Title: Welcome was the Daylight
Summary: Mary Stuart is a maid for French Court, sent to live there after her mother's passing. The week of the Crown Prince's wedding, she meets him; and for a week, she is graced with his bright blue eyes sweeping her away; even though his heart is prepared for another.
Characters: Sebastian/Bash P., Mary S.
Genre: Romance, Hurt/Comfort
Date Originally Published: 12/12/13, (Re) Published: 12/31/13
Disclaimer/ Letter from the Author: Hey, guys. This is Marie Meyers, writer of The Petals that Fall. So, a few weeks ago, I had an idea come to me for a Reign story where Mary could choose who she married, and Bash and she were meeting for the first time. I had never written it out, and so one line from the idea has been on the NOTES section of my cell phone. The other day, I was debating on how I wanted to write TPTF chapter twelve - so many of you are so eager for it - and although I know what I want to happen, I'm stuck with how to go about writing it. So I thought, "Let's tinker with this Reign story idea instead", and here we are now.
Also, it's a slight song fic. "The Daylight" is a song by Andrew Belle, and the main muse for this story. Lyrics are quoted periodically. However, because Andrew Belle just fits the feel of this story in general, other lyrics from his albums may be quoted.
Reign belongs to Laurie McCarthy and The CW Network, and Sebastian du Poitiers as well. However, technically, Mary Stuart and Francis - all those historical characters - are public domain, and thus, this original plot, save Bash, is one which I can fully claim. So, all rights reserved on what is mine. Please ask permission for any use of this Fanfiction.
Re: Hey all. This was previously posted, as I'm sure you are aware. I hated chopping up the story into bits, so I decided to redo it, and make it a one-shot. It's pretty long.
For lyrics, I used each of Andrew Belle's albums. The song titles and their albums are listed below:
Black Bear
Black Bear
Sister
Many Lives
The Daylight
Welcome was the Daylight
The Ladder
The Ladder
Tower
Don't Blame Yourself
Reach
Open Your Eyes
In Your Veins
In Your Veins
All Those Pretty Lights
Replace Me
In Your Sleep
***All these songs fit the story, and they're amazing; so check them out.
Welcome was the Daylight
∵Can't believe she's gone. I Can't believe she's gone. I Can't believe she's gone away. Darkness was my future. Hopeless were the patterns. Callous was my heart, so it seems.
Mary Stuart often found herself gazing wistfully at the palace of Lithlingowshire. At least, what she could see of it from her village. The rest of it was seen in the memories of mere glimpses that had stolen the air from her lungs. The green pastures. The crystalline water that hugged it. She wondered what it looked inside, how lovely the decorated walls appeared, and how soft the bed linens were sure to be. She was star-crossed and dreamy eyed, her mind lost in fantasy as the wind whipped against her, freeing strands of her raven hair from its bun and sending them flying about her face.
It wasn't as if she hadn't been in a castle before (or seen one; her village of Blackness had its own castle that overlooked the bay) - - she had, when she was much younger and when her mother's health was much more improved and her father had been alive, and it was because of those moments she spent at the royal court in France that always made her wonder what her home's palace looked like inside it. Was it just a beautiful inside its walls as it was out?
When she and her mother used to visit the French Court, she used to step out the carriage as they approached the castle gates and pretend she were a princess. She'd straighten her posture and hold her head high, look ahead as she walked, and attempt to bow as regally and graceful as possible. She'd pretend the dresses she wore were of the finest silks and satins and that real diamonds adorned her neck instead of the glittering pebbles she'd fish out from the waters back at home, imagine that instead of her spending hours precariously shaping twine and rock into the accessory, that the necklaces she wore were crafted for her by request, and the chain made out of silver.
But at that time it was never real silver or diamonds which she possessed, nor silk and satin which she wore. She was neither regal nor royalty, not now. Nor were she a princess, and for many times upon their returns from France, she'd feel bitter by the realization; that she were stuck with less than she wanted.
As she matured, she did not wish to be a princess. With each passing year her mother's illness became more obvious, each year leaving her mother more weakened and sickly than the year before it, and the trips to the French Court (as well as her make believe royalty) dwindled peacefully away, leaving her without bitterness or sorrow. She accepted that she was a villager, and that she would never amount to more than being a farmer's wife or a maid or something.
But she could never deny her wonder of Lithlingow Palace, and she could never stop herself from being enchanted by its beauty.
Especially when she were supposed to be working.
She was supposed to be hastily making her way to the Blacksmith's with two loaves of bread. That's what she did to make ends meet for her and her mother. Seeing as her mother was so ill, she was no longer able to work to provide for them. Mary had been doing her part, since she had been fifteen, to ensure ends met and her mother always had her medicine. Not that she minded; she loved baking.
She also liked to daydream, and as she stood a few meters away from the Blacksmith's, staring at the castle, Mary barely noticed the wind, until a gust blew strongly against her, causing her to drop the two loaves of bread and snap back to the present.
"Jiggs!" Mary exclaimed, quickly reaching for the bread. She frowned, dusting them off as she gathered them to her, and began walking with haste to see the Blacksmith at his station. The blacksmith had been hunched over a horseshoe when she'd approached. She cleared her throat and smiled when he looked up at her. She jiggled the loaves of bread in her hands.
"Mitchy me, Mary," the blacksmith straightened, grabbing a cloth from his trouser pocket and wiping the sweat off his brow. "Ye better watch it, Bairn. Ye keep floatin' yer heed in the cloods, an' ye main fin' Miss Lillian cuttie ay a baker."
Mary nodded, "Yes, Gilligan."
Gilligan gave a dismissive wave. "Ye say 'at every time." He turned around, and flitted through the instruments he had messily about his workplace. He turned to face her, and tossed her three small coins.
"Teel the quine mah fowk cheers 'er fur th' breed," he said. Then he held out his hand and gestured for Mary to do the same. When Mary brought her hand next to his, five coins slid into her palm. Her eyes quickly met his hard stare.
"Thes is all I can offer ye," he said quietly. She opened her mouth to protest, but kept silent as Gilligan's hand covered hers, closing her fist around the coins.
"When 'at Frenchman comes, ye gie heem 'at," he said firmly. "Fur th' Quine ay Guise, ye gie heem 'at." There was a sympathetic lilt to his voice, and a sadness in his eyes that Mary found herself struggling to function under. There was a lump in her throat, which she quickly swallowed against, and she blinked away the wetness she felt dabbing the corner of her eyes.
"Aye," she said in acquiescence, turning away from the blacksmith. She retied her cloak around her, and hastily left the man at his station, wanting nothing more than to give Lillian her profit and then go home.
∵Oh, I should sing a little bit faster. I'm to blame for this disaster. I'm repairing my heart for you. Oh, and I should breathe a little bit softer. Oxygen reminds me I lost her. I'm repairing my heart for you. Can't believe she's gone, I folded on the creases. Tore myself to pieces now.∵
They always did that; looked down at her with sadness in their eyes, or gave her pitiful glances as if her mother were already dead. Sometimes, they gave her food to bring home to her mother. The Gaelics would tell her of natural remedies with which she could help cleanse her mother's spirit. Then sometimes they spared her a few coins on premise of her mother's medicine.
It wasn't as if Mary and her mother were impoverished; granted, they didn't live as the royals of the region did, but no one of her village did. She made no more and no less than anyone else in her community, and that was enough to function properly in her village of Blackness.
It was just that her mother's medicine cost a little more than village bread. In fact, if she were being precise, she needed three pounds to have enough medicine to begin to make up for the months her mother had been without it.
Years before, they had no issues with money. They had even lived in Lithlingowshire, when her father had been alive. Her father had been a doctor acquisitioned by the French King to overlook his son, when it was found the infant child was sickly. Mary's father was renowned throughout Lithlingowshire, and among the royals there, for his advancing practices. At the start of the time, many of her father's associates were beginning to look to corpses in hopes of medical discoveries. Her father barely partook in such practices, and focused on Gaelic teachings, which he infused with the science of his practice for the hope of healing. The non grotesque approach had appealed to the Lithlingowshire royalty, and, as the tale Mary was told went, the Queen corresponded with the French queen, who jumped at the possibility of a cure for her son.
