AN - This is written in first person, which is a change for me. I usually write in second, I find third person to be less intimate. As I like to write character driven/analytic stories I find one of those two tenses make more sense to me. If you find any tense errors feel free to pm me and let me know, I've tried to go through this with a fine tooth comb, but there might be some still.

Also, thank you to ds44 for the beta, and help finding my errors.

Disclaimer - I don't own Reign, I just like to play with pretty things.

Limbo

"Mary, don't go," I yell after her. "Mary!" I plead one last time as I fall to my knees.

Six months later

It's a dark gray outside as I wake, that color that indicates night is giving itself over to dawn and a new day. It should be a hopeful time, but as my body comes awake, I hear what has become an all too familiar sound - quiet sobbing coming from a small figure huddled in the window seat of our rooms. More often than not this is how I wake, alone, with my ears trying to find her in the darkness. My body is attuned enough to her that the lack of warmth in our bed draws me from sleep, it's like my soul won't let me really rest as long as she continues to mourn what was.

Adding to everything else, it turned out my hope for her to be pregnant was correct, but not for long. She lost our first child shortly after returning to the castle, as if we weren't allowed to keep anything from those innocent halcyon days of bliss. Her overwhelming sadness and grief had broken through my shell for a time, this shared loss of something we both had wanted so much. After we married and began having marital relations again, I could see her become hopeful as her monthly time came, but each month her courses have come throwing her back into despair reminding her of Nostradamus' terrifying words - "...he will be cold to your touch. You will be childless, alone and blamed for his death."

It's not as if we don't love one another anymore, we do, but what had been innocent and light has become heavy and tinged with fear and sorrow. While we have relations every night, it is always desperate, clinging to one another as if this is the last time we will ever touch, taste or feel one another. We are living on a knife's edge, unable to move in any direction: she afraid this will be the day she causes my death, me scared I'm going to lose her again if I push too hard.

I think she perhaps believes I have never forgiven her for having left. I have, a while ago. Things were tense and uncomfortable before the wedding, and the night of the consummation was just as awkward as if we had never been together. Waking to find my wife's small body wracked with sobs as she stroked a miniature of me that sat in her lap made the ice I tried to encase my heart in begin to crack. Her distress touching something deep inside me, even though I tried to guard myself against her. Comforting her though, that is something I was not yet able to do. There was still an edge of anger in my countenance, the knowledge that she had given into superstition and fear rather than trusting me. Trusting us.

She looks different now, lost weight causing the skin of her face to tighten across her cheekbones and her figure to become more fragile in appearance, less lush, her breasts smaller in my hands. Her hair is no longer the shiny brown of before, instead it's a dull color that speaks of ill health. The dark circles under her eyes telling the story of her lack of true rest.

Of course the fact that we haven't really spoken to one another in months has greatly contributed to the place where we find ourselves. She's become quieter in her grief and guilt, trying to hide it from me. It remains a cloak wrapped tightly against her body creating a wall between us, where before there had been none. And for a good time my anger, resentment - and occasionally - jealousy over what had transpired were what drove me forward.

All of this ruminates through my brain while I wash and find breeches, slippers and a dressing gown to go to the kitchens to find something with which to break my fast. I have to go to the kitchens, it is too early for the household servants to have delivered something to our rooms, most mornings of late I've entered the kitchens just as the first loaves have come out of the ovens. I offer to get something for her, but she refuses, as usual. I resolve to go speak to my father, because something must be done, and it will take one of the two of us to do it. If it must, it shall be me. We cannot go on like this, I refuse to believe this is all we have left. Not when I know what we were, what we could have been, not when I know that the one thing we both are clinging to is our love for one another. Clearly, however, love isn't enough, something must change.

I am announced at the door to my father's study, it is mid-afternoon, this is the time of day he likes to consult his advisors and deal with issues of state, his mornings reserved for riding, hunting, sparring and fucking - his favorite pastime.

I come in offering a perfunctory bow and settle in a chair to wait till he's done. The one positive that has come out of the past six months is that I've become more involved in affairs of state, I feel as though I'm truly beginning to understand what is expected of me. What my responsibilities will be. This winter I supervised the transfer of foodstuffs from the south to Southern Normandy where there had been horrible fires toward the end of summer ruining the harvest. The entire region stood to starve, but the crown, under my leadership, negotiated fair pricing for the southern lords and short loans for the people of Normandy to make it through the winter.

It wasn't war or dealing with the Vatican, but it did make sure that a large number of our people would not starve this winter. The Normans were grateful, making them more loyal to the crown, and had already repaid most of the debt having a bountiful spring harvest and warm seas over the winter.

