Important A/N: This chapter is slightly AU (Mary's rape never happened, and so Conde was as he was in history, a Protestant who tried to kidnap Francis and take the throne, not Mary's lover, as that would have made this difficult to write).

Important Warning: This chapter is rated M for violence and some language in the beginning, as well as illusions/flashbacks to past violence, past thoughts of suicide, past non-con, and slash elements. If any of that is a trigger for you, or you're not interested in M 'shots, the next 'shot will be rated K, and will be unrelated to this story. (I, for one, would have been glad if they'd put some sort of a warning on 2x09 like this, sheesh.)

For the rest of you, and especially to The Regboner Queen, I hope you enjoy; it's a long one! If anyone has any more prompts, let me know in a PM! I'd love to hear them!


The ground beneath the monastery seemed to shake, and Clement Enjorlas let out a furious curse as the next musket shot rang out from beyond the monastery's thin, sandstone walls, pulling Bash to safety before the walls could crumble and take the King of France's brother down with them.

More than anyone, Clement knew he had to preserve Sebastian's life, or, even if he himself managed to survive this siege, he would most certainly be dead by the end of it.

Bash didn't protest as Clement pushed him down, though there was a look on his face, one Clement hadn't seen in a long time.

It was not of relief, much to his surprise, but rather of some other emotion, something he couldn't quite place, but which boded ill, Enjorlas was certain.

And then the walls came down, and the army outside descended into a monastery much too small for it, invading as though it were an enemy country, rather than a home to monks and those seeking sanctuary.

Never in his life had Clement seen such a thing happen, had seen anyone, King or army, desecrate a monastery in such a way, and he couldn't help but shiver in anticipation of what was likely to come, if their enemies had sunk to such a thing so easily. He had been counting on their not doing so.

"This is a house of God!" the head monk cried as the soldiers swarmed into the room, lashing out at anyone who stood in their way, and even at those who did not. "You must not shed blood here, or you shall be eternally damned!"

"I would say that the souls hiding like cowards in this monastery are far more damned than ours will ever be, Father," a cool voice said from the monastery's entrance, from behind his soldiers, and Enjorlas stiffened, having not thought to hear that voice again, even as the monk fell to his knees along with his fellow worshippers.

Enjorlas did not bother. It would have been a wasted effort, after all, for this man.

The King of France was much changed from what Clement could once remember him being, from the few times he had met the young king at Court, before and after he had been crowned. He was older, to be sure, as Clement had not seen him in three years, but it seemed to him as though the French King had aged at least a decade, in that time. His hair, which had once been blonde as the sun's rays, now seemed tinted with gray, and his stance was stiffer, as though some old injury pained him. He was taller, and thinner, as though he had been starving himself in his mission, and Clement almost wondered if he had, though a part of him, the part that believed that Francis could not have found them without some level of sorcery, that the King did not require the sustenance of food.

But it was not these things which Clement noticed first.

No, it was the cold, deadness in the French King's eyes, as they regarded the room, taking in the sight of his brother, in Clemet's arms, Clement himself, the monks, and his own men with a dispassionate gaze that seemed to miss nothing. And it was the way this coldness seemed to extend throughout his body, enveloping him in icy anger that surely meant death and destruction followed in his wake.

King Francis was not a child anymore, unburdened by his station in life and enjoying the benefits of it at the same time. Enjorlas could not even be sure that he was still a man, but rather an avenging angel, come to take back what was his.

And, though Clement had spent three years ensuring that would not happen, he could not help but lose hope in the sight of the King, now, for he had no doubt that the King would do exactly as he wished.

In a word, the King had hardened, and Clement wondered if the king 's own brother recognized him now any better than he himself did.

"You and your people shall not be harmed, Father," the King said calmly, his voice making it plain that he found his own words entirely reasonable. "I have no quarrel with you, nor with God. But your walls will not hide from me what is rightfully mine to bring to justice, and I believe God might forgive me for what I am about to do."

The monk sputtered at this, but, seeming to have recognized from the righteous anger in the King's eyes that he would not be able to dissuade his sovereign, he fell silent at that.

Clement swore, realizing suddenly that his plan of seeking sanctuary in the monastery had utterly failed, and he did the only thing he could think to do, to save himself now.

He pulled Bash close again, ignoring the startled look in the young man's eyes, and reached for his dagger, his sole means of defense against the enemy now, before one of King Francis' soldiers could stop him with a well-aimed arrow or knife.

The Lord held his dagger to Bash's throat, digging it into the tender skin there, and Bash barely cried out as a trickle of blood fell down his neck to stain his clothes, never once taking his eyes off of the young King.

"Let him go," King Francis all but hissed out the order, blue eyes like icy flames, and Enjorlas almost lost his resolve then and there.

But he didn't, because he knew that letting Bash go would be the last thing he ever did.

"I'll slit the bastard's throat if you don't let me pass," Clement hissed out, surprised at his own vehemence, at the same time hoping the King would not call him on his bluff.

For a moment, he thought he saw the boy king falter, uncertain, but then the moment was gone, and the King's eyes had hardened into daggers once again, though, other than his eyes, his expression was almost entirely careless. "And if you do, I'll ensure that you leave this monastery alive. Long enough for me to tear you apart, slowly, piece by piece, for everything you've done to him."

Clement stiffened; it showed against the knife, suddenly no longer shaking against Bash's skin. "You wouldn't dare risk your brother's life merely for the satisfaction of seeing me suffer," he tried, hating how weak his voice sounded.

