Ever After, a reign fanfic

A/N: Because Reign became a trainwreck but Francis remained wonderful and Frary was worth it.

Warning for major character death if you haven't seen episode 5.

Say you'll remember me

Standing in a nice dress

Staring at the sunset, babe

Red lips and rosy cheeks

Say you'll see me again

Even if it's just in your

Wildest dreams

Wildest Dreams – Taylor Swift

Mary, Queen of Scots, found true love when she was young and she never looked back.

She tries to stay strong, put on a brave face, especially in the presence of the Court, but the truth is, whenever she thinks of her future, her life without Francis, it's like trying to convince her body to keep functioning without a heart, and she just wants to cry and scream and rage at this unbearable reality she is forced to live in.

At the convent, the nuns frequently ask her to tell them of her time at French Court, and she tries, doing her best to describe the grand castle and the lascivious lifestyle that is so different to her simple, often boring life here. The nuns smile and make appreciative comments and tell her that it is okay to miss the castle but that she will be back in no time. And Mary smiles and agrees and doesn't tell them that what she misses isn't the opulence of the Court or the pretty dresses and the delicious food. What she misses, more than she thought she would, is the sound of a boyish laughter mingling with her own, apples pitched at her, bets made on who would climb the more trees faster, races up and down hallways and stairwells, each day an exciting new adventure. She misses wavy blond hair and laughing eyes and hands that could be just as gentle helping her up after she had tripped and fallen as they were merciless tickling her until she was gasping for air. She doesn't tell the nuns that, a part of her wanting to keep these memories just for herself.

Her dreams shift between two constants now. There are nightmares, cruel and vicious, that leave her awake in the middle of the night, trying to muffle her screams so she won't wake Francis next to her. And there are the other dreams, sweet and wonderful, where Francis wakes up and is fine and the infection doesn't come back and we can live our lives together now, Mary, isn't it a miracle? These dreams are even worse, because she wakes up and for a single, joyful second she thinks the miracle happened and Francis is fine, alive and well. And then she turns her head and sees him lying in bed, pale and exhausted before the day has even begun, and her heart shatters all over again.

She's afraid sometimes, but can't tell him why. She's afraid because she's come to love him so, so much more then she ever thought was possible. Because he has become a necessary part of her life, he has woven himself around her so intricately it's impossible to become untangled from him: worse, she doesn't want to. And that scares her, scares her because she knows in the deepest part of her soul that there's nothing she would put before him, no one she would choose instead of him, no matter the consequences. She has been willing to kill for him, and knows she will do it again, if she has to. She's willing to do whatever it takes as long as it ensures that he stays there, by her side, right where he's supposed to be.

She's afraid of that, yes. But the thing is, a life without him, stretching ahead lonely and endless and unbearable – well, that scares her so much more.

He knows what they think. His mother, mostly because she makes no attempt to hide her opinions on the subject, but Bash too, and Lola. They don't say anything against Mary, and he knows they don't resent her, unlike his mother. But he also knows they don't understand how he keeps treating her this way. How he allows her to have an affair with another man under his own roof, how he does everything in his power to keep said man safe from his many enemies, how he's willing to deprive his country of a large number of troops to save hers. They don't understand how he keeps on loving her, despite everything that's happened between them. And he would explain it to them, if he could, but he can't. There are a thousand things he loves Mary for and he could list them all and he still wouldn't come close to describing the feeling he gets whenever he sees her, like he had been underwater, deserted and struggling to break free and he hadn't realized it until he caught sight of her and suddenly he could breathe again. It's the most peculiar and wonderful feeling in the world, and he can't for the life of him explain it.

When he bursts into Conde's tent and sees her kneeling before his body, sees Conde's bloody shirt and the knife next to him and hears Mary tell him how she couldn't let him die, how she loves him, she always has, he feels as if he has finally taken a deep breath after months of being unable to, and he knows. He knows that it doesn't matter that he can't explain it, because whatever indescribable thing he feels whenever he sees her, she feels it too.

Francis has never been an overly religious person. He believes in God, of course, and proudly calls himself Catholic – doing anything else would be political suicide – but other than that he hasn't spent much time thinking about the existence of Heaven, Hell or anything like that. But there comes the time when he realizes he is not going to be alive for much longer, and suddenly it's extremely important to him that Heaven exists. Because if it doesn't, that means that when he told Mary that he would wait for her on the other side, no matter how long it took, it was a lie. And if there is one thing he is determined to never do, is lie to her.

