Author's Note: I wrote this fic in the hopes that it would serve as a sort of therapy to help me process my emotions after 3x05's devastating turn of events.

I'm not sure if it worked, but it was nice to spend a little more time with Francis just the same.

I cannot imagine a more beautiful day.

Next to me, Mary dozes with her head drooping against my chest like the bloom of some lovely, wilted flower, and I find that I am loathe to move and wake her, even though the arm that I have draped behind her shoulders is going numb and the pinch of her jeweled earrings as they dig into my flesh is anything but pleasant. With my wife at my side and the unbroken forests of France rolling past the carriage window in flashes of gold and green, I am happier than I have ever been.

Almost.

Almost.

I have seen far too little of my own kingdom, I think to myself as I inhale deeply of the rich, country air.

It is time to change that.

"A trip to Paris," murmurs Mary unexpectedly, and I cannot help but smile as I swivel my attention away from the lush scenery and toward her. She does this sometimes: simply starts talking before I even realize that she is awake, and it is just one on a very long list of things that she does which make me fall in love with her all over again for absolutely no particular reason. "What a wonderful secret you've kept from me."

It was not easy. Keeping secrets from Mary has never been easy—not the bad ones, nor the good ones. My natural instinct has always been to share everything with her.

I have wanted to be known.

I have wanted to be understood.

I want you to know who I am and the things that I have done and love me anyway.

"Well, I have a secret for you, too," she announces, her tone both playful and smug as she raises her head in order to gaze into my eyes. "Do you want to hear it?"

I have spent the happiest moments of my life listening to this woman prattle on about her ladies, butcher tunes on her lute, debate me on matters of state, and squeal in delight as I tickle her in the early morning sunlight. Of course I want to hear it.

When it comes to Mary, I will always want to hear it.

"Umm-hmmm."

"I always knew we would be wed," she confesses, "even when I first returned and you were nothing but worry and reservation." She pronounces those last words with the superior air of someone who has seen through a poorly-constructed ruse, then squints at me as if to say I see you. "I knew."

Now that she has lifted her head from my shoulder and the feeling in my lower arm is returning, I reach up to twirl a strand of her silky dark hair round my finger. How I love to hear her talk like this, equal parts playful and sincere. "Did you now?"

"Ever since I caught your eye, watching me dance with my ladies at your sister's wedding…" Her expression turns dreamy. "Feathers falling from nowhere."

She makes the moment sound so magical, but lately I find that I am sick to death of magic. "Well, I'm sure my mother ordered them," I point out, my demeanor both practical and teasing. "My sister was also quite specific." A memory suddenly surfaces of Elisabeth screeching and swiping at me after I had accused her of denuding every goose in France, and I chuckle.

"Don't you remember when we were children?" Mary presses on eagerly, and as her eyes search mine I can see within their depths the shadows of our former selves, gamboling under a cloud of tumbling plumage. We had been so young then, so trusting of our shared future.

"I did," I tell her, reassuring as always. "I remembered. I'm sure I knew in that moment, too."

My words are not exactly true, but they are true enough. As I had gazed at her from across the crowded ballroom floor that night, watching as she spun on some invisible axis, twirling as brightly as a burning star, I had not known that I would wed her someday. I had only known that—quite suddenly—I was certain that I wanted to, and the realization had both frightened and thrilled me to the core of my being.

She had caught my eye, yes, and my heart, and in the span of one breath I had been hopelessly pulled into her orbit.

"That we were fated?" prompts Mary.

Fated.

I feel a surge of ice water through my veins as I recall the conversation with my mother just before embarking for Paris that morning. In a routine that was all too familiar, she had fretted for my safety and pleaded with me to be cautious. It seems that Nostradamus had received yet another vision concerning my death, she warned me, as if the previous ones were not enough.

Never straight-forward to begin with, the images of this vision were particularly confusing.

A glowing tree.

Fallen petals.

Blood.

I grow weary of visions.

I have always admired Nostradamus's skills as a healer, but I have never shared my mother's steadfast trust in his seeing abilities, and the only magic I care for is the kind involving me, Mary, and our immense four-poster bed. I believe in freewill, not prophecies, and why should I want to do otherwise when so many of his visions have shown me bound for an early grave, destined to die young?

