A/N: This was started way back for the writing challenge with the prompt as 'Mud' but I never got around finishing it. [You'll see, the idea became a bigger project for the time I had] The deadline for that is months past but I decided to complete it just to get back into writing.

Disclaimer: Don't own anything recognizable here nor making any money.

This is a mix of the BBC show, Dumas' book, some historical information and my own imagination. There won't be any accuracy either way.

I've typed out the entire story so updates might be faster.

While I did put Romance as genre for this one I'm not really sure it fulfils that, but that's what's it's supposed to be from the writing end so….

Happy reading!


Stone by stone we're tumbling

Inch by inch it's humbling

Fooled by the world untangling,

You're leaving me whole again…

- Kris Orlowski [stone by stone]


The rain is light in Valladolid.

A thin web in the air that prickles over her face and soaks her hair until all the pins in the world cannot hold it in place. The edges of her dress are heavy, dragging against the earth as her dainty slippers sink into the slush. It is one of the few puddles in the immaculately kept courtyard and she is fascinated. Gathering the drenched folds of her gown she jumps, feels the pop as she lifts and the squelch as she sinks and she giggles.

"Ana María Mauricia!"

The giggle gets stuck in her throat.

"Good heavens child! Your dress; your shoes; it's on your face!" the governess clutches her arm and Ana winces, eyes widening at the horror she sees in the adult who pulls her away and hastily wipes at the mud stuck to her face.

"Your Grace I beg your forgiveness, please I shouldn't have – there, there, don't cry."

And it is then that she realizes that the wetness on her face isn't just the rain. Her governess pulls her into her arms and up. The handkerchief doesn't stop wiping at her face and she sees it getting darker with each try to clean her skin.

"It's all over you. And in your hair too," her governess murmurs as they make it to the palace doors, "Your Grace you must not go out like this alone, especially not in the storm. It is not befitting a princess. Oh it's clinging to everything!"

Ana buries her face in the plump shoulder and refuses to show how the tugging at her hair hurts when the handkerchief shifts to clean there; she is a princess after all. When she's set down in her room she shivers, rubs at her arms that are streaked with mud too and she rubs harder. The horrid thing wouldn't let go and her governess tisks as she cleans her with a warm damp cloth.

"See your grace?" she nods towards the dark smudge on the cloth, "it never truly goes away,"

Ana nods.

Lets herself be cleaned and dressed and once she is deemed to be looking like a princess again she goes to sit in the window seat. Her governess gathers the dirty clothes and stokes the fire. The rain falls harder and faster outside and Ana dares not open the window. Through the blurry glass she watches the grass grow darker, watches more puddles appear in the courtyard. High in her tower room Ana watches the earth get soaked through and shivers.

She is four years old.


It's pouring in Paris.

Fat raindrops smack onto his head as he wipes at his eyes; clears away his hair clinging to his face and the rivulets that run down to his chin and into his collar. His clothes stick to his skin and he dodges the people scurrying for cover. The sky rumbles and his boots slap the wet cobblestone as he makes it down the street.

He spots it ahead, in that patch of the street where the cobbles are missing.

And taking a running leap he lands with a splash in the mud.

Someone shrieks, someone yells, words rise in the air only to be drowned out by the clap of thunder. Laughing he stomps once, twice, the mud splatters everywhere as someone grabs him by the ear.

"Ow! Maman! Ow!"

"I'm sorry did you say something?" she turns to him with a glare, clutches the back of his collar and pulls him out of the puddle, "I can't hear you over the storm,"

"I was just –"

"You'll catch your death in this cold,"

"It was only for a minute –"

"Not a word from you Rene," she pulls him close to her side and rubs a hand down his arm, "your lips are turning blue,"

She drags him along with a warm hand at the back of his neck. He hangs his head; feels his insides twist at the worry in her dark eyes. They rush to their house in silence and it is not until he is somewhat dry and wrapped in covers around the two shirts that his Maman had pulled over his head that he finally murmurs a small apology.

"Corazón mío, I just don't want you to get sick," she drops another towel on his head and rubs vigorously.

He wriggles until he can peek out from under the damp towel, half a grin already in place.

"Don't worry Maman I'm strong," he says.

And cupping his face between her hands his mother drops a kiss to his brow.

"That you are," she smiles and smooths back his dark curls, "but how about you wait for the summer showers and watch the winter storms from the window?"

"With honey milk?" he asks; because he is Rene and he cannot resist pushing his luck.

