「Epilogue」
The early morning chill made his muscles tense, made goosebumps snake up his arms and mingle with the rough flesh of her own as he felt her swallow hard, the groove of her throat slightly against the pads of his finger tips. She was cold too, but she wouldn't say it, he knew. Just like he wouldn't, though he knew not if her reasons for silence were the same as his; it seemed too finite, too fragile, too mercurial - the suspended time, the moment, then, with her - Mary - and Bash feared that any spoken intrusion or physical shift would end it all. Bash feared that she'd recoil from his arms, and so he stayed frozen, the chill biting at him harshly, his hands stiffening and his lips chapped, because he dared not move. He dared not swallow against the dryness of his throat for fear she'd hear him gulp. He dared naught; because that single moment was the one which he'd been longing most for. That one moment was the one he'd pushed for.
Caused her pain for.
Bash inwardly winced.
Now that the fires of jealousy and desperation had faded to mere embers in the deepest part of his heart, Bash was slowly thinking through the damage he'd done in only a short while. In fact, he'd had hours to contemplate the notions, and as the dawn steadily crept upon them and the night just as steadily slithered away from the day, so did his guilt weigh heavily on his mind; his dark longing turned into a possessive need in his heart.
Yes, that was what it had become. A longing so powerful that he'd started to think that it was imperative he found when it had started. Was it the day she had returned to Court, so much more a stranger than a distant memory, then somehow more familiar than a stranger? Was it the moment he had seen her dance barefoot at Elizabeth's wedding? But then again, he had seen her dance in a familiar way before, with him, when they had been young, naïve, and impervious to sorrow. Back when they had talked about slaying dragons and he being her knight whilst she and Francis ruled over all lands as King and Queen. Had he really sworn fealty in childhood? How could he have forgotten such an intimate thing? Was he being loyal now, then, with his arms around her as a result of his selfishness? Was he being loyal as he basked in it?
It was a longing that had turned into obsession - all those nights he'd watched her sleep, all those moments he'd reached out and held his fingers mere inches from her parted lips simply to feel her warm breath on his skin. And the pleasure from it, the violent shivers that took over him, made him glossy-eyed and dip his head low to feel that warm breath upon his lips. The quiver of his body, the violent tug of his heart to pull away. But Bash never did, only when from her parted lips she'd sigh his name, Francis' name; only when he felt his nostrils flare and his nails dig into his palms as he struggled to wonder why it was never Bash's name she whispered, why it was never him -Bash - she dreamed of. Only then did he turn away. Only then.
But hadn't he climbed the tree outside her window once when they were younger, and watched as Francis held her, and she slept? Hadn't he did it just one other time, after checking to make sure Francis was sleeping soundly in his own bed - hadn't he crept through her window then, and into her bed, sliding underneath her sheets just to watch her. What had gone through his mind, then? Why had he forgotten that moment? Was it really such a trivial moment in his childhood? Or had his body simply been too small and too weak to shoulder the burden, the heady want, and possession?
Could he handle it now?
The dawn came, and neither Bash nor Mary were ready for it, despite having watched it arrive. And once the light became faintly harsh, Bash filled with dread because he knew his intrusion had at last came, knew that the moment was over. He tensed instinctively, his fingers twitching against Mary's throat. She moved, too, turning her head away from the direction of the sun, pushing herself more against him - almost into him, as if she were trying to mold her body into his, he mused - and Bash knew she wasn't ready to face the day when she let out a shuddering breath that shook her frame; knew that she dreaded the dawn as much in that moment as he, even if not entirely for the same reasons.
When she at last spoke, her voice was trembling, thick with emotion still, and quiet, as if she were forcibly pushing the words passed her lips.
"I don't want the day to begin. I've been silently begging the sky to keep the sun hidden by the moon, all night. What good is all the power of "Queen" when one is still powerless against the sun and stars? How strong are rulers of Men when there are so many forces out of our control? What power do we truly have? We hold power over Man? If you think hard on the notion, it isn't that difficult for anyone to do. What makes a select few so much more equipped for the daunting task?"
Bash listened closely, almost straining his ears to hear her, as she spoke into his frame. His fingers of their own volition began to tentatively soothe a small spanse on the back of her neck. Bash felt Mary tense at his touch, but she didn't recoil away, and thus Bash didn't stop touching her. He wondered if her skin was tingling as the tips of his fingers were. "There are those selected to learn to carry out the task, for Man is a volatile race that can not govern itself," he said slowly, his voice soft. "We are too brash, too easily seduced by greed and anger."
"That is anyone."