Destined.

Fated.

"I don't care for that word," I mumble as I look down and begin to pluck nervously at a loose green thread on my tunic. Though it feels foolish and superstitious, there is something discomfiting about having both my mother and Mary—inarguably the two most important women in my life—echo one another on the inevitability of destiny so soon after my brush with death.

With fate.

Mary's eyes narrow in suspicion and concern. I had not told her of this latest development, but it is ever her way to know when I am keeping something from her. "What is it?"

I believe in choices, I firmly remind myself, not fate.

"It's nothing," I assure her, pulling her tightly against me as I attempt to tear my mind away from the unease which is beginning to gnaw at my insides. "Never mind."

And because there is nothing in the world that I would rather do right then than kiss her, I kiss her. All of those kisses which we have shared over the past couple of months—those sweet, tender kisses of a husband and wife trading them as limited currency which would soon be spent—well, this is nothing like them.

This is a kiss of wanting. A kiss of desire.

There is no hint of goodbye in this kiss.

Mary gasps as my lips burn a trail of fire from her mouth to the sensitive spot just below her jawline, and when her fingertips dip inside the collar of my shirt to urge me closer, she is so warm and pliant in my arms that I can imagine no scenario in which this carriage ride does not end with the both of us disgracing ourselves and facing accusations of public lewdness.

She sighs into my ear, dropping her head back to expose the vulnerable skin of her neck to my seeking mouth, and just as I tighten my arm so that I might hold her steady against me, she pushes me away and breathes, "Francis, wait."

It takes all of my self-control to release her, though my curiosity overrides my disappointment when she gaily calls out to the driver, "Stop here!"

"What are you doing?" I ask, unable to keep myself from grinning at her unexpected exuberance. It is impossible not to share it when her face is so alight with the sort of infectious, childlike excitement that I had once feared was lost to me forever.

"I want to show you something." And with that, she gives my fingers a quick squeeze before scrambling over top of me and out the carriage door.

I do not even hesitate before I follow her.

I have never hesitated to follow her.

"There's a beautiful lake down in the forest," she explains eagerly, reaching back to take hold of my hand as I come to a stop just behind her. "What do you say we go for a swim?"

I peer through the dense trees that obscure any glimpse of the water and hesitate, thinking of the dinner that I have arranged for us that evening: a bottle of wine, a basket of oranges from Nice, and no one in the world but me and my wife in our luxurious suite.

But that is an evening for a royal couple with enormous resources at their disposal. Mary and I, we are royal, yes, but we are so, so much more. Mary is my queen—will always be my queen—but she is also my lover, my best friend, my co-conspirator in so many of my life's adventures.

A stolen swim is much more those conspirators' style.

"We could leave our clothes on the shore," she whispers, her tone heavy with innuendo as she cozies up to my arm and bites her lip in a provocative invitation that I have no intention of denying.

Well, then. That's settled. To the guards who have accompanied us, I toss a smirking, "Wait for us here," over my shoulder, hardly caring that they are no doubt fully aware of what we are up to.

And then Mary and I are off, clutching onto one another's hands as we plunge into the woods together, laughing like the children we once were.

Mary was right; the lake is beautiful. As we crest the rocky outcropping that borders it on one side, I slow to a halt, momentarily transfixed. That such natural beauty could exist so close to the castle without my knowledge touches me in a way that would have been impossible to fathom before my illness.

I smile in appreciation as I look around, surveying the glory of my surroundings. There is so much beauty in this world that I have not seen.

I am distracted from the splendid view, however, by another equally as alluring: Mary, unexpectedly and without preamble, unclasping her cape and carelessly tossing it aside before setting to work clawing open the bodice of her gown. I spin on my heel to face her, enchanted, but as she catches my eye, she flashes me the sort of challenging look that makes it clear that this is not a show for my benefit.

This is a race.

Without a word, I tug my fur-trimmed cloak from my shoulders and instantly feel lighter and freer without its cumbersome weight. As I frantically begin to unfasten the front of my tunic, I see that Mary has already removed the bodice of her dress, only to find herself stymied by the perennial corset she wears beneath. I cannot help but chuckle as she yanks ineffectually at the knotted strings, a breathy, exasperated laugh escaping her lips.

