She was going to die today.
Mary Stuart was not as bothered by that fact as she should have been, she knew. She had heard wretched stories of those going to their deaths, sobbing and prostrating themselves before God and man as though they expected some avenging angel to save them at the last moment. And worse stories, of blades that were not quick, and executioners that were not kind.
She knew not to expect kindness from her cousin, nor mercy.
She knew not to expect kindness from anyone.
She would not show Elizabeth any weakness now, any kindness, by going to her death a blubbering fool. She would go to her death a defiant woman, a queen, as she had always been.
An image of Catherine de Medici flashed through her mind, in that moment, ordering about servants as she prepared for her own lavish execution, and Mary felt an unfamiliar smile pull at her lips.
She did not have the sort of leeway Henry had afforded Catherine on that day, did not have the same sort of freedoms.
In a way, she was almost glad for that. Glad that she did not have any sort of freedom today, for she was not sure that she could be as strong as Catherine had been, that day.
Part of her thought that Catherine had merely been in shock, had not truly believed that Henry was capable of killing his own wife, whatever he proclaimed to the masses. That it had merely been a show, to show Henry how much he truly needed her and to let him know that she would always best him.
Catherine, who was now floundering in France, maintaining a tight control over the French throne as she stood by her son, a proud lioness of a woman who paraded around in the wolf's clothing because it was expected of her, just as it was expected of Mary to be a lamb. Knowing that she was too valuable for anyone to truly stand against, when she held her son's hearts so dear.
Sometimes, the Queen Mother still sent letters to Mary. They were reminders of happier times, and so Mary hoarded them, treasuring each one dearly. Catherine talked of the France where Mary had spent her childhood, changed now, but sometimes, Mary caught hints of the France she had left behind, for Scotland. Caught hints of blond curls and sweet smiles and the occasional blown kiss in Catherine's sprawling script, and it was for these small fragments that Mary treasured Catherine's letters so dearly.
They were few and far between now; Catherine sent her letters as frequently as ever, but Mary's captor, Paulet, while kind enough to her, was under strict orders from Elizabeth that any letters Mary received not have pertinent information in them, not after the Casket Letters had been found.
Mary wished that her own Fate would be so kind.
Oh, she had been in a state of shock, too, when she first learned of the news that she was to be executed, per her cousin's orders. She had not believed it at first, either, stubbornly clinging to the pride that came with her position; that she was the Queen of Scotland, the ruling monarch, and not some adulterous wife that Elizabeth could simply kill because she found her boring and irritable.
And then Paulet had confessed to her, that Elizabeth had asked him to contrive some clandestine way to shorten her life, through poison or strangulation while she slept, before the fact, lest England risk war over the killing of the Scottish Queen.
Paulet, her custodian, a man she had believed to be her final friend, who had truly pitied her, she knew, but whom she had been able to use to some extent, to extract a few comforts in her final months.
And, though she had not been kind to him, angered by her situation and isolation, he had still been unable to bring himself to kill her, and have such a death upon his conscience.
That was more than just kindness, and she was most grateful for it.
If she was to die because of Elizabeth, she would die igniting a war, sparking the chaos that would run throughout Europe at the news of her death.
No, she would not make this easy for Elizabeth. Not enjoyable.
The door to her room (cell) opened, and her last lady, her only servant and only friend now, in her last hour, stepped into the room, wiping at her eyes and refusing to meet Mary's.
Something about that sight felt to Mary as so terribly wrong that she leapt to her feet, moving to wrap her arms around the other woman.
It did not seem strange, to be comforting her last friend in the world at the thought of Mary's own death, merely...the right thing to do, in that moment.
She could not abide the thought of tears, today, or she might just let some fall, herself.
However, the comforting did not seem to help; her last friend in the world's tears only seemed to multiply, at it, until Mary was crushing the blonde against her and biting her lip at the woman's distress.
"Oh, Greer," she murmured fondly, reminded of the girl who had not managed to keep her tears at bay, when they were children and it hadn't mattered, in that moment.
Greer looked at her, eyes wide and already filling with tears. "You haven't called me Greer in a long time," she whispered hoarsely, and Mary nodded, for that was true. She wondered why she had let the pet name slip, now, for it clearly did not belong.
