Bash had never seen Francis like this. Not on the night he killed his father, though Bash hadn't known the truth behind his emotions at the time, he'd understood how deeply his brother mourned then.
Not when Mary and he had lost their child before it even entered the world.
Not when Mary had spurned him for the Prince of Conde.
He had seen Francis in mourning, had seen his tears and held him while he cried often enough, but it had always been with the realization that Francis would wake up the next morning and struggle on, that he would eventually be all right, no matter what had happened to him in that moment.
Now, looking at his brother, Bash wasn't sure of those very things. This wasn't the same as all of those other times, when Francis had pulled back from the brink. And Bash, though he didn't wish to admit it, was afraid. Afraid for his brother.
Francis was...broken by this, this final blow which had been the last piece he needed to fall apart completely, Bash knew.
His son, his infant child, was dead, and Bash imagined that this would be a harsh blow to any father, but he feared now that it would be a blow that Francis would never be able to recover from.
Conde may have been defeated, slated for execution, and Mary may have returned to him as the penitent wife, saving all of the castle, but Francis would never recover from this newest heartbreak, this one worst of all, Bash knew.
They ate supper as they always did, at the King's insistence, Francis at the head of the table, Mary beside him, the rest of the royal family gathered around the large table, and Bash, as always, confused as to what his place here was, even as he sat beside the empty chair that should have belonged to Kenna, and wondered why Claude was so busy, on his other side, bossing around her servant rather than whining to the rest of them. Even her complaints to the man, Leith, Bash believed his name was, were rather subdued this night.
Catherine sat on the other side of Mary, the two eerily silent throughout the meal, Bash had noticed, picking at their food and neither of them meeting Francis' eye, though, he reflected, that would have been rather hard to do.
At the head of the table, Francis sat, nursing a glass of water and staring down at a full plate of food as if it held no interest for him whatsoever, not even deigning to pick up his fork.
Perhaps it didn't.
Bash couldn't even begin to imagine the pain Francis must have been going through in that moment, the pain of losing his child so brutally. He still didn't understand why Francis had insisted on eating with the rest of them, rather than in the privacy of his own chambers, where at least he might be able to mourn his son in the solitude which he clearly sought.
No one would have blamed him for doing so, and yet Francis struggled on, running the kingdom after the disaster which had been Conde's attack, with Mary ever so often looking worried when he fell silent and taking charge.
He looked horrible. His cheeks were sunken in, gaunt and pale, and his eyes rimmed with a red that Bash feared would be stained there forever. Francis' hands shook horribly even as they returned to his side, setting down the glass of water, and the young King gazed down at them for several moments before abruptly standing to his feet.
Mary glanced up from her own plate then, turning wide, concerned eyes to her husband, but Francis flashed her a melancholy smile that seemed to send more of a message to her than Bash could read, and she did not stand with him.
Then the King of France stumbled from the room without another word, and, without a thought, Bash stood to his feet and followed him, fearing in that moment that Francis would collapse before he even made it halfway down the hall.
Mary gave Bash a look, opened her mouth as if she were going to tell him not to follow Francis, and then closed it before a sound would come out, returning her stare down to her plate.
He was glad, for he would have gone after his brother anyway, and would have rather done so without disobeying the word of his Queen.
Could she not see that Francis was clearly not well? That someone should be with him, as alone as he must have felt? Couldn't they all?
Bash wondered if this was the reason Francis had called for the supper to go on unheeded, that he knew he should not be alone but, when the time came to it, could not be bothered to stay around the rest of them.
It was not difficult to find Francis. He was still wandering listlessly down the same hall, the guards at the end of it looking as if they were about to step forward and ask if he needed assistance.
Bash waved them back, knowing that this was the last thing Francis needed from them at the moment, for he would only demand they leave him be.
He walked behind Francis as the king made his way down the hall and around the corner, one hand out to catch him if he collapsed, as his shaking legs seemed wont to do, and wondered if Francis even knew he was there, in his current state. Even knew where he himself was.
And then Francis stumbled on his next step, and for one terrible moment, Bash thought Francis would collapse of pure grief before he could catch him.
Without a thought to what he was doing, Bash grabbed Francis' arm, pulling him into the nearest open door, and Francis followed him without protest. Bash was worried by that look; the pure resignation on Francis' face, the lack of any reaction to Bash's rough treatment, intentionally so as to garner some reaction.
Francis just stared at him, and, in the next moment, down at his shoes, with an intensity that was almost frightening.