With a blank look his Maman points towards the window but he catches her smile as she turns away. Honeyed milk would follow he knows and dragging the chair close to the windowsill he throws open its doors. The roar of the rain echoes in the house as he is sprayed with rainwater again. Ignoring the wet trails down his face he looks up at the sky over the rooftops, watches the clouds as they grumble and growl.

He is five years old.


Once upon a time the Sky caught sight of the Earth.

And the Earth?

It stared back.


She keeps near the walls, secure in the illusion of melting into their visage if she moves pressed into them; too young yet to accept that closing her eyes does not make her invisible to danger. The lights flicker and the shadows dance as she clutches the papers and makes her way down to the main floor of the castle. She sneaks out into the grounds through the window and ducks away from the patrolling guards.

It isn't until she is by the tree line skirting the royal courtyards that she slows; steps into the shadows until the trees behind her hide the courtyard beyond and stops only then. Looks down at the pages she had torn from their bindings.

They are mostly sketches and not even that good if she was honest with herself. But they were her thoughts, her words and drawings that she had been collecting for quite some time now.

But at seven she is almost a lady her mother had reminded her and a lady wouldn't leave her thoughts exposed to be found by unfriendly eyes. She is fortunate that it was her mother who discovered her habit, or who knows how it could have been used by someone else.

"Burn them my love," her mother had said, "do not let them be twisted into splashes of dirt for your enemies to fling at you,"

In the pale shreds of the moonlight reaching her she gazes down at the half sketched horses, outlines of the corridor outside her room, the details from the vase that her mother loved and unfinished thoughts that only made sense to her. She couldn't burn them, something twisted in her at the thought of throwing these pages into the flames.

Ana rips them up.

One over the other and she tears them up again and again until she can't for the thickness.

Dropping the pile of crumpled pieces she reaches for one of the many sticks littering the ground and then she digs. The ground is damp here, soft and crumbly and gives easily. Allows her to make room for the thoughts she seeks to bury and soon there is a hole that she deems suitable enough.

Placing every last piece of the papers into the ground she covers them again with the dirt. Stares at her grimy hands and she knows that the cool press to her knees would be leaving stains on her nightgown. Keeping her hands away from the rest of her clothes she rises to her feet and looks down at the patch of turned earth. Soon it would be like the rest of the forest floor, soon there will be no trace of her presence here and as she turns away, Ana knows that once she washes the dirt from her person there will be no sign left of this moment.

But she will know.

And that is enough.


He pushes away from the wall and launches at the nearest sneering young man; fist connecting with a jaw even as he grabs the neck and uses all his weight to bring the head down to his level for another blow. Hits land on him from all around but he doesn't feel them, doesn't acknowledge them, doesn't bloody care because how dare they – how dare they use such words for his mother –

A near animalistic snarl escapes him as the arm around his waist and the hand in his hair finally yank him away from the target of his rage.

He kicks out; clawing at the lightly bearded face nearest him even as he bites into the hand that is holding the front of his collar.

Profanities fill the air as he is dropped and someone lands a kick to his belly pushing the breath out of him. Gasping he curls forward slightly before he slams a fist in the nearest leg. They are over twice his age as well as his size but that is nothing compared to the boiling rage in his scrawny eight year old body and Rene springs up to land blows to the leader of this four man group.

He lands onto his back a few minutes later.

"Scrappy little mutt aren't you?" the one cradling his bitten hand kicks at his leg and Rene chokes back a scream.

A bloodied face looms in his hazy vision.

"Finally accepted your place then?" it demands and he would snap back a reply if he had the breath, if his mind would grasp his thoughts.

Someone spits near his head.

"–tter filth –"

" –ver forget that –"

There is a fist in his hair and the stink of alcohol in the words growled at his face.

" –nd that's your place mutt. You're filth just like your mother,"

His head hits the ground again and there are stars before his eyes. Bright and tiny and flashing and so close that he feels he could touch them if only he could raise an arm. Somewhere he can hear a voice, pitched high in fear and vaguely he realizes it is Pauline.

Rene blinks slowly.

The blur in his sight stays.

But so do the stars, they are never this bright in the fading night but they are in that moment. Blazing like distant fires and cold gems, beckoning him to reach out, to hold on and as Pauline lifts his head to break into his view, Rene vows to himself to never be in this position again.

Because this, this is not enough.


The Sky held promises.

The Earth kept secrets.

Between them a heavy silence.


She stares at the clay figurines left to dry at the windowsill.

