"The King would do better to get rid of her."

"France is in shambles."

"I hear the Austrian is frigid cold."

Light green eyes stayed downcast as Versailles's Royal Executioner walked down its polished marble hallways. He passed by all the lords and ladies who gave the fair-haired man a wide berth. One Countess stage whispers to her cohorts how he 'reeks of blood'.

Blithering idiots. As if they have any right to speak of 'reeking'. They all smell of wine and debauchery. He hates to think just what they have been doing recently. No doubt continuing to empty France's coffers on gambling and entertaining the Queen. Speaking of which…

"There she is."

"Don't look her in the eyes, you'll freeze."

"Madame Defecit."

Ah…there she was, the perfect painting of beauty. Curled silver hair framing her pale white skin and her sparkling blue eyes. Marie Antoinette, Her Most Christian Majesty by God's Grace was heading towards him, a serene smile on her face. She stops a meter away from him and inclines her head in greeting. "Good day, Charles, how goes Our most esteemed Gentleman of France?"

The man called Charles doesn't return her smile and kneels before her, bowing his head. He hates her. Hates her frivolous ways, how she taints his King's throne, how she…wouldn't get out of his head. "Good morrow, Your Majesty. This Executioner is humbled by your flattery." He glances up and it hurts to look at her. Many a time he's imagined slipping his hands around her and-

The Queen looks a little off-put by his greeting and spreads a fan she had been carrying to hide her face. She's silent for a few moments, only waves the fan at herself. Even her ladies-in-waiting are holding their breath to see what their monarch will say to him. Finally, after what seems an eternity, she snaps it shut, the sound echoing loudly in the now silent hall. "Rise, Charles."

He gets off his knees but refuses to look at her. He can't bear it. He hears the click of her heels as she approaches him and feels something prodding at his chin. The Queen is using her fan to force him to look at her. Charles sees her ladies-in-waiting whisper amongst themselves but he can't hear them anymore. It's like only he and the Queen exist now.

"We are hurt by your coldness, Charles," she looks so tired to him and he wants to remove her from this place. Wants to- She's taking his hands into hers, clasping them gently. "Call me Marie, for we are not strangers."

Her hands are so small compared to his and so warm, even through his gloves. She isn't cold at all. Nothing like how the others often gossip about. If anything, it is he who is the cold one. It comes as part of his job. He's had to detach himself from this world to familiarize himself with Death.

"Very well…Marie." Her name feels so strange on his tongue, like ash. It repulses him.

The whispers are louder now.

"My, my, isn't she getting a little too familiar with him?"

"I pity the King."

"Devil's Harlot."

He hates her. He hates her. He hates her. He hates her.

By tomorrow morning, he would be known all throughout France as the Queen's new favorite.

Marie brightens up considerably and gives his hands a squeeze. "The King-" His eyes widen and it's like he's been doused in cold water. Forcing himself to smile at her, Charles pulls free from her and moves to the side. How dare she mention him? Damn her, damn the King, damn all of France but most of all…damn his own feelings. The Queen would never be his. Never.

And she's none the wiser, as it should be.

"Yes, I was just on my way to have an audience with him." Charles sends a silent prayer to the Lord that she is done speaking with him. One does not simply ask to leave her presence. One is dismissed. She pouts a little and gestures for her little entourage to follow.

"Is that right? Well then, We best not keep you. And-" she moves past him and she whispers. "Please allow Us to see your smile again someday."

He would never smile for her again. She's up on the scaffold, practically bald, and standing next to his son, Henri. Behind his back, Charles holds a box containing her hair that his son sheared off just mere moments ago. She didn't cry. She faced the looming guillotine with dignity.

Before she places her head on the chopping block, Marie accidentally steps on his son's toes and very quietly, in almost a whisper, she apologizes. Those are her last words as his son cuts the rope keeping the blade suspended.

Her Majesty, Queen Marie Antoinette is no more.