I do not own REIGN, or do I own the characters because I don't. I mean, how do I own Mary, the Queen of Scotland, and her husband Francis II, the King of France? I also do not own those lines I've borrowed from the show, because I do not own those lines. I am poor.
Let this be known that, despite being the history buff I am, I am still a teenager who is happily enjoying an inaccurate historical, highly romanticized period drama until Francis, the other half to my current OTP, was killed off by the writers (I mean, if they could change history by so much, why kill Francis off so prematurely?)!
"No! Francis, no!"
I could hear the screams of my wife as my head was continuously bashed against the ground, effectively shaking my vision up, choosing to close my eyes shut, hoping that the face I would last would not be the face of my assailant. I heard her body slammed against the trunk of the tree, cornered and held defenseless. I turned my head and I saw her, the desperation in her eyes and the fear that made her lips quiver relentlessly, the beauty that is Mary, the Queen of Scotland and France.
The man above me tried to punch me, and I saw a window of opportunity and I strangled him. As a Catholic, I know well that it is a crime against God and his principles to enjoy the torturing of fellow men, but I have to admit to—and in my defense, the man is trying to kill me— that his choked gurgling is absolutely music to my ears.
"Francis!"
My head flew towards the direction of my wife, where I saw her struggle against a man twice her size, holding a knife against her neck. My mind, though fuzzy and hurt, screamed not in pain, but at the thought, the image of my wife's throat being slit. I found courage and strength in my vision—I may not be Nostradamus, my mother's famed seer, but I can be so bold to say that she will not die, not today and not in here. . .not without children of her own, God willing, that I should father.
I quickly threw the man aside to aid Mary, and stabbed the man who dared to press his blade against her neck. He gave out a small groan of pain before falling over to the ground, dying as he held his wound, blocking the flow of his blood when I heard a twig give and leaves flying all over. My jaws were clenched together as I gripped my sword, ready to go after him. "Let him go," it rang in my head, her voice as the pain and throbbing grew louder. I tried to memorize her voice, this angel's song. "The other guards will find him," I turned to face my wife, giving her a smile.
Her sweet smile, so beautiful. . .
My breathing became rushed and needy, I felt my chest burst with the lack of oxygen as my vision dimmed. The pain, I couldn't handle it. My sword had fell from my hand, from my grasps. I couldn't feel my legs as I tried to step forward, but I only plummeted towards the ground below me. "Francis?" worry was evident in her voice. I don't like that, she should be happy, her beautiful voice needn't bother with worry as I collapsed on the ground.
She hurried towards me, lifting her gown as she dropped to her knees, holding me close to her.
"Francis? Francis!" my breathing grew more worrisome, I must admit. "Your head, can you hear me?" she held my head in her hands as she faced the soldier who had fought for us. "Your King has been injured, get help—now!" I wanted to comfort her as her voice sounded cold, as I saw the ruler inside of her. "You're going to get a carriage, we're going back to the castle and you're going to be alright," it was hurried, but it felt more like Mary, not the Queen who had to marry for an alliance.
I felt my breathing grow louder by the second, the throbbing pain at the side and the back of my head. I stared at her, wanting to comfort her, yet is there any comfort with a lie? "No, I won't," she caressed my face with her thumbs, shaking her head lightly.
"Francis," there was reluctance in her voice, not wanting to accept the truth that is in front of her. A part of her rejected the truth of my fate, of what Nostradamus had predicted, but truth forced its way to her eyes and stubbornly shook her head again.
"We," I said in between breaths, "we're meant to be happy," I felt my chest constrict as I got my wish. That damned assailant's face is not the last face I would get to see on this Earth. "And we were. . .but," her hands strayed from my cheeks as her fingers combed my hair. Her hair, I could smell the jasmine scent, the perfume of her gown, "I have another fate, predicted long ago," realization flashed in her eyes and she shut her eyes, depriving me of her beautiful eyes, as she shook her head again stubbornly.
"No, no, no, no! We were given a second chance," it was hurried her voice. I wanted to speak out, ask her to slow down so that I could replay her voice, remember it, so that I can bring this voice towards the next life so that I know who I am to find. I wished that there's a way for me to keep her voice in memory, so that in the next life, I can find her and I would fight with her, drink with her, be together without all the doomed prophecies, love and make love.
"Well," I have tried to give her a comforting smile, but I suspect that it has gone astray and failed its purpose, "maybe there is no magic but what we make for ourselves," I tried to convince her, but a reluctant mask had ruled her face and her emotions. She would not be brought to reason, she is afraid, and by God, I wish that she is not.
