Francis unstrapped the sheath from his side and let the sword fall to the ground. The collision of metal and stone sent echoes throughout the chamber. He unbuttoned his doublet and shrugged that weight off as well. He stood facing an extravagant full length mirror that would normally have been used by a woman examining her new gown. Francis looked at himself in the mirror. His golden hair was greasy and matted on the top of his head. His undershirt was disheveled from the days of travel. His boots were crusted by a layer of mud that would likely never come off. He couldn't bear to look at the room around him, but when he saw it through the mirror it was better. The room was less present through the mirror — it didn't assault him with memories so much as show the past to him. There was much to see. These were Mary's rooms, after all.

Or they had been before she ran off with Bash.

Bash.

Bash. His brother. The man who had taught him to fight, who had helped him hone his tracking skills like sharpening a sword. The man who, as a boy, had never had to listen to Henry telling him what to do when. Bash was the man with freedom, who could dictate his own fate.

And how Bash had changed his fate.

Francis' mind whirled into the memory of the first few weeks Mary had been here. She had been staring at Bash the night of his sister's wedding as though a magnet forced her to look. Then later with Collin she had asked Bash, not Francis, to help her and look for the lost boy. Even then she had gazed at Bash with such kindness. And then there was that afternoon where she and Bash had been sitting on rocks as they stared into the ocean. Though they hadn't ended up staring very much, had they?

Were there other secret moments between them? Moments where their hands would brush and a smile would light on both their lips? Moments where Mary caught and held Bash's gaze for a moment too long? Moments in the hallways of the castle at night when no one else was around?

Francis closed his eyes and forced the images from his mind. Bash went from his thoughts without too much trouble, but Mary, Mary clung to him and he could not let her go. In his mind she was wearing the white dress she wore the first time he kissed her.

He had been trying for so long to not do exactly that. He had tried, for France, for her. Because ultimately he knew that if he attached himself to Mary, she would be disappointed in France or in him. He just never thought she would run off because of it.

But it didn't make sense. None of it made any sense.

He loved her.

She loved him.

They were engaged. What could have possibly gone astray? What kind of a complication could derail the union of the future King of France and the Queen of Scots? What kind of a complication could break their love?

Not England, that was for sure. He knew that Mary understood that he would do anything to keep her safe, and that he would not let father's lust for England endanger her. Mary knew that. It was the safe answer she had given him, but it was a lie.

It couldn't have been Bash. No matter the moments of doubt, Francis knew that Bash couldn't have been enough to break them. They had risked too much. Mary her virtue, and Francis his life. And he would do it again. He would do any of it again if that was the price of getting her back by his side.

He would find her. He would search day and night relentlessly until he found her because he had to know why she had done what she had done. He had to know if he could fix it.

And he would search because he couldn't bear that each time he entered a room he thought that any dark haired girl was Mary. He couldn't keep reaching for a hand that wasn't there. He couldn't keep wishing that her lips were pressed against his. He couldn't exist with her only in his thoughts.

There was report of a girl passing through a village near the castle. A girl with dark hair and rose colored lips. A girl who was strong willed and confident who stood like a queen. The villagers said she was Mary. It wasn't much, but it was something. It was a trail, and he would use Bash's hunting advice to track her down by the broken twigs and imprints she left behind. He would leave at first light. He would move and leave this room behind. He would go, and he would find her.

He would find her.