"Come here," I murmur, a summons which brings her crashing into my chest as she reaches up to loosen the collar of my shirt. In return, I twine my arms around her and rip clumsily at the tightly-woven laces, even though attempting to remove the garment is hopelessly awkward from this angle, no matter how effortless I might have made it look in the past. I glance up at the sky, amused at my own awkwardness, and try to rely on muscle memory since enough time has gone by since I did this last for me to fear I may have lost my once-deft touch. It has been so long since we have undressed one another in this sort of playful frenzy. My illness never did cool my longing for my wife, but our love-making during that time was so painful and bittersweet that it had hardly felt like love-making at all, and more like a tortuous and protracted farewell. Always, there had been the fear that this time would be the last, and one night I had lost my strength so completely that I had ended up with my cheek pressed against the softness of Mary's belly, tears of frustration sliding from my eyes and pooling onto the skin by her navel.

It's alright, Francis, she had whispered as she tenderly stroked my hair. It's alright.

I just want to love you, I had told her, my heart as broken as it had been during those months when I feared she no longer loved me, that I would never hold her in my arms again.

Now, as I nuzzle her nose and kiss her full on the mouth, her fingertips searing the skin along my collarbone, I do not feel broken at all. I feel whole. Whole and alive and thankful because this moment—this moment right now—is not bittersweet, only sweet. Sweet and urgent and unspeakably precious to me.

Before I can free her from her bindings, she has loosened the neck of my shirt to the point where I can yank it off over my head without strangling myself, and I find that I cannot shed it fast enough. As I fling it aside, she spins around to give me unencumbered access to her corset strings, and I grin wickedly as I anticipate the imminent feeling of her bare skin against mine.

I have always found undressing her like this to be sensual to the point of agony.

Finally, finally, I tug the last string loose and peel the structured fabric away before sliding the palms of my hands across her silky waist and pulling her back against my chest. I have loved every version of my wife—the playmate of my childhood, the insecure girl whom I first kissed on the palace lawn, the queen who reigns at my side—but none so much as the one I now hold in the circle of my embrace.

Mary. Just Mary.

My Mary.

But this is not the time for being sentimental. This is the time for being wild and carefree and young. I release her and hastily begin shucking off my trousers, stealing the occasional glimpse as she kicks herself free of her skirt and petticoat. When she is finally naked before me, it is all I can do not to gape at her, so exquisite she looks in the golden sunlight.

"What is it?" she asks, her cheeks warm with color. She tries in vain to position her arms to cover her breasts, inexplicably self-conscious as she emits a small, embarrassed giggle. I have seen my wife undressed more times than I can count, but even I know that this is different. Here by the lake, with the glittering sunlight pouring down all around us, she isn't merely naked; she is exposed.

I reach out and take hold of her wrists. "No," I whisper as I gently uncross her arms and lower them to her sides. "No shyness. Not with me."

The dimple in her cheek deepens and her eyes twinkle up at me like dark flames. "Never with you," she agrees, stretching up onto her tiptoes to nudge her nose against mine. "Shall we dive in?"

I cluck my tongue and slip the diadem of gold from her dark hair before setting it atop the billowing pile of skirts at her feet."Always so impatient," I admonish her as I move to divest her of those ridiculous dangling chandeliers she calls earrings, pausing to nibble on each earlobe as I go. When she closes her eyes and rolls her head back with a luxurious sigh, I take advantage of the diversion and toss the jewels alongside everything else, then leap into the lake ahead of her before she has a chance to compose herself. Behind me, I hear her indignant cry over having been beaten into the water.

I cannot tell you the last time my heart has felt this light and full of joy.

She is right on my heels, and for a moment I think of how much of our lives we have spent chasing one another down palace corridors and through garden paths and now into the cold depths of secluded forest springs. I treasure those times nearly as much as I do the ones in which she has been firmly by my side, for what would my life be without this wondrous magical, creature whom I have led, followed, and walked with side-by-side during times both good and bad?

