I, honestly, am the type of person who can't help but think of an alternate reality in which a character contradicts the given fate (What if Francis had survived the head trauma?) and what would happen if something else had happened.
So, yeah, I'm killing someone.
History buffs can go and bite the dust because I don't quite care anymore. I do not own Reign, sadly, and I have retreated into the shadows and grasps of fanfiction in which I can claim nothing but the plot and my imagination, I can claim no characters of this show, and I most certainly do not claim that this happened to any of the characters in real life because, as I've said earlier, historical accuracy will be damned (Forgive my language.).
"If the price is my life for his," Mary approached Delphine, her steps hurried and desperate, urging her forward and pushing her towards the bed where Francis laid motionless and lifeless. "I will give it; bring him back!"
The moment I saw the tree, surrounded with white, fallen petals, I knew that something wrong was going to happen as my mind tried to refresh itself and remember; my stomach had churned for the worse when one of my captors had decided to muffle my mouth. "Guards!" I yelled through his hand, hoping that I would get someone's attention when Francis had appeared from the trees, drawing his sword to fight the men so deadly-armed with swords and probably years of experience.
Francis had decided to become the reckless hero, a martyr for love when he clashed swords with the person who acted like the leader of my captors, delivering blows potentially fatal to each other that I couldn't bear watch when I remembered something, when something had clicked in my mind as if the memory was some sort of puzzle piece to an extremely complex puzzle.
"Guards!" I screamed again as I remembered Nostradamus, how he told me of his prophecy about Francis' death, how he had foreseen his death by a blood-stained petal and the sky seemingly raining blood—my teeth had clenched tight together as I faced my kidnapper with a deadly glare before he had pinned me against the tree behind of us; I will not be the cause of Francis's death when so many are relying on him, I will not be the cause of the King of France's death, let alone have stand by as my husband fights for both our lives.
I will not be the Queen of Scotland who became a widow by standing idly as her husband fights to survive—that will not do and in our marriage, in that endeavor, I will not have it.
My kidnapper had a sword against my neck as I watched Francis tumble to the ground. Fury burned in my eyes. 'This will not do!' was the only thought in my mind that mattered when I fought my captor for his sword. "Guards!" I struggled to yell as we fought for the sword, his occasional kicking as we both gripped and hung unto the hilt. "Guards!" I yelled again when I became successful in my attempt—I managed to steal the blade away from him.
Suddenly, a palace guard had appeared and helped me fight for my way out, guiding me back to safety and retreat when I saw Francis being tackled to the ground. Worry and concern washed over me as the only thought running in my mind and heart was that he survive this day, that he not die again, that he lives to see another day with his son, Jean-Philippe. "No! Francis!" I hurried towards them and stabbed the man pinning him down to the ground.
I rushed over to them and quickly stabbed the man, causing him to drop to the ground as I helped Francis up, urging to stand up and search for the guard to help us and try and find our way back to safety. "Mary, are you fine? Are you hurt?" his eyes lingered on my body as he tried to find any injury of some sort when we heard hurried steps and rushed, ragged tones, calling both of our names. "Guard—Mary!" Francis yelled when I gasped in pain and held my stomach, only to see blood when I plummeted towards the ground.
Beside me was the man who had pinned Francis down to the ground, who now moved motionless and appeared to be dead, his body rolling over to the foot and the hill as I applied more pressure to the wound, only to see Francis running over to me.
"Your Majesty," a man who donned an armor and our royal crest finally appeared, the noise of his armor made it hard for me to forget what had happened.
"You there, guard, get more help and a carriage and a healer, now! Your Queen has been injured and requires immediate medical attention—quickly!" he turned to look at me and gave me a tight smile. "You're going to be alright, you're going to be fine, Mary—we're going to get you back to the castle and you're going to be fine, just wait and hold on, we have time, help is on the way, darling," he said in an encouraging yet desperate and ragged tone as he tried to give a smile, and I mirrored his smile, albeit it be a sad one.