That had been the first time she had ever left her country's waters, to journey to another. For months they had lived at French Court, where her father worked on creating a medicine for the youngest dauphin, to cure him of his sickness. She had often played with the prince, although they never did too many physical activities (as to avoid risking his health). Eventually, her father had created an oral medicine for the prince, which had alleviated his cough and returned the vitality to his blonde locks and fair skin in only a matter of days.
Mary's father had been paid handsomely for his cure; so much so, in fact, that he would often joke that as long as he lived, they would be well off for the rest of their lives.
But he didn't live long after their return from France. Two years after, he had fallen ill with an unknown disease. It weakened him, left clumps of his hair falling out wherever he went, and left him turning frail and sickly. He knew not how to cure himself, and so Mary and her mother had given out large sums to any doctor who claimed that they could. But it hadn't mattered.
They had been withdrawn from society by then. They no longer ventured out to dine or buy extravagant jewels and dresses. They still had some money left, though not as much as they had when her father had lived. Not enough to stay living in Lithlingowshire.
They only stayed in Lithlingowshire for three years after her father's passing. Blackness was of Falkirk, and the closet nearby village, used as the port of Lithlingowshire for its nearness to the harbour. With the money they had left, they took their belongings and left for the small village, and started over.
That had been five years ago. They had adapted quickly to the ways of the village, and likewise the native villagers had readily accepted them as two of their own.
Her mother had her cough long before they had arrived to Blackness; it had started within the first year of her father's death, when her mother had stopped eating as much and she'd begun buying from the tobacco merchants when they would travel through the Shire. She'd been smoking the tobacco leaves long before then, importing the good from England, but had decidedly smoked in secret when her father had been away (for he thought it a nasty habit, and her mother's indignant, "I am Mary Guise, and may do as I wish!" often led the couple to squabble).
Mary supposed that with her father's death, the native Frenchwoman began smoking consequently more than she had been, but when she pointed this out, instead of her mother's indignant response, her mother's hand would quickly, firmly, and effortlessly find her cheek; and so Mary quickly realized it was best to remain silent and let her mother mourn.
Two years ago, a harsh winter had hit Scotland. It had been freezing, and unacceptably cold. Mary remembered how she'd stared out at the harshly falling snow, and wondered what her father was doing in Heaven. Once, she had said this out loud to her mother, and her mother had sat beside her and replied in French, "Il regarde nous souffrons tout en étant libre de la douleur." She had taken her mother's hand then, and together they had watched the snow fall. Mary remembered thinking that she was glad he was watching them, if it meant he was free of his pain. That that was worth their suffering; made it non-existent.
Sometime after that her mother had fallen ill. The coughing got progressively worse and she'd felt hot against Mary's palm. Luckily, her mother's doctor, a Frenchman her father had known when they lived in Lithlingowshire, had answered her correspondence to visit Blackness.
At first, there was enough money saved away for her mother's medicine. But eventually, their fortune dwindled away, and at the start of that year, when her mother's doctor had come to see her mother, they had not any money left. At least, not enough of it.
Which was why Mary had saved money by working at the bakery for the past few months - - why, each time the doctor came, she'd give him the little change she had as payment towards her mother's medicine.
He was already there that evening, when Mary had arrived home. When she'd opened the door she found the doctor and her mother engaged in fervent whispers. She set the loaf of bread down on the table, the generous amount of shillings Gilligan had given her beside it, and removed her cloak; as her mother's violent coughing alertedly drew her attention and brought her to her mother's side.
"Mother," she said, as she worriedly searched her mother's clammy face.
"James," her mother whispered, clutching at her hand. "James?" Mary tried not to feel the sting of her mother's delirium; she often looked into her face and saw her father's. Mary knew it wasn't intentional.
"How long has she been this sickly?" the doctor asked of Mary.
"About a week. We've been waiting for your arrival."
The doctor didn't reply. Nervously, Mary thought of the five shillings she had on the table.
"I got more money today, to go towards the medicine? I think I'm almost at a two pounds and a half - - am I right? - - and - - "
The man sighed, and reached into his doublet, withdrawing from it a bottle of liquid.
"You may have it now."
"Now?" Mary asked, her brows knitting together. "Even with out the remainder of the money?"
"Yes." A pause, then, "Perhaps if I had only given it to you sooner, this could have been avoided." Mary, who'd started to reach for the bottle, halted.
"What does that mean? Wait - - where are you going?" Mary watched in acute confusion as the doctor gave her the medicine, then stood. "Wait. Sir. Sir. Wait!" The man had quickly made it to the door, and Mary hastily set down the medicine and followed after him. Outside, the wind's chill had become more insistent, and Mary kept one hand to her face to keep her hair from obstructing her view.
"Monsieur! Monsieur - - dites-moi ce qui s'est passé à ma mère! S'il vous plaît! S'il vous plaît! Please." The man halted in his retreat, and turned to face her. "Please. Tell me what has happened to her."
What came next, Mary knew she'd lie awake dreaming of.
"She is too far gone, Mary. Lady Guise will not last the night."
Mary couldn't breathe. Everything around her was slipping away. She heard her labour breaths, as her head shook viciously against his claims. "No. No. You gave me the medicine - - "
"On the off chance of a miracle. Mary, even your mother knows she is passing."
None of this was happening. None of this was real.
"I'm sorry, Lady Stuart. We were too late. I'm sorry."
Mary turned away from the man and ran inside. She fell beside her mother, who was shaking in her sleep. Urgently, she picked up the discarded bottle from the floor, and removed its lid. Propping her hand underneath her mother's head, Mary parted her mother's lips and let the medicine slide down her throat. Some medicine dribbled down her mother's chin, and Mary let out a strangled sound as she blinked against her unshed tears.
If she cried, she'd be crying for what she had lost; she refused to do so.
Her mother had told her that her father watched them suffer, while he was free of pain. Call her selfish, but Mary was too afraid to suffer in the world alone. As long as she had her mother-and as long as they had each other - - living was the easiest thing in the world.
Mary wouldn't make it without her.
Mary grabbed her mother's hand, holding on to it, even after it had lost its warmth.
"Now you can see me suffer. Now you too are free of pain, and only I will feel this suffering," she whispered. Her lips met the bluish tint of her mother's in recognition of her death.
"I love you," she said, aware that her mother couldn't hear her anymore. Her mother had drifted away.
And then Mary was sobbing; screaming - - loud, heart-wrenching cries that, for hours, racked her frame.
∵Open your eyes now. It's time to see...if you can reach me. Open your eyes now. It's time to leave...it's time to leave me. She'll be a star now. I will follow her lead. She'll be a scar now. I will still let her bleed.∵
There was a haze. It had formed when her mother died and clouded her vision long afterwards. She couldn't sleep for days. She was barely hungry. Gilligan and Lillian had both offered to check on her that first week of her mother's death, and at first, she hadn't cared much. She didn't care much about anything.
They buried her mother in one of the fields in Blackness. Mary hadn't enough money to bury her mother beside her father in Lithlingowshire. Gilligan had carved for her mother a marble tombstone, and had written her a French epitaph. Une mère, une fille, une épouse, et une amie. Mai sa beauté être vu en regard des portes du ciel. Mary remembered arriving at the blacksmith's station, and the way he carefully presented the headstone to her. She had cried then, the simple eulogy befitting her mother in such a way, that she was overcome with tenderness.
In her bitter haze, Mary felt as if they'd treated her like a doll, when her mother first passed. Awkward glances; whispers that quieted when she walked past. Mary knew that the small village was at a lost on what to do with her. She was the orphan in their village, and one that they were not able to take in and raise as their own. Of course, she knew that they would if they could.
The only day she didn't feel like an inconvenience, was the day of her mother's burial.
The village was too small for individual coffins. Gilligan and five other men carried the coffin to its designated place, a singular oak tree in one of their unused fields. She wished she could have got her mother her own coffin. Mary wished she could bury her mother beside her father in the Shire.
She had worn a black netted dress. She had a black cloak wrapped around her, and black netting covering her face as if it were a hijab. She had made a matching color paste, which she had spread upon her lips.