Margret wriggles in her lap and asks again for their mother and she wants to tell that she needs her too. Instead she shushes the child and looks out the darkened window, listens for the hushed breeze leaden with the distant smell of wet soil and holds on to her baby sister. Reminds herself that her sister is only a year old so she couldn't understand; that the little ones gathered at her feet couldn't either and glances to her brother sitting on the chair next to her. Philippe holds her hand, he is scared and she wants to show that she is too. But she smiles at him, tries to ease the downwards pull at the corners of boy's lips.

The door opens. It is not their governess, but father who steps through.

She stands and he crouches, his shoulders stoop his head dips.

She raises her chin, pulls her back straight.

"Ana, my child, my heart," big hands grasp both hers, "your mother, you dear mother is gone,"

And somehow she has seen it coming from the moment he had stood in the doorway; yet it blows her away, the words drag her away, weightless, breathless, adrift. There is the sound of sniffles and sobs and the hand clenching hers is painful; but above it all there comes the unmistakable cry of a newborn.

"You have a new brother," his father is saying.

The words echo out to her.

"He needs you Ana," the voice is tired, "your siblings need you. They will look to you now for strength and comfort, you must be brave for them my child."

She nods.

Lets Margret clutch at her leg and bends to gather the others with her free hand, Philippe still holds the other. The day that dawned to mark her birth ends with the night her mother breathes her last. At ten years old Ana holds onto the young lives in her grasp, wet faces and sticky fingers, and she promises herself to mould them as best as she can.


He glances at the clay pots lining the wall.

Looks away before the man in front of him can follow his gaze and catch the shadow rustling behind them. Hands curled into fists at his sides he glares up at his fuming sire.

"Who're you sending it to then?" growls d'Herblay, "where's my grain disappearing to?"

It's likely feeding their recently crippled grounds-man's family but he isn't sure, and he isn't going to tell the man even if he has seen all three of the girls smuggling the small parcels to the house staff. They call him the d'Herblay bastard here but he isn't that sort of a bastard.

"Are you planning to send it to your Maman?" the man collars him, the stench of grapes and honey blows into his face, "storing it up somewhere are you?"

The shake that follows makes his teeth clang, makes him hold on to the very hands holding him up from the floor. His surprised knees almost miss taking his weight when he is suddenly released, it's the only reason the fist misses his eye and splits his lip instead. There's a muffled gasp from behind the pots as he falls and his eyes narrow in a warning, telling the girl there to stay put.

"Next time I catch you anywhere near my stores you'll find the last thrashing pale in comparison," d'Herblay walks out with that.

He can still hear the man snapping at the new grounds-man somewhere close by as he moves to where Maria is hiding. Nearly topples back when his half-sister throws herself at him and holds on.

"I'm sorry Rene, I'm sorry,"

"Hush, I know you girls meant well, it's alright,"

The little one leaves wet splotches on his shirt.

"We thought – we wanted –"

"Let's get out of here first," he tells her.

She turns and trips and down goes two clay pots in a thick crash. Grabbing the seven year old by her arm he hauls her up to the window and turns to face d'Herblay just as she jumps out. The man has his belt out already. But it's not like it hadn't left imprints on him before he tells himself, reminds himself of the three little girls who had stopped turning up too bruised ever since d'Herblay brought him here. At eleven years old Rene holds onto the young lives in his grasp, hardened faces and brittle bones and he promises himself to not let them shatter from the blows he takes on.


The Sky refused to fall.

The Earth refused to break.

Because the world has to go on.


The days have been long.

At fourteen years old she's a bride, a wife, a queen; she feels no different than from when she was not. The horses trudge along the mud splattered road, their procession having lost its pomp and colours somewhere back the way they had come. She had seen the other bride, the other queen, the other wife on that small island as the two of them had switched families, countries, loyalties.

Louis dozes on the seat across from her.

She peeks out from the carriage window and stretches her legs under the long gown, wonders if her husband would let her ride a horse for a change. But she refrains from asking, from waking him up if only for conversation. His Majesty has made clear how he feels about such interruptions. She sits back with half a smile at the thought of that sluggish indignation she had faced from Louis that reminded her of a very young Philippe urged awake after his noon slumbers.

The jolt comes as a surprise.

She holds on to the edge of her seat as the carriage nearly tips back, the wheels lurch in the air, the world tilts and smashes and drags. There are yells and whines and Louis is screaming, clinging to the wooden bar as mud splashes them from where the door should be in the wall of the carriage that is now their floor. And then the carriage flips, tumbles, her head smacks onto something hard and she trembles as water laps at her ankles.

Louis is screaming and screeching.

"Your Majesty –"

He's tangled in the thick drapes he had been lying on and clawing at what remains of his seat.

"Majesty –" the carriage is slipping, the water rising.