"Francis," my father addresses me as the room empties, "you need me for something?"

"Father," I sit up straighter, "yes, I actually need a favor, if you will."

"What?" he asks.

"Azay, I wonder if you would allow me to take Mary there for a few days?" I request.

"I don't see why not," he replies, "but for what purpose?"

"I think we need somewhere away from the cacophony of court life to try to find again what we lost," I explain. I didn't really want to go into too much detail, this remains between me and my wife. "She's wasting away, and I don't think being here is helping, or at least I don't think this is the place to try to get through to her. Especially with Mother and Nostradamus residing here as constant reminders."

My father tented his fingers, resting his nose atop, contemplating me and what I have said. "Your marriage is functioning perfectly as far as France is concerned," he finally says after a couple of minutes.

"I'm not talking about France, or affairs and marriages of state," I return. "She did what she did because she loves me, because she was scared, and I can accept that and move forward, but she hasn't. She's still just as scared as the day she left, she's just tried to internalize it more, which is why she's lost so much weight, I believe."

"I have noticed her gauntness," he concedes.

"I think we need somewhere quiet where we could discuss all that has happened without distractions," I explain. "Azay is one of the smallest royal properties, and the setting is peaceful."

"Could you accept this sadness if it were Diane?" I ask, knowing this he could understand. I've watched him dote on his mistress my entire life.

"No," he replies, "I would do everything in my power to ease her suffering and pain."

"Then how can you expect anything less from me?" I question.

"Yes, you may use Azay," he agrees, one side of his mouth beginning to pull a smile. "Just make sure you take enough guards, nothing can happen to either of you."

"I will," I nod, "I'll arrange for a handful of servants to leave with supplies and provisions early on the morrow," I continue, getting up to leave, "that way the skeleton staff you leave in place there will know to expect us.

"Thank you, Father," I say as I open the door to leave.

"I don't want to go on a trip," she repeats peevishly, not for the first time.

"We're going," I restate in a firm but even tone. "The carriage will be at the south entrance in one hour, I expect you there." I turn to her lady's maid and smile, saying, "It will just be the two of us, and only for about a week, there will be no entertainments, so Her Grace will not not be needing any of her most formal dresses."

"I can instruct my own maid!" Mary snaps.

"Good, then between the two of you it should not be a problem to pack a week of day dresses, traveling clothes and some of your simpler evening wear," I return, turning on the heel of my boot and walking out of our rooms. I don't like feeling as if I'm manhandling her, but she's been stubbornly refusing to go with me since I brought up the idea five days ago. I'm not taking no for an answer, however. We're going to Azay, we're going to at least try to find what was lost.

"The chateau, it's floating on the river!" Mary gasps.

"Yes and no," I laugh.

It's nice to hear her voice again, she had been silent during the entire day and a half the two of you have traveled by carriage. She had been formally polite to the marquis who hosted the two of us last night.

That is one aspect to the trip I had not thought out far enough. We had to stop for a night, and Father had less concern if we stayed with a loyal vassal instead of an inn. I had failed to remember that hosting the Dauphin of France and his wife, a queen in her own right, at ones own chateau is a privilege even the highest ranking nobles rarely experience. We got through dinner and the entertainments, listening politely to the Marquis and Marchioness, the local merchant and minor lords who were invited for the privilege of meeting our royal persons, but Mary's mouth got tighter and tighter as the night wore on.

"It is in the middle of the river, yes, on a man made island," I explain. "Wait till you see it early in the morning, or as the fog rolls in off the Indre in the evenings, it really appears to be floating, as if on air. It's very beautiful, and peaceful. That's why I wanted us to come here, besides just wanting to show you the beauty of the Loire Valley, I thought we could do with some quiet and peace, away from the constant demands and gossip of court."

"Isn't it beautiful today?" I ask in a light conversational tone walking across the drawbridge with Mary feet back on the mainland. It's been like this since we arrived, Mary ignoring me, refusing to talk, me carrying on conversations with myself. Actually, it's been this way for far too long, and completely against Mary's nature. She's bold, she confronts things, she looks problems right in the eye. This is one of the things that bothers me most, the hollowing out of her essential nature.

But for today, the setting at least, it is beautiful. The sun is shining, the Indre sparkling and dancing, small puffy clouds dot the sky, breaking up the beautiful blue, and the gardens are bursting in riot of colors, offering every variety of lily known to man, as is appropriate for any royal holding.

"Why don't we go down to the end of the gardens, by the wall, near the river?" I continue.