She held a white carnation on her hand as she walked with the mass of villagers to the field. Her eyes trained on the death hamper, she kept imagine her mother beside her, and that someone else had died.
The ceremony was tearless. Quiet. Mary couldn't help but think that her mother did not deserve to be buried there, in a place where no one could mourn.
Then the death hamper lowered for a moment. It resurfaced, now empty, and Mary couldn't stop the tears that trickled down her cheeks. Her mother shouldn't be buried there. Her mother shouldn't be dead.
She couldn't do it, approach the hearth in which her mother's body was placed in. She did not wish to see her, lying against the dirt, dead. So as a gust of wind swept past her, she let the carnation slide nimbly through her fingers; carried by wind and towards the hearth, where it vanished within it.
Mary felt like the carnation, flying away into her mother's arms.
∵The back beat in my heart syncopates when I hold you. Well I don't know what the use is, if I did I'd unfold you. I don't know what the truth is, if I did I'd have told you.
Lillian and Gilligan weren't checking in with her anymore. The day after the funeral, when she arrived at the bakery to work, she asked them both not to. They didn't argue with her, as they would have before. She knew they wouldn't.
It'd been two weeks since the funeral. Things still weren't the same, but Mary figured they'd probably never be again. As she walked the path to her house, she gazed out at the pastures to where her mother's body rest. She'd go visit after dinner. She always did.
Not long after she'd untied her cloak from around her, she heard three sharp taps on her door. Sighing, she walked to it.
"Yes?"
"I am a messenger on behalf of Queen Catherine of France, Milady."
Mary blinked. She stared at the man at her door, and noticed that three more men were behind him. Their royal insignias glittered harshly against the sunlight, and Mary's brows knit together as her lips parted in confusion.
She returned the messenger's bow slowly.
"Monsieur?"
"On behalf of your mother, the Queen has been issued the one now responsible for your care. We are to gather your belongings and escort you to the bay without delay, My Lady."
On behalf of your mother...Mary looked from the man speaking to her, to the three behind him.
"I don't understand. What do you mean?"
"Before her death, your mother requested the Queen take you in her care."
Understanding flashed in her eyes. "I am a charge of the French Queen?"
"Oui, mademoiselle. The Queen has instructed we leave immediately."
If something of such measure had happened to Mary before her mother had passed, she would have been more insistent. Less amiable. She'd have asked more questions. Mary's eyes flickered up at the villagers gathered around, watching their exchange, and then focused more on the carriage that stood waiting in the distance.
"I'll get my cloak," she said, stepping aside for the four men to enter her home.
She didn't say goodbye. Not to anyone. Not even her mother. She didn't know what that meant, and refused to find uncover its meaning, or the reason why she somehow felt like a weight had lifted off her shoulders.
The ship was grand, but that was to be expected. It was comprised of red wood and bronze trimmings. Mary was in awe of its elegance, and found herself running a hand through her hair, which had been blown haphazardly by the wind, in an attempt to tidy herself, at once feeling small in her lackluster dress, feeling as if she dulled the ships glow in comparison.
The man who had fetched her, Robert, escorted her to what was to be her place of sleep. It was beneath the Captain's Quarters, and not far from the crews'. The space was small, and slightly smelled of mold; Mary could hear a distinct splatter of water, and knew that somewhere in her cabin there was a leak.
The sound of water droplets distracted her from the unnerving and otherwise silent surroundings she found herself in. The bed was small, but no smaller than the bed she had slept in at her village, and she stayed retired in her chambers that first night. As she lied awake, she allowed herself to finally slip into her confusion, as her thoughts ran wild with her. Why was she aboard this ship? Robert had said her mother had sent a correspondence to the French Queen. When had she done such a thing? How did the Queen learn of her mother's passing? Why did the Queen wish to make Mary her charge? She frowned. She thought of her mother. It was just like her-to think of her well-being in her death.
She cried again that night, longing for her mother, wishing at last that she had said goodbye, and even more, that her mother was on such a journey with her.
∵Nothing goes as planned. Everything will break. People say goodbye, in their own special way. All that you rely on, and all that you can fake, will leave you in the morning, but find you in the day.∵
When the ship came to dock, it was days later. Mary squinted at the harsh sunlight that welcomed her to the French shores. It was slightly cooler than it would have been in Scotland.
There were carriages waiting for them, and as Mary timidly walked down the ship's platform, eyes wide, she took everything in. Nothing was Scottish. The port wasn't Blackness; it was all unfamiliar.
That was what indicated to her that she wasn't dreaming.
Mary Stuart, daughter of Charles Stuart and Mary of Guise, of the Houses of Guise and Stuart, native Scotsman...
Now belonged to France.
She entered the carriage Robert escorted her to. She sat and stared out the window at the passerby, and tried to recollect from her memories, if things had seemed that way when she was young. She watched the countryside as it rolled past, its hills not as green, its pastures not as beautiful. Mary tore her gaze from the window and shut her eyes. She had to put Scotland behind her. France was now her home.
Unlike the times when Mary were a child, no one was waiting at the front entrance of the castle for her arrival. The walls that once seem tall and magical were now looming towers that looked down at her, waiting to take her prisoner within its halls. Instead of butterflies of excitement, Mary felt her stomach lurching; and when the carriage stopped and Robert came to fetch her, Mary all but ran out the carriage as she found herself heaving on the side of it.
Robert had held out his hand to her after that; he'd said not one word to her about her display of sickness, and if he thought anything of it, his face never told her. Holding on to his hand gratefully, Mary found herself walking towards the French castle, then inside it.
Robert led Mary up marble steps and down a long hallway. They rounded a corner and kept walking, a door in their immediate view. Mary's memories flashed before her, and she felt her palms grow sweaty as she neared the door she hadn't seen since seven years ago.
When they reached the door, Robert signaled for her to halt. He looked at her a moment, raised his eyebrows as if to say, "Ready for this?", then straightened his posture, and knocked on the door. Mary's eyes darted around frantically. She wanted to flee; she didn't feel ready for any of it.
"Yes, come in."
Robert's hand found the doorknob instantly, and he pushed against it, the door swinging open widely. He walked through the entryway, and Mary followed, body shaking and a film of perspiration forming on her brow.
"Your Majesty," he bowed low, and Mary, unsure of what to do, bowed alongside him, "I present to you Mary Stuart, of Scotland."
The Queen turned, and Mary found herself staring at a face she once knew, a face that was once without blemish or wrinkle, with smooth skin and a bright smile. In the place of that memory was a face older, more worn from the transgressions of time. This face didn't smile as it stared at her, but simply stared at her as if inspecting her. Mary wondered if she passed.
"Mary," Queen Catherine said slowly. "It has been sometime."
Mary nodded hastily, shifting. "Indeed it has, Your Majesty."
"Hmm," Catherine said curtly. "How does it feel to return to Court? Things must not seem how you remember them?"
"It is very different than how I remember it to be. Smaller, yet more spacious at the same time," Mary replied, glancing about the queen's chambers.
"Yes; back then, the titles you stand on had the initials of my union engraved in them, and the walls were not as cluttered. Come." Catherine gestured for Mary to step forward. "Thank you, Robert. You are dismissed."
Robert bowed again, before turning to go, much to Mary's dismay.
She could feel her apprehension now that she was alone in the bedchamber of the Queen.
"Sit on the chair there," the Queen said, gesturing to a group of chairs that sat by a table near the farthest window of the room. "Are you parched? You have journeyed quite far."
"Thank you, my Queen," Mary said, sitting. Her words seemed to have an affect on the Italian woman, for she stopped pouring the liquid from the pitcher into her glass, and looked at Mary.
"I'm sure this is hard for you. The passing of Mary Guise," the Queen spoke softly. "She was a dear friend of mine, ever since your father cured my Francis." Catherine sat.
"She had a letter written on her behalf, sent to me the eve of her death. She knew she was not long for the world, but did not want to leave you alone in it." The queen's gaze saddened. "I am sorry for your loss, Child."
Mary nodded. "Thank you, Your Majesty. For allowing me to stay here."