"But those select few are taught not to act on such whims. They can control the violence of their heart, that's why they hold power."
She was silent, only a moment.
"Who selected me for such a thing? God must have known I'd not want this for myself. God must have seen what burdens He'd have me bear." She breathed deeply, "I do not want to sit at the station he'd made for me. I do not want to slide easy smiles upon my face or force myself to laugh when I feel nothing to be joyous about. There is nothing, Bash. Nothing."
She spoke of Francis, Bash knew, and her words of emptiness bit at him, slashed at his heart, and made it burn and bleed. For his guilt plagued him then, made him want to confess his treacherous, filthy heart, and the preëxisting wounds already there seared with pain as they reopened, as he held her to him yet she felt nothing towards it.
§
She hadn't said anything more after that, nor did she look at him when she pulled away. Bash let her go, bit the inside of his cheek as he watched Mary's retreating form. He wanted to go after her, but something inside him told him he couldn't, that reaching out to pull her back to him would be wrong. Disastrous. That she'd know he was the reason for her sorrow in that very moment.
After Mary had gone, Bash remained at the watch tower, his back pressed against the cold stone, the discomfort the only way he could be sure he wasn't dreaming. He wasn't sure if he'd rather it all be a dream or if he was only ensuring his reality wouldn't crash down before he could build it up any further. He wasn't sure what he was feeling, and he didn't know if he wanted to figure it out. And he wasn't sure if that had more to do with a fear that none of it was real, or if he didn't want to feel guilt at his actions.
Bash sighed, brought his hands together, then gave his head a slight shake as he brought his head near his hands then away again in frustration. He looked back at the sky, at the rising rays of the dawn, and he stayed like that, staring until the sunlight was blinding and he was forced to look away.
It wasn't a dream, but the thought only brought more unease than comfort. And that brought more frustration than joy.
He wouldn't let guilt plague him, he would not. Oh, how could he not have expected such a conflict of morale? How could he not have anticipated how Mary would so easily shatter his resolve? He could not harden his heart towards her, of that he was certain, and he knew he would weaken at one glance - if only she didn't captivate him so. Then again, hadn't she always? But if he had known the obsession it would have turned into, the betrayal he would commit because of it...he would have stayed away. Now of that, Bash was certain.
He'd been shuffled away, his protests hushed as he was ushered to the farthest end of the South Wing, in a small room used by the castle's apothecary, Nostradamus. It had a small cot in a corner, the walls lined with too many books, utensils, and strange vials of liquids that Sebastian du Poitiers wasn't sure the apothecary could fit a larger bed in the room if he'd wanted to. Papers were haphazardly about the room, on the floor, poking out of a multitude of book pages and piled on tables - Sebastian was surprised there was any room for just one man, and now the King expected to fit a man and child? Sebastian turned to the Page, his escort, and raised his concerns; the Page raised a hand dismissively, patting Sebastian on the head and surging him more forward into the room, murmuring a response Sebastian had to strain to hear.
"The apothecary will return when the night is over. He is to entertain at tonight's banquet. Until then, you must stay here alone. Do you understand? Be quiet - the King has very important guests coming. You must not be heard."
"I'm never heard," Bash grumbled, annoyed. "What am I supposed to do until evening? Who is coming to the castle?" Bash demanded. The Page looked upon him blankly.
"Yes, well. You're a smart halfling, you'll figure out something from all this - " the page stumbled for words, but raised a second dismissive hand instead. "You'll figure out something," he repeated, then paused. "Prince Francis' intended, Queen Mary of Scotland, is coming with her mother."
Sebastian frowned, "Francis' intended?" Sebastian questioned slowly.
"Yes!" the page said, "It has been decided that France and Scotland shall form an alliance."
"An alliance?" Bash's frown deepened. "Then why am I in here, if they are getting married? She'll see me eventually, I'm Francis' brother."
"Young Lord, it's unsightly for nobles and royalty to witness a Bastard before them. Come now, we go through this every time."
Bash blinked slowly, and peered hard at the Page. "Am I unsightly?"
The Page paused, and hesitantly reached out a hand and ruffled his hair.
"Not to all of us."
"But to most of us?"
"Sebastian - "
"How long am I confined here?"
"A few days."
Bash blinked again, and turned away from the Page. "Will you bring my toys?" He quietly asked.
"Of course."
When the Page left the quarters, Bash huffed, and kicked a book that laid near his feet. He hated when people came to visit court. Why couldn't people stay away, so he didn't get locked up all the time? What was so wrong with being around? Why was he always called a Bastard? Bash sulked, looking around his confines and finding it more distasteful with each glance.