Mary smiles when he tells her he'll wait for her; it's more of a grimace, really, because as the days go by and Francis's condition becomes progressively worse, it's even harder for her to pretend she will be able to cope with his death. His eyes are trained on her, alert and warm and so intimately familiar and the more she looks at them, the more the smile-grimace wavers until she has to close her own eyes, because otherwise she won't be able to keep herself from crying – once again. Instead she buries her head on his shoulder and one of his hands immediately comes up to caress her hair; the gesture is a common one of his and never fails to relax her. He says it again, his voice strong like it hasn't been lately, and full of determination. And even if Mary didn't believe in Heaven, even if she didn't already cling to the notion of being able to see him again after this life, it still wouldn't surprise her if such a thing was made possible simply due to Francis's sheer power of will. He calls her stubborn and she she won't deny that she is, but when it comes to them, he's more than capable of giving her a run for her money.

So, she clings to that notion, to the chance of seeing him again. Through more marriages and misfortunes, through countless losses and imprisonment, she clings to it fiercely, never wavers in her belief. She clings to it while she's kneeling on the cold floor, waiting for the executioner to deliver the blow that will separate her head from her body, and it's that thought that gives her the courage to remain strong in front of all these people gathered to witness her death. It's that thought that brings a memory to the front of her mind, seconds before the sword comes swinging down. I'm coming, she thinks at the smiling face in her mind, framed by blond curls and sporting a blinding smile, Francis, I'm finally coming.

One of the few times Mary feels completely at peace, happy and loved and feeling like she can do anything, she's lying on the grass at the bank of the lake, her dark hair fanned out around her and her hand clasped in Francis's. His other hand is constantly moving as he uses it to gesture expressively while he makes up ridiculous stories about the meanings of the shapes of the clouds, in a completely serious voice that makes her unable to stop giggling. Eventually he cracks up too and they both end up laughing in a way she's sure would be considered highly undignified for the future King and Queen of France, but she couldn't care less. It's silly and childish and Mary feels she might burst from happiness. Francis turns to his side to face her and she mimics him, and in that moment the future stretches in front of her, endless and glittering and full of possibilities. In that moment she thinks, we can do everything.

''Francis is a girl's name.''

''Yeah, well, Mary is a stupid name.''

''No, it's not!''

''Yes, it is!''

''No, it isn't, because I'm a Queen and Queens don't have stupid names.''

''And I'm a prince, so I can't have a girl's name.''

''Yeah, but Queens are better than princes.''

''No, they're not!''

''Yes, they are!''

Silence for a while, and then, ''You have a girl's name too!''

''Of course I do, silly, I am a girl.'' Cheeks become flushed and laughter rings out of the room, followed by playful shrieks and thumping footsteps as two figures come running out into the hallways of the castle, causing quite a ruckus and making anyone unfortunate enough to be standing in their way either reprimand them or smile fondly at their antics, because the Court could always use a bit more laughter and life.

''Come back to me,'' she asks him, tears falling down her face and voice cracking, and he does.

''Come back to me,'' she asks him when he's on the brink of death, desperate and pleading, and he does.

''Come back to me,'' she asks him again, screams it silently but the words won't come out, and he doesn't.

''I feel as if I'm dreaming,'' he says, still a bit breathless as he slides next to her and props himself up on his elbows. ''I'm getting everything I wanted and I feel as if I'm going to wake up any second now and find this was only a dream.''

Mary smiles softly and her lips meet his in a thorough kiss, which manages to steal away their breaths once more. ''Still think this is a dream?'' she asks him when she pulls back, his dazed expression making her heart beat faster.

''Mmm, maybe. Though I'm willing to be persuaded again,'' he says and she laughs, nudging him with her hand. He catches it, quick and sure, and entangles their fingers before leaning forward to steal another kiss.

She looks at this beautiful, wonderful man next to her and thinks she could never tire of staring at him, every part of him so dear to her. She can't remember the last time she felt so happy.

She's staring at him and Francis wonders if she can read his feelings on his face. Can she tell how much he loves her? How incredibly happy he feels right now, when it seems that everything he's dreamed of is withing arm's reach? He wants to tell her, but words seem too poor to properly express the whirlwind of emotions inside of him, so he settles for staring back at her, knowing he would happily do it for the rest of his life.

''We should talk about names,'' he says after a while, his gaze still on his radiant wife and the smile that forms on her face at his words.

She nods. ''I've been thinking about it, and I like James the best. I don't know why, it just fits.''

''James,'' he repeats, trying the name out. ''Yes, I like it. What about girl names, though?''

''No need, this one is a boy,'' she says with so much certainty he momentarily wonders if she can see the future.

''You can't know that for sure. It could be a little girl, with your eyes and stubbornness.'' Even the thought of it makes him smile. It feels as though his lips have been unable to form a straight line from the moment Mary told him she was pregnant. ''We could call her… Anne.''

