The Petals that Fall: Petals in the Wind
Summary: The second installment in The Petals that Fall series. Royals they weren't, after all. Simply moths, drawn not to the flicker of orange flames, but to the singe and smell of their burnt skin. At the cost of the happiness of the woman he loves, Sebastian has driven Mary to his side. But to what lengths shall he keep her there? Will he go so far as to embrace the darkness that threatens to consume him? Frary. Mash. Fralivia. Rated T/M for suggestive and explicit themes.
Characters: Sebastian P., Mary S., Francis V., Nostradamus, Olivia D.
Disclaimer/Letter from the Author: Marie Meyers here with my second account, as well as a second installment! A lot of people were worried about the ending; come on, guys! Surely, you have more faith in me than that...? No way was I going to leave the ending so open :P.
I want to focus more on the plot development and the character interraction in this second installment; because of that, please don't expect quick updates. I will try to update when I can.
On a final note, thank you for all your support thus far, readers. It means a lot to me.
Reign is not of my creation, nor its characters; however the plot, original characters, and The Petals that Fall series is. Please ask permission before and reuse of any part of this fan fiction. Copyright Marie Meyers. Petals in the Wind. 2015. All Rights Reserved.
Prologue
Nostradamus tenses when his dreamless sleep switches and her laughter fills his ears as he spectates from shadows.
She's dreaming again, of happier days. Yesteryears, when her face was filled with hope and the naivity of youthfulness. Of course, her perception of her innocence is different than his own, and in Catherine de Medici's dreams she remembers her whirling, beautiful, blinding love with a recently crowned King; his hair long since gone from his head, of his own accord (to her humor), and his face just as youthful as hers, mirth in his eyes as he chases her out their bedroom, down the hall and down cobblestone steps. She knows he could catch her quite easily, and knows that he is simply lagging behind her to preserve the moment, the memory, of when they first met months before at a party arranged by the Medici's to be held in the French King's honor.
He, the French King, had not been wed then, and the Medici's had hoped that he'd find interest in their eldest child, their prodigy. Catherine was the most beautiful of them all, and was to lead them to power. It was her duty to ensnare the King, and upon his arrival to the Italian manor, she had caught his eye most easily; when led to the gardens, he had raised a brow, on to the ploy the moment he'd seen her. For she was the most beautiful Medici of them all; but surely, there had to be more to her than the duty bound girl sent to entice him?
The part of her lips in surprise at his words, and the blush that tinted her fair cheeks at his musings, now that made Catherine beautiful to him. Her sudden shyness as she tucked a lock of her fair hair behind her ear; her uncertainty. The worry of her lip as she looked at him studiously in thought.
Then, Catherine was running. Spontaneously. Laughter bubbling through her as she held tightly onto her dress skirts and lost her shoes in her haste. She hadn't gotten far before she felt strong arms around her waist, sweeping her up and around in a flamboyant twirl as the French King's laughter chimed harmoniously with her own; as they slowed and her feet gently came to rest upon the ground, her hands tentatively on his own as his arms held her firm still; a backwards glance up at his face; breathless, handsome glee staring down at her with approval.
Love - Catherine de Medici would later think - was what that first encounter mirrored as she ran down castle steps - her castle steps - and into a courtyard, hearing his footsteps never far behind. Love was the joy she was feeling; the flamboyant twirl as her barren feet left the ground.
Love, Catherine de Medici would think at the time, was grand. Wonderful. Beautiful.
And eternal. Transcending beyond power. Beyond station. Beyond duty or obligation or thirst for materialistic gain.
It would be infinite.
Such naivity, her mind would whisper years later, bitterly warping her memories into dreams of violence and sorrow.
But even now, as the inkling of a nightmare began to transform the scene before them, Nostradamus remembered Catherine's youthfulness differently. Saw the hope that had trancended, indeed, beyond materialism. Saw the youthfulness that had preserved itself even when the lust of power and the venomous greed of station had wearied her face to one hardly recognized by her own self.
