This one is a slightly different take on the final encounter between Anne and Rochefort. I've never written from a bad guy's perspective so I'd like to know what you think. And fair warning - rating goes up a bit.
He watches her as she prays. Unaware, still, on her knees, in her private world - only herself and God. The epitome of piety, one would say.
"…pray for us sinners. Now and in the hour of our death."
"Amen." he finishes the prayer for her. Though, God would not be saving her this time. She has sinned greatly against him and France.
Only when he reaches her (taking one painfully slow step at the time) does she move. The chain clinks and she traces the sound. She is frightened, he can smell it. It mixes beautifully with her natural scent. He trembles with the desire to comfort her like he did in Spain. They were happy there, together. His fingertips touch her delicate neck, gliding down the hairline. Fragile, little bird.
"You will never touch me again, Rochefort."
She's become defiant, crushing his image of her once again. He steps behind her, joining her on the praying stool. His body is pressed firmly against her. He could take her right there, perfect ending for a royal harlot she's become. He still remembers his sweet girl thrust into a foreign land to share a life with a simpleton. Once, a long time ago, he locked a chain around her neck, a token of his love which she gave to another. This time the chain would remain with her forever, carved into her skin. He would be there for her, one last time. Who else would be strong enough to save her from transgressing further? The cold chain swoops around her neck easily. The pressure is increasing; she will start to fight back any moment now. His love, his reason to survive, his little bird… he cannot do it, not now, not yet. He wrenches the chain away. Falling to the side, she shrieks.
He wipes the tear away and sniffles. "It's all right. Everything is all right."
He watches her with concern. Her hand is pressed against the wound. He steps in to inspect it.
"Get away from me, you monster!" she screams. Her eyes dart to the door but rescue does not come. There is no one to come, he made sure.
He uses his strength to pull her hands apart and straddles her. Both hands are pinned to sides. The stabbing pain in the left eye reminds him not to make the same mistake. She is trying to move to no avail. She's stopped calling for help at least. Ever the quick learner, she is. The line on her pulsing neck is red, but no blood. "Do not worry, my Queen. It will not leave a lasting scar." to the naked eye, her beauty will remain untainted. Not that it would matter. Her pale skin will be cold soon, cold like the dungeon he's spent all those years dreaming of her. He presses his forehead against hers, so close they share the same breath.
"Please, Rochefort…"
"Don't you see… we belong together." he intertwines their fingers, "Look… look how your hands fit into mine. Our bodies-" her eyes are shut, she is not listening so he pushes harder. It is not his wish to hurt her but she must learn obedience, "Look!"
Through the eyelashes she looks, left than right. Then down. Her eyes linger to the line where his black cloth mixes with her lighter one. He can feel it, she is beginning to understand. He is afraid to disturb the stretching silence but he must be sure. "Do you see it now?"
She nods.
He lowers himself to look her in the eyes. "Yes?"
"Yes." she mouths. A smile follows, that shy hint of a smile he remembers well. It is enough, it is everything.
The joy is so overwhelming, he can hardly contain it. He finds shelter in the crook of her neck. No, he is not ashamed of his tears. He needs to be closer to her. Now that she understands. "I knew you would see it."
His tears are subduing when he hears the words as they tremble in her throat. "Show me."
Afraid that he may have imagined it, he shifts upwards.
"Show me you love me." she whispers. Determination and fear mix in every motion.
"Don't be afraid." he presses a single kiss on her jaw, "No one will interrupt." another on her tear-stained cheek, "I'll be gentle." finally, a kiss on the lips. He lets the kiss linger. It is the moment he's been waiting for ages. Together at last.
His lips trail the path down her neck to the collarbone. Her panting is making his blood boil and patience is leaving him. "Oh, my love…" his hands busying themselves over the jewel-clad fabric around her slender waist. He lifts her just enough for his fingers to find the way to release her from the constraining corset.
In her every motion, he can tell her yearning for him is just as strong. She is arching her back in anticipation for what is to come. As he is about to pull the lace on the corset, the sharp pain stabs into the back of his head and his body falls limp.
Unable to comprehend the situation, he tries to move. With the excruciatingly dizzying jump, he gets to his feet. Where is she? His vision is gradually coming into focus and he spots her in the corner, gripping the candlestick with both hands. "Why?" he bellows desperately but she doesn't answer. She is shaking, now he can see. It was all a lie. Betrayal! The burning passion is still present but moments ago it was fueled by desire now mainly by rage. He lungs towards her. A loud shot, his shoulder pops, he falls to her feet. He can hear voices, her damn Musketeers have come to rescue. Never underestimate one's devotion to this Queen… It will all end soon.