Love is Leaving

"Take care my brave son, or you will bleed for a girl who will never be yours"

Sebastian's mother had taught him many things: to stand tall and proud, to be cheeky when the situation called for humor, and most importantly, to put those he loved above himself. (It would be a lesson she would recant when she spoke of legitimization.) It was a dangerous line he walked when he tried to follow that last lesson – one side involved protecting himself and his mother, another his half-brothers, father, and her safe.

She had come into his life like a storm blowing across the lavender fields, scattering fragrant petals across the ground. She had come with fire and ice and the lonely life of the bastard did not seem quite so lonely anymore. If only for the simple fact that her dog, Sterling, had seemed to take a liking to him and was rarely away from his side when he went out for long walks or rides. But it was more than her dog. Anyone with eyes could see that.

They could see the way that his eyes lit up watching her dance, spinning around as if she was simply a girl and not the Queen of Scotland with hundreds of years of history behind her and thousands of years before her, all on her shoulders. They could see how he instinctively reached out for her when she would trip. They could see that his eyes tracked her when he thought nobody was watching (and hell, sometimes even when he knew they would). They could see it in the way he fought for her against Tomas, even when his muscles were nearly past the point of refusing.

He had been trying his best to be polite, be cheeky yes, but polite and almost distant. But she was making that impossible. It wasn't her body – though many would tell him it was – no, it was Francis who thought of her for her long black hair and her hazel eyes. It was for her mind. The way she carried herself. Though she had bounced around so much as a child and her time in Scotland was limited, she carried herself as the true Queen of Scots. She refused to be a timid anything. Bash knew very few other Scots, other than her ladies in waiting, and none of them were like her. And yet, even with her brutal honesty and her blunt-edges she was softness and grace. She was not vindictive, though manipulative could often be used to describe her.

It was those things and much more, that made Sebastian question just why his brother did not treat her like the Queen she was. It was those things and more that made Sebastian question his sanity. He knew he had to get away from the castle for as soon and as long as possible. But that ridiculous pull she had. The way she reached out for him, as if he was not dangerous, as if he was not so, so dangerous for her, for Scotland, for France, made him tell the voices in his head to shut up. The way she trusted him made him want to stay. The way he loved her made him want to leave.

They had their moments. The kiss by the lake the one he would replay over and over in his head when he couldn't sleep. Which was often since he was frequently kept up late thinking of her, wondering how best to make her smile, to erase the worry that seemed to consistently rest on her shoulders since she arrived. Those first few hours she had been here, she had been the light of the castle, the light of the French court. But that had been quickly replaced by a heaviness that would drag her into the depths of despair if she allowed it. If he allowed it. He didn't think he had the ability to take away all of her worries or sorrows. No, he was no God. But he did hope that by simply being there, he could ease her burden.

But then he made a mistake. Or a few. He cared too deeply, too strongly. He had fallen in love and now it wasn't the English that were after her. It was the Blood Cult. And that was something he wasn't sure he could protect her from. But he did. He managed it. Not without some sort of damage to his soul – and hers. He could see that she looked at him differently now. It wasn't because Francis had forbade it (and oh, what a moment that had been, challenging his little brother over her). It was as if she was afraid to be associated with him for fear of a repeat occurrence. A repeat occurrence that was all too likely to happen if Catherine got her way.

It was that fear that drove him to pacing back and forth, back and forth, in his chambers, in the gardens, anywhere really. If the stone floors had not already been hundreds of years old, he could have believed that he was wearing a hole in them. Or if not a hole, at least a rut. It took a week for him to reach his conclusion. It took another more week for him to carry out the solution. It would have taken less time but he needed something made first.

Three weeks to the day since he had sacrificed a member of the Blood Cult to save her, he left, leaving her a letter in his room where he knew only she would find it. Left behind his family, his friends, his lifestyle, and her, for good – for forever. Left for god knows where, but he had an inkling it would be to Scotland.

It had been three weeks to the day when Bash had saved her and Francis had forbidden any sort of relationship between them. She had wanted to see him. He had been holed up inside his room or away from the castle, away from prying eyes, for three weeks. That was enough, she had decided. She couldn't let him flog himself for something that was bound to happen anyway. She had a curiosity that could not be tamed – one that often got her into trouble back at the convent. She would have wandered into the woods alone one day when that curiosity got the best of her and the same result would have happened. She knew full well it was not just the English that wanted her dead.