She looked at something, something that is not me for a brief moment before hope sparked in her eyes. "No, but Delphine," she insisted stubbornly, caressing my cheek, softly shaking her head to the side. She could not let me go, but she needs to let go.
It is my turn to shake my head in protest. "No," although it came out as a shaky declaration, it was firm and iron. "No more, no more," death, as time passed by, revealed itself to me as a peaceful trance, something that will give me rest after a life of uncertainty. I couldn't handle more; it's peaceful here, death is peaceful and I could not bring myself to handle more problems—no more, I give up, I will face reality, I will rest for it is so peaceful. . .the tranquil nature death brings.
She shook her head again, reluctantly, her eyes begging mine. It seemed to convey a message, her brown eyes. 'Don't leave me, Francis, not now,' it seemed to scream to me. Her lips had trembled as she lovingly stroked my cheek, shaking her head as she searched for equal ground in my eyes, for something that could have told her that I had not given up hope—it was in vain and fruitless, her efforts I'm afraid.
"Please make sure that my son is cared for," something rang in my head, how I feel so unfulfilled, how we managed to slip past by the need of two nations, of two great kingdoms, of the passion of two humans. It will be forever a regret for me, not having her pregnant, leaving her without working to leave a part of me in this world. How it would be so wondrous, to see a children of blonde and brown hair, running around the court and seeing them mirror our traits.
Oh, it is a dream too far and a fantasy too high for a man so low.
Oh, how I would not live to see another day of his growth. "That he knows that I love him," I squeezed her hand and breathed in deeply, "and promise me that you'll stay in France until," I stuttered, my breathing ragged, "the future King. . .until he is safe," she had let out a soft sob, "and that my mother is secured as regent," tears began dropping from her eyes, making my heart and soul weigh heavy with guilt—I've made her cry in a moment immortalized forever, a moment that shall be known when her husband has left her.
She bit her lower lip, eyes wandering through the forest, probably wondering when the soldiers would arrive. Tears kept staining my shirt and face. "Please," she fixed my hair, running her fingers through my blonde locks, "Francis, don't leave me," I smiled at her, albeit a tearful one, and stood my ground. I shook my head.
"Mary," I stared into her eyes, her beautiful eyes, "promise me," I begged her eyes, memorizing each and every feature of her that is to remember, the little things that made up Scotland, for the Queen is Scotland and the Queen is Mary. "Promise me you'll stay," her hand rested at the crook of my neck as she looked up and shed her tears, strong and full of dignity. She truly is the Queen of Scotland and of France, of my heart most importantly.
"I will. I will, I promise, I promise," there was an unspoken, 'As long as you stayed, as well,' but she has made peace and I almost cried in joy when light blinded me. Something got caught up in my throat and I looked up to the sky, to the roof of this forest.
I smiled. "I see," tears ran through my face as I saw flashes of my life—the innocence of two six year old's, playing around inside a suite and ripping open the pillows to play with the feathers, my sister's wedding in which I saw Mary's beauty where it had truly enticed me for the first time, when I first saw her after so many years, when we shared our first before I distanced myself and told her to marry Tomas, our wedding when she made me the happiest on this Earth, when she told me that she was pregnant with our child, the countless of times we had made love and felt our love for one another— it was a sight to behold, both her and my life with her. "Such beauty." I looked at her, adoring her as much as I could. "Such beauty you have brought me," she gave out a tearful laugh and her face had flushed.
The beauty she brought into my life, it is so precious—and it should not be limited to me only.
I ignored the pain in my heart and the sob caught up in my throat. "You must," I tried to picture her with some other man, but it caused too much pain and yet it has to be done. "You must wed again," I urged her with my eyes, but her expressions had mirrored her answer. "You must love again," the thought of someone else loving her, making love to her, I cannot bear to imagine it but she has to move on, for both her country and me.
"I can't," she softly cried, "I will never—I will never love anyone the way I love you," she shook her head and I sighed softly.
My eyes traveled towards her lips, how I would give so much to kiss her again. My eyes sent an 'I love you' to her, hoping that she would understand why I've given up and that she would accept my love. "I pray to God that you do," and I also pray that she remember me and the time we were married, no matter how brief it may be, and that she wouldn't blame herself for my death as she surely would knowing the circumstance of the situation.
Then, slowly, her vision slowly faded away, much like the lingering touch of her hand at the crook of my neck, as the ever-bright light continued to shine brighter as the moment passed by. Her scent overcame me and darkness took over before a white light showed me the way towards a door. I grasped the bronze knob and opened it to see a child, a baby in a crib and voice that followed, a voice that came Mary.
This is a glimpse of heaven, a flash of paradise.