This is what we've been missing, I realize as tighten my arm about her waist and trail her through the water while she alternates between clutching onto me, squealing with glee, and flirtatiously shoving me away. As wonderful as our sailing trips have been, and as much as I have enjoyed the time alone with her and the vastness of the open sky, I have forgotten how very young we are. I have forgotten what it is like to play.

Omnia tempus habent, et suis spatiis transeunt universa sub caelo.
Tempus flendi, et tempus ridendi; tempus plangendi, et tempus saltandi.

For all things there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven.
A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.

Mary twists around in my embrace and knots her arms about my neck, bringing her face closer to mine. She isn't tall enough to stand comfortably at this depth, and so she snakes her legs around my hips and uses me as leverage to lift herself out of the water just enough to accept my eager kiss.

Her tongue is slick against mine, her body slippery in my hands.

Yes, the time for weeping and mourning has past.

It is now our time to laugh. Our time to dance.

And I intend to take full advantage of it.

The stars of the Louvre await.

Later, we sprawl atop our discarded clothing and dry ourselves under the warmth of the sun, as contented as indolent cats lounging upon an afternoon windowsill.

"I forget how long your hair is when it is wet," Mary remarks as she leans over me, brushing the damp curls back from my face with delicate fingers, "and how unruly it is as it dries."

I flash her a mischievous grin. "Well, perhaps we should start bathing together more often and then it won't be so surprising."

She lets out a silvery peal of laughter, as lovely to my ears as tinkling bells. "I think that is a fine idea."

I lift my eyebrows, unaccustomed to having my wishes granted so easily where Mary is concerned, but she merely lowers her gaze, suddenly as solemn as the grave. "I meant what I said the other day, Francis. I want to be wherever you are, and with you always. You are my home."

She looks dangerously close to tears, a sight which always pains me, and so I raise my hand to give her cheek a comforting caress. "And you are mine. You always have been."

Mary's hand glides lightly across my chest, up and down and side to side and back again in a pattern only she can see. "That little girl who gave me flowers this morning to cheer me after my mother's passing…It was so very sweet of her, Francis, and yet I could not help but feel guilty. I have been so overjoyed that you have come back to me that there has been no room for sadness. I've barely mourned my own mother." She glances away then, chewing thoughtfully on her lip while her fingertips continue to trace invisible circles around my heart. "Of course, I am relieved that she is no longer a prisoner to the immense pain she felt toward the end, but it goes deeper than that. I—I feel as if I hardly knew her."

"That is because you didn't," I point out gently.

Mary sighs and averts her face, prompting me to hook my thumb under her chin and lightly tilt it so that she is forced to meet my eyes. "Would it make you feel better if I told you that you are a terrible person?"

A ghost of a smile twitches at the corners of her lips. "Yes."

"Alright, then. You're terrible. An absolute monster."

She rewards me with a tiny laugh before turning wistful once more. "I never knew my father, never saw his face, and my mother sent me across the sea to live with strangers when I was little more than a babe. In all these years, he has been nothing to me, and she has existed as little more than words on paper. In so many ways, I have been alone all of my life, and yet there has only been one moment when I have felt abandoned. Only one when I have felt...orphaned. Do you know when that was?"

I shake my head, hardly blinking because she looks so lovely.

"It was the moment when I thought I had lost you."

"Mary…"

"I know that doesn't make sense. I know that. But when your hand went limp in mine, I knew it to be true. Had you died, I would not only have been a widow. I would have been an orphan."

"You have…" I struggle to find the right words, which is unusual, for it is often Mary who fumbles to express her deepest emotions, while I am perfectly content to chase her through the stables, declaring my love for her to the horses and anyone else who will listen "…so many people who care for you, Mary. Whatever happens to me, you will never be alone, my love. Never."

"Perhaps not, but...Francis, when I was a little girl, whenever there was a story that I wanted to tell…or a hurt I that I needed comforted…or even…even when there was a tree I simply needed help to climb, there was no mother or father for me to turn to. No brother or sister within hundreds of miles. There was you. You aren't…you are not just my home. Do you see that? You are my family. You are…" she raises her eyes to the heavens, as if the thoughts she is searching for might be found among the clouds. "You're the miracle of my life."