She knocked, "Bash, can I talk to you?" No response. She knocked again, "Bash, please. This wasn't your fault."

The lack of a response shouldn't have worried Mary. He had been absent from the castle life much the past few weeks. Why would today have been any different? But it felt different. It felt like the ache in her heart had grown. But it was not just the ache that made her worried. It was the blind panic that had started to come over her as she waited for an answer from him. Anything – just a word would do. She wanted to do all the talking anyway.

The panic grew and grew until she couldn't stand it anymore, and tried the door. It was locked. He never locked his door. It was a fact Mary had taken advantage of frequently both when she was a child and when she returned to court. My door is always open if you need to talk, Mary. He had said. Of course, there had been one or two times when it had been locked. But that was because he was trying to teach her how to pick locks – a skill that needed some practice if her inability to do so now was any indication. If she was to justify it to him, she would say that her hands were shaking, unable to stay steady. He would have laughed, questioning her nerves of steel. And everything would have gone back to normal. Or at least a semblance of normal. Nothing could be normal after that kiss. After he saved her life. After she realized Francis was not who she thought he was and it was Bash that she wanted. That she couldn't have. Queens never get what they want, she had been told before. Never had she thought it truer than this moment as she finally heard the lock click and she was able to push the door open.

His room was clean, much like Bash himself. He was always the organized one, with the organized mind. He had a mind of strategy. If he could have been a soldier, he would have easily risen through the ranks. If he had been given the chance, he could have made a fantastic, unparalleled diplomat. But nobody had given him that chance. Even she had not really given him that chance. She could have. She could have asked him what he thought she should do in regards to Scotland, in regards to what she should have done with Tomas and Portugal. She should have confided in him that she was nervous about Francis, his attachment to Olivia and his wavering devotion to her. She should have been the friend that he was to her.

He was her rock. She was able to come to him with anything. Even when things could have been awkward, she could talk to him. He also very rarely was around her without some sort of alcohol which had provided relief from time to time. She didn't think that he could do anything to break her trust. Even with the Blood Cult, she still trusted him. Sure, she was still worried about if the Blood Cult could come back, but not because she was worried about them coming back for her. She was worried about them coming for him. She wanted to keep him safe, like he had kept her safe, but she couldn't. She couldn't protect him the way she wanted to. Not just because she couldn't swing a sword or poison someone, but because she was so tied to her throne that it was hard to break away from that responsibility.

He would have done everything for her. Anything. It was a frightening thought – to have someone love you that completely. Bash saw her flaws and said it was okay, they would be able to make a life together and be happy. Of course, he never said it that way, but he didn't have to. It was in his eyes. He had the most expressive eyes, eyes the color of a piece of glass tossed about in the sea until its edges were smoothed. His heart should have been steel – goodness knows hers had certainly started to grow since coming to the castle – but it wasn't. It was tender despite all the anguish he had experienced in his life. It was perfect. He was perfect.

As she walked around the room, fingers trailing over books on a table, blankets on a bed, a tapestry on the wall, she could feel it. He was gone. And he wasn't coming back. But where was he, and why didn't he leave a note? She walked around the room, pacing and pacing, thinking without coming to many conclusions about the where, when, and why. She knew there was to be a feast in a few hours and she should be getting ready – she knew Aylee, Greer, and Lola would be there waiting to help her dress. But she wasn't going to leave his room until she had at least a semblance of an answer.

She knew he kept a locked box on his bedside table of little mementoes or letters. He had shown it to her when she was merely a child, saying that all of his happiest memories were in that box. With shaking hands and the hair pin she had used on his room, she picked the lock. There, with the seal of a lion, was a letter for her.

She almost didn't want to read it. Afraid maybe of what she might find out. But things needed to be known. She opened it, a necklace falling onto the table. It was a simple chain, long, silver and smooth, ending in a round flat-backed charm. On it was a thistle, the back had a saying engraved onto it: "Tá mé i gcónaí anseo." His Gaelic translation was far from correct, closer to an Irish version than the one they spoke in Edinburgh, but she could still understand it. It said, "I am always here."

Slipping it on over her head, the cool metal rested between her breasts, at her heart. I am always here – I am always in your heart, Mary took it to mean. With a shaky breath and the beginnings of tears, she began to read.

My dearest Sun,

This might come as a shock to you, but I love you. And that is why I have left. Long ago I was taught that love meant sacrifice. It meant being patient, kind, and always, always putting someone ahead of yourself. Love was more than the fairytales we were told as children. Love was more than all of that. Love was complete and perfect trust in another human being, knowing that in the end, everything will work out the way it is supposed to – that you made the right choice in the end.