It seemed he had misjudged the boy king of France. Perhaps he was more like his father than anyone had thought.

"Try me," Francis said calmly, voice cold, as though he couldn't care less as to what Clement's decision would be, and the man's resolve shattered with those two words.

Goddammit, he knew. He knew, and Clement was going to burn for this.

Some part of him knew that the King must be bluffing, that he would not waste three years scouring Europe for his bastard brother, using French and Scottish resources and destroying anyone who stood in his way to give up now, when Bash stood before him, but that part was buried deep behind the wall of his fear for his own survival now, and how perilously close he was to losing it.

He was a dead man.

But then the words of Francis' threat hit him then, and he blinked in sudden confusion. "You...you said that, if I slit the bastard's throat, you'd let me live long enough to see me suffer. And...if I do not?" he hated how hopeful he sounded then, but the lord understood well enough that his survival now rested in the King of France's hands, and, even if French Kings could oftentimes be relied upon for their mercy, this one obviously could not.

No doubt the Medici blood flowing through him.

How had it come to this? He had never once thought that the French King would find them, had never once thought that, even if the French King did, he would give a damn about the bastard who had once attempted to usurp his throne.

Francis did not answer him, but the look in his eyes was answer enough, and Enjorlas shuddered at the thought of what he must do.

Murmuring a quick prayer to the saints for forgiveness for what he was about to do, Lord Clement Enjorlas moved with one quick motion, the dagger moving from Bash's throat to his own.

The king's brother blinked in astonishment even as he spun about, looking ready to fight Enjorlas himself, for the first time in three years.

There was no need for that.

The lord, with a quick look toward Bash that seemed to convey so much more than a simple look should, brought the dagger to his neck in one swift motion, and slammed it upwards, through his throat and into his jaw. All in all, it was a relatively quick death, if not painless, but the body collapsed slowly, falling through the air and hitting the monastery floor with a dull thud.

Blood spurted from the wound this left, splashing against the monastery's floor, and against Bash's clothes and hands, but he did not seem to even notice.

King Francis was by his side in the next moment, checking him over roughly for injuries, with fast, harsh hands that made Bash wince, even if he knew that he could never expect his brother to harm him, and want to hold his hands up in protection.

Francis ignored the body, wiping the blood off of Bash's hands with his own gloves animatedly, and whispering to him, though there was certainly no need to whisper, as only Francis' soldiers were left in the bloody carnage that had once been a monastery and sanctuary. He whispered that everything would be all right, that they were going home now, that Bash was safe.

Bash wished he could believe him.


The first thing Bash did with his newfound freedom was take a long, warm bath. He washed off Enjorlas' blood, and his memory, though the second seemed to stick far more than the first, and changed into warm, soft clothes before going to meet Francis for supper, as his brother and king had requested.

He had a feeling Francis wouldn't mind much if Bash didn't show up at the table, knowing how exhausted they both were, but Bash had spent far too long in Enjorlas' presence to resist a "request," even if it had been made by someone who he should have logically known would never hurt him.

Francis was seated at a short dining table, one other place set beside him, and Bash almost went to stand behind it, ready to serve the King, rather than thinking immediately that it was meant for him.

He glanced at the servant standing in the corner, a man dressed in a pressed, impeccable uniform, and who didn't seem at all offended to be waiting on the King and his brother whilst they ate.

"Bring me some more wine," Enjorlas said calmly into the otherwise empty dining room, its only other occupant Bash, leaning against the far wall and plotting all of the ways he might kill Enjorlas before one of the lord's men entered the room and found his master dead.

They'd probably kill him for it, as the ransom Enjorlas desired from the King was not something they had the ambition for themselves.

As it was, he didn't notice Enjorlas' order until it was too late.

The man turned in his chair, facing Bash with a cold sneer. "Did you hear me, bastard?"

So it was back to his old favorite term for Bash. To be honest, Bash preferred it to the man's newest pet name.

He brought forward the jug of wine, and, even as he poured its contents with stiff hands into Enjorlas' goblet, he stared at the red liquid and imagined that it was his captor's blood.

Enjorlas held up a hand when the goblet was full, and then took a teasing sip in front of Bash, a bit of the wine dribbling down his chin, and Bash squeezed his eyes shut at the sight of it.

When he stepped back, it was just as Enjorlas was picking up a knife and cutting into his meat, and, even though the knife was dull, used as cutlery rather than a weapon, Bash thought that it could very well go through the man's eye, if he used enough force.

Francis had done the same thing to their father, so why shouldn't he copy that method of death for this brute, who was far crueler than their father had ever been, and (Bash thought,) far more insane?

"Bash?" Francis asked hesitantly, as Bash had been standing in front of the table for some time now, without moving.

He bit down hard on his lower lip, disgusted that to serve had become his base instinct now, and pulled out the chair, slipping into it without once meeting Francis' eyes.

Francis didn't seem to mind. "Wine?" he asked, and Bash flinched; Francis must have seen it, for he lowered the bottle and spoke no more of the drink for the rest of their meal, for which Bash was rather grateful.

He told Bash about France; about all that he had missed, but there was no look of nostalgia in Francis' eyes, even as he told Bash about the child he'd had with Mary, finally, or about how Mary had missed them both, while Francis had been off hunting the countryside. Only a coldness in his eyes that had been there since he entered the monastery, and which Bash hardly recognized as the eyes of his own brother.

And then he looked at Bash, really looked at him, as if reading every minute of those three years in that one glance, and his expression softened, somewhat.

