A/N OK, time for a one-shot. I'm not one for songfics, but this just struck me as appropriate...I have to admit it was the first line that sold it, and this could easily have been comedy, but sorry, angst won out! The bits I haven't written obviously don't belong to me - Mr Shakespeare probably wouldn't care, though Mr Rice might. Oh, and thanks to Posh for other Damien-related inspiration ;o)

This is 100 a one-shot, and intended to grasp an idea that is not really allowed for in the movies. Set after Philippe's death, and there has never been a romance with Joseph.

Enjoy, Nic.x

"don't hold yourself like that you'll hurt your knees

i kissed your mouth & back that's all i need

don't build your world around volcanoes melt you down

what i am to you is not real

what i am to you, you do not need

what i am to you is not what you mean to me

you give me miles and miles of mountains

and i'll ask for the sea…"

(Volcano, Damien Rice)

As Clarisse set the fork carefully down on the side of the plate, the little click of silver on good china ringing clearly in her ears, she felt his eyes on her. Always on her. She didn't want to look up, not yet. She didn't need to look up, he would be looking at her. Again.

As if in protest, her eyes scanned the table, and then back to her plate, the half-eaten onion tartlette staring back at her, provoking her to leave it. An appetite seemed to have deserted her, and she was feeling uncomfortable in the overly warm room.

Sighing softly, she fussed with her napkin, her fingers unable to rest still in her lap any longer. The fabric was a heavy linen, and she traced the weave, the lines caressing her fingertips. She was tired, exhausted actually, and was thankful that there was only one more course to be served. The dinner had been an impromptu affair, Motaz had arrived late for their meeting and she had felt obliged to invite him to stay. Pierre, who was staying for the week had joined them and, bless him, had managed the conversation. Picking at her food, picking at their conversation, she had slipped into the background. They were chatting animatedly now about the recent reforms to the Catholic church. She sighed again, wondering how they managed to become so interested in such a matter. Yes, she respected the Church, yes, she understood the interest of the reforms…but, for heavens sake, how could they talk for nearly an hour with such excitement?

Glancing first at Pierre and then at Motaz, she wondered how long it would take the serving staff to bring the cheese and some coffee. Then she could retire to her rooms and get out of this damn oppressive hall. It was enormous, and yet she hated its claustrophobic air. So many paintings. So many eyes. His in particular.

Still she hadn't met his gaze, and yet she could feel it burning across her face. Her temples throbbed, and she closed her eyes for a moment. Why did he watch her? Why did he not just leave…leave her to her misery? Or must he suffer too…

Of course, were she to ask, he would reply that it was his job. That she paid him to watch her, nothing more. And yet there was more, so much more. He saw more. She couldn't describe it, nor explain exactly what she meant by it, but the feeling was almost instinctual. He saw something that she could not. Definitely something that her husband had not seen when he was alive, may he rest in peace. And it disturbed her considerably. Cameras she was accustomed to, press did little to unsettle her…she could smile on command, could say the right words, shake the appropriate hands. To hold his piercing gaze, however, that was another thing altogether.

To her relief, the cheese was served promptly. They ate in virtual silence, and then, pushing her plate away delicately, she bid them a pleasant evening, and excused herself. As she stood, he moved a little from his position, moving to open the door for her. As their eyes met she was momentarily struck by his expression. Contemplation, amusement perhaps…but pitiful. Yes, always pitiful. She nodded her acknowledgment, smiling weakly, and brushed past him.

Wandering slowly down the corridor to her suite, she wondered what he hoped to gain. What it was that he might expect from her. Rupert had been dead over a year, Philippe nearly a month and a half…her life had changed irrevocably. He had always been her personal guard, and, with Charlotte, her confidant on matters pertaining to the running of the palace. She liked him, liked his humour, his generally good-natured spirit, his intelligence. But what had changed? Had he always watched her so intently, had she just never noticed? She was unsure if that thought upset her or not.

Almost constantly now he watched her. He attended all major functions with her, escorted her to her car, drove her, brought her home. And he watched her. Watched her like a lover.