The queen nodded, hands going to the pitcher again. "Well, I owe much to your family, it is the least I can do."
Mary brought her cup to her lips and took a sip. It was a white wine. "I am most grateful for your generosity."
"But, I would like to explain to you the rules."
"Rules, Your Majesty?"
"You are to be a maid at Court, as well as one of my personal maids. I can't allow a woman of non-noble blood to simply live in the castle and free load is unacceptable - - I do hope you understand."
"I do."
Catherine nodded. Then, a smile that mirrored the smiles of years ago graced her features. "I loved her. Your mother. My heart is aching from her death."
"As is my own, Your Majesty," Mary whispered. A single tear escaped the corner of her eye.
∵Everything is dark. It's more than you can take. But you catch a glimpse of sunlight, shining down on your face∵
Mary opened her eyes. Just like every other morning, she lied there for a few moments, voice wanting to call out for her mother, but mind knowing that it couldn't be done. Her hands clenched her sheets, and with a jolt that reverberated through her entire body, she remembered she wasn't in her simple bed in Blackness.
The sheets were a of a white silk that was cool against her skin, the blankets heavy in their beaded embroideries and gold threaded trimmings, pillows large and satin, stuffed with cotton and the softest things she had ever felt. To the right of the room was were the cushioned seatee overlooked a fireplace, next to an open frame room that led to the bath. To the left of the room was her desk, vanity, and changing station; her bed was center in the room, with wide windows on either side of it. Mary wasn't sure how she felt about the bed chamber. She was sure that the other maids in the castle didn't have such a luxurious room.
She wouldn't question it, however - - it was the queen's decision.
Thinking of the queen, Mary slipped out of bed. There was an early morning chill in the air as she made her way to the seatee. Her maid uniform laid on it, the humble pleated dress, white bonnet and apron waiting for her.
She pulled the straps of her nightgown of her shoulders and let it pool around her feet. Dressing slowly, Mary tied the apron around her waist and made her way to the other side of her new room, to her vanity; she brushed her hair up, securing it with three small pins, and putting on the white flats the queen had given her, she mentally prepared herself for the day.
She left her quarters and walked down the long hallway. She made a left at the end of it, then continued ahead, the queen's quarters soon coming into view.
She dipped her head low at the page when she arrived. The page stood quickly, and walking in front of her, knocked once on Queen Catherine's door, before opening it swiftly, holding it open for her. As Mary stepped through the threshold, the page bowed his head, and turned, shutting the door behind him. Mary smoothed the material of her apron, nervous, and bowed her head when she spoke.
"Good morning, Your Majesty."
"Ah, Mary. Good morning, child. I see you remembered my instructions from last evening." She heard Catherine clap in appraisal, and Mary slowly raised her head. Catherine was seated at her desk, with a companion beside her. The two sat closely, and Mary wondered if they'd been discussing something of importance before she had arrived. "You look lovely in those clothes. They suit you wonderfully."
Mary felt her cheeks reddened. "Thank you," she mumbled, bowing her head again.
Catherine smiled and held out a hand to beckon her close. "Come. This is Normstradamus. You remember Mary Stuart, don't you, Normstradamus? Her father worked alongside you in developing the medicine for Francis."
Mary's eyes met the man's as she came nearer; his disheveled hair and bearded face thrust Mary into a memory of stories of magic and folklore, and of a moment when she had heard a cryptic whisper of death from an apothecary that had tried to warn her of awaiting darkness. Mary quickly averted her gaze.
"Yes, I remember." His voice was just as low and gravelly as she remembered. She took an silent breath and forced herself to look at him.
She gave a small smile. "I remember Normstradamus."
Queen Catherine, Mary noticed, was unaware of the tension that was suddenly in the room. "Good!" she exclaimed. "Come, be seated. Normstradamus and I were discussing the King's Bastard."
The distaste was heard in her voice, and Mary gave the queen and Normstradamus an inquisitive glance. "The King's Bastard?" Mary asked.
"Sebastian du Poitiers. The son of Henry and Diane du Poitiers," Catherine explained, "and the king's eldest. He is to be wed at the end of the week. Humph!"
Mary felt her brows knit together, but thought it best to remain quiet, as she listened to the queen's gossip.
"He stole everything from me, you know. That Bastard and his mother. And from my son."
"Francis?" Mary found herself asking, to which the queen nodded.
"And Charles. Sebastian is the Crown Prince of France. It's simply outrageous. This marriage will sanctify the decision. France will one day be in the hands of a Bastard-born!" she uttered bitterly.
"But enough of that talk now; my young Francis in the hall above this one, the fifth door on the East Wing. Wake him for me, if you would be so kind. Tell him I wish to see him." The queen waved her hand dismissively at Mary, and Mary stood at once and bowed.
"Yes, Your Majesty." She looked up and met Normstradamus' dark gaze once more. It seemed to hold her there, and the feelings of fright she once felt because of him stirred in her stomach. Turning abruptly, Mary made to begin her duties as The Queen's Maid.
As Mary made her way to the East Wing she looked at the interior of the castle, memories playing all around her. It was these halls that Mary had enjoyed herself most in; where she had been happiest. With her family, before everything fell apart. Mary's eyes rested upon Francis' door, and excitement suddenly took a hold of her at the realization that she was about to see her childhood playmate.
She opened his door and stepped through it, aware that, as a maid, she didn't need to wait for a page to perform her duties.
His room looked very much like hers; she glanced at the large bed that was center the room, and noticed with a small smile, that the young dauphin was not asleep; he was deeply engrossed in a book, unaware of her presence. Clearing her throat, she bowed.
"Good morning, Prince. The queen has requested your audience."
He let out a startled curse, and Mary pressed her lips together to keep a giggle from escaping. "Goodness, you frightened me to death! You maids need to really - - " she raised her head and he trailed off, lips parting.
"Mary?" he asked, astounded. She smiled.
"Hello, Francis."
"Goodness! Mary, I - - " She watched Francis close the book and immediately throw back the covers, " - - heard you were to be coming to Court; Man alive, it's been a few years...how have you been?" The prince came to stand before her, and Mary, both amused and embarrassed, noticed in that instance, he was shirtless.
"I've been...alright," she said awkwardly, shifting in her spot. "And you? The years have been kind to you, I see."
His brows furrowed together in confusion for a moment, but when the realization hit him, she watched as his face reddened.
"Oh. Um, er - - turn around."
"Francis? I am a maid now; seeing you shirtless is just one of my many duties," Mary told him with a quirked brow, the awkwardness fading.
"Turn around, Mary." Mary smiled and obliged, for Francis had always been that way, ever so respectable and modest when in her presence. Some things had not changed at all.
"Okay." She turned, her amusement on her face as she noted the long-sleeve shirt which he now wore. "Don't look at me like that, Mary!" he said in mock chastisement. "I'll have you punished for insubordination."
She laughed softly.
"The years have been kind to you as well," he said absently, looking at her. "I mean, they always had been - - save your knobby knees and toothy smile, but that all seems to have worked out now - - I mean, you always looked - - I mean - - " Mary shook her head at him, and he sighed.
Sobering, he said, "I'm sorry about - - you know, everything."
Mary sobered as well by the tone of sadness in his voice.
"When I heard about your father those years ago, I - - and now, your mother - - Mary, I - - "
"It's fine," she said curtly. They stood in silence for a moment. Mary's gaze settled on a desk by the right window, and she squinted, staring at the bottle that lay there.
"You still take Father's medicine with no complications."
"Ah, yes," he answered, following her gaze with his own. "Once in the morning, and once in the evening." He gave her a lopsided grin. "I have never been healthier."
She smiled at that. "Have you taken it this morning?" she asked him.
He ran a hand through his blonde hair, blue eyes guilty.
"You better do that."
"I will." Then, "Well, I'm sure you have more duties to attend to. Thank you, I'll go see my mother as soon as I am dressed."
Mary bowed her head. "Of course, Francis." She turned, but he called out to her, and she halted.
"Yes?"
"Hopefully you wake me up in the future," he said. "It would be great to catch up with you."
Mary smiled, and left his room.