Infinite Love, even if she denied it to herself.
The sweet dream was gone. Replaced in its stead, an image - her; blood on her hands - Catherine's own - from a puddle pooling from between her thighs. In her arms, a bundle, resembling a child, yet not one; a crown, where a child should lie, and covered in blood. He hears it in her thoughts - in Catherine's arms should be a girl. A beautiful, twelve year old child, raised from birth. Her mind doesn't conjur up how the child died, it knows, as does he, and Nostradamus silently thanks God that it has not forced her to remember who it was that took her daughter's life; instead, as Catherine clutches the bundle, and in confused horror, she glances up and sees her eldest son; blonde, beautiful. A painful reminder of the daughter she has lost, yet an adored, beloved testament of the mother she has become. His blue eyes are wide and unseeing. His hand clutches his side, where Catherine finally notices, he is wounded.
He falls to his knees. Looks at her pleadingly to save him.
Her face, it falls. She glances at the bundle, at the crown in her arms. Nostradamus feels the weight on Catherine's heart as she wonders if she can part with it. If it will leave her arms if she tosses it aside, or reappear within them as soon as she blinks. Catherine glances at her son again and sees he is bleeding more profusely; notes he's paler in complexion and his lips are blue.
Nostradamus knows that he should wake her up now.
But as much as it pains him to see Catherine's tortured state of mind, he savors the moment to witness her despair so openly.
So he watches the dream play out to its climax; watches as she tosses the bundle, the crown, far from her; watches as she holds her son in her arms as he dies.
She doesn't cry in this dream.
Instead, she glances from her now dead son to the bundle she's discarded, and slowly crawls back to it.
Though Catherine sheds no tears this dream, Nostradamus feels her body shaking - on some, self conscious level - and knows she's weeping in reality. Knows that her body cannot handle her mind's imprisonment and dependency on the lifestyle she never truly wanted, but now only knows.
He opens his eyes first. Feels his cheeks are moistened and knows he's been crying with her. He wipes his cheeks, then leaves his room through the secret passageways, and makes his way to Catherine's own.
He never needs to be with Catherine to see her sorrow.
That's why he's the only one whom can comfort her. The only one that she will ever be able to fully rely on, even if she doesn't know it herself.
When he reaches her room, the moon shines on her shillouete in the window. It's a breathless sight, she always is, and he is quiet a moment to take all of her in. He sees Catherine's blonde hair, long and unbidden, freed from any pins and crowns, flowing to her mid-back and Nostradamus longs to feel her tresses against the pads of his fingertips.
He knows if he tried, she'd shove away his hand.
He knows she isn't waiting for him, but he also knows that she knows that he would come. What they share neither need be explained in words, nor actions. But it is always he who acts.
And he who always will.
Because what he feels for her - it is infinite.
He waits until he is behind her, a mere inches away, before saying her name softly.
"Catherine."
She doesn't reply immediately, and Nostradamus does not expect her to.
"I had a dream," she says finally, wearily. "It was a terrible dream," she whispers, voice embracing a tone of despair. He knows its horrid of him, but he feels slight happiness at seeing her in such an unreserved state. He knows she is still feeling the affect of her fatigue else Catherine'd not utter word of her melancholy with such emotion in her tones.
He says nothing, and she continues.
"Did you see this dream?"
"No, Your Grace," he lies.
Her eyes narrow at her reflection against the window.
"Francis dies. How did you not see my dream?" There is doubt in her tone, angry disbelief. Accusation. Catherine knows that he sees images of her son's death more vividly, and more frequently than herself. She knows that had something not happened, she'd not have had that nightmare.
She doesn't need to state his dishonesty, but she does, back still turned towards him, anger morphing her features. Nostradamus is used to this unruly expression, but nevertheless finds it beautiful beyond words.
"Who are you to lie to me?" She says, venomously, and his heart stutters in both pain and adoration. He bows his head. Says nothing for a moment.
He hears her sigh and knows then the dream has taken its toll. Feels the resentment fall away from her.
