, seek them out and burn them all. She will bind them to the stakes and light the faggots with her own hands, if need be.
1558
Her hands- her faithless, feeble hands- failed to purify and save England, and now they must consign it to the hands of a bastard heretic.
It impinges all her scruples to make such a concession, especially when there is a pair of Catholic hands quite willing to take the reins. But if her half-Spanish hands could not steer England, how can Mary Stuart's Scottish, fully foreign hands do so? For all that her half-sister's hands are befouled with heresy, they are fully English.
And so as her hands commend her soul to God, they commend her kingdom to Elizabeth's hands.
A/N: If anyone has any ideas or requests for moments from Mary's life, seeing her interact with other Tudor figures, AU Mary-centric ideas, or even an entirely Mary-unrelated idea, leave me a comment!