Mary re-traced her steps from the East Wing, descending down the stairs, when she noticed the figure on them.
"Mary, might I accompany you?" Normstradamus asked. Mary nodded, and together they walked down the steps.
"The queen has instructed you gather a bundle of sticks. I need them for my workshop. There are tons of sticks in the courtyard," Normstradamus told her as they walked. "I don't require them right away, but preferably before the week is out."
"What are they for?" she questioned.
"I need to strip the bark, so I can dissolve it in a solution I have made."
"I see."
When they were in the main hall, Normstradamus halted, and turned to her. "You have my condolences on your mother's passing. Your father as well. I know the grief you feel at their absence."
Mary fumbled with her headdress, fingering the lace trimmings of the bonnet.
"You told me, that night, years ago, that they would leave me alone. One moment, your spoke of folklore I was captivated by, and the next moment your eyes clouded, and it was as if you had journeyed somewhere far away."
Normstradamus said nothing to her, and she sighed, a small smile gracing her lips.
"I will bring you your bark, Normstradamus. Thank you for your escort."
Her heart was pained as she walked away from the seer. She had no doubt that he knew what she was going through. For when she was still a child he had prophesied her parent's deaths; she had just been too young to understand his words.
∵Casting out the demons; letting go of reasons why. Welcome was the daylight, that found where I was hiding, and fought the dark residing there.∵
She stepped out of the castle, and into the courtyard. The cool breeze felt warm as it blew against her, and Mary was struck with just how big the courtyard was. When she was small it felt gigantic. It was still just a large, and just as beautiful.
Her eyes gazed on the land, from the stables and beyond, toward the Blood Wood. Her eyes settled on the Lakeside, and Mary sauntered towards it, the spot one she had loved when she was younger.
She was delighted to find the log that overlooked the lake still there as it had been when she was a child. To further her joy, fallen branches from what she assumed had been a storm lied on the plain. Setting to work, she began to pick small sticks, and put them in a pile.
Not soon after she'd started, she heard hollers in the distance. She looked up. A man was racing towards her at a fast gallop, laughing loudly. He pulled on the reins as he came upon her, the horse obeying immediately, halting. The tan skinned man was panting and laughing breathlessly.
"Huzzah!" he yelled out, victoriously. Then, he seemed to notice her presence. His eyes snapped her way, and he blinked a moment, blue eyes locking on hers, lips parting. His brows furrowed, and his gaze flickered to the sticks around her, and back to her face.
"What are you doing?"
His voice was deep and rich in his brogue, still breathless from his jaunt. Mary bowed respectively.
"Picking twigs for Normstradamus and the queen, Milord."
"Sticks?" the man questioned. His shaggy hair fell in front his eyes as he leaned forward, examining her. Finally, he said, "You must be new here? I've not seen you before."
Curiously, Mary asked, "What makes you think so?"
"You're very distinctive. Anyone would know whether or not they've seen you before." The words were said so unabashed, that Mary found herself fumbling to reply.
Just then, more men on horseback rode to them. "Your Grace! You're as fast as ever," one of the men said, breathlessly. The man who spoke looked familiar to Mary, and when he glanced at her, she recognized him as the man from her journey. Her mind focused then, and with widened eyes she realized whom was in her presence.
Mary watched the prince smile, "Of course! But you almost matched me, Robert."
Mary's eyes flickered to the guard that had escorted her to France. He nodded at her, and she bowed graciously.
"I see you've met?"
Robert nodded. "I escorted her here from Scotland."
"Ah," the prince replied with raised brows, "I see."
"Your Grace! Now what?" another man asked. He was younger than Robert, closer to her and the prince's age, from what she could tell. He rode his steed up to the prince's, clapped him on the shoulder, and the two laughed heartily. The man noticed her then, and said, "Who is this, Bash? She's cute. You dog. With Natalia so close in her arrival? What happened to restraining your fleshly sins?"
Sebastian du Poitiers shook his head, laughter in his eyes as he gazed at her, and Mary ducked her head, cheeks flaming at the other man's compliment.
"Archery, now, My Prince?"
"No, Thomas, I think I am just going to unwind now. Enjoy the last semblances of free roam while I still have it. You all go on, however."
"Yes, Your Grace," Robert said.
Mary willed herself to focus on her task, ignoring the men that rode past her and towards the stables. Their absence left her alone with the crown prince, Francis' elder brother. Eyes trained on the ground, she didn't look up at him as she heard him unmount from his steed, nor did she acknowledge him, until he spoke to her.
"I apologize for my friend, Milady."
Mary looked up at the Prince to find his back to her, petting the muzzle of his large horse. "No harm was done, Your Grace."
He looked at her from over his shoulder. "Thomas and I have been friends for as long as I can remember. I love the man, but his tongue can be thoughtless." At that, the prince made a face and rolled his eyes, and Mary gave a smile.
He was handsome, the Crown Prince of France. His dark hair was messy, blue eyes bright. He was much taller than she, and appeared strong and able, with large hands and wide shoulders. Flushing at her thoughts, Mary reached for another stick that laid near her.
"I was actually in the mood to hunt, but Thomas and Robert suggested a race instead. The elk are out now; I'm sure the sport of hunting is one you're native to?"
"I have never...hunted...for Elk before."
Sebastian du Poitiers gave her a wide grin. He nodded to his black steed, "This is Noire Ballerine des Rêves - - " Mary let out an incredulous giggle, and he chuckled, "Ballerine for short. Or Noire." Mary watched as the Crown Prince stroked the horse's nose, and she smiled.
"Vraiment belle," she mumured, glancing at her. The prince motioned for her to come near, and Mary complied, stepping beside him. He urged her with his eyes to pet his horse, and Mary marveled at the feel of its soft mane under her fingertips; she had never pet a horse so striking before.
"Noire Ballerine," she whispered in awe, "Vous êtes très magnifique et très grande. Vous êtes aimer; Le prince t'aime vraiment."
"Oui," The prince agreed just as quietly, and at the sound of his voice, Mary looked back at him - - regretting it almost instantly, as she found herself trapped in his stare.
"You speak French," he murmured, his eyes unwavering in their gaze into her own.
"A little," Mary answered softly. A bit breathlessly. She felt her cheeks heat.
The prince must have noticed her state, because he suddenly looked away and shifted, clearing his throat, and ending the trance his eyes had bespelled upon her. Mary lowered her gaze to the ground, and clutched the front of her dress.
"Well that is certainly a surprise," he said. Then, "Shall we?"
Mary blinked, remembering his offer. "Your Grace, I could never - - it would be improper for a woman of my status - - "
"Milady, I order you to assist me on this adventure. Now no ill rumors of impropriety may be spoken against you, and you cannot deny me." His eyes held a glint of mischief and mirth as he spoke, sparkling just as brightly a blue as when she had caught him staring down at her moments before. There was a tiny flutter in her stomach at his staring.
"And I'm sure there are more adequate twigs for Catherine's makeshift crucifixes," the Prince added after a moment, when she had yet to answer, and Mary couldn't hide her small smile.
∵I don't like to be very sentimental if I don't have to be, but I think that I just may have glued my hands to yours if you had asked me.∵
Mary's hands fumbled over the string of the bow as she tried to delicately hold the arrow against it and between her fingers.
"This isn't working," she told her companion in frustration. She gave him a backwards glance. "And I keep scaring away the elk. Are you laughing at me?" she frowned at the smile that waivered on the man's lips.
"Yes."
She halted in her ministrations.
"I did not accompany you so I could act as your source of entertainment," she said indignantly.
"Yes, I know. You accompanied me because I willed it of you," he replied.
"For a servant, you have quite the unguarded tongue."
Mary felt the hair rise on the nape of her neck, and her fumbling hands dropped the arrow as she ducked her head.
"I'm sorry, Your Grace, I was frustrated, and I wasn't - -"
"Thinking of our stations? It's quite alright. It's refreshing." The prince shook his head, his brown hair moving in front his eyes. "Pick that up, quietly, and come here. There is an elk just a bit beyond you." Mary hastily did as she was told, and went to stand beside the prince.
