In this one, she does not let herself believe that she loves Conde simply because of what he did for her. In this one, she is hurting yet strong. In this one, she is healing, and Francis can still be saved. In this one, Mary and Francis's love is so much more powerful than what the writers wrote in the show... (Still low-key bitter, whoops)
Despite this, I do not own Reign. Nor Ovid's works.
He sees her one evening in the library. Her ladies-in-waiting sit across from each other in front of the library's door, a game of chess settled on the table between them. Mary's fear of the king's guards failing their jobs again dictate her decision to no longer trust men. Instead, she opts for the strongest women from nearby villages who need an escape from their lives. She offers them positions as her ladies, which benefit both parties. It is a strong move. While Mary would never admit it, she is building her own network of spies like Catherine has.
Francis would be lying if he said that her recovery does not impress him. It has been months since her rape happened. While it pains him to watch her from a distance, he respects that she needs time and space. She claims they are husband and wife in name only, but he remains in denial. He loves her from afar and proves a strong king for her sake.
Just because he is a strong king does not mean he is emotionally stable, though. On random nights, the king can be seen pressing his ear against her chamber doors, listening carefully for the sound of her breathing. Francis does not leave until he is sure she is safe. He loves her from afar, be it apparent or not.
If she does notice, she does not show it. When the rape first happened, her body trembled in his presence. Her once steady and sure hands shook and twitched at just the slightest rough intonation in his words. She had to refrain from several council meetings the first few weeks. The presence of men made her so scared, her fear was often palpable. Now, months after her rape, Mary's eyes fly to his shoes when he passes her in the hallways. She never stops to stare, but he feels her longing. They remain in denial of it, but he clings onto these hopes unconsciously, trusting that their love will tug them back into each other eventually.
That is where they stand with each other in that moment. Francis peeks at the distant queen inside the library, her side profile alight by the surrounding candles. She curls up in the window seat as if the moon aid her in seeing the pages. Francis watches as the ghost of a smile graces her features, and he feels one tug on his lips as well. One of Mary's ladies clears her throat, causing his smile to fall just as fast as it came.
"Your majesty," Angeline, a reformed crook and survivor of rape herself, greets him, curtsying. "I understand it is not my place to say, but I have watched her heal. Maybe it is time you reach out and show her support."
Francis' gaze falls back on the queen reading in the windowsill. "I do not believe she wants my support. Just my distance."
Angeline pouts a bit, a scowl of frustration beginning to spill on her face. Mary trained the lady quick and well though, and it starts to dissipate from her features. "Sometimes a lady may not say it outright, but we do enjoy when a man is simply there to lend an ear. We may not always ask for what we truly want."
Francis laughs bitterly, assuming he knows more. Maybe he does. He is so in sync and in tune with her, even with Mary's distant state. He knows where she likes to go. He knows she goes to the lake on cloudy days as a safe haven from the demands of court. He knows when she especially wants to avoid him. He takes special measures to appeal to her wishes on days such as that. After all, he would do anything for her comfort.
But he also is not there to watch the growth of a new side of her. So, does he really know the queen that sat reading books in the library? Had she adopted new traits and habits? Francis mentally curses himself. He has been so absorbed with giving her space and not wanting to miss out on his own son's growth that he missed his wife's.
The elder lady Anne huffs at his contemplative stance, her patience wearing thin. "Oh, good lord, your grace," she hisses, "You simply handled this situation all wrong."
He shoots a glare at the old woman. "I suggest you watch your tongue, Madame."
Her eyes narrow at him, her hands akimbo. "And I suggest you get on moving. You're too concerned with her verbal wishes that you do not see the questions in her eyes. Mary may have improved her relationship with herself, but my dear queen still feels alone. You're simply no help."
"And what do you suggest I do?"
"I suggest you walk yourself across from her and listen. Reach out to her, you dull coin. Do nothing but listen."
Francis's mouth falls at the audacity of the woman, but he lets his question slip. She may be cruel, but she gives good advice. "What is there to say if she won't talk?"
"Maybe you're asking all the wrong questions!" she huffs again, her chest rising and falling greatly. "When a child wants to join in a game, do they not have a better chance of participating if they approach the others and ask?"
Her outburst is loud, causing several bystanders to freeze and look at the red-faced lady. Her nostrils flare, but her rage is not what causes feelings of dread to enter him. It is Mary that makes his stomach drop, her eyes gazing at the scene outside the library.