Bash couldn't help the horrible feeling that somehow, he knew exactly what Bash had been through, and he couldn't help his cheeks flaming.

"I'm sorry I didn't come sooner," Francis said, when the meal was done and the silence between them had dragged on for some time. Then he wiped his lips and left the room, leaving Bash in horrible solitude, only the servant for company, before Bash could claim to forgive him.

He was glad, though it didn't show on his face. He hadn't been glad of anything in a long time.


The soldiers who had accompanied Francis in the siege of the monastery had no doubt spread their accounts of the tale quickly, as all of France seemed to know by the end of the week of how their King has stepped into a monastery and, without raising a hand in violence himself, induced Bash's captor of three years to stab himself through the throat within minutes.

By the time they returned to the castle, all of the members of Court were in attendance, awaiting the return of their King and his bastard brother. Mary sat on the King's throne, keeping it warm for him in his absence, no doubt, while Catherine stood behind her, one hand on Mary's shoulder, tightening at the sight of her son, returned, safe and sound.

The King was announced first, and he entered the room to much fanfare and excitement, for, while Mary was a capable Regent, all of France would be far more mollified by the return of their king. And his deputy, whose entrance was accompanied by even more gasps and noises of surprise.

Clearly, they had not expected his return, as well. Not after so long, but then, the King had vowed not to return until he did so with Bash, as he'd heard from his squire.

Even if that meant returning with Bash's bones.

There was a feast that night, in celebration, Francis seated at the head of the table with Mary on one side and Bash on the other, Kenna seated beside him, the adoring wife, though Bash felt very little like celebrating and managed to beg out of it early without causing too much of a fuss.

Kenna stood when he did, but he motioned for her to sit back down, to enjoy herself at the feast, and said that he was rather tired. He pretended not to see the look of disappointment that flashed across her face when he did so, and left as quickly as he was able.

When he returned to his chambers, the chambers he'd had since he was a boy, the chambers that Kenna had made her own when they were married, Bash felt as if a cold hand clutched to his spine, pinning him to the doorway.

They were different than he remembered. Kenna had added a feminine touch to them, and Bash no longer quite recognized them as his own.

He did not recognize them as his own, when he saw the man's trousers hastily stuffed under the bed. He would not have noticed them at all had he not bent down to untie his boots, and, when he did, he froze, staring at them in some surprise.

Kenna had never been the most chaste of wives, Bash had known that when he married her, for how could he not, with his father taunting him over it at every opportunity? And Bash was well aware of the hard times their marriage had fell upon even before the battle that led to his capture, with Kenna seeing other men while he saw other women.

Enjorlas, pressed up against him, forcing himself on Bash-

He knew that, in the aftermath of the battle which had brought about his capture, he could not expect anyone to believe that he still lived, was surprised that Francis had taken the bait when Enjorlas sent out the first taunting ransom note. Was surprised when Francis paid it, and continued to pay it, despite any proof that Bash did live, beyond a traitor's word.

He should not have expected Kenna to remain chaste to a dead man, nor to one she thought she would never see again.

And yet, the knowledge still hurt, somewhere deep inside him he'd thought long dead, like a physical blow.

While he'd been in captivity, forced to do whatever Enjorlas willed, waiting for the day that would bring either death or freedom, Kenna had been making out like a bandit at Court, sleeping with any man she wished while-

Have you ever been with a man, Sebastian?-

He shuddered.

At the same time, though, he was relieved, relieved that he didn't have to be the one sharing her bed at night, listening to her soft moans or attempting to elicit them from her.

He used to love her, he knew, before he had been taken, and, in some ways, still did. Used to want her desperately, in every sense of the word, and the thought of her in another man's bed, especially his father's, had sometimes nearly killed him.

He didn't think he would be capable of making love to her, anymore. Of being a husband to her in any sense of the word. Of finding even the smallest pleasure in doing so.

And that night, when she came to bed and seemed to expect it of him, making love to celebrate his return, he left her there, standing over a pile of another man's trousers and pretending that they were the reason he couldn't bear to look at her, in all of her naked beauty when she entered their private chambers. Pretended he didn't see the hurt in her eyes when he did so, knowing that even if her hurt wasn't entirely justified, he'd still caused it.


It would have been easier if Enjorlas was always cruel to him, better. Bash would have been able to ground himself, to remind himself that Enjorlas was only doing the things he did because he hated Francis, that it was an act against the King rather than any true desire for Bash, that purposed his actions. And that might have been true, in the beginning.

Enjorlas had attacked him that first night, had forced himself upon Bash, and Bash had been helpless to fend him off. But the man hadn't touched him again after that, not for several months. Bash had been almost relieved to be only his servant, to clean up after the vile man and to pour his wine at meal times.

And then Bash had tried to escape.

He'd thought nothing could go wrong. In some ways, he still wasn't sure how it had.

Francis' army had not been very far away, though Francis had not known it at the time; Enjorlas was in hiding, not wanting to give up his trump card until he absolutely had to. Bash had managed to drug his master's wine that night, using the small supply he'd found in their host's reserves, though it had been costly.

Enjorlas was not supposed to wake up at all, never mind that same night.

It was after that when things got steadily worse, and, in the end, Bash did not know if the bastard had ever truly cared for him, though, he supposed, cared was a relative term, here meaning desired or lusted, or if he merely wished to make a statement of war against the Valois King.

And then there was that wretched day in the monastery, where the man had killed himself. He had been prepared to kill Bash; Bash knew that, even if Francis seemed to think the man was bluffing. But he hadn't; instead, he had killed himself, and Bash still wasn't entirely certain why.

