The power of it was all consuming; hope. Surging like kindling to fire through dry veins, burning with a light so bright it lit the darkest corners of the soul, diminishing the darkness with a simple swell. Rational parts ached to remember the pain, the heartache, the betrayal. Hope lit the rationale on fire and burned it to ashes. Gravity had not diminished with the retreat of the moon, it had simply taken refuge in the dark corners, slowly being brought back to light with hope's fires slow burn.

He awoke gently, eyes slowly flickering to breathe in the new world, lit with a light stronger than the sun. The knowledge of her proximity was the best awakening he had had since the morning he had awoken with her in his arms. Francis hoped he would have another morning like that shortly. Hope spurned through him with an intensity so strong it pushed him from the bed, despite the chill of the cool morning air, damp against the skin of his face.

Silence filled him. A heavy stillness that quickened the thrum of his heart against his ribs, that quieted the racing of his anxious mind. Francis couldn't put his finger on his reluctance but he was filled with a sudden dread at what he would find when Mary was finally back within his grasp. He wanted to be angry with Bash, wanted to hate him for his action, for taking Mary from him, but the overwhelming devastation at being left behind had consumed his anger like water to flame.

He was in no mood for eating, for formalities, for sitting aimlessly when she was so close for the first time in so long. So with a quick thank you and some directions from the servants, Francis set off to find her.

FMFMFM

The morning was still, heavy with the secret that had burdened itself with her. Silence filled the halls. Mary sat at the foot of her tree, arms crossed protectively over the secret growing within in. Grief stung a bitter sting at the thought. She ached for Francis, ached to tell him of their child growing within her, a testament to their love. But terror seized her. She knew that if Francis knew of the child it would only solidify his resolve to marry her, to be with her, and therefore seal his fate. Mary would be damned if she was the cause of Francis' death.

A soft breeze blew gently across her face, carrying with it the scent of something familiar, something Mary had no trouble placing. It was the scent of Francis, carried to her on the bows of the wind. Tears stung her closed eyes. So strong was her longing for Francis that her mind had conjured his smell.

"Mary."

She didn't dare open her eyes for fear of ruining the illusion her mind had conjured. Francis' voice calling to her.

"Mary, open your eyes."

Closer this time, so close she felt as though she could reach out and touch him as if he really was there.

Eyes still closed, she dared to breath his name for the first time in what felt like forever. "Francis."

A hand, soft and familiar and comforting, resting of the curve of her cheek. Mary was confused. There was no way her mind had created an illusion as real as this. She opened her eyes, breathing in the reality before her.

A smile graced her face, dimples tucked into each cheek. "Francis."

There was no denying the reality before her now. And the consequences that came with it.