There are some feelings that no amount of words can express, and so after a moment I simply say, "I love you," both because I can think of nothing else, and because there is nothing else more true.

She beams at me. The sun's rays have lit splashes of chestnut and mahogany in her hair, fringed her eyelashes in gold, and warmed her body beneath my hands in a way that makes me want to touch her everywhere. For several long seconds we gaze at one another, each drinking the other in, and then I can no longer bear not having my lips upon her skin, and so I rise up to graze my mouth against the graceful curve of her neck. She giggles for a breathy, airless instant before sinking into me and pressing a demure kiss upon my shoulder, which is all it takes to fan my desire for her from glowing embers into a wildfire.

I pull away from her ever so slightly, just enough to stare at her with eyes full of hope and a wordless question.

Yes?

Her lashes flutter against my cheeks and her nose tickles against mine. She offers me her soft, hungry mouth.

Yes.

I deepen the kiss and am thrilled when she returns it with equal fervor. Cradling one hand behind her head, I gently maneuver her so that she is lying with her back pressed against the earth, and I spare a quick thought on the hope that the cloak which I have spread beneath us is thick enough to save her any discomfort. Then I tug the edges of her cape over my waist to shield us as much possible before settling myself against her hipbones and allowing my hands to roam where they will.

"Francis, please," she begs, her breath escaping in a hiss as I dip my fingers between her thighs and touch her in that place which never fails to render her helpless in my arms. "I want you. I want you so much. Please."

"Always so impatient," I tease, smirking as I cup my hand against her.

She arches into my chest, a soft mewing sound rumbling in the back of her throat. "Francis," she whispers again, and this time I oblige because I cannot bear one more moment of separation from her. As she wraps her legs around me, every inch of her warm and clinging and unbearably dear to me, I think,

This.

This is the only real magic.

When I blink my eyes open, I see that the sun has risen higher in the sky and that Mary is kneeling next to me, resting on her haunches as she primly buttons up the sleeves of her dress. I find that my head is aching once again, though not nearly as much as it did during my illness, and so I press the heel of my hand against my temple and bask for a moment in the love and concern I see shining from my wife's eyes, as bright as any star in the heavens. Without a word, she bends down to give me a sweet, lingering kiss, and it is only because I am so tired that I do not immediately pull her back to my side.

She brushes the pad of her thumb along my jawline. "I'm going to go back to the carriage to get our lunch."

"No, I'll go," I protest, rising upon my elbows and preparing to toss off the cloak that still lies draped over me like a blanket.

At that, Mary points a finger, scolding me like a stern governess. "Not like that you're not," she says, and I cannot help but laugh aloud over the absurd reality of the king of France lying naked by a forest lake. "You're still recovering," she adds, softer now. "You said yourself that your head hurts and you need to rest."

The worry in her voice touches a chord deep within me. It was not so long ago that I feared she would never worry nor care about me again, and as I press a kiss onto the fingers which I hold clasped in mine, I offer up a short prayer of thanks that I no longer have to miss her when she is sitting in the very next room.

Gazing up at her like this, an unexpected surge of emotion wells within me. I cannot help but think of how I would endure it all again in order for us to love and be loved like this, so openly and honestly. Right now, I feel as if every promise I have ever made to her is written in my eyes, and I want her to know how very much I have meant each and every one of them.

But those sorts of declarations can wait. I am so tired and so hungry, and when Mary climbs to her feet and tells me that she will be right back, I do not try to stop her from leaving.

But I do reach out to brush my fingertips along the hem of her dress as she turns away, hating as always to see her go. It's a silly, sentimental gesture, and I am glad that her back is to me so that she cannot see it.

As she slips through the trees and down the winding path, I long to hold her in my gaze for as long as possible, and so I keep my eyes trained on her retreating figure until it disappears into the greenery. Then I close my eyes and pillow my head into the crook of my arm, and just before I tumble once again into a dreamless sleep, I think to myself, I am a lucky man.

I do not sleep deeply, nor for long. It is as if, even while I slept, some part of me has stayed vigilant in the knowledge that Mary should be returning soon, despite the rest of me floating along in dark, restful oblivion. I do not know how much time has passed since Mary left to fetch our provisions from the carriage, but some innate instinct tells me that she should be back by now, and as I scan my surroundings without glimpsing any sign of her, a thread of unease unspools itself in the pit of my belly.