Bash wanted to think it was simple cowardice, that he'd been terrified by Francis' threat and didn't want to suffer through his death. And yet...And yet, he could have stabbed Bash and himself in one fluid motion, could have killed Bash and kept the King from winning.

And he didn't. And Bash didn't understand why.

There were times when Enjorlas had been almost kind to him, during his captivity, though these were certainly overshadowed by all of the times when he had most certainly not been. Times when Bash had almost thought that he...cared. Times when he had ordered Bash put in the best rooms, only to make use of them himself. Times when he had cleaned Bash's wounds himself, only to be the one to inflict them. Times when he'd given Bash the small gifts, the ones Bash found himself appreciating over the years more and more, freedom to walk the gardens in one of their safe houses here, or freedom to lounge in the library at another, only to take them away when Francis' policies displeased him. Times when he told Bash that he lo-

And it was for these moments that Bash hated the man far more than all of the times when he'd been cruel to him.

But, if he was honest with himself, this was only because such thoughts, such memories, only made him hate himself more. Made him hate the thought that, even after he'd been freed, he still dwelt on what had happened to him, still thought about it all of the time, and wasn't that the point of freedom? That he wouldn't have to?

Bash didn't feel free.

He didn't even feel at home in this place which had always been his home. He felt like a prisoner, locked in by the superior curtain walls that Francis had had built after the Protestant Conde's attack on the castle. That seemed a lifetime ago, and Bash rather resented the curtain walls, now.

To be fair, he never would have noticed how much higher they stood now, blocking out almost all of the outside world beyond this castle, which could be more called a fortress than a castle, these days, if he were not out on the training grounds, sparring.

And wasn't that a wonderful idea.

It had been Francis', and Bash wasn't about to refuse and tell him that he didn't think it was a good idea. Not when he'd spent three years without any sort of weapon in his hand, not when he'd been taken alive by the enemy.

The sword felt at home in his hands, even if nothing else did, familiar, and he clutched to it a little too tightly as he waited for Francis to attack. And when Francis finally did, he was ready for him.

He had not been ready for Enjorlas.

The night that he was taken captive, along with twelve other soldiers in Francis' regime, dragged away in chains by the enemy and taken to a fortress out in the country, one hidden by mists and valleys which it had taken Francis weeks to find the first time, he could not have said why he was still breathing. He'd seen Enjorlas, known that the killing blow which he'd directed at Francis would have killed the young king, and yet it had stopped at the last moment, before Enjorlas could take off Bash's head in his brother's place.

But he'd lost Francis in the fighting, seen him far away by that point, taking on a man twice his size, and it had been too late to get away, by then.

The other men, once they returned to the fortress, were slaughtered in front of Bash, and there was nothing he could do to stop it, he could only watch in horror as it happened.

Bash had been left for another fate, and, by the time it was over, he found himself wishing he could have been slaughtered instead.

"My brother will find you, and he'll kill you for this," Bash panted out, as he lay in the dirt, covered in blood that was not all from the battle.

"King," Enjorlas said the title quite mockingly, "Francis won't care enough to find you. That's why he hasn't, yet. You're nothing but his bastard brother, and once you were his rival for the throne of France. Do you think he'll feel anything but relief for the fact that you're now out of the way?" Enjorlas whispered, lips tickling against his ear, and Bash stiffened, though he tried bravely to pretend that the words didn't hurt as much as they did. "Do you know how many lords have been attempting to do this before me, attempting to rid our king of his greatest threat? Why, I'm sure that, when the King does find us, he'll thank me for it."

"Liar," Bash hissed, and somehow the lies from that man's lips were enough to give him strength, even if some horrible part of him half-believed them.

"Get up, bastard. And grab my cloak."

"No." He didn't even know where the words came from, but Enjorlas was quick to retaliate, slamming the hilt of his sword into the side of Bash's face, sending him reeling to the ground once more, blood gushing from a wound just below his eye.

"No! No? Do you require another lesson, bastard? I've an idea of a use for you, now, I think. Get up."

"Bash!" Leith's voice, a man whom Bash distantly remembered as Claude's bodyguard and Francis' peasant friend, finally broke through to him, arms wrapping around Bash from behind and pulling his sword from his white-knuckled hands, tossing it aside.

There was shouting all around him, panic and confusion, and several men with swords in hand were calling for Bash's head, or at least to be sent to the tower, but Bash barely heard them as he stared down at the ground beneath him.

Francis was not a bad swordsman. Although Bash knew Francis' preferred weapon was the bow, he'd always had a knack for weapons of any sort, bourn of his desire to make their father proud.

Down at Francis, lying in the mud, his sword thrown up in one last desperate attempt to block Bash's assault, face and hands covered in several large cuts which were bleeding profusely.

Bash had done that.

Hands were reaching out for Francis, hands that did not belong to Bash, helping him to his feet and inquiring as to whether or not he was all right, whether he wished for them to send for a physician immediately, but Francis was ignoring them too.

And for one, wretched moment, blue eyes locked with green. A deep breath. Two.

In much too calm a voice, even as he wiped blood from split lips, Francis finally spoke. "I'm fine. Send for the physician if you will, but they are only a few minor cuts." They certainly didn't look minor. "Leith, let him go."

"Your Majesty, I simply must protest-" one of the guards tried, but Francis lifted a hand, and he felt silent instantly.