I love your courage, your spirit, your heart, Mary, Queen of Scots. I love the way you drink too much when you're angry and brooding. I love that I was able to take away what loneliness you had. I love that I was able to be there for you, no matter what. I love everything about you – even the parts that frighten me. You are cunning and the time you have spent in the French court has not treated you well. It has started to harden your heart. I could see it, I could feel it.

The incident with the Blood Cult, oh, that was all my fault. I wanted to protect you so badly that I did things I should not have. And in doing so, I made you suffer. I made you cry. I made you the object of their affection. I would do anything for you, Mary. You must know that by now. I would cut down any and all that tried to harm you. And that scares you – as it should. I could easily become a monster. I could easily become Catherine (my, what a scary thought that is). I could easily lose you in the process of trying to save you. And I cannot take that risk. I would gladly die a million times over if I just knew that you would be safe and happy. I would give you up to Francis, knowing that it made you happy.

He can protect you in ways I cannot. He thinks of country first, yes. But his distance, his aloofness, will be a great asset to you. He will be able to make decisions not based on his heart, but on what is best for all. And especially you. He'll make a great king one day. But he will never be nearly as good a King, as you are a Queen. You rule with dignity and poise. You love and trust your subjects, even your future ones, the French.

I may never see you again, though I will think of you daily. I'm almost certain that Sterling would try to run away with me, as attached as he has become, but he will be tied up, near the sheep he so loves to torment, for you as a shoulder to cry on and to hear your secrets since I cannot. But know, I will always be with you. And if you are ever truly in need of me, that necklace is the key to where I am. I had it made for you, as a symbol of both my love, and your love for Scotland. Somewhere I once read that the thistle is the flower of Scotland, of its nobility, of its heart. Prickly when pushed the wrong way, but so beautiful it is worth the risk to pick. Do not take that invitation lightly. You are a Queen, I am a bastard. And I will do anything to keep you safe. Do not put yourself at risk to find me. Do not put your country at risk to find me. I will always be here for you but I know, and you know, it will never happen in the way we want.

I love you, and always will.

Sebastian, your Bash.

She hadn't realized she had crumbled to the ground at some point during reading the letter. She hadn't realized that she was sobbing so hard that she could barely breathe. All she knew was some guards had come in, gently picking her up and moving her to her own chambers. That had to have been what happened. There was no other way to explain how she ended up on a chair in her room. She cried long past the point where tears could flow, leaving her gasping with a growing headache from the dehydration. He was gone. And she didn't know where. He was never coming back. Stupid men and their want to protect her. People had died protecting her. People would die protecting her. But none had captured her heart the way that Bash had. And he hadn't even died – he had just left without a goodbye, only a note and a necklace.

Francis let her cry for two days and then demanded that she be at meals and other court functions so that she could move on. Though Mary knew that she never would. She began writing a thousand letters, knowing she could never send them. She never took the necklace off, sometimes hiding it in a dress, other times wearing it out in the open. She received questions about it from Catherine, her ladies and Francis, but she wouldn't reveal who it was from. "It's a token to remind me of my country, of the strength and beauty of the Scottish people." She had repeated, over and over, never saying more even when probed.

It took her months to accept the fate that maybe Bash was right. Maybe she couldn't be both Queen and Mary. Maybe Catherine was right – Queens could never be truly happy. Both thoughts made her shiver with dread for the life in front of it. And so, she moved on, hoping throwing herself into work would help. But still, the necklace and its riddle was on her mind. She puzzled over it at night when the insomnia prevented her from more than a few hours of sleep a night. She puzzled over it as Henry made plans for her and Francis' wedding. The plans were slow, languorous as if there was never to be a need for a wedding – just an engagement. She would have mentioned it to Francis, but that was before. Now she saw no need to rush to the wedding. She would consent to it but only because she was supposed to. Only because the English forces were beginning to mass on the Scottish border. That was the only reason she could think of to be getting married to Francis. Olivia had broken her. But it was not just Olivia. It was comparatively how safe she felt with Bash versus with Francis.

She thought about the riddle as she walked along the lake, remembering all the hours they spent together talking. She had figured it out by the fourth month what he meant. She almost ran to him, to home, and a world so much hers. But she remembered his words that she couldn't run away. She couldn't leave without thinking of her country first. And so, she waited. She trusted in God and maybe even the pagan gods that if she was meant to leave France, turning her back on an alliance with a superpower, she would. Not a moment before. Timing, after all, was everything.