He moved behind her. "Ready your bow, Milady." Mary nodded, her hands once again fumbling. Her cheeks red at his title for her, strained her eyes towards the trees, looking for the elk that lie beyond.
Suddenly the prince's hands came to rest upon her own. Mary heard, rather than felt, her heart pause in its palpitations, as he moved himself more behind her.
"No wonder why," he mused aloud. "Your hands are shaking."
Mary swallowed at the prince's close proximity. She had never stood so close to a man before. She found herself noticing how his warmth radiated off his skin, and how much taller than her he was. There was also a scent about him, a refreshing smell, and Mary felt her cheeks redden at the fact that she noticed it. There was something underlying about the smell that felt familiar to her.
"Steady," he said quietly. "And breathe." His fingers glided along her own, as he guided her use of the bow, helping her steady it, aim high, and release the arrow from her fingers. The arrow went soaring, and Mary watched as it struck the unassuming animal, the elk falling sideways. Mary let out an excited squeal, her excitement at the accomplishment overriding her other senses.
"Did you see that, Your Grace?" she whispered in elation.
"So perfect," he murmured as a breath against her ear. "Lillies. So soft."
His voice made her ear hot, and sent tingles down her spine. She swallowed, her heart hammering, as she tried to figure out what "so soft" and "lillies" meant.
Face hot, she let the bow fall out of her hands in nervousness.
But the prince didn't move. They stood there, together, his hand cupping hers in a suspension of air that seemed to be frozen in time.
Then the prince coughed, and the moment was over. He dropped his hands and turned away from her, and Mary willed her heart to regulate and her head to clear.
"I will send someone for that," he said with his back turned to her, hands on the reins of Noire Ballerine as he checked to be sure the saddle was secure.
"It's getting late," he said, hoisting himself unto his horse. He clucked his tongue softly and urged his horse forward towards her. "Let us go back to the courtyard. You did very well," he said as he held his hand out to her.
Mary bowed her head. "Thank you, Your Grace." She hesitated a moment, staring at his offered hand. She dreaded taking it, not knowing what she would feel if she did so. She silently sucked in a breath, knowing she had no choice, and slid her hand in his, willing herself not to acknowledge the butterfly feeling in her stomach when she did so, as he helped her onto the saddle, and they rode together out of the Wood, and back towards the courtyard.
Mary's arms held tightly around the prince's waist, and she flushed at the feel of his stomach muscles tensing underneath her touch - - or perhaps it was at the way her front was pressed against the length of his back? Mary shook her head clear as they stopped at the lake, her fingers immediately unlatching as she withdrew her arms from around him and sat at attention. The prince hopped down from his steed, then held out a hand to Mary, which she took, and escorted her down. Again, she was assaulted by their close proximity as he had her by the waist a moment, his hands just as quickly, if not prudishly, leaving as he stepped back to a modest distance.
"Well, Milady, that was certainly exciting."
Mary stared wide eyed, before recovering. "Oh. Um..yes, it was." She paused, a slow smile spreading on her face. "Thank you, Your Grace." She bowed humbly.
"What is your name?"
"Mary," she replied tentatively.
"Mary," he repeated, and she watched the corners of his mouth lift.
"Well, Mary, your hand if I may." Mary hesitated a moment, before giving the prince her hand. Eyes on hers, the prince brought her hand to his lips. His eyes left hers, as his lips skimmed lightly along her knuckles, leaving tiny tingles there. His lips pressed firmly against the back of her hand, and Mary swallowed.
"I am the one who is grateful," he told her. He released her hand. "Mary. Will you meet me here tomorrow?"
Mary stilled, her heart sputtering. "Your Grace, I - - I am a maid. I follow the Queen's orders, and I don't think it proper or wise for us to start some sort of trivial affair - - "
"Affair? You suspect I've taken a liking to you? A woman I've just met?" The amusement in his voice made her pause. She saw the mirth in his eyes, and hastily bowed, flickering her eyes towards the ground.
Her face felt as hot as the sun. She was so embarrassed.
"Forgive me, Your Grace. I - - "
"I'm getting married in four days time. My intended, Natalia, very beautiful I might add, is arriving in two days time. Mary, a secret affair is very improbable."
Someone kill her now. "Yes, you're right, I - - "
"Unless it is you who wishes for such improprieties?" the question came with the raise of a brow, and it momentarily stunned Mary into silence, as she felt a jolt spread throughout her body.
"I - - I - - that isn't what I meant, I - - "
She heard him chuckle and swallowed her protests. "Yes, of course." She watched him remount his horse. "I do hope we run into each other again tomorrow."
Mary willed herself to calm down. Begged her heart to slow. "Well. This was a special request from the queen," she said slowly. Shakily. "I have the twigs in that pile there. So I doubt it."
"Let me see those a moment."
Mary quickly went over to where her pile of sticks and twigs had been left, unattended. Gathering them in her arms, she turned and made her way towards the Crown Prince. She watched him take them from her grasp.
And then, as if without second thought, he tossed the bundle into the water near them.
"I guess I'll see you tomorrow...Mary," he said, smiling mischievously at her, before riding his steed back into the forest. She watched his retreating form. Although she should have been angry that he did what he had regarding Catherine's request, she found she didn't mind his actions in the slightest. Not that she was going to see him again, as he'd requested.
She inhaled deeply, her heart still beating harshly within her. Just what was it about Sebastian du Poitiers that made her react so? Was he aware of the effect he had on her? Perhaps it were all intentional. Perhaps it was all her imagination, the rapid heart beat in her chest.
∵Woe is me, faithless you, and selfish me; I will leave a key for you outside my doorway. Woe is me - - one if by the land, or two by sea. So won't you leave, for me, a light outside your doorway?
A cheeky smile marks that first day, met by rouse coloring on alabaster skin.
"So you came back to see me."
"Not you; I have sticks to collect for Normstradamus."
"Right. Come, Mary."
"Your Grace - - "
"I said come."
Beseeching cerulean eyes sparkling with innocent joy at her.
The spluttering of her heart as she takes his offered hand.
"There is a place I wish to visit," the wild, brown haired boy informs her. "It is of a history most riveting; shall I share with you its tales?"
Curiousity licks at her as she takes in his whimsical tone.
"Are they wondrous?" she finally asks, with hesitancy, brown eyes alight, gaze romanticized by the possibilities of adventure.
She is graced with a smile that fills her with just as much mirth; she feels the corners of her lips stretch wide as she too feels elation in her countenance.
∵Woe is me, sentimental you, and faithful me; and I will be the one to gaze on you discreetly. Slow your speed; turn yourself around, and follow me, 'cause I will be the one who preys upon you sweetly.∵
This time, she takes her sticks with her, tying them secure with the blue ribbon from her hair. She finds herself charmed with her companion; amused by his obvious pride in his historic knowledge of their surroundings.
When her companion grabs her ribbon, pulling the bundle of fagots away from her grasp in challenge, teasing it from her when he mockingly holds it within reach, she finds herself once again forgetting their stations, forgetting that they live in a world of titles, forgetting their worlds differentiate in both birth and conversely, responsibilities.
She finds herself chasing after him, charmed even moreso by his childlike quality, warmed by this innocent display (which she hasn't partook in since she was younger), laughing as he missteps on a stair of the castle ruins he has whisked them to, running to him and sliding the blue velvet fabric, with nimble fingers, from between his own; only to have him claw at her, his hands grasping her waist as he tackles her and brings her down with him, himself tangled within her limbs above her, breathless laughter escaping his lips as his eyes lock on her own.
She finds herself wishing, for just a moment, that this moment between them could last forever, and as his laughter dies, and his gaze sobers, a shaking hand is brought to her chest, placed against her hammering heart, and she stills, panic coursing through her, expecting a reprimand, a cold stare, and a loss of contact. His eyes narrow on her own and his body tenses, but he reaches with his opposite hand, and brings her own to his chest, permitting her to hear the rapid beats that move rhythmically with her own.
They do nothing else with one another for several moments. Then, he untangles himself to lie beside her. He props up his head with his hand and proceeds to demand she share her life with him. She finds herself obliging, finding more calm than fear by their improper closeness, squeezing his fingers when he touches hers with his own, leaning into his touch when he tucks a tendril of hair behind her ear.