Leith eased his hold on Bash, and it was all Bash could do not to cringe away from the other man as he finally let go of him. And then he was running, ignoring the startled voices calling after him, ignoring everything.

It was not until several hours later that Francis finally made it to his rooms, and by then Bash had calmed down considerably. Considerably enough to realize how foolish he'd been, and that he'd just barely gotten away with his life, King's brother or no.

"Are you all right?" he asked, jumping to his feet as Francis walked into the room, noticing how his brother left the door opened a crack, and wondering if this was for Francis' benefit or his own.

Francis gave him a wan smile. "I'll be fine. Really. Sit down."

Bash did, though somewhat warily, for reasons he couldn't entirely explain. Perhaps it was because this was the first time Francis had openly told him to do something since he'd returned, rather than simply suggesting he do so. Bash always did what Francis wanted either way, but it felt...wrong, somehow, even if he knew Francis didn't mean it as an order, to hear those words from his brother's lips.

"Bash..." Francis tried, once they were both sitting, and Bash flinched horribly at the nickname, moving as far away from his brother as he could in the nearness of the room, and wishing he could put his hands up to protect his face, in an almost childish thought.

Of course, if he did that, Francis would start looking at him with even more concern than he did now, as if he were some docile piece of glass, and Bash didn't think he could stand that.

"Bash," Enjorlas whispered, smirking slightly. "That's what they call you at Court, isn't it? It's got a pretty ring to it, much easier to say, I suppose. And it certainly shortens things up."

Bash froze. This man had stolen everything from him, and he did not want to suddenly hear the nickname that Francis, as a child, had once invented spoken by Enjorlas' lips, making that memory murky with horror, corrupting it, as well.

"Don't call me that," he gritted out, shoving the man's hand off his shoulder, and, much to Bash's surprise, rather than anger Enjorlas, this only seemed to amuse him further.

"Oh? And what will you do?" he asked, lips quirking into a cruel smile. "Tell me, Bash."

"Don't call me that," he snapped at Francis, and it was his brother who flinched this time, looking pained and confused.

"All right," Francis said gently, though he looked confused by the request. "All right, I won't. But please...Sebastian," and Bash didn't think he could remember a time when Francis had actually called him Sebastian, and that was almost worse than hearing him call him Bash, for it sounded even more wrong coming from Francis' lips. "Tell me what I can do to help you."

"Nothing," Bash wanted to say, for, the sooner Francis learned the truth of this, the better off they would be, but he only smiled sadly, a smile which did not reach his eyes, and whispered, "Give me time."

He was quite sure Francis saw through the lie, but his brother was resolved to do whatever Bash asked of him in that moment, and they both knew it.


It was the memory of his hands which was the worst, for, every time someone touched him, and even when no one did, and a mere gust of wind whispered against his skin, Bash was transported into a horrible memory, any one from the last three years. He certainly had them in spares.

"Let me go," Bash pleaded through bloodied lips, hating himself for sounding so weak, especially when he knew that, no matter how many times he asked, no matter how many times he prayed to the gods of the Old Religion, he would not escape.

He wondered when, exactly, during his time in captivity the brother of the King had been reduced to this quivering, terrified mess, when he'd lost all sense of pride to plead for something he knew he would not get.

Enjorlas chuckled lowly. "My prince, don't you like my hospitality, in all of its forms?"

"Bash?" Mary asked gently. "Bash, are you ill?"

Bash shivered, though it was hardly cold, being midsummer, and then glanced down at Mary's gloved white hand, on his own.

It was nothing like his once-captor's had been. Where Enjorlas' had been calloused, huge, Mary's was soft even without the glove, tiny, dwarfed in his own. Where Enjorlas' hands had always brought pain, Mary's were gentle. No, it was not the same.

And yet, her touch burned just as terribly as Enjorlas' had, and Bash flinched all the same.

Mary blinked, and, after glancing down at their entwined hands herself, pulled hers away. She could not have failed to notice the sigh of relief that escaped Bash at this, but she said nothing. Instead, she asked, "The King's Deputy. Are you planning on taking the position again, now that you've returned?"

Bash flinched. In truth, he hadn't even thought of that. Of taking back that position, as right hand to the King, enforcer of the law in the land. It was what he had been before all this, wasn't it? And yet...

"I'm sure Francis would be more than willing to give it back to you," Mary went on, as if she hadn't noticed Bash's discomfort. "Leith's been doing an admirable job, but there are those who would prefer the King's Deputy to be of royal blood. They miss the time when you were King's Deputy."

He snorted, and Mary gave him a strange look. Yes, he thought sarcastically, he was sure Francis would be more than willing to give him back a position in which he could use his violence freely, after what happened at the sparring range.

He shrugged noncommittally, and Mary finally dropped the subject, turning her attention instead to other matters, which Bash was more than happy to listen to, even if he didn't retain half of the things she was saying.

"-Bash?" He glanced up, face heating when he realized that Mary had been trying to get his attention for some time now.

"Sorry?" he tried, and Mary gave him a sad, understanding smile.

And he looked into her eyes, and saw the sadness there, the sympathy, and felt nausea pool in his stomach at the sight. She knew; by the gods, she knew!

He gulped loudly in the silence of the empty courtyard, and Mary finally seemed to take pity on him.

"I'm having tea with Claude in a few minutes, and I don't wish to be late. Someone has to teach that girl proper etiquette, after all." She did not look as though she found it to be a relished task.

"Oh." Bash blinked, glancing up at the sky and realizing that the sun must have been high in the sky for some time now, that he hadn't even realized the time going by.