The moment came soon enough. Word reached the French court that Queen Mary of England, was ill and fading fast. Henry had been positively ecstatic about that development. Almost in the same breath that he had announced the English Queen's demise, he announced Francis' and Mary's wedding date. She had finally had a date. She thought it would have brought her so much more joy than it had. Of course, there were stipulations. One of them was that she go after England, staking her claim to the throne, uniting the entire island – England, Scotland, and Wales would be one, and with it all of England's overseas holdings. This she did not want. Though Elizabeth was a Protestant, Mary felt no ill-will towards her cousin. She did not want the bloodshed it would cause her people. It was amazing how connected she felt to the Scottish when she herself had spent scare more than a few months there since she had turned six. But connected she did.

She had a day. She would have hoped for more time, in order to sneak away. But as she packed, she knew this was the right thing to do, the right time. More time would leave her with a calmness that could not be explained. It would have left her with a smile – something she had not a true one of in months. Of course, maybe some would just think that the Queen was happy to finally be getting married. Even if that was so far from the truth.

She didn't pack much, though she knew the journey would be long, and hard. She also knew it would be become harder and harder to hide who she was if she wore the gowns she had grown accustomed to at the palace. She took some of her ladies' gowns, leaving them each a letter explaining where she had gone and welcoming them back with her when they felt the time right. She considered cutting her hair, but she knew that short hair would make her stand out more than her long hair. She didn't pack any makeup and instead packed the journal filled with letters to Bash. With the necklace hidden safely under her dress, a bag tied to her saddle and a letter left for King Henry (but not Francis), she left.

She had written that as Queen of her country, she had a right to revoke any engagement contract or contract with another nation that she saw fit to do so. There were matters of Scotland that needed tending to, and the assumption had always been that once married she would remain in France. She wrote that that arrangement did not suit her or her country. She wrote about how she really didn't care about how he broke it to Francis. Or if he sent people after her, she would retaliate. She told the King of France to let her go… or else. Mary had smirked when she had written that sentence. Every stroke had been true.

She smiled as she realized how obvious the answer to the riddle had been as she rode away. Tá mé i gcónaí anseo, I am always here.

There was a thistle garden in Edinburgh – it was there, just outside the castle, not only as a symbol of the eternal Scottish monarchy, but as a source for all the capital's thistle needs. She had told Bash of it once – how she missed the smell and the beautiful purple flowers. It was summer, the thistle would be in full bloom if she was able to get there in time.

And she did. She returned to Edinburgh, disposing her mother as regent and taking up her throne once more. The people celebrated and cheered as she spoke from the Castle. She was happy to be back in her home country once more, but she also missed him. She went to the gardens every day, walking and waiting, hoping to see him. It was another two months, just as the plants were beginning to die and snow could be seen brushing the old castle cliffs, before she saw him.

It was a cold day, where the traditional Scottish mist they liked to call cheery meery had set in, dampening everyone's spirits as the cold sunk into their bones. It was a cold day but one where Mary had no royal obligations and so she spent it outside, on a bench she had made for her waiting days, and waited. She had nearly given up hope, just as the sun was beginning to sink, she saw him.

"Bash." It wasn't a question. It was a breathed affirmation.

"It took you long enough to realize what I meant." He stopped, that same cheeky grin on his face. He didn't walk any further towards her, merely opening his arms. Arms that securely fastened around her as she hugged him. She breathed in, realizing his scent had changed, as had his accent, but it was still the same Bash.

"You told me to not come lightly. To make the right decision, for me, for Scotland, for everyone."

He smiled ruefully, resting a hand on her cheek. "And what, Mary, is your decision? Whose are you now?"

She smiled up at him. "I am nobody's. Nobody can claim me because I am as wild, free, and dangerous as the Highlands my father loved. I am not Francis', or France's, or my mother's, or your's, or even Scotland's."

Bash's hand dropped from her cheek and he looked downcast. As if what she was saying meant the end of everything. "So you are to remain unmarried?"

Mary laughed, causing Bash's head to snap up in surprise. "Do not toy with me, Mary."

"I do not. I am not a piece of property, Sebastian. I have my own mind, my own will and my own soul. I have been ruled by too many other people for too long. It is time I started being my own person – whomever that is. But," her voice lowered and she took his hands in hers, "I would love it if you would stand beside me, as Prince, every day for the rest of our lives. I want to wake up to those eyes and have your heart guide me when mine is lost. I want you, Bash." She paused, looking at his shining eyes reflecting what she imagined her own were showing: pure happiness and love. "Bash, marry me."