The sun sets, and they lie there, speaking, sharing, and touching modestly; and when he at last gathers her in his arms and pulls her against his chest, she minds not the contented sigh that escapes her lips as his fingers comb through her hair, lulling her into a peaceful sleep as her eyes flutter close and she snuggles more into the warmth which he has blanketed around her.
She welcomes this moment of tenderness, a tenderness that she thought she'd never feel again, as something akin to a fire stirs within her heart; and as she drifts, she wonders if a fire is lit within him as well.
∵I'm just getting over this; my fingers are arguing over which one of them gets to climb down your wrist, introduce themselves to yours first. I try to make sense of this, 'cause my lips are starting to make a list, of all of the things that they seem to have missed, before the day that they met yours.
Mary is helping clean the dining hall when she hears Natalia van Orange has arrived to French Court. The guards order everyone to leave their stations, in order to welcome the Dutch princess to Court.
Mary hastily sets down the dishes she has gathered, as she hurries down the corridors. She pauses a moment, realizing that she will see the Crown Prince, and smooths out her apron. Her fingers are untying the ribbon in her hair when she frowns.
What exactly is she doing? Ever since she returned to her chambers late that morning, she'd been replaying her moments with the French prince over and over in her mind. She had completely lost herself, and so had he, gathering her in his arms and falling asleep as they had! Ever since their shared moments, she had been thinking of Sebastian du Poitiers more and more. Could she really be so fickle minded? Assume that one sentimental moment meant more than just a second of fleeting emotions? Not only that, but Natalia of the House of Orange-Nassau was arriving. Mary knew that now, the Crown Prince would never look at her.
She had come to learn of Sebastian du Poitiers situation through her daily visits with the Queen. Because of Francis' sickness, Henry had publicly announced his eldest son's birth to the all of France, and petitioned the Pope for his legitimacy. The Pope had granted his request, and at three years old, Sebastian du Poitiers had become the Crown Prince of France.
War, Catherine de' Medici had also told her, was speculated. The Queen had shared with Mary, that the previous year, Queen Elizabeth the First, of England, had wed The Spaniard king, Phillip the Second. The new alliance between England and Spain was an alarm for France, and thus King Henry had taken precaution.
Natalia is the eldest daughter of Willem van Orange and his wife Anna. Willem is the new head of the Netherlands monarch; the Dutch have strained ties with Spain, and revolts are rumored. Sebastian's marriage to Natalia means an alliance against Spain, if war ever resulted from the English-Spaniard alliance.
She's beautiful, Natalia van Orange. Ringlets of deep brown curls cascade down her back, the ends colored with a red shade, as she steps out her carriage to stand before the Court. She is wearing a light blue dress of a floral pattern and lace trimmings, a powder blue cloak covering her pale skin. Her face features are soft and bold-small puckered lips, button nose, and sharp brown eyes. Her posture is regal, as she smiles small to the faces of the court. Her eyes flicker to Mary's in her welcome, and Mary is suddenly overcome with a sense of guilt, hastily averting her gaze. She peeks from her lashes at the duchess, whose smile widens as she stops walking, looking ahead of her. Mary thinks it must be Sebastian she sees, and is surprised to see Francis approach the girl, a small smile of his own. They speak quietly for a moment, until Francis' gaze flickers in her direction and lingers on her own, and Mary at once feels the obligation to smile in the young dauphin's direction, which she does, warmed as he smiles back at her.
Then everyone is bowing lower.
As if on instinct, her body senses his presence, head whipping to the right to stare at the royal family standing at the heart of the crowd. Mary sees him then, Sebastian. His blue eyes are focused, his gait strong, walk precise and unwavering, as he walks to stand beside his younger brother.
He is wearing black leather with deep blue lines. His doublet is velvet, a coat of arms pinned on his chest to the ride, and next to it, a golden lion. His hair isn't in his eyes; he is smiling. For the first time since she'd been in Sebastian's presence, she feels his name "Dauphin" is more than a title. The very air around him is changed, and as Mary sees this, she crosses her feet and bends at her knees, hands holding onto the skirts of her dress and chin to her chest, showing the respect only a king deserves.
The display of welcome isn't long or loud, and the next time Mary's head whips up it's just in time to see the Dutch noblewoman place a carefully manicured hand in her betrothed.
∵Tell me why you reach, grasping for my knee, my wrist - - the ladder on this...connecting you to me like this.∵
Mary is singing French melodies to Noire Ballerine when she feels him near her. It was already evening, her work as a maid long since done.
His approach was silent, but her body had sensed him, the hair on the back of her neck rising when he came near to her, her heart speeding up in her chest, as her voice trailed off, hands stilling in the black steed's mane.
Mary doesn't turn around, merely holds her breath and waits as his fingers thread in her hair. She'd let her hair down, and she gasps softly as he sweeps her hair to the side of her neck; her breath catches when she feels his lips against the skin he's exposed. His nose slides up her neck, his breath harsh and hot as it fans her skin, and she lets her eyes flutter close as he slowly guides her to face him.
She waits, eyes closed, as he gently presses his body against hers, fingers brushing under her chin and tugging upwards.
She feels his lips for a second time when they press softly against her own. When Mary opens her eyes, she drowns in orbs of blue.
∵Oh, I just wanna believe that were were made for something, more than just what we can see; this sickness keeps you coming back - - if you could see what I've seen, then you'd believe in something; ghosts are never more than they seem, but they keep coming in your sleep.∵
Exhaustion eating at her from her day's excursions with the queen, Mary is sluggish as she arrives at her room. She opens the door to her chamber and gasps; a man is waiting for her, his back to her as he seemingly stares out her window. Her heart leaps in her throat, as the man turns, and she takes in his leather and gold doublet, his slightly tan skin, and deep blue eyes.
"Your Grace!"
"I'm sorry I startled you," his voice is soft. Beseeching. He fidgets, his hands unclasping from behind him, as he gestures towards the door she is hastily closing.
"I told my page to request no one be aware of my absence from my quarters. There were no guards posted near your chambers when I entered here; a maid had told me you were visiting with the Queen and Francis, so I thought it best to wait here..." his voice trails off as he speaks to her, as he fidgets slightly away from the window, surveying her surroundings. Mary lets out a shaky breath, relieved that none saw him enter her chambers, knowing how dangerous such knowledge could become for them should any learn of it. She slowly unties her apron as she eyes him, walking towards her vanity, and placing it gently on its surface.
"The Queen has been very generous in these lodgings," he muses at her. "It is hard to believe you are simply a maid." She turns back around to face him, fingers finding their way through her hair as she unties the ribbon that kept her bun in place. She walks towards him, watching him watch her, and sits on the edge of her bed.
"I hear she favors you."
"That is also a whisper among the other maids here. It has left me quite estranged from them," she tells him. "She took me in, as my mother and I were once very close to she and Francis, after Father made the medicine that cured his ailment. We stopped visiting court a short while after he'd died; being placed in her care, although I have been positioned a maid, I cannot deny she has a fondness."
"That is understandable."
Mary nods. "I am fond of her as well."
Something is bothering the Crown Prince, of that Mary is certain. His gait is awkward, his speech staccato and rushed. He continually eyes her chambers, flickering his gaze to hers, for a time, before looking elsewhere. Mary's brows knit together, and she finally asks him, "Your Grace? Are you alright?"
He is silent for a moment, and when he answers, it is an answer of evasion. "He is fond of you. Francis, I mean." He brings a hand to his hair, which Mary notes has been trimmed, no longer the shaggy head she remembers the day before, but shortened considerably, barely touching his forehead. It is a good look for him, she muses, but frowns as she notices the slight tremble in his hand.
"I am fond of him; we were playmates as children."
"Mary, that isn't what I mean."
Mary is unsure of what to say to that, and her concern for him takes over, as she gestures for him to sit beside her.
"Would you like to sit, Your Grace?"
"Call me Sebastian."
Mary fidgets uncomfortably. "I couldn't possibly do that."