You are in danger, my mother had warned me, tears gleaming in her eyes.

I wriggle into my trousers and fetch my shirt from where it lies in a crumple of linen next to my tunic. Even as I am tugging it over my head, I cannot stop myself from looking around, craning my neck for any indication of that my wife is returning.

Mary, where are you? I once asked the empty air as I stood inside the dark tunnels deep within the bowels of the castle, waiting in vain for her to appear so that I might breathe properly again, knowing she was finally safe from Count Vincent's clutches.

But she had not come, and I remember feeling it in my bones that something had gone horribly wrong. Even now, I can still recall my grim determination as I had grabbed for my sword and gone in search of her.

Mary, where are you?

I reach for my sword.

I go in search of her.

The birds continue to sing to one another in the trees and the sun continues to pour its radiance down onto the earth, but I am hardly aware of them now, so incongruous are they with the unexplained apprehension that sharpens my senses and tingles along my nerve endings. I retrace our footsteps down the winding path, but Mary is still nowhere to be seen. It is as I am passing by a dense thicket that I am startled by the sound of bracken crunching underfoot, immediately drawing me to a halt.

"Mary?" I call out, my voice uncertain.

Silence.

I point myself in the direction where I believe the noise originated, and it is not long before the undergrowth thins out and I find myself passing through an older section of the forest, much less densely-populated by brush and saplings.

The trees here are farther apart, their lofty limbs so thick that they obscure the sunlight almost entirely, and as my eyes strain for any sign of Mary, I note that only a single ray has managed to pierce the leafy canopy and illuminate the forest floor below.

That is when I see it.

A tree, ominous and lovely, standing alone in a shower of light. The sun glints like diamonds off the flowering white blossoms which line its branches and lie heaped in snowy mounds upon the ground beneath.

A glowing tree.

Fallen petals.

It is as terrible to my eyes as it is beautiful.

And in that moment, I know.

Mother, I will not hide here, waiting for a dream of my death.

No.

We have been given a miraculous second chance. I won't waste it. Not a minute of it.

No.

I want to spend every day sailing with Mary until the snows come, and I want to visit the Matterhorn—and the Verdon Gorge!

No.

Yes…Anne and James.

No no no.

You are my home.

You are my light.

Stay with me.

Stay.

No.

No. No. No. No.

No.

I am not yet finished with this life. There is too much that I have not done, too much I have not seen.

I do not believe in fate, I remind myself. I believe in choices.

Somewhere in the near distance, Mary screams.

I believe in choices.

And so I make mine.

"Mary."

So be it.

So be it.

We will never dance together under the stars at the Louvre.

But there will be other dances for Mary, under different stars, and for that I do not hesitate to draw my sword.

I scramble over the ridge of the hill to discover Mary at the mercy of three armed men, hired thugs from God knows where. There is no time to think. Instantly two of them charge at me, freeing Mary just enough for her to suck in a deep breath and scream her lungs out in an effort to summon our guards. In retaliation, the third assailant wedges a blade against her throat, and even amidst the whirlwind of clashing metal, the threat to her is all that my eyes can see. Quickly, I manage to dispatch one of the men who have rushed me, but the other is a far more skilled fighter, and even as help arrives in the form of two royal guards, his ferocity only intensifies. The razor-edge of his sword slices into my upper arm, causing me to grunt in pain just before he easily dislodges the weapon from my hand. Defenseless now, I instinctively kick out my leg with all of my might, unbalancing him just enough to make him to drop his sword, and I have one brief glimpse of Mary being pulled to safety before I am sent flying through the air with enough force to knock the breath from my body.

Enraged at the sight of his plan falling to pieces around him, my attacker pins himself atop my chest and aims a thunderous blow toward my head, which I only barely manage to deflect by rolling my back against a flat rock which lies half-buried in the forest floor underneath me.

In doing so, I have revealed to him a mortal weapon.

My strength, compromised already and quickly depleting, is no match for his as he grasps me about the shoulders and lifts me from the ground, a malevolent look of satisfaction upon his face just before he slams me back to earth. With shattering precision, my skull smashes against the surface of the rock, and it is all I can do to hold onto consciousness as my vision explodes in dizzying sparks of red.