"What have you seen now? Have these visions not yet changed? After everything I've tried to do? After all that I have wrought?" Her pitch changes, and Nostradamus raises his gaze when he notices that she is panicked. He knows it's wrong of him, but his lips part in amazement. Catherine turns to him fast, eyes narrowed with resolve.
"Show me what you've seen." She walks briskly to her writing desk and picks up a small blade. He waits for her, watches as she pours herself wine into a goblet; then waits for her to stand before him. He is silent when Catherine snatches his arm, and still when he feels the edge of the blade on his vein. He does not waver when she bleeds him into her cup, almost wishing he had it in his heart to let her bring it to her lips.
He advances, grabbing Catherine's wrist and halting her movements, cup poised at her lips, blood sliding down the length of his hand. He sees fury in her eyes as she stiffens at his touch. "Let go," Catherine hisses through clenched teeth, trying to be careful of her movements, less the goblet spills.
Nostradamus says nothing, and moves not. Instead, his hand travels from her wrist to the goblet. Catherine glares, but lets him pluck it from her hands. Watches with hate in her eyes as he drinks the contents himself.
"Why?!"
Her hands push against his chest, and the goblet slips from his fingers. She pushes him with all her strength back against a wall. Her small hands curl around his throat, and instead of pushing her away, he reaches down, and urges her closer; urges her to tighten her hands around him. He knows that she would kill him, if she really wished it. Knows that she is releasing all the hatred inside her that she feels. For her life. For herself. For him. So he urges her, hands tighting around her own in hopes he helps her accomplish her aim, whilst tenderly stroking the skin of her hands with his thumb.
"Why?" she demands again.
"Do you truly think it kindness to subject a mother to witness the ways in which Nature has debated taking her child's life?" he asks her calmly, throat not constricted because her grip is not as tight as he - and rather, she - would like.
"You are hiding things!" she cries in anger.
"Do you wish me to show you every truth my mind has seen? Every possible reality, every life, that could be lived? I don't yet believe you want to know truly. Don't subject either of us to another torment, Catherine."
She quiets. Bristles. Hesitates. Her hold slackens on his completely, and the anger is gone, replaced by something akin to fear, and he notes it sadly. For bitterness, towards her, there is none, even when faced with her continued rejections.
Nostradamus knows that she remembers now; he could show her anything he'd like; he could be selective, or reveal to her all. He could have watched the blood tainted wine slide down her throat, watched as her eyes clouded and she saw visions of Francis' death. For there were so many ways he was dying now. So many different ways that Nostradamus no longer knew which ones were more likely, besides that one. He knew he could also decieve her, and show her, again, all the possibilities God may intend her life. Each a different happiness. Each with him. He knew that he could show her things that would leave her body leaden with need for him. For them. For their future. And, Nostradamus knew, that was why she cowered. Because he could unveil to her the truths of her heart and what - and whom - it truly longed for.
A torment for her, because she would never forsake the life she'd been given, even if she longed to.
A torment for him, because he would never force her to forsake that which she'd chosen.
"I am afraid to lose him," Catherine whispered.
"Is that the truth? Or are you simply afraid to lose your crown?"
Her startled eyes narrow. "You said you hadn't seen me dream."
"You've already said I'd lied."
"How dare you! Francis is my son."
"And Henry and France are all your home, your asylum, and your prison. It is all you have to your name, this country. Without it, you and your sons are nothing."
She says nothing. Nostradamus feels instantaneous guilt. The words are true, he knows, but she is lost - and he knows that as well.
"You can't throw away all you know, Catherine. You wouldn't survive. It would not save him from death, either way."
"Surely you don't know that," Catherine protests, weakly and bitterly.
"But I do." She glances at him. "No matter what - whether you eliminate all threats before him or simply let things be - his life will be claimed before your own."
"I...!"
Her face transforms to one of pure agony. It is a look upon her features that he has not yet seen, and though he knows it's sick of him, and twisted, his heart clenches and he makes haste to memorize every new contour of her face. He does not delight in her pain, he simply yearns to see her undone and unravled; stripped of her cold masque and laid bare before him, her very soul in its entirety.