Silence. Then, "I shall ascend the throne, not Francis. Never Francis. Unless of course, something happens to me. When he was born, and it became known that he was sick, Father moved to have me legitimized. Even after your father made the medicine that cured him, Father was unnerved by the thought of a king of France relying on medicine for all his life; said it posed too much risk. So I stayed the one to first receive the crown, and became the patron of Catherine's eternal hatred." Sebastian moves to the window again.
"He is in line for the throne, but he has more freedoms than I have. He could marry whomever he desired; regardless of his station. Regardless of her own."
"Natalia seems wonderful, Your Grace. Very kind. Very beautiful. You had said it yourself to me, once. Why would you not want to marry her?"
"Because I do not wish to be king. Because I want freedom. I want choice."
His voice is bitter, and Mary feels her heart break for him. She swallows against the lump in her throat.
"What would you do if you could choose not to be king?" she asks him, quietly.
"Marry the girl I love."
Mary looks away from his countenance.
"Do you not think you could grow to love her?" Her voice is barely above a whisper. Her breath catches as the last syllables leave her lips, and she knows her heart has stopped beating.
"I don't want to love her. I wish not to be hers, though I know as father's favorite I must accept the duty I've been given. I wish that I had stayed a title-less bastard."
"Your Grace!" Mary is appalled by his bitter words. "You mustn't speak so. You - - "
His fingertips curl under the groove of her chin as he forces her head up. His gaze is wild, wide, desperate.
"Do not call me that," he murmurs, thumb reaching up to stroke her bottom lip.
"Not now."
Mary swallows.
"Sebastian." His name on her tongue is tantalizing. A sweet spice, a tingle on the edge of her tongue that her body takes instant pleasure in.
He sighs audibly, and smiles slightly. His gaze unfocuses.
"Natalia asked me to hold her this morn," he says. "Begged it of me. So I gathered her in my arms, and held her as I held you when we fell asleep in the ruins..." his gaze finds hers, and Mary feels the breath leave her.
"Sebastian - - " she begins to protest with a slight shake of her head.
"She did not smell of lilies, Mary," he continues, hoarsely. "Nor was she as soft. Or warm."
Tears threaten to spill from her eyes, as Mary's breathing begins to labour.
"Mary," Sebastian whispers. "Mary," he says desperately, "Stay mine. Be my friend forever; you will, won't you? Mary, I - - "
"No!" Mary tells him, breathlessly. She stands, swatting his hand from her lips, and stepping into him, she wraps her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder. "You mustn't, Your Grace - - Sebastian, you mustn't. You know not what you say."
"I know exactly what I'm saying." His arms tighten around her.
"Then you know why you must stop such utterance."
If Sebastian wishes to protest, he does nothing as he presses her more against him, and tangles his fingers in her hair.
And for a third evening, Mary finds herself helplessly in his arms, knowing that it is to be their final act of such indiscretion.
∵There's a cloud of angels above your bed tonight. I'm watching through the window. There's ripples in the bed sheets, like waves in a sea, from every breathe you're taking.∵
Mary opens her eyes. She instantly looks to the right of her, disappointed to find that she is alone. She fingers her blanket. Smiles at the warm gesture as she snuggles more into the sheets. She's all too warm beneath them, and knows she hasn't been alone for long.
∵I walked, through the thickness of your heart, straight through the middle of your deepest, darkest dream.∵
She works diligently throughout the day. When someone in the castle seeks her assistance, she goes. When Thomas whistles at her as she walks down the halls, she smiles. She spends time with Francis and his mother, speaking with them, laughing with them.
But her mind is elsewhere, her composure dangling on a thread.
∵I wrote the melody that brought you back to life - - ∵
Mary hasn't seen him all day. She doesn't mean to search for him, but she can't help it. It's the second time he hasn't seeked her out, and she knows he will not surprise her, as he had the evening before.
∵- - oh, My Love, come hear it for yourself.∵
She feels silly, searching for him. She knows that she shouldn't want to. Knows that she has committed treason towards the throne, an infidelity terribly unacceptable.
But she can't shake the feeling, the small hope that perhaps, he will search for her as well.
∵I played it safe, and still you changed your shape, until your weakling anti-bodies, could stand up for themselves.∵
The sun begins to set and she chastises herself.
She knew, deep down, he would not look for her.
∵Outside your window sill, I fell like Jack for Jill, and you came tumbling after. ∵
She knows not what she would say to him, even if he had.
∵Who says we're wrong for opening the wrong doors? 'Cause we've all fallen for someone we're wrong for.∵
It is evening. She stands with the other servants as she watches the Royal wedding. Natalia is beautiful, a deep red laced dress upon her frame as she walks to stand before the French king and queen, and Sebastian. He looks his best, dressed in the royal colors of the court, hands behind his back. She is too far away to see his eye or expression, but no far enough away that she could avoid witnessing his marriage all together.
She doesn't want to be here. She does not want to watch this.
They exchange the chalice to sanctify their union, and Mary has to turn away.
She doesn't want to be here. She doesn't want to see this.
But when Sebastian and Natalia leave the dining hall, she follows them. She takes the servants' passageway to the bed chamber the newlyweds must consumate the marriage in. She peers quietly, fingers gripping the holes in the wall as she spies on them. She shouldn't be doing this. Shouldn't be watching as they enter, as her dress slides down her body or he slides his shirt over his head; but she is a moth drawn to a flame. To him.
Then he looks up in her direction, and his gaze pierces hers. Mary stifles a gasp.
He crosses the room and goes to her, purposely yet discreetly.
"Why didn't you stop me?" his whisper is hoarse, his voice cracking with emotion he can barely hide.
"Because I couldn't. Because I can't."
She is losing her hold on her own emotions, at his overwhelming weakness. He shakes his head, more to himself than her, then whispers, "You never answered me."
Mary can't find her voice. She stares at Sebastian, tilting her head awkwardly in an attempt to see his eyes, which are downcasted. Just then, the royal advisors call to him, and Mary jumps instinctively.
"Your Grace? Your bride is ready for you. It is time we begin - -"
"Just a moment."
Mary refocuses her attentions on him. "Sebastian, go - -"
"Your Grace, this part is routine - -"
"I said just a moment!" His voice is a hiss through his teeth, hoarse, pained, and Mary falters, as he drags his gaze to her own. She sees it then, his sorrow. His feelings.
The day before, when he almost confessed to her, she had silenced him. She'd avoided his gaze as to not have to see them in his stare.
However now she was confronted with it; their star-crossed impossibility. It shatters her, leaves her absolutely defenseless, and she knows that if she told him to come to her, in that instant he would. In that moment, he'd forsake duty and honor.
Knows now, that he, for her, always would.
"Answer me," his whisper is a plea. "Tell me."
How long had she waited to feel this wanted again? This loved? The love in his gaze, which she knew would only ever be for her, she hadn't seen in anyone's face since her parents left her. They had been the only ones who had ever loved her.
But now, there was someone else. Someone alive.
There was him.
∵ So...lest you forget, I'll write this down, 'cause back then I told you - - if you fall I'll fall too.
"Yes," she answers finally, breathlessly, entranced by his stare. "I will stay your friend forever." Her voice is shaking; her eyes sting, and she fights against it.
"Swear by me." His fingertips claw at hers through the holes of the wood.
She pushes her fingertips against his own, clawing back, caressing his gently. She flickers her eyes to their touching fingers as she says, "I swear; until my very last breath leaves me. I swear - -"
"Your Grace - -"
" - - now go." He waits a moment, but at last, his fingers slip away from hers. Mary's breath hitches as she forces herself to look up again.
She then watches as Sebastian du Poitiers, her Prince and King, the man she loves, strips himself of his garments and goes to the bed, covering the brown haired girl's body with his own.
She watches as he beds her, though it breaks her heart. The butterflies turn into queasy knots within her stomach, and silent tears cascade down her cheeks as she does so; for Mary knows that Sebastian would chase after her if he sensed her leave; knows that he is drawing his strength from her presence, that it is the only thing quelling his urges to flee.
So tell me what happens when the waves break.
AEN: Happy New Year! Please review; I hope you liked it!