For one horrified moment, he was afraid that Francis would find out how much time he and Mary had spent alone together in this little courtyard, that he would be angry with Bash for daring to be near her-

That was ridiculous, and he knew it.

"Perhaps you'd like to come with us?" Mary asked, not unkindly. "I know tea time isn't really something a man finds interesting, but you and Claude haven't spent much time together since you're...return, and neither have you and I."

Bash thought for a moment, and then finally acquiesced, because the alternative was walking about the castle without a thing to occupy his mid, and he didn't think he could spend another moment wallowing in the memories that plagued him, even while he pretended at being a free man once again.

Tea with Claude and Mary went surprisingly well, and Bash almost found himself enjoying it, though he didn't think it could be rightly said that he enjoyed anything, these days.

Claude was the only one who didn't seem to understand what had happened to Bash while he was gone, beyond being a captive. He supposed he couldn't blame her; she had always been caught up in her own little world, and it was almost refreshing to be treated by at least one person in a way that was not akin to breaking glass.

Of course, it was not refreshing in other ways.

The girl was very pretty; really, she was, and, once, Bash might have been sorely tempted. He had taught Francis everything he knew about women, after all, and she didn't seem too concerned about chastity.

But now, he could only look at her and feel a dull sense of foreboding, that if he touched her he would only harm her, his hands would bruise, he wouldn't be able to stop, just as Enjorlas hadn't, or perhaps worse, that she wouldn't take no for an answer, wouldn't-

"Leith, get my cloak!" Claude snapped at the former lord who had once been assigned to her guard detail. He wasn't now; he was Francis' new King's Deputy, as Bash had once been, and yet still he obeyed Claude's every whim like a puppy before its master, eager to please.

Bash frowned as the man stepped forward to get it, wondering what his half-sister could need from it in the perfectly warm room. And then wondered why, as King's Deputy, Leith didn't have something more important to do than wait on Claude.

In the time during Bash's...absence from Court, Francis had found himself a new deputy in Leith, and, while Bash tried to himself to be reasonable, that the position was lusted after and that Francis would have needed it desperately during that time, especially during such a tumultuous time in France, a time of near civil war, that Leith was a good man and would have only had the King's interests in mind, he felt almost...hurt by it. Hurt that his position had been handed so easily to another, even if Francis had no choice but to do so.

Leith had done an admirable job. The crimes of France seemed far less under his careful enforcement, even if he was often distracted by Claude.

And so Bash had not thought of the position of King's Deputy as his until now, when he noticed Leith here, rather than seeing to Claude, when his life had reason to it, a purpose-King's Deputy.

And then the girl Claude had invited to tea made some hasty excuses, leaving the room, but not before winking at Bash on her way out and sashaying her dress along his thigh as she made for the door. Mary frowned at the actions, her calculating eyes missing nothing, but did not comment, and, in a heartbeat, the girl was gone.

Bash had a horrible feeling that it would not be the last he saw of her.

"Since you're not sleeping with...Lady Kenna," Claude burst out without preamble, the moment the door had shut behind the girl, "I was thinking..."

He shuddered. He would never know if she was suggesting herself as a potential candidate, and he wasn't sure if he would have been surprised at that, or one of her few friends.

"Claude!" Mary snapped, and Bash's face heated at the reprimand, as though it was meant for him rather than his sister.

Claude pouted, giving Mary a scathing look and muttering something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like, "As if you have any room to judge," and Bash almost smiled, as she clearly expected him to.

Because that, surely, meant that she still hadn't realized. That he could hide that aspect of his captivity from her, at least, even if he could not hide it from the rest of his family.


He found it strange that he sought comfort solely in Catherine, rather than anyone else, for he had never thought to do so before, and yet, having someone to talk to about what had happened to him, someone who understood and wouldn't look at him with all of that pity in her eyes...well, he wouldn't say that it had helped, but it was good. Grounding.

He hadn't thought to do it, at first. He had simply been wandering the corridors one night, after a particularly wretched nightmare-

I've always wondered what it was like to taste royal blood, Bash

-and she had found him.

"Bash?" she asked, looking at once confused and understanding.

He looked up at her, lost, not entirely sure where he was, and she nodded once, before taking his arm and leading him back to her rooms.

She had led him back to her rooms and shut the door behind him, and, for a terrible moment, he had been scared to see the door click shut, until Catherine handed him a flask of alcohol and he downed without question.

"It's better to talk about what happened, than to keep it bottled up like you've been doing. I know," Catherine said gently.

That first night, he hadn't told her anything, had only sat with her and let the alcohol burn down his lips, surprisingly strong for a Queen Mother's private stores, and let her gentle voice, far gentler than he'd ever heard save for when she was speaking to Francis, lull him to sleep.

"I can't talk about it," he told her, when he came of his own volition, the next night. "Not yet. But I..."

"Of course," she smiled kindly, and handed him the bottle again.

Eventually, after weeks and then months, she'd managed to pry a few words from him, patient as ever, but mostly Bash let her do the talking, which she seemed more than willing to do, and he listened.

He'd been doing that a lot lately, but it was far different words that were used to comfort him by Catherine than by anyone else, and he almost found them soothing.

Perhaps because, though his wife was certainly sympathetic, every time he looked at her too closely, he remembered a time when they were together, tainted now so wretchedly, and he could hardly look at her anymore.

And with Mary, he could only remember loving her once and the thoughts which had consumed him when he did, turning any words from her to twisted ash.