Francis glances at Anne, the question on whether he should enter on his face. The old woman swings open the library doors further. She announces him impatiently and storms away, continuing her game of chess with Angeline. Mary sits at the edge of her seat as Francis enters the library, his hands fiddling with his fingers. He has never been as ill prepared as that moment.
He looks at Mary whose gaze won't meet his. Her eyes settle on the patterns on the ceiling, the gold designs seeming to keep her interest more than his sudden presence. She's breathtaking in that moment. Francis wants to reach out and touch the long lashes that frame her beautiful brown eyes. The candles flicker, casting small shadows on her face and making her features stand out all the more. Her plump lips are set in a pout as she examines the ceiling, and Francis knows that she is not wondering why the ceiling has golden fixtures.
Francis is ready to ask her why she won't look at him when Anne's words echo in his mind. Instead of confronting their problems head on, he settles for a bit of small talk. He spots the copy of Ovid in her hands, and he cannot help the words that fall from his mouth. "I do hope you've read Metamorphoses."
Mary glances down at him before directing her gaze back at the ceiling. She fiddles with the book in her hands, her fingers once again jittery. Francis feels the urge to reach out and hold them still, begging her not to be afraid. He will protect her, not cause her harm. Instead, he walks around the room, feigning to peruse the shelves. He continues, hoping to get her to think of something else. Not to forget exactly, but remind her that she is not defined by a single moment in her life, though it may seem that way.
"It's where the story of ill-fated Icarus can be found, but Icarus is one of my least favorite stories. My opinions are irrelevant of course, but I think both parties involved are quite stupid."
He hears the faintest bit of laughter come from her direction, and he turns around at her with excitement etched in his features. She looks at him longer this time. Her fiddling stops, and her nerves seem to fall at ease with the distance he has placed between them.
"I quite like Icarus," she says strongly, and it almost shocks him. When was the last time he heard her voice? He craves for more, feeling deprived after having a small taste.
"Why is that?" Francis asks, his back resting lightly against the oak shelves. He does not want to stop hearing her speak.
"I think it's a beautifully tragic story," she comments, her gaze jumping from ladder to ladder, never focusing on him.
"I respect your decision fully," Francis says, his smile apparent in his words. He wants to expand on that, tell her that he respects every decision she makes. He would follow her into the fires of hell if she decided to travel there.
Not wanting to let silence settle over them and end the conversation, Francis tries to find another aspect of the conversation he can approach. "While I do respect your decision, I suppose I always thought there was a way to avoid this conflict. Each party could have done something different."
Mary scoffs, and he swears that she rolls her eyes the slightest bit. He looks at her questioningly, and she begins to get flustered. Her eyes focus on him, a challenge set firmly in her gaze. Her lips press into a thin line, and her ears twitch. A shiver makes its way down his back, and he tries to hide it as best as he can. It had been a while since he experienced her powerful gaze firsthand.
"True, they are both at fault," Mary says, watching as he begins to make his way around the room. "But one thing they both share is a lack of communication, and I believe that is a powerful message."
"So, you enjoy the messages of the story over the story itself?" Francis asks.
Mary nods. "Reading it is a pleasure, do not mistake me. I also agree that there were so many ways for them to avoid the ending they both received, but seeing their faults is like seeing ours from a different point of view."
"And what are their faults?" Francis asks, enjoying how natural their conversation flows. She seems willing to talk to him about this, a topic that isn't matters of state nor their current relationship.
"Well," Mary begins, shifting down from her seat on the window sill to a love seat in the corner. "There is the lack of communication of course, but there is also the boy's sense of the moment. He was living inside of it too much, and I guess he was not able to realize the dangers and repercussions. He also did not heed his father's warnings. Daedalus had one simple request: fly a straight course. I suppose the boy could not wait, too excited and eager."
Francis makes his way around the room, walking over to where she is. He keeps his distance, running his hands along the leather-bound books. She watches his movements, the way his hands deftly tug at the silk bookmarks hanging from their spines. His fingers trace the large cracks of the leather, following them down until they made their way to the next book. The sound of his boots tapping along the marble floor and the sound of the fire bring her unusually at peace. What sounds like the beginning of her nightmares comes across as the sound of a faithful watchdog. She is safe and warm, under his protection, his watchful gaze that for once does not judge. His eyes no longer beg for her to speak to him, to tell him how she is doing. He is alone as she, simply finding comfort in someone who is available in that moment.
"And what of his father?" he asks her, now only a few feet away. She unconsciously leans forward. His voice is so soft, like the distance between them does not exist. It is like he is resting his forehead against hers again, whispering because of their close proximity. In a way, it is just that. She realizes she has not let him stand so close in quite some time.