"May I carry anything?" Mary asks in an unsure voice.

"How about the blanket," I return, fumbling with the heavy basket the kitchens prepared for us. "This basket weighs a ton, I think the kitchens are trying to impress us. Turn left, that path should lead us down to the end of the gardens.

"I might have to try my hand at fishing some time in the next few days," I remark as we secure the blanket to the ground with a few rocks we have found. "There are some wonderful varieties that I had when I was here in the early winter, I'm sure there are many more now that the weather is so fair. I can pretend to be a hunter and gatherer needing to feed my mate."

As the both of us sit on the blanket, I dig into the basket, "I was right, they are trying to impress us, there's enough food in her to feed at least five people. There's two wine skins, probably red and golden - they are more common in this area and further to the east - and spelt water, I believe from the smell," I remark, uncorking the third skin. "Rillettes of pate, looks like one is pork, the other duck, bread, several varieties of cheese, they cover their cheeses in ashes in this area, odd, but the cheese itself is wonderful. Rabbit pies, pork pies, shaved courgette salad with currants, berries and grapes, potted aubergine, and what is this?" you ask, pulling out the last little earthen pot from the basket, "River mussels," you laugh, "how impractical, they are definitely trying to impress us.

"My love, what would you like from this feast?" I ask, pulling out plates, cups and knives.

"I'm not really hungry, Francis," she mumbles.

"You must be hungry, the sun is high up in the sky, and you didn't even break your fast," I return.

"What are you spying on me now?" She rebukes, her voice rising.

"No," I reply, walking on my knees around the basket to sit next to her, taking her hand in both of mine. "But I am concerned about you. You hardly eat anymore, your dresses have all been refitted - at least twice - your face is hollowing out, and your signet ring barely stays on your finger any longer. You're wasting away in front of me. Yes, I noticed, and I will not apologize for being concerned."

"I've had a lot on my mind recently," she retorts. "Food just hasn't been very high on my list of priorities."

"And yet here we sit in this idyllic setting, the sun warm on our faces, and nothing to concern ourselves with for five days, and you still don't eat," I reply.

"I just..." she trails.

"Mary, it's been this way since my mother told you of Nostradamus' vision," I implore, "you did all that because you didn't want to be the cause of my death, but I'm losing you. You're wasting away before my eyes."

"I..." I can see a tear beginning to trail down her cheek.

"We can't let this rule our lives," I reason. "We're not living, we're just waiting for my death."

"Don't say that!" she gasps.

"How else am I to characterize how we live our lives now?" I question, deciding to bring up a touchy subject, but if we didn't confront these things, we were going to lose one another. "Ever since Aylee's death..."

"Aylee!" she cries, distress clear in her eyes.

"I know," I try to sooth, stroking her hand.

"No you don't," she rushes out. "He told her she would never go home, never again see her family, and then he told me that one of my Ladies would die, and she did!"

"Yes, he did," I nod, agreeing, determined to remain logical, refusing to let her look away. "But the entire court, including my mother were there at the time. My mother, who tried everything she could think of to get rid of you from the moment you returned to court. She aligned herself with the English envoy, brought Olivia back to distract me, offered you to Count Vincent, all in an effort to get rid of you. Perhaps it's not politic to admit it, but I'm quite aware - as are you, given what happened to the count's men - she is quite adept in the art of poison.

"I would posit that my mother, or Nostradamus himself, might have had a hand in Aylee's death. So as to reinforce the prophecy about me," I finish.

"But she fell," she begins, seeking a hole in my version of events.

"She was also poisoned," I return, holding her gaze. "Kenna saw a cat drinking from the contents of the shattered cup which Aylee was carrying, and it was later found dead."

"The lion and the dragon, Tomas and Bash," she switches subjects quickly.

"I killed Tomas," I quickly shoot back. "You know this."

"But the lion - Bash - and the dragon - Tomas - still fought on a field of poppies," she restates. "Bash confirmed that for me."

"Far be it from me to belittle my brother's involvement, but he really did not do all that much fighting," I reply. Things have not returned to what they once were between my brother and me either. I've found it harder to forgive him for indulging Mary's panicked flight rather than coming to me and letting me try to calm her and reason with her. It has opened a rift I had either not seen or chosen to ignore Bash's belief in the Old Ways, mystery, like the residents of the Blood Wood. Because of them, I have realized, he gives great weight to Nostradamus, taking bits of information and putting them together in a way that fits Nostradamus' words, adding more to Nostradamus reputation as a seer.