And besides Francis, oddly enough, when his confusion over what Bash was feeling was too much to bear, when Bash's anger towards him for taking so long, however irrational he knew it to be, flared up, there was Catherine. Catherine who, out of all of them, understood, at least to some degree.

He knew she had not been untouched when she came to be King Henry's bride, as did half of Europe, for which the Pope, who had arranged the marriage, had paid double the promised dowry. He knew that there were many who, despite Catherine being a young girl overpowered by multiple men, blamed her for what had happened to her, as they blamed any young rape victim.

Blamed her, that is, until she managed to produce a son for the King. Until she managed to prove that her horrible experience had in no way weakened her.

But it was different, for Catherine. She was a girl at the time of her horrible rape, attacked by over a dozen soldiers who held her down and without anyone to protect her.

He was a man. He was supposed to be strong, able to fight off someone who attempted to overpower him, and yet Enjorlas had overpowered him in the worst of ways, and had only been one man.

And Bash had let him do it again. And again.

"I was going to..." he swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat then, suddenly unable to meet Catherine's eyes, and found himself staring down at the carpet. "I stole a bread knife from En...from his table, one night. It wasn't very sharp, of course, but I didn't think it would matter, at that point. I was..."

Catherine's look was full of sympathy, but she didn't try to stop him from continuing.

"I was going to use it, first on him, the next night, when he tried to...Anyway, I thought it would be better that way. And then the next day, before I could..."

"Francis came," Catherine guessed quietly, and Bash gave her one miserable nod.

Catherine bit her lip, looking suddenly unsure then, of what she wanted to say, and he had hardly ever seen such a look on her face before. And then she blurted, "Tell me, Bash, when your mother raised you, did she ever mention that you were a bastard? That, because she loved the King and wasn't married to him, you were nothing more than amusement that could be killed the moment you become unamusing to the King?"

Bash blinked at her. "Not unless I did something stupid," he said, thinking of the time she had warned him from the woman who was to be his brother's wife.

Catherine harrumphed at that, as though she didn't quite believe Diane capable of knowing whether something was stupid, he supposed. Then, "And yet, you managed to find out."

"Of course."

"And you were shunned by those who didn't think they could use you for years, and thought of as lesser than my children."

He wasn't sure, now, that she was trying to help him, but, as he didn't really want to face Mary's sympathetic eyes or Kenna's guilty ones any time soon, he just nodded and waited for her to continue.

After all, he'd faced much worse recently.

"And all that time, the King did nothing to better your position, even if he favored you more than Francis," Catherine went on, almost as if she were talking to herself, rather than him.

"Is there a point to this?" he finally demanded.

"Do you think less of me, then, because I am a woman?" Catherine asked abruptly, and Bash just stared at her.

"Of...of course not," he said finally, bemused. He knew there were many men who did, and yet Bash had never been amongst them. He'd grown up surrounded by strong women, knew what Catherine de Medici, especially, was capable of.

"Do you imagine I think less of you because you are a bastard?" she asked, and her voice was almost gentle. She didn't wait for a response. "Oh, I hated Diane for stealing my husband from me before we were even wed, and I resented you for being born before my son, but I never thought less of you for it. We are survivors, Bash, not victims, unless we allow ourselves to be. You have the King's ear because you have your brother's love, and I am the Queen Mother of France because I dared to overcome my situation, to overcome my attackers. You have very little else to aspire to, but it is there. And if you find yourself focusing on that, rather than on the thoughts that you think will never pass, you will be better for it. You will survive this." She reached out a hand, placing it over his own, and he flinched at the skin to skin contact.

"You're not telling me to reach for the throne?" he quipped.

Catherine smirked. "I would kill you if you tried. I'm telling you to take back your position as King's Deputy. Take back the life you once had, the life you wanted for yourself. If you sit here and mourn what happened to it, you'll never get it back. Believe me. I spent too long making that same mistake."


That night, when he awoke from another horrible nightmare, alone in the rooms that he no longer shared with Kenna, seeing as she made it her priority to find another bed each night since Bash's return, he did not go to Catherine's rooms.

He was not entirely sure why, as he stood outside the door and knocked, waited, why he came here instead, not until Francis opened the door to his chambers, eyes clouded by sleep and hair a mess.

Francis took one look at him, and Bash supposed he must look even worse than Francis, before inviting him in.

He left the door open, tonight, despite the guards standing outside, and Bash was grateful.

"Brandy?" Francis asked knowingly as he swept about the room, reaching for a night robe and pulling it on over his white night clothes.

Bash nodded as he made his way into the room, the lump in his throat preventing him from speaking. He glanced toward the bed, where Mary still lay, chest rising and lowering in deep breaths, letting him know that she still slumbered. He hoped she wouldn't wake for this, for, while it had taken quite a bit from him to go to Francis about such things, he thought he might die of shame if Mary overheard them as well.

Francis, returned with the brandy, followed his gaze. "Perhaps...in the parlor?"

Bash nodded eagerly, following his brother into the adjourning room, relieved this time when Francis did shut the door behind himself, when they were both sitting on separate sofas and sharing brandy bottles, like old times. Like before.

"You don't have to tell me anything," Francis said, voice soft and gentle, as though he was talking to one of his startled mares rather than his own brother, and yet, Bash still found it comforting. "I'm not going to forc-to make you tell me anything, I just want you to know that you can. It might help."

Bash swallowed at those words, a reflection of Catherine's, and thought. But no- he couldn't tell Francis, couldn't bring himself to say the words.