"Daedalus. He was foolish for believing his young son would even listen to him. Of course, the young boy would try flying to the sun or skimming his wings across the water. He had been given a taste of freedom and adventure, and Daedalus tried to block that. The father must realize that he is a boy who does not understand the new boundaries," Mary falters in the end, her eyes blinking rapidly. She tears her gaze away from the young king who rests his arm on a shelf. "Things would be different, and it would take the boy a while to realize that things were no longer simple nor safe. The father should have explained that it would take a few challenges to reach their destination, but they would live freely together if Icarus just waited and heeded his father."
A contemplative silence falls over the two as they each register what she has said. Neither admits it aloud, but it sounds more like the situation the pair finds themselves in than the story of Icarus. What is more shocking to her is that she is not disturbed thinking like that, thinking in riddles and metaphors. She finds it comforting and eye-opening. Mary purses her lips, her realization that Francis must feel deprived of her love but also that he does not really understand. It is not fully his fault, either. She is to blame, shutting him out before he can get a full explanation of what it exactly is she wants from him.
"How would you have wanted their story to go?" His voice startles her from her reverie, and she turns to look at him, afraid that they share the same thoughts. Instead, he looks out the window, his jaw clenched and brows drawn together in thought. His finger draws patterns along the oak shelf, causing her to shiver. His hands had a therapeutic effect on her. A simple touch from him used to make her unfurl and relax.
"I- Ah," she stutters, her eyes following his finger's circular motions. He glances at her sudden speechlessness, and their eyes meet for the briefest of seconds. She sees his sadness, and he sees her loneliness. Each sight is too pitiful for the other, and they look in opposite directions, the tension that dissipated earlier that evening making its way back to them.
Mary grasps at the remains of their conversation, trying to find a response. She does not want him to leave just yet. She wants to talk in this confusing way of theirs. She wants to know what he thought without really knowing. She wants to understand at least one thing in the world she lives in.
"I would want them to begin somewhere," she says quickly, her breathing suddenly labored. Mary clamps her mouth as if it would take her words back and she could begin again. "I would want Daedalus and Icarus to speak more carefully, listen to what the other wants and what the other would give."
She sees Francis face her in the corner of her eye, his arms fastening behind his back and raising his head higher. His position reminds her just how much of a show Francis puts on around everyone. She knows he is hurting, and guilt settles in her stomach when she remembers she is the cause.
In order for her to heal, maybe she needs to be there for the one person she loves the most. Maybe to gain true love, she needs to show it too. Maybe they could be each other's crutch. It offers both of them clarity. Keeping to herself simply was no longer an option, she decides.
"They can always have a new beginning," Francis says, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm sure Icarus would be willing to listen and learn."
"I don't doubt it," Mary says, her eyes trailing up from where his toes point at her. She lets her gaze climb up his long legs and lean torso. Mary does not tear her eyes away when their eyes finally meet, the cold exterior she had built up melting under his warm gaze.
Francis's lips lift the slightest bit, his eyes softening in joy at the mutual understanding that passes between them. It is he that tears his gaze away this time. He begins his trek towards the door, the slightest evidence of a bounce in his step. Mary does not notice the muscles on her face pulling upward, the corners of her lips mimicking his.
Before he leaves, Francis bows before his queen. "I suppose Icarus and Daedalus have quite a bit to talk about before healing happens," he says, patience settling in his eyes along with something else. That something...
"Yes," she mutters, the sound barely coming out of her throat as he exits the library. That something in his eyes... It has made her breathless, and she fingers the first page of the book in her hands.
Understanding happens between two people when they both know where they stand with each other, Mary decides. She also decides that understanding is pointless if there was no hope. It is clear in that moment that hope is that something. Hope is what she sees in his eyes, and she can feel it in her chest.
A/N: Hiya :) This is my first Reign fanfic, and I hope it didn't butcher it too much? Haha.
I just love the show so much, and lately I haven't seen a lot of updates or new fanfics. I decided to write one myself, as is evident. I know that the show has lost a lot of its sparkle and popularity, but I just miss season-one!Frary so much. I really hate the distance in season two, and I took it into my own hands. (I'm not even going to talk about the "distance" in season 3.)
I hope the one-shot isn't too bad. I'm a little rusty with writing, but maybe I can get back into the swing of it all. :) So if you do end up reading this, please leave a review? Drop a fave? Drop a follow? Tell me what you think, please?
Okay, have a lovely day! - frenchlavender&honey