Mary screams.

Once, twice…four times.

There is nothing in me left to fight.

I hear Mary sobbing my name, and just as the assassin lifts me for what I know will be the fifth and final time, I turn to her so that her face might be the last thing that on this Earth that I see.

But Mary is no longer safe. In an instant, my eyes register the scene. Both royal guards now lie mortally wounded upon the ground some distance from Mary, who stands cornered against a tree with a dagger at her throat. Even with her life in peril, she is struggling with her captor, trying desperately to reach me.

I will fight at your side.

You would, wouldn't you? You would fight to the end.

But this is not her end. It cannot be.

It will not be.

I feel one last burst of energy surge through my limbs.

This is her beginning.

With a mighty shove, I break the attacker's hold and we grapple until I have locked my arms about his throat, determined to squeeze the life from him.

"Francis!" cries Mary.

There simply isn't enough time.

Hurling him aside, I claw for my sword and frantically clamber to my feet, determined to get to my wife in time to save her.

And because we live in a world of miracles, I do.

Before her assailant can draw the blade across the soft skin of her throat (How many times have I kissed that throat? One thousand? Two thousand?), I run him through and carelessly toss his limp body down the embankment. At this reprieve, Mary nearly faints in relief, but the throbbing in my head will not let me forget the man whom I turned loose only seconds ago, and so after one brief glance to ascertain that she is indeed alright, I stumble back down the hill in pursuit of him.

My legs feel strangely leaden, and suddenly it is difficult for me to move in a straight line.

"Let him go," gasps Mary as we watch him tear off into the forest, unarmed. "The other guards will find him."

She is right; without a weapon, there is little more damage that he can do. Knowing now that the danger to Mary has passed, I exhale amidst a river of relief.

She is safe.

I did it.

Mary smiles at me, and I realize right then that I need the comfort of holding her in my arms more than I have ever needed anything in my life. It is with this purpose in mind that I step toward her just as the throbbing in my head escalates into a thousand striking hammers, bringing me to my knees.

"Francis?" There is a tremor of fear in Mary's voice.

And then I collapse.

I hear the crunch of fallen leaves and then she is dropping down beside me, her hands skimming over the wound to my arm, her fingertips lightly threading through my hair, trying to determine where I am hurt. "Your head…can you hear me? Can you hear me?"

She sounds so far away.

Other footsteps approach and I watch helplessly as she twists around to address someone behind her. "The king has been injured," she announces, bristling with authority. "Get help! Now!"

Mary…

She leans over me once again, and it is in a much gentler voice that she says, "They're going to get the carriage and we're going to go back to the castle. You're going to be alright."

I can feel myself ebbing.

"No," I tell her softly. "I won't."

Her brows knit together in bewilderment, and when she speaks there is an uncertainty that was not there before. "Francis?"

There are tears burning behind my eyes. She is so beautiful. Have I told her that enough?

Have I told her that enough to last a lifetime?

"We were meant to be happy, and we were, but…I have another fate, predicted long ago."

Fate.

As soon as the word escapes my lips, she knows.

I would die for you.

"No. No no no no no no, we were given a second chance!"

I attempt to smile at her, but I am afraid the pain quickly twists it into a grimace. "Well, maybe there is no magic but what we make for ourselves."

"No but, Delphine—"

"No," I cut in firmly, an otherworldly weariness beginning to steal over me. I am so very, very tired. "No more. No more."

I do not know how to explain to her that now I understand what the priests meant when they spoke of the fullness of time, of how events will unfold they way they were meant to, regardless of our interference.

Omnia tempus habent, et suis spatiis transeunt universa sub caelo.
Tempus nascendi,
et tempus moriendi.

For all things there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.
A time to be born,
and a time to die.

A time to die.

I do not know how to explain to her that I now understand that Nostradamus was both right and wrong, just as I myself was both right and wrong.

That I now understand that this moment is both my fate and my choice, because she is my choice.