They had grown up, leaving France, as they had. It made little sense to continue calling her ladies by their childish names, in lieu of that. Greer had died, and Mary Seton had taken her place, just as Mary Beaton had taken Kenna's, and Mary Fleming Lola's, when she left her Lord Narcisse to come to Scotland, where she belonged.
They had all died, a little, every year since leaving their childhoods behind. Greer when she left behind her life in France, to stay by Mary's side, even when she had not asked her to. Lola, when she left behind her husband and infant son to come to Scotland with Mary, though she had never asked the woman to, Kenna, when she had traveled along with Mary as well, returning from her exile to "keep Mary safe." And Ailyee, too long ago.
And Mary, along with her heart, one fateful day in France.
Greer was the last of them to stand by Mary now, and that on account of her being the only one left unmarried. Lola's husband had forbidden her coming here, though Elizabeth had given her permission to do so when Mary asked, not wanting to appear too sympathetic with the Scot Queen, and therefore come under scrutiny. Kenna...Kenna had not come either, saying that she was with child and her husband did not think she could make the journey before...Well, it would be too late for her to make the journey, and the executioner would not wait that long.
No, there was only Greer left without a husband now, only Greer by her side, almost all of Mary's other servants dismissed entirely.
Well, if one went by technicalities, she was still wed to Lord Castleroy, but Greer had protected her husband to the last, had refused all marriage on account of her plans to enter a convent, once Mary was...
"Oh, Greer, don't cry," she whispered, pulling her lady into a close embrace and running a hand comfortingly down her back. It did not even occur to Mary, at that moment, that she was comforting a woman crying over the fact that she was going to her death; it hardly mattered. This was her sister, her dearest friend. Her only friend left in the world, and she could pity her lady the world she was leaving her behind in. "All will be well."
Greer sniffled, pulling back. "Maybe there's something we can do. She can't execute a royal monarch; it's never been born. Perhaps Spain..."
Mary shook her head, wiping a tear from the other girl's eyes. "I'm going to die today, dear. There's no one to save me now."
Greer let out another hiccupping sob and Mary shook her head. "No tears, Greer. No tears today. I am a Queen, and you are my lady. You must not show how this affects you, not before all of these degenerates who want to cheer at my death. Do you understand? For Scotland." She bit her lip. "For me."
Greer nodded, wiping quickly at her eyes. "Yes, Your Majesty."
Mary gave her a smile. "Please don't call me that. I am only Mary Stuart, now." Elizabeth had taken even that from her, trying her as an English subject, a common woman named Mary Stuart, rather than a Scottish Queen. And then she pulled her lady into another embrace. "You are the only friend I still have in the world, Greer. I hope...I hope the world will not be so unkind to you, once I am gone.""Oh, Mary, please!" Greer cried, pulling her close again. "Please." But neither woman knew quite what she was asking for.
A moment passed, and then another.
"Greer?" Mary asked, voice soft. "Would you do my hair again, one last time?"
Greer swallowed, wiping at her eyes. "Yes, of course, Mary. Of course I will."
She sat Mary down in front of the mirror, and began to work, her fingers just as skilled as they had been years ago, when Mary was but a child at French Court and things like appearances had truly mattered to her.
French Court.
Ah, how Mary missed it, and she knew that Greer did, as well.
"Do you miss your girls, Greer? Back home?"
Greer swallowed. "All of the time, Mary. But...that was so long ago, now. And it seems...even longer. What made you think of that, of all things?"
"I should never have persuaded you to return to Scotland with me," Mary said, with a long sigh. "I should never have made you leave that life to come to such a dreary one."
Greer grabbed her by the shoulders, spinning her around, then, and Mary let out a little gasp. "You didn't persuade me of anything. You told me you were leaving like you expected me not to come with you. But I came because you are my Queen, Mary. Because you're my friend. And I would have endured this life a thousand times with you, rather than have made you live it alone."
Mary squeezed her hand. "And I thank you for that, Greer. For...for everything."
Greer gave her a small smile. "I do believe you will have the most beautiful hair of any woman to..." she trailed off then, swallowing hard. "Be a queen until the end, Mary."
Mary smiled at her. "I have always been a queen, Greer."
She heard a chuckle that sounded suspiciously like Francis', at that, heard the words whispering through the opened window of her bedchamber, "That you have, my Mary."