"No, I won't be fine, Francis," I shook my head as he caressed my face, fixing my hair, letting my curls frame my face as I stared at his eyes, begging me to go with him.
"No, you're going to be fine. We have doctors and healers and we can save you—I can save you Mary, just give me time and you'll see that we'll be alright, you and I will be fine." I shook my head gently and gasped when the wound had throbbed in pain. "Mary, please, look at me," he cupped my chin and kept his hand on my wound, "do not leave me—do not withdraw the beauty, such beauty, that you have brought me, Mary, do not take the dream, such a beautiful dream, away from me," there was desperation in his voice and I let out a weary breath of air.
"Francis, I won't be alright," he stubbornly shook his head in defiance. He would not let me go. "Please, Francis, understand what Nostradamus had prophesied!" confusion marred his face as the realization, slowly and painfully, had claimed set on his face. "Please try to understand, Francis!" he shook his head again, squeezing my hand.
"No, he had prophesied my death, but we are given a second chance Mary, a second chance at life—and there is no magic but what we make for ourselves, even if he is right, there is no magic," he whispered to me, holding me close and he kissed my forehead, refusing to believe me.
"Delphine had told me that your life came with a price of someone's else's life, Francis, and that would be mine," he shook his head once more and held my hand, panicking as he still cannot see guards coming to our aid.
"No, your mother, Marie de Guise, her life, her death, the price paid—"
"Is not for you, Francis!" I stuttered out, feeling my lungs fail me with every breath I drew from the air. "Please, no more, Francis—I am tired and I cannot take this anymore, please, Francis, no more," I raised my hand, though bloodied and frail, shaking madly, I caressed his face, feeling what I could before I would cease to feel. "It's peaceful, already, Francis, I beg you—let's not waste time on this," he slowly shook his head, his thumb wiping the tears that ran through my face.
"Mary, don't do this to me—to us—don't subject me to this dark pit where I won't have you in any way. I'd rather have you leave me blind, deaf, mute or paralyzed, I beg of you, Mary, anything but the world wherein you're not with me," I gave out a shaky chuckle, releasing ragged breaths of both joy and sadness, remembering a conversation we had before, when he was dying and I was begging him not to leave me. Oh, how the tables have turned.
"Then keep me in it, Francis, keep our memories in your life, no one, not even God, can steal your memories, Francis!" I gave out a breathless laugh as if it were so obvious. He gripped my hands and pressed a soft and gentle kiss, muttering his reluctance in doing so.
"I can't, not when I've had you—mere memories won't suffice, instead, they'll haunt me for a mistake I've made, for what it's cost us," he let out a shaky breath, tears streaking his face still applying pressure on my wound with his free hand. "Do not leave me, Mary, do not leave me," I shook my head and kept my decision stand firm and strong.
"Francis, I want you to promise me that you'll secure James as the next monarch of Scotland, and after that, I want you to cut losses short—let go of Scotland, free France and her soldiers, her people, of her duties to Scotland, protect your kingdom as if I were France, as you are your own realm," there was confusion in his eyes until he had realized what I had meant—it is not politics or the course of nations we are talking about, it is deeper than that, more meaningful than the world of backstabbing and treachery.
The Queen is Scotland and the King is France, I am Scotland and he is France.
I am asking Francis to let go of me.
"No, I refuse to, I cannot let go of you, nor of Scotland; I gave my word to both you and your kingdom, to make good of the alliance made to benefit both of our kingdoms!" he adamantly refused and searched for reason in my eyes.
"Francis, you must losses short, and Scotland is costing France too much. I beg you, Francis, as an act to fulfill my last duty as Queen of your country, France, cut losses short—" he had cut me off, his head turning towards the soft and distant trotting of horses.
"You, Mary," he breathed out, sobbing my name out, "Mary, you are the Queen of France and of my heart, and you are a loss we cannot afford, a loss I cannot afford—as both a King and a husband, you are the person I cannot lose to a battle or to war, even to Death," he stroked my face, tucking strands of my hair behind my ear.
"Francis, you have duties to your country! Be rational; you are King—you must compromise!" he softly and slowly shook his head like child hurt and loss.