I glance up into the sunlight that filters down through the blooming branches, gilding the tree's snowy petals in gold, and realize that while Nostradamus might have glimpsed its ethereal beauty and my mortal fate through the veil of a dream, those visions had only revealed to him a truth which I had readily accepted long, long ago:

If sacrificing my life meant saving hers, I would do it. If I was meant to love her, then I was also meant to choose her.

And I would always choose her.

Mary, you are my life.

Nostradamus saw the pale shade of death, terrible and unavoidable, awaiting me beneath this tree. What he could not know is that I would walk toward it willingly for her sake.

This I want to say and more, but there isn't time, and we have said so many goodbyes already.

"Please make sure that my son is cared for, that he knows that I loved him."

Teardrops splash from her nose onto my face.

"And promise me that you'll stay in France until the future king—" an unexpected memory of Charles at five years old, grinning at me as he sits atop his first pony, makes it hard for me to swallow "—until he is safe, and my mother is secured as regent."

"Please," Mary begs pitifully, "Francis, don't leave me."

But I do not have a choice, for I made my final decision the moment I knew she was in danger.

I have no more choices left to make.

"Mary…"

"Don't," she sobs.

"Promise me. Promise me you'll stay."

Don't go. Don't run. Stay.

She nods, the tears flowing freely now, and I can tell that she is having difficulty drawing air to speak. "I will." She takes hold of my hand, clutching it fiercely. "I promise. I promise."

My vision dims at the edges, yet Mary is as clear as ever as she caresses my face with tender fingertips. How many hours have we spent like this? Looking at one another like this? Trying to memorize every shade and color, every curve and line, like this?

They didn't do you justice, I had told her on the day that our wedding portrait was unveiled.

What about you? she had cheerfully shot back. They've left your freckles out completely.

My freckles?

Yes, the ones right under your eye. Reaching up, she had lightly tapped each one in turn, never unlocking her gaze from mine. One, two, three. I'm rather fond of those freckles.

I wonder why I had never noticed them until that moment.

I wonder if she will remember them.

It is becoming difficult to focus. I am fading, fading so much more quickly than I would have ever thought possible. The vibrant green of the trees, the brilliant blue of the sky beyond…they fade as I do, until one by one color leeches itself from the world and I am left with only light and dark.

The world can be dark, Mary.

You are my light.

I draw a quivering breath. "I see…"

And suddenly I do see.

I see Mary.

Mary, impossibly young with her hair ribbons dangling down her back, laughing as we gleefully toss great handfuls of torn featherbed into the air, heedless of the mess we are creating.

Mary, older now and just returned to court, twirling under a rain of downy white, the loveliest thing I had ever seen or would ever see.

Mary standing with her shoulders bare on the palace lawn, melting against me as I kiss her for the first time.

Mary, radiant in her wedding gown beneath a shower of falling petals, so beautiful that it pains me to breathe.

Mary giggling in delight as I spin her in circles atop one of the castle turrets, indescribably happy in the knowledge that my whole world—my wife and my unborn child—is cradled safely in my arms.

And finally Mary, just Mary, without crowns or jewels as her hair falls down all around me and her mouth presses hungrily against mine, the most precious thing in my life.

Yes, I see Mary.

I see Mary everywhere.

"Such beauty," I murmur. "Such beauty you have brought me."

Her face crumples at those words, and it hurts me to my soul to know that I am causing her this agony.

I cannot leave her like this. She has given me such joy. Such hope.

The things I want her to have long after I am gone.

"You must…You must wed again. You must love again."

She shakes her head at me, suddenly vehement, and I am unable to tell if the tears on my face are hers or my own. "I can't," she declares passionately. "I will never—I will never love anyone the way I love you."

There will be other dances for you, Mary, under different stars. You are far too young to have put your happiest days behind you.

Tempus plangendi, et tempus saltandi.

A time to mourn, and a time to dance.

Yes, she will dance again, but it will not be with me.

I can see our future quite clearly. We would be happy.

We were meant to be happy, and we were.

You will survive this.

You are so, so strong.

"I pray to God that you do."

There is so much more that I want to say. I could fill fifty years with the things that I long to say. But the power of speech fails me, and it is not to be.

I would give anything to spend my life, however long, by your side.

And I meant it, my love.

I hope you know how much I meant it.