Louis sobs; loud and wet.

There are hollers in the distance and she can see the men through the rips in the carriage wall. She tries to move towards that direction even as the ache in her head makes the world spin under her. Catching her husband by the back of his shirt she gives him a shake; her panic almost softening at the whimper that gets her.

"We need to move," she says, "we're on a slope, a river bank," she pushes back the shiver in her voice and the carriage slides down around them a little a more, "we need to move up,"

Urging Louis ahead of her she follows until the king is almost out of the nearly crushed carriage. The men on the lip of the incline lower down to them with ropes around their waists. She watches them come nearer and struggles to tear at her dress that is stuck on something inside the slipping wreck.

They reach Louis, secure him in their arms.

King before Queen, she knows.

He doesn't look back at her; doesn't glance back even as she gasps when the carriage drags her further down.

"Your Majesty –" she stretches out with a hand even as she pulls at her dress from the other, "I'm stuck, and it's not –"

In the arms of his soldier he looks to her but doesn't reach out. Her stretched arm falls, claws at the mud as the carriage collapses and sweeps out into the river, taking her along, down and away as she whirls and kicks and sputters. The water pulls on her hard and fast. There is no sense of up or down, there is no space to breathe; there is nothing for her to stand on.

Suddenly there is grip coiled around her waist, a solid presence at her back.

Ana coughs and looks up, the back of her head smacking his face.

Blue eyes meet brown.


The nights have been too short.

At fifteen years old he's ready to be a bridegroom, a husband, a father; for the first time in years he feels anticipation, for the first time in his life he is in love. His beautiful Isabelle had calmed him like no one else had ever before; has him making plans to put away money for a home in his future. He will work, he will earn and he will find his place in Paris away from his sire and closer to his mother. In just few more years he would have a place and a family to call his own.

Leaning over the bridge he watches the swollen river raging far below. The small dagger he had forged at the local blacksmith's hangs from between his fingers as he takes a break on the way back to the mansion.

He sees the wreck first; long strips of cloth and bits of wood caught in the water current and amongst them someone struggling. Pulling off his belt he wedges the hilt of his dagger through the metal of the belt loop, pulls on it once to make sure it's stuck tight and jumps into the water.

She's slim in his grasp but struggling like a spooked mare, powerful kicks and hard elbows that leave bruises everywhere.

"I've got you," he tells her, "stop, stop,"

She sputters and coughs and rams her head into his face.

"I'm trying to help," he says, looks away at the floating drapery and snatches it up, "we'll cut diagonal across the stream alright?" he turns to the girl, "You kick the water to help. Not me, the water."

He's already maneuvering them towards the nearest embankment and surprisingly the girl helps in good synch. They're as close as they'd get when he brings up the dagger, the belt and what had once been a fine piece of thick cloth; the girl ties it to the belt without a question either way.

He can't help the smile.

And looks back to the still distant shore and measures their possible reach, their speed and the angle; an act that's part instinct part learned. They have only one chance and he knows he's good at this, has never missed his mark once he's honed what came to him naturally, but he'd never done this before either.

He sets his arm, breathes in and blows out as the dagger flies from his grip.

Sticks into the tree by the river bank ahead and in the next breath he grasps the cloth that they're being washed by. But there's a give, the dagger hadn't struck hard enough and the cloth isn't tied tight enough to the belt. He glances at the girl and secures her hands on the cloth.

"Pull yourself up," he says.

He can feel the blade inching out of the tree trunk even as the girl gets a good hold and he fears that the makeshift rope will split at the knot. He nods at her once and lets go.

Between her yell and his own he tries to swim to the edge. But the water pulls him in the other direction and he swims with the flow, gathers his strength to cut through it eventually and when he does it leaves him clinging to some low branches downstream. Shivering and coughing he pulls himself up over the muddy incline, hands and knees sinking in the dirt as he crawls out of the river completely and flops down onto his front.

It's the thought of that girl that urges him to move.

Dragging himself up to his feet he stumbles and sways making his way upstream, looking to the other side of the river for any sign of that girl. He finds men, soldiers, hears them before he can see them and hastens closer to the river edge. There she is, looking up at the soldiers coming to her aid from the road above. He lets go a breath he didn't remember holding and grabs the nearest tree for support. He is caked in mud, it's making his clothes cling to his skin; it's on his face, in his hair and in the breath that he takes.

The mud streaked girl on the other side of the river turns back towards Rene.

Brown eyes meet blue.


The Sky spread out far and wide.

The Earth rolled out open and broad.

And tucked in the distant horizon their first meeting,


TBC