But what could he see? Something, someone that was not her. He saw a queen, a model of propriety, an image of perfection. Nothing more than an illusion. He seemed to be captivated by a woman she could never be. In her harsher moments, she wondered how he could be so blind? In her more vulnerable moments, as she lay alone in her enormous bed, she found herself wishing she could be what he wanted.

As she walked, she could hear someone falling into step behind her. Of course, it would be him, but she did not turn. And he would know better than to speak to her when she was tired. And, naturally, he would have noticed that…probably even before she had.

As she entered her suite, closing the door behind her, she wondered for a moment why it bothered her so much. It didn't take long for her arrive at an answer. Wandering into the room and throwing her jacket onto the sofa, she opened the doors to the balcony. It was still warm outside, and she stepped out in the night air. The garden was lit and for a while she just stood and admired the twinkling fountains and the intricate borders. It always relaxed her, soothing her frayed nerves, but not tonight. Sighing with frustration, her thoughts returned to him. Those eyes that saw everything.

But he saw nothing. How could he? She realised that she was being irrational, but she found herself beginning not to care. Sometimes she wished that he would talk to her…properly. Yes, they talked all the time, but never properly. It was only when he looked at her that she understood his meaning. But, of course, they would never talk, not like that. And thank God for that… Theirs could never be an equal conversation. He could never understand her. She would also demand of him in a way he could not reciprocate.

He was walking around the garden beneath her…she would recognise his gait anywhere. Somehow the darkness seemed to suit him. He should leave her, get away from here. From all this. Rubbing her hands along the cold marble of the balcony she wondered idly whether she might be able to persuade him to leave. He deserved much better, after all. She wondered if she would ever be able to speak that thought. Running a hand through her hair, she shivered a little. Looking down again, she noticed that he had gone.

As she sat at her dressing table, her silk robe draped casually around her elegant shoulders, she found herself as if transfixed by her own image reflected in the glass. What did he see? What more was there in her face that made him stay? Lines, always more lines. The image was being to fade, she could see that. A little more with every day.

For a moment she was angry, angry at his stubbornness, at his constant presence. Angry that he could believe in something that she never could. Each time he looked at her, he seemed to silently ask for her to be someone that she could not be. And she was so tired of his asking…

Running her finger down the cool glass, tracing the outline of her chin, she shook her head. Enough. This was pointless and would achieve nothing. She wondered what the perfect Queen should do…

Curling up, laying her head down on her folded arms, she closed her eyes, muttering to herself,

"Oh Joseph…why? Why now? I cannot bear you…not like this. This isn't real…what you see isn't real. You cannot fall in love with the Queen…it…" she broke off, the tears coming suddenly, startling her a little. "It isn't me…and…" she paused, realising perhaps for the first time the truth behind her tears "…and I can't bear it…if it's not me."

From her place in front of the dressing table, her face still buried in her arms, the tears flowing freely now, she could not have seen the silent figure in the doorway. Could not have realised that he had heard every word. For a long time, he stood there, watching her weep, her confession as startling to him as it had been to her. He struggled to understand her meaning…and then it struck him. He sighed inaudibly, and desperately wondered how he might convince her of the mistake, of his love. In this state she might never believe him…but he had to try. From nowhere, something sprung to mind and, before he had properly registered its meaning, he found himself speaking the well-wrought words,

In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,

As he spoke, she jumped, not quite believing her ears, afraid of what she might see. Slowly, she lifted her head from the table and turned to look at him. He smiled reassuringly, his eyes meeting hers, and then falling to the floor, as if deep in contemplation,

For they in thee a thousand errors note;

Her breath caught in her throat, the tears stilling a little, as the truth of his words washed over her. Step by step, he began to cross the space between them, looking up again, his strength hiding well his nervous heart. Coming to stand before her, he took her face in his hands, his thumbs tenderly stroking away the tears,

But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise,

Who in despite of view is pleased to dote;

Smiling, she looked into his eyes, and she understood.

"Joseph?"

"Oh my love…"