And Bash, for once, didn't know what to say to reassure his own brother, when he always had the right words, always knew how to get through to Francis.
They stood in a spare bedchamber, one no doubt meant for visiting dignitaries, though it was unused now; the bed, two chairs, a sofa, and a small table, the only furniture in the room, were covered in white sheets, and, beyond that, a thick layer of dust.
When he finally lifted his head, Francis' eyes were rimmed with red, though he wasn't crying. His chest raised and lowered fitfully, breaths ragged and unchecked, and for a moment Bash feared that perhaps he should be in the infirmary, not here, but then Francis was spinning away from him, slamming a fist into the door through which they had just come. Bash had a feeling that it was not total despondency which charged his emotions now, and that taking him to where he might be doted on in the infirmary would only make those hidden feelings worse.
So he said nothing, and only waited, and eventually Francis' hand was bruised, the smallest of cracks in the skin bleeding down to his wrist, and then to his arm, and Francis stood panting, not meeting Bash's eyes, but staring beyond his brother, out the sole window in the room, with a lost expression, as if he could not comprehend how the sun could still shine so brightly.
Bash took pity then, grabbing Francis - gently, this time - by the arm, and leading him over to the sofa, sinking onto the sheet covering it without a thought, and pulling Francis down with him.
Francis seemed to wilt as he fell onto the sofa, boneless and exhausted with a tiredness that had nothing to do with the lack of sleep of the past few days, staring down at his injured hand now, in lieu of the window, as if he didn't understand why it was bleeding.
Bash held out his hand, and, after a long moment's hesitation, Francis placed his injured fist within Bash's, and the King's Deputy could almost see the pain this seemed to cause Francis, to touch someone when all he wanted was to lash out.
Bash turned the injured hand gently, surmising that it didn't need immediate attention, but finding that it was easier to pretend so, to know that he could help with something, that there was something he knew how to fix for his brother.
He ripped off a piece of the hem of his shirt, wrapping it tightly around Francis' bruised fingers and focusing on that, focusing on the fact that they would be healed within days, that they, at least, would heal, even if nothing else would.
"I have to get away from here," Francis finally breathed, voice very hoarse, lower lip trembling as he met Bash's concerned eyes. "I...have to...I can't stay here any longer, can't think about this place. Jean is...everywhere. I can't..."
And Bash nodded, effectively cutting Francis off before he could continue. He knew that, in other circumstances, it would help Francis to get it out, to fume, to mourn, and yet, he didn't think it would help Francis today, and he knew his brother well. "Of course. Where will you go?"
Francis was silent for a time, staring up at Bash with such a lost, helpless expression, that Bash immediately wanted to take back the words, wanted to tell him that it was all right, he didn't have to think of such things, that it truly didn't matter, when Francis finally spoke. "I...was thinking...the abbey, where they buried father," he said finally, and Bash blinked in surprise.
He would have asked, were Francis more lucid, why that place, of all places. But he only found himself nodding, promising to arrange it for the morning, telling Francis he needed to get some rest before the journey.
"I will go with you," Bash said finally, because he wasn't sure he wanted Francis to embark on such a journey on his own. Didn't think he should, no matter what small amount of comfort he might receive from talking to his god.
Francis shook his head, staring up at Bash fondly. "No...no, this is something I have to do alone. Please. Stay here and keep the country from chaos with...Mary." He gulped, as if saying her name was just as difficult as his grief over his child. "She'll need someone by her side in the coming weeks."
And it seemed to Bash that those words conveyed far more than they should, that there was something manic in Francis' eyes as he said them, something that hinted at far more than just a few weeks away to mourn his son, and Bash barely hid a shudder.
Bash nodded mutely, even if he secretly thought this was a terrible idea. "Of course, Your Majesty."
And he led Francis to his chambers, not trusting his brother to make it there on his own, before going to arrange Francis' travel. He handpickd the soldiers that were to go with him and personally instructed Francis' valet to keep a sharp eye on him. There was little enough the poor man could do if his King decided to do something foolhardy, as, indeed, there would have been little Bash could do in that case, but, somehow, just knowing that someone would be keeping an eye on Francis and taking precautions to ensure he didn't do something stupid, reassured Bash, somewhat.
He could only hope that it was enough.
Even if secretly, a part of him screamed that, though he would not disobey a direct order from his King, he knew Francis needed him now, needed someone close to him, at the very least, far more than Mary did. Even if Bash didn't know how to give that comfort, this time.