"They crossed swords, briefly, they did not fight, not really," I continue. "Bash was still badly hurt. The duel was between Tomas and myself. The most involved Bash got was tossing me the knife with which I killed Tomas. And there were no poppies around, just a few yellow flowers, and even fewer white ones, as well. Finally, we were in the forest, not a field."

"How do you remember all that?" She asks, her voice beginning to sound unsure.

"Do you remember every detail of what happened with Count Vincent?" I enquire.

"Yes, of course," she nods, "every second. It was horrible and I had never killed anyone before. It is seared in my mind."

"As is the case with when I killed Tomas," I agree, looking into her eyes, hoping my logic can breakthrough this shroud of mysticism. "I've hunted, of course, but it's different. I'd never killed a man, I was shaking horribly when it was over, my stomach roiling. I was lucky not to have lost the contents of my stomach. I remember every minute detail of what happened that day. The lion and the dragon did not fight, perhaps they scuffled a bit, but the dragon fought the lily, and the lily won, with no help from any poppies, in a forest. That is what happened, Mary."

"I..." she begins, her nails gouging into my palm from the vice grip she has on my hand, "he also said I would be..." She can't finish, but she looks up at me her face a mask of fear, her eyes imploring me to understand. The prophecy is her worst nightmare, not just me dying, but my dying and her being left alone, with nothing of me to hold onto.

"That you would end up childless and alone, blamed for my death," I breathe, gripping her hands tighter. This isn't any easier for me, I want a child of our own just as much as she does.

"I lost," she hiccups, "I lost..."

"I know," I whisper, stroking her hand.

"And I haven't..." she implores.

"I know," I repeat softly. "Perhaps there are other reasons we haven't been able to get you pregnant again."

"Like what?" she asks.

"Perhaps you not taking care of yourself, this loss of weight," I grasp, my brain trying to come up with a reason that will make sense to her. "mayhaps your body is so focused on the changes from that it's not allowing any other natural changes to occur."

"Are you saying..." she begins.

"I'm not sure what I'm saying," I admit, feeling absolute honesty is important right now. "I just know that women have to take care with their health and activities when they are pregnant. The mares in the stables eat a great deal more while in foal than they normally would."

"That is true," she nods.

"Adding to that, you're anxious all the time, your nerves on edge, might not your anxiety about the vision and ending up childless and alone be turning it into a self fulfilling prophecy?" I ask gently.

"You think I don't want our child?" she cries, pulling on my hands, trying to get hers back. "I want that more than anything!"

"No, I'd never suggest that," I reply softly, refusing to let her go, grasping her hands more firmly. "I know a child is what we both want. But when it happened the first time, and we began having marital relations, everything about your body was as soft as your skin, relaxed, at ease. Now when I touch you I can feel the knots in your stomach, the tenseness of your muscles. You are like the wires on a harpsichord, strung so tightly it's painful to the touch. Could that possibly be preventing conception?"

"I don't know," she says hesitantly, clearly having never thought of this before.

"I don't know either," I concede. "I just know that the first time I got you pregnant you were happy, carefree and healthy, it happened as if it were the most natural thing in the world, which it was. We expressed our love every chance we got, which isn't that different from now, since the physical act seems to be the only way we've allowed ourselves to connect and continue to express our feelings for one another."

"I want..." she begins after several moments, speaking very softly, then stopping. I wait for her. "I want to be like that with you again, but I'm not sure I know how anymore," she finally admits, her eyes filled with unshed tears.

I pause, giving my answer to her admission proper thought, it might be the most important answer I've ever given. "Maybe we can't go back," I finally concede. "Maybe we have to take what's happened and move forward, thanking God for every day we have together rather than waiting for doom to befall us. Being one another's strength, friend and love again."

"I...I...I..." she stutters.

"I don't know another way, we can't go back. We can't erase what has already happened. We can only go forward, but we can only do that together, I can't do it alone. Please, Mary," I plead, "I know that if I were to lose you tomorrow I would want to know I'd made you as happy as I possibly could, so as to have something to comfort me in my sorrow."

"Francis," she breathes, a line of tears flowing down her face, reaching out to touch my cheek of her own volition for the first time in months. It would ease my own anxiety if it didn't feel as though she were touching spun glass.

"Please, Mary," I repeat, reaching out to wipe away the tears on her cheeks, "only God has the ability to take and give life. It is our duty as His children to live that life as best we can. That is all we can do," I finish against her lips, kissing her softly.