"No." And for a moment, Mary's heart fell. It was all over. "That's not how it's done. This is how it's done." He dropped down on one knee and with the biggest grin she had ever seen, he said, "Marry me, Mary Queen of Scots, and make me the luckiest bastard on earth."

She didn't even need to answer, their kisses were enough. Though, after a moment or two when they pulled apart, breathless, with foreheads resting on one another that he asked the dreaded question. "So what happens with France? With protecting Scotland?"

"We don't need France. We just need England."

"I wouldn't think you would want to go to war, Mary."

"Oh, I don't."

"Then…" Bash looked confused. "How?"

"We make a deal with Princess Elizabeth and Queen Mary."

"I'm sorry, I'm… I'm not following you."

"I don't want England. I want you."

"But Scotland's been England's…"

"Will you hush and let me finish. I don't want England. I want you. I want Scotland to be safe. I want the Catholics in my country to be safe, just as I imagine Elizabeth wants the Protestants safe. She once, when we were younger and more foolish, mentioned that she would never marry. Her father's mistakes on that account made her realize that much. If she does not marry and dies childless, the crown passes to me. I think our biggest obstacles are not each other, or even who rules whom, but whose religion. The reform movements are gaining strength, and even though I am a devout Catholic, I cannot let my people die because of their faith." She paused, not to think, but to breathe. She had figured this all out on the long trip back to Scotland. She had a plan.

"We meet with Elizabeth, after Queen Mary has died. We talk of how we can make this work. How to unite the island without bloodshed. She may be more agreeable to it than we think. After all, the Spanish have threatened a few things if she does not marry one of their princes." She looked to Bash, wondering what he was thinking.

"If you have England…"

"I don't need France."

"Well, there is the small matter of me being a bastard…"

"To the King of France. But," she pulled a small letter from her dress, handing it to him, "to me, and to Scotland, you are the Duke of Hamilton."

Bash's eyebrows went up. "A duke? How am I a duke? Did you kill off the previous title holder?"

Mary chuckled. "No such luck. His children died before he did – he died a few months ago. My mother wanted to appoint a successor but I told her to wait. Hamilton is the oldest of the dukedoms in Scotland, and, coincidentally, the highest ranked. With a title, you are now able to marry me, Duke Bash."

"Please, don't call me that."

"How does husband sound?" A smirk playing at her lips.

"It sounds perfect. But I have to ask you, Mary, are you sure?"

"As sure as I will ever be. You have protected me from so much and you love me so deeply. I love you and I wouldn't have anyone else by my side, helping me rule."

"Then when do we get married?"

"Officially? Or," a blush rose to her cheeks, "unofficially?"

"Officially. I want to do this properly."

"Well King Henry wanted me to get married in a day. But I say in a week. We will announce you at court, give everyone a little time to adjust, and then have the grand wedding my mother, not I, always dreamed of."

Bash kissed her again, picking her up and spinning her through the air. "You are going to be my wife!"

One week later, in her favorite (but new) blue gown with the white flowered overlay that reminded her of his eyes, she entered Holyrood's grand hall to marry him. The coronation would follow their honeymoon – when Bash would become Sebastian, Prince Consort, though he was allowed to keep his Dukedom. In the meantime, Mary would have to educate him about Scottish history (he needed to know much more than the flower), the way the Scottish court worked, and how to perform his duties when she was indisposed. Not to mention, she needed to teach him Gaelic.

"I, Mary Eilidh Stuart…"

"I, Sebastian…"

As they broke apart to a clapping, smiling crowd, Bash leaned in to whisper in her ear, "There will be no sleep tonight, wife."

It took her a few hours to get back to him with all the well-wishers surrounding the Queen, separating her from her Duke, but when she did, for a dance, she whispered in his ear, "I didn't plan on it."

Author's Note:

First off, Mary's middle name is a Gaelic name pronounced "Eh-LEE" which means "light." Second off, hope you all enjoyed. First Reign fic, hope I did the Mash/Mabastian fan base happy. I had the best time writing this. It was so, so much fun. I plan to slowly turn this into a full-length fic by fleshing it out with backstory and elaborate on some moments (like the months Mary waited before returning to Scotland) but they will be in the same one-shot format. ~ Ann