Her smile mirrors his own and he can tell she likes the idea as much as he does, but she still shakes her head. ''We'll call the next one Anne. This one is a boy and he's a James.''

Honestly, Francis would be happy with either case, but he can't resist teasing her when they're both in such a good mood. ''Very well then, my all-knowing wife. Care to wager on it?''

''What do you mean?''

''You say it's a boy I say it's a girl. Let's make a bet and see who wins.''

''And when I win, what will be my prize?'' she asks, her eyes shining with mischief and the urge to kiss her becomes so overwhelming it erases every other thought in his mind.

''Um… we, we'll think of that later,'' he says, trying to remember what they were talking about. Her smirk tells him he wasn't that successful.

Francis shakes his head before getting up and on top of Mary, pulling the sheets over them. He starts kissing her lower body, making his way from her legs to chest before capturing her lower lip between his teeth, all the while reveling in her laughter, interspersed with breathy moans.

''I don't think I've been this happy in my entire life.''

''You caused two guards to fall down today!'' Mary exclaims, while Francis does his best to hold back his laughter and his two children try, and fail, to appear sincerely contrite. ''Well? What do you have to say for yourselves?''

James is the one who cracks first under his mother's stern gaze. ''It was Anne's fault!'' he cries and gets an elbow jammed to his side as retribution from his sister.

''Traitor,'' Anne hisses at her brother, before straightening and directing her gaze at her mother. ''It might have technically be because of me that they fell, but really, Mother, if you look at it from another perspective, it was actually the guards's fault for standing in the middle of the hallway. They really should know better by now.''

Francis lets out a snort and Anne's face brightens immediately. She knows that if Francis finds it funny, Mary will too, eventually.

For now, though, Mary still appears ready to hand out a proper scolding, but before she can open her mouth, Anne pipes up, ''Oh, Mother, I'm so sorry, I completely forgot! I promised James I'd explain the passage we're studying for tomorrow's lesson and if we don't do it now, we won't have any time after dinner. We really should go do it now. Right, James?'' the last one accompanied by a small step back, causing her shoe to fall on James's foot and make him yelp.

''Er, right, right, I didn't understand the passage at all.''

''So, like I said, we should get going. See you for dinner.'' Anne is halfway across the room before she finishes speaking, dragging James quite forcefully by the hand.

The door closes behind them and Mary lets out a sigh.

''Am I a bad mother?'' she asks Francis.

''No, of course not!'' he is quick to reply, his voice adamant. ''You're a wonderful mother. James and Anne adore you.''

''But maybe I should be more strict. I wasn't even going to punish them, not really and you know as well as I do that there's no passage that needs to be explained. They just know they can get away with whatever they want, because we love them too much to punish them.''

Francis shakes his head. ''Mary, I know you're a great mother and I know that if they ever did something truly serious they would get the punishment they deserved. But they haven't, and I don't think they will. We raised good children, my love, believe me.''

She starts to smile but it quickly turns into a grimace, her hands flying to her swollen belly. Francis immediately helps her lie on the bed, familiar enough with the pains of Mary's complicated third pregnancy. He comes to lie next to her and spends the following five minutes making sure she is completely fine and doesn't need anything else.

''Francis, it's okay,'' she says reassuringly, her hand nestled in his. ''The physicians said the pain is normal, nothing to worry about. It's already passed.'' She spreads her free hand on top of her stomach. ''The baby has been kicking a lot more lately. It won't be long now.''

''I'm glad,'' he says. ''I can't wait to meet our newest hell-raiser.''

Mary snorts, but doesn't correct him. She loves her children to death, but they do seem to have an aversion to behaving appropriately for long periods of time. ''We should get going; dinner will be served soon.''

''Are you sure you feel good enough for that? We could get a servant to bring your dinner he-'' he says but she cuts him off.

''I'm perfectly fine, except for the fact that I'm starving. And I heard there is a new cook, who is supposedly renowned for what she can do in the kitchen. You wouldn't be so cruel as to keep me from that, would you?''

''Well, when you put it that way.''

''Good. And after dinner, your usual game of catch with Anne, James will want your attention too, with his reading. The passage today may have been an excuse, but he has been having some difficulty lately.''

''I'll have him work on it.''

''You promise?'' she asks and Francis nods.

Mary smiles and kisses him lightly. ''Come on then,'' she says, ''culinary miracles await us.''

She wakes up and the bed is cold, no one next to her to warm it. There is no dinner waiting, nobody to share it with, and her belly is flat under her nightgown. And, though her eyes burn as if she has been sobbing, her cheeks are bone dry.