I still my lips against hers, waiting, I need her to kiss me back, to let me know that I'm not alone here fighting to get back what we once had. I wait several seconds, almost giving up when I feel a sob wrack her body just as her lips take my upper one between them. I let her continue for a moment, I need to feel her lips moving, know with certainty that it is real before I begin to softly kiss her back.

"I love you," she sobs.

"I know," I respond, gathering her in my arms, pulling her into my lap.

"I never - not for a second - ever stopped loving you," she whispers into the skin just below my ear, her hand coming up to softly scratch the skin below my beard for the first time in months.

"I know," I murmur into her neck, trailing kisses down, because I do. It's one of the things I've held onto as I've gone through the hell that was her leaving and the purgatory of the last few months. It's what I've held onto as I've let go of my anger. "But I need you to let me love you again."

"Francis," she mumbles into my neck.

"Let me love you again," I repeat, my nose tracing a path down her chest, my hands knifing through her hair.

"Francis," she murmurs, her head resting on my shoulder.

"Let me love you again," I breathe into her ear, my face buried in her fragrant hair.

"Francis," she sighs as I whisper kisses over her face, her eyes, her nose, her chin, and finally her lush lips.

"Let me love you again," I say, my hand sneaking under her skirts to whisper up her leg.

"I want to," she sobs, kissing across my cheek.

"Then let yourself," I reply, my lips seeking hers, both of my hands under her skirts, seeking her warmth.

"Francis!" she gasps as my fingers touch her center. "We can't!" she finishes as she tries to scramble off my lap.

"No one can see us...it will be our secret, be with me, let me love you again," I cajole, holding her firmly in place., wanting to seal this covenant of rebirth between us the best way I know how.

She hesitates, stealing glances this way and that, but as I've said, there is no one around. There are guards in the woods, but they all have strict instructions that we are to have our privacy during this trip.

I can see her mind racing as she worries her lip, but then she gives me a tiny nod. "I love you," I say, reaching for the ties of her small clothes. As I resituate her to straddle my lamp and attempt to manouver her skirts in a manageable way, she reaches for my breeches, opening them, pulling me out, and holding me in her hand - hot and throbbing.

She sighs as I enter her, her head rolling back and then forward, her forehead touching mine, "Francis," she breathes.

This is nothing like anything we've done before, I'm not really moving, but the way she is gripping and rippling her inner walls around me is indescribable.

Not for the first time I realize something, and have to share with her, "Mary," I say softly, feeling her muscles clench and unclench around me, "this is my true home, here, being with you. You and me, she and I...us...we...our...that is where my true home and happiness reside."

She's rotating her hips and digging her heels into my ass pulling each of us closer to our climax, "I've always loved the idea of we, us and our," she gasps while strongly clenching herself around me and pulling on my hair.

We're barely moving, if someone were watching us, our clothes are barely askew, but the way she's clenching and unclenching me is driving me quickly toward my climax. I bury my face in her chest, concentrating on holding onto this feeling for as long as possible.

"Francis," she gasps, "fly with me."

"Mary," I murmur into her chest, my hands running through her hair, I feel myself let go. "Mary...Mary...Mary..." I mumble as I feel her gasp her climax, her inner muscles clamping down on me like a vice as she takes everything I can give her.

It's sighs, and softly touching one another's faces. It's holding onto one another's hands as we climax together. It's falling into one another, and clinging together as we come down. It's holding one another, heads resting on one another's shoulders as we luxuriate in the feelings of peacefulness that our afterglow has brought us, relaxing in the warmth of the sun's rays.

"Francis," she breathes, breaking the symphony of our perfectly aligned breaths that have been the only sounds for several minutes, lightly stroking my face, as if with a feather. She pulls slightly back, her cheeks pink, radiant in her dishevelment, and as she gives me the first genuine smile I've seen in months my heart begins to lighten and I feel the tightness in my chest begin to unfurl. I know we're not where we need to be, and it will likely never be as easy as it was initially, but I feel hopeful - for the first time - that perhaps we've finally found the path back to who we've always wanted to be: just a boy and a girl who love one another more than anything else in this world.

FIN

Endnote - Château d'Azay-le-Rideau is a real place and it does look like it is floating on air in the early morning or evening fog. It's absolutely beautiful. It dates to the 12th century, but the current structure was built during the time of Francis I by his financier who boasted of it being the most beautiful dwelling on earth. After Francis I took his head he confiscated Azay as a royal holding, which should have served as a warning for royal bankers, Vaux was confiscated in much the same manner, and also for being bragged about for its beauty. The current gardens were installed after the time of Francis II, our show Francis, so I imagine them more natural, less formal.

As always, reviews are love.

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