Still, despite Nostradamus' fascination, Catherine's pain breaks him, as it always does. A part of him whispers that he must have planned this, but he pushes those thoughts far from him as he steps closer to her and draws her into his embrace. She doesn't fight him, and he feels her fingers clutch the fabric of his robe as she sobs.
"I cannot lose a second child! I cannot lose my son!"
He says nothing, simply holds her as she cries. He thinks of Clarissa's meandering spirit, and contemplates telling Catherine that her daughter is still yet beside her; however, Nostradamus knows such an action is not wise in their present moment. Knows that is not what she means.
Immediately, Nostradamus thinks back to his encounter with the King's bastard-born days prior. His mind plays his words over and over again in his mind.
"She already will hate me," Sebastian had whispered. "She knows it not yet, but she already does."
Nostradamus' demand that the bastard reveal what he had done had fell upon death ears, and despite Nostradamus' many gifts, he had yet to decipher the young man's meaning. He was almost certain that it involved turning the Scottish queen's gaze away from the dauphin. He had terrible visions which had shown him such. But what exactly Sebastian de Poitiers had already done, Nostradamus was not sure. Worry creased his brow and his mind ventured back to that vision - and he wondered if that path had already begun.
Tainted flower beds; white, carnation petals stained red with blood as it embraced a body of fair skin.
He stopped himself from remembering anymore.
He thought of the queen now laid bare in his arms - knew that he could not allow her to suffer any longer. He needed to find a way, any way, to save her. Save her son. Save both Mary and Sebastian - the boy that was near a son to him if he were to ever have one. Despite his devotion to the woman in his arms, Nostradamus would never turn against Sebastian - if he could help it. He had only ever wished for the bastard's happiness; now, Nostradamus thought, grimly, that happiness seemed almost an imagined daydream than anything. And, should the bastard continue down this path...
Nostradamus felt his hand lace into Catherine's hair, and he closed his eyes a moment to savor the feel of her soft tresses against his skin. Opening his eyes again, and clutching her shaking figure a little more securely to him, he let his gaze wander to the window, where a dandelion seed brushed against the glass, before stopping to rest on the window's outer ledge.
That was what they were, Nostradamus ruminated, bemused - dandelions. Seeds - himself and Catherine, and Sebastian and Mary, and the like. That's all it made them, really, this life they lived; windswept seeds caught up in the tide of monarchy, politics, and death, carried away against their will and forced to bloom where ever they were placed, until the wind took them up again. A never - ending cycle.
An infinite sorrow.
He looks down at the woman in his arms, at the woman he loves, and wonders if Sebastian felt the same crushing weight when Mary was in his arms like this; yes...he was sure, the Bastard had doomed himself to a similar fate. Which was all the more reason to fight against it.
Just then, Nostradamus felt a painful tingle in his arms, the first inkling of a vision. It hurt, this vision, and he bit his tongue to keep from crying out. He saw his vision haze, then clear. Watched as a Scottish queen lost herself in throes of passion, then...a shift, her brown tresses against the ground as she cried before a grave - but whose? - snow falling softly, like petals that fall.
And as soon as the vision started, it ended. Nostradamus blinked. Swallowed the blood pooling in his mouth, and released his tongue from behind his clenched teeth. He focused on the queen now in his arms, at her desperate murmurings despairing at the thought of losing her child.
The puzzling vision in his mind, Nostradamus encased the French queen, resolute.
"Hush," he told her, giving in at last to the words of adoration that longed to be said aloud. "Hush, My Love. Everything will be okay. I promise...that no force outside of nature...will take your son's life."
If the French queen noticed his choice of words, she chose to ignore it to focus on her despair. It was just as well on his end; for he could not bear to share Francis' many deaths with her, but would not refuse should she request again.
He looked up at the window again, just in time to see the dandelion seed stolen by the wind.