Francis lapsed into silence then, though it was not the awkward silence of him waiting for Bash to say something, for which he was glad. He still didn't quite understand why he had come here, after all, rather than to Catherine's chambers, where things at least made sense.

"My greatest regret is that I didn't make him suffer, when that son of a whore died," Francis murmured when Bash didn't speak for a while, and Bash almost started at the vehemence in his tone. "If I'd known that day, everything he'd done, I would have."

Bash blinked. "Why?"

Francis stared at him in shock. "What?"

"Your mother told me that you were advised to leave me there, and you were draining Scotland and France dry trying to find me, and neglecting your throne. Why? After three years, what was the point?"

Francis gave him a sorrowful look. "Why do you think?" he asked softly, but that wasn't enough for Bash. Not now.

"When En...when he had his knife at my throat, and was threatening to kill me...you acted as though you didn't care. I believed it, and I've known you since we were children, and I know when you're bluffing," Bash whispered, and wished he didn't sound so vulnerable as he spoke, so frightened and in need of reassurance. "How'd you know he wouldn't?"

But he was.

Francis forced a watery smile. "I'd spent three years tearing this country apart trying to find you, Bash. I was willing to go to war over it. But Enjorlas spent all of his men and all of his fortune, and, in the end, his life, to keep you for that long." He bit his lip, looking almost hesitant to explain his reasoning. "To die with you still..." He didn't finish that thought, and Bash was grateful. Still in his arms.

It was, perhaps, a horrible thing to say, and Bash almost resented him for the logic he'd had in that moment, when Bash had been terrified that he was going to die, terrified of the man keeping him captive.

Yet he couldn't deny it was true, even if he wanted to. Desperately.

He felt his throat going suddenly thick, and he couldn't bring himself to meet Francis' eyes. "I wish you'd left me there," he said, from far away, and Francis stiffened at his words.

"What?" he demanded, and his voice was lower and colder than Bash had heard it addressed to him since he'd returned, almost colder than it had been when Francis had negotiated with Enjorlas.

He couldn't help but freeze at the words, and Francis looked somewhat apologetic, though his eyes still blazed with anger. "How could you say that?"

Bash swallowed hard. "It would have been easier, for all of us. Francis, I...I can't do this. I can't live like nothing happened, live like I remember how I was supposed to live before any of this happened. I..."

Francis frowned. "Bash, no one's asking you to," he said finally, and Bash bit down on his tongue. Hard. "I...can't imagine what it must have been like, for you, all that time, and God, I wish I could have taken your place. I should have taken your place, but you have to know, small comfort though it may be-"

"What do you mean?" Bash interrupted then, before he could hear whatever reassuring words Francis might utter. "What do you mean, you should have taken my place?"

"On the battlefield, Bash. You told me to stay beside you, and if I had, then maybe...Maybe I could have stopped what happened to you."

Bash flinched horribly at the memories that elicited, at what it made him think of, instantly. "You don't know what happened to me," he snapped, surprised at the anger in the words, when he truly felt none. He only felt...tired.

Francis gave him a desperate look, like a drowning man, and, for the first time, Bash understood what it must have been like, searching the country for three years, never stopping, never giving up, imagining, only to find a Bash almost as changed as himself, a Bash hurt in ways that Francis couldn't save him from, not unless he had come sooner...

And Bash finally told him then, and managed to keep the resentment out of his voice. Finally let the words spill from his lips, on and on, long into the night, and he remembered thinking at one point that Mary might worry, that her husband was gone so long, but he couldn't bring himself to stop once he'd started.

There were tears in Francis' eyes, true, genuine emotion in them, rather than the dead coldness up until now, by the time he finished, and Bash was almost ashamed to find his own cheeks wet, when, really, he'd suffered through all of that, and he didn't think he should be feeling it so strongly just to hear himself say it again.

Francis was silent for a while afterward, and Bash was worried, for one terrible moment, that he wasn't going to speak. That he was too horrified by everything that Bash had stooped to during the years of his captivity, just to stay alive-

get on the bed, Sebastian

-to even respond.

Francis, when he finally did speak, let out a low noise that slightly resembled a growl. "If I'd known what was going to happen to you, I would have slit my own throat."

Bash snorted; it sounded suspiciously wet, and Francis gave him an odd, worried look. He'd been giving Bash a lot of those, lately, though, so Bash didn't let it concern him.

"Francis, if you'd stayed, you'd have very likely been killed. Enjorlas had no use for an imprisoned King, but much more use for a favorite of the King. He...What he did to me, it wasn't because he...It was because you were the King, and if it had been you he caught, he'd have done the same to you before he killed you and reached for the throne, and there would be far more people suffering in France than I. I...I knew what I was doing when I gave myself up; I was protecting you, and I'd...I'd do it again, in a heartbeat, if I had to."

He didn't quite believe the words until they were out of his mouth, and then Bash realized the horrible truth in them.

Francis looked up at him with wide, bemused eyes, and suddenly, suddenly, things felt as they had always been, before Bash's terrible time away from Court, before the battle with Enjorlas' forces, before Francis was a King whom the entire country looked up to, but a little brother who looked up to Bash.

"Why?" Francis asked, voice very small, and Bash couldn't withhold the smallest of smiles.

"You're my brother, and my king. I would do anything for you."

Francis swallowed. It wasn't quite healing, wasn't quite understanding, not for either of them, but it was the start of something, or perhaps the return to something. Surviving. And for the first time since his return, no, for the first time since his capture three years ago, Bash finally thought himself capable of doing just that.