It's not easy for her to find someone to talk to, someone she likes and trusts enough to confide to without having to check every word that comes out of her mouth. But there are some, albeit few, occasions when she comes across someone trustworthy, a servant girl or a lady-in-waiting, and that's when she finds herself talking about the French Court, about Kenna and Lola and Greer and Aylee and Bash. About Francis. Every time, she describes her time there as the happiest time of her life, and every time, whoever she's talking to finds it impossible to believe, considering what has happened to her there. And she smiles, one of the few smiles that hold any warmth these days, and doesn't bother to explain it. Because yes, her stay at French Court had been full of danger and loss and grief, but it had also been full of love. And she can't think of the time she spent together with her first husband, her true husband, no matter what happened afterward, as anything other than the happiest time of her life.

She's stubborn and annoying and loud. She likes to mess up his hair, and make fun of his name and the way he always loses when they race each other around the castle grounds. She always interrupts him while he's studying, she shows up in his room in the middle of the night to drag him outside to watch the stars. She laughs at his jokes and blushes when he compliments her dress. She cries in his arms one night because she misses her mother and her home, and the next day she makes him promise not to tell anyone. She jumps up and down on the bed, the feathers from the ripped pillows they were swinging on each other all around them, and he laughs and laughs and laughs.

He never tells anyone that he misses her more than he ever thought he would when she leaves for convent.

They say your life flashes before your eyes when you're about to die. He never really believed it; how could you remember your whole life, especially as you were about to die? But he believes it now, lying on the forest ground, struggling to breathe and he doesn't see Mary above him, disheveled and crying. He sees Mary as a child, running alongside him, stopping every once in a while to whisper to him whatever thought strikes her at the moment. He sees her grown up and coming to marry him to secure their alliance, and he never expected the first sight of her to take his breath away quite like that. He sees her on his sister's wedding, looking at him from across the room, feather falling all around them, and he doesn't want to think it but it feels like fate. He sees her on their wedding day, the day he realized his heart might burst from happiness but it would have been a glorious way to go. He sees her on their bed, limbs entangled, lips meeting again and again, causing pleasure unlike anything he had felt before curse through him. He sees Mary when he is about to die, because Mary is his life, and suddenly that saying makes sense.

There's an unsettling mix of uncertainty and excitement swirling inside him when he realizes that keeping her at arm's length will not be as easy as he had thought it would be when she first arrived at Court. It's even more unsettling when he realizes this doesn't bother him nearly as much as it should.

It's not enough, it's not enough, not enough, no, no. It's not enough that she spent a year being married to him, a year in which she experienced more happiness than she thought possible. It's not enough, she wants more, she wants a lifetime with him, children and grandchildren, them ruling their countries together, making a better future together. It's not enough as he's laying on the ground telling her to stay in France after he's gone, asking her to marry again, to love again. It's not enough when she tells him she can't, she'll never love anyone the way she loved him. It's not enough when his eyes close and his head falls sideways and he is gone, he is dead, no, no, please, and her sobs burst out of her, violent and loud and she falls on top of him, crying, she can't stop crying, please, Francis, please, no.

It's not enough.

He kisses her and it feels as if every other kiss he's exchanged has been mere practice for this one.

She kisses him and it feels as if she's finally home.

It feels as if she's been torn in two. Half of her is at Court, going through the motions of the funeral, mourning with Catherine and Bash, preparing for a life in France without Francis. The other half of her is away in Paris, dancing with Francis under the stars just as he promised her they would, forever young and alive and in love.

It takes her two weeks to even bear to go near the boat. But she can't take it anymore, the castle feels stifling and she's unable to be in their rooms when he's not there, so she needs an escape. It's easy at first, remembering the steps from Francis's instructions, until she can't get it to move properly, just like she couldn't the last time she was here. But then she can feel Francis behind her, can hear his voice instructing her to set the course, tighten the sheet, so she tugs the rope tightly, tugs until it works and the sail stops luffing. There you are, she hears, the voice clear and familiar and so, so precious. Her lips tug upward ever so slightly and it's not a smile, not even an imitation of one, but it's still more than she's managed in the last couple of weeks. It doesn't last long and the sobs soon overtake her, but it's something. A step in the right direction, maybe.

She thinks Francis would agree.

''History will remember us,'' she tells him and he believes her. They're sitting on the balcony, the starry night the only illumination, and he believes her. Because they're young and determined and in love – and just a little bit drunk – and he looks at her and she looks at him, and yes, ''History will remember us.''

Francis II, King of France, lived a short life. But he knew, before he died, laying on the ground before his wife, his Queen, his Mary, that he wouldn't trade it for anything.