"Mary, when will you understand that a compromised King is not a King, as I am no King if not your's?"
"Francis," there was an edge to my tone, "Francis, let us not end like this, please—I beg of you, no more," his tears still continued to fall upon my face as kept rubbing circles on my face. "Promise me, Francis, that once you help James to the throne of Scotland, you will relieve France of her duties to the Auld Alliance." And to me. He reluctantly nodded his head and I let out a relieved sigh, a heavy breath I had not realized that I've been holding in for quite some time now.
There was a pregnant pause for a while, the sound of the horses' hooves were muted for a moment as we stared at each other's eyes.
"Mary, must you do this? Must you leave my future so dim? Must my light fade, leaving so cold and dark?" I shook my head, finally removing my remaining hand from my wound to feel his blonde locks that shone like golden honey with the sun, urging him to rest his head on my shoulder. "I am so sorry, Mary, I have failed you as your King, as your consort, and as your husband," he cried and I shushed him, cooing gently as he moved to the crook my neck, breathing in my scent.
"I say this to you again, Francis, that you don't have to live in this world without me; keep me in your life and tell me how you picture it," I said, closing my eyes for a second before my eyelids shot up, my breathing growing shallow and slower as I felt sleep draw near me. "Tell me of the future we dream of, my love, of our children, of our family," I whispered despite the growing noise of the horses' stomping hooves and the desperate shouts of the guards, the rolling of the wooden wheels of carriages and the horsemen's hurried whippings.
Francis nodded, his head still in the crook of my neck, his tears trickling the side of my face. "Our two children are playing by the fields after a much loved visit to Scotland, where they were welcomed by your people, Catholic and Protestant alike," his arms around me had tightened and weeps silently. "James would often pick a battle with our little Anne and race with her as I tend to you while you carry our third and youngest child, complaining because of your unworldly cravings," I laughed weakly, my breathing growing more shallow and slower by the second. "Anne's blonde hair might've been inherited from me, but that's the only thing she has of me; she is entirely Scottish, even her accent due to her time spent with her dearest Uncle James, as smart and stubborn as you are, my love," I complained lightly and playfully, to such extent by energy could allow, but I've let him continue, "James, would have inherited my locks but his hair is all your's but a shade lighter, loyal to a fault and a righteous boy, religious and God-fearing, and they are our children," his voice broke at the end. "Why must you end our dream?"
I shook my head lightly as I began to fall drowsy. "I could not end this dream, even if I so wanted to, Francis. It is only up to you, on whether or not you'll continue this dream, you must make this a reality." He lifted his head and took a look at me, studying every feature and memorizing them as I tried to remember he smells, what his voice sounds like, how his touch feels, how he kisses me, how he cares for me and how he loves me unconditionally.
"It is a dream only meant for the both of us," he protests silently.
"I will be there, Francis," there was a light, a white light blinding me, beckoning me to stare up to the roof of the forest. There, I saw two innocent and young children playing in one of the castle suites and ripping open pillow cases to play with the feathers, running up the staircase only for one to whisper 'Francis is a girl's name!', two young adults greeting each other for the first time after what seemed like a very long while, catching Francis' gaze as I danced during his sister's wedding party, our first kiss before pushing me away so that I could marry Tomas, when he told me for the first time that he loved, when I ran to Francis to tell him that it has always been him and not Bash, when we were married, our heated embrace during his return to the castle after leaving for Lola and their child, our sailing, our swimming at the lake. . .
"I love you." I couldn't hear the horses or the men shouting, it was only his whisper and the soft gentle wind blowing in the forest.
"Such a beautiful dream you've given to me, Francis," the light grew brighter until I could only see white, the blinding and serene color, how peaceful it is. I pictured our wedding day and our coronation, we would be together in another day. "No, what a beautiful reality you've given me, indeed," I smiled at the endless light until I ceased to see anything.
I will continue walking blind until I see him again. Should I bid him adieu? Shall I part with him and say my goodbyes?
No, au revoir. Until we see each other again.