Did people feel about him, like he did the room he stood therein? He couldn't understand why they would. What was wrong with him? He didn't think he looked sickly - his mother said he looked young and healthy. He didn't feel sick. He was nice to everyone, he always tried to play with the other children. But none ever played with him, just Francis. He didn't like that, he wished he knew why all the other children ran away from him, but they never stayed near him long enough so he could ask. But mother said the kids were just shy. But father said it was because they were afraid. He didn't think he was scary at all. He didn't think there was anything to be afraid of.
Signing, he kicked at the papers and books at his feet. He'd probably read one, no doubt the Latin one he'd spotted earlier. Until the page returned, he'd have nothing else to do.
『T』『P』『T』『F』
He'd been there six mornings. The apothecary had gotten him interested in chemistry; taught him formulas for potions, though Bash knew some already; he read the Greek book aloud, the words leaving a tingle pulsing under his skin, just like the rituals his mother performed did. Samhain was soon, he realized, as he watched the apothecary empty vials of liquid based on his instructions. He could feel his restlessness, and shifted.
"What is it, Sebastian?"
The apothecary didn't bother to look up from his task, and Bash had not expected him to, nor was he surprised by the mage's uncanny empathy. He paused mid dialect, and hesitated before relenting, "Samhain is soon."
"Yes," came the apothecary's reply. "Your mother and yourself are Pagan. I'm sure there is nothing more undesirable than being confined to this space during this time."
"We are not Pagan," Bash said tersely, "it is heresy, to be Pagan."
"So the Catholics say," the apothecary murmured. Bash watched as he mixed the liquids together in a vase.
"Father is Catholic," Bash said, "but he never calls us Pagans. You called us Pagans."
"I only assumed that your mother was still loyal to the Faith whose methods she practices. I meant no ill repute. I sense no harm in what she shows you."
Over the last couple days, Bash had begun to notice peculiar things about the apothecary, like the way he'd sometimes freeze, eyes going dark as he shook, thrashing where he stood. Like the way he'd whisper warnings of death when he slept. At the apothecary's words, Bash cocked his head to the side and mused, "You could sense that?"
"I think it is more of a natural human instinct to recognize danger than foresight," the apothecary said. He must have known of Bash's suspicions, Bash thought, and slowly set the book on the table to watch the apothecary work.
"So you are a seer then," came Bash's statement.
"Yes," the apothecary replied.
"Is that why the queen summons you often?"
"It is a reason."
"Does it hurt? To see the things you see? Sometimes your body reacts so violently."
"I feel nothing."
"Then what happens to you?"
"I disappear."
"What do you mean?" Bash asked, startled by the apothecary's words, yet drawn to them.
"The person you see before you fades away, my conscience leaves me and my body is taken over by a force out of my control. Images, emotions, moments of time, they take hold of my body and I see glimpses of things. Famine. War. Death. Despair."
Bash listened closely, and frowned. "You shouldn't tell such terrible things to children," Bash said quietly. "I'm too young to know these things."
"Is that what your mother says?" the apothecary asked. Bash nodded, and the apothecary chuckled then quickly sobered. "Though a child you may be, my words aren't lost to you at all. You're older than you realize, I fear."
"Why, Apothecary? Why do you fear that?"
"Because, Sebastian, you're still a boy. You shouldn't know these things."
"Then why did you tell me?"
"You already knew. Read."
Bash read a few more lines from the book, but paused again. "Do you always see bad things? Is none of it ever good?"
"Sometimes the things are good. Though it is rare." Bash watched the apothecary mix the contents of the vase; the liquid bubbled, then changed colors. "I don't always remember the good things," the apothecary added.
Bash sighed. "I want to be like you. I want to be a seer. Apothecary, how did you become a seer? Are you a heretic?"
"The question alone is enough to condemn me, should anyone else hear those words," the apothecary said solemnly. "I suppose many would think that I am, though I am not. I was born this way, the way you were born with your blue eyes. I serve no Faith, only Truth." Then, "You should not wish for such a thing. You should stay as you are, and enjoy the life you've been blessed with."
"But I don't want this life," Bash argued. "I have not been blessed. God has forsaken me."
The apothecary paused his ministrations and turned to gaze upon Bash. "Who has said that to you?"
"I have said it about myself. Catherine says I am a product of God's scorn. That I am terrible, because I am a bastard. The page says I've had to stay here, because I'm too unsightly for Francis' intended to see." Bash looked at his hands. "People are afraid of me, because I am a Bastard. I know that, but I don't understand what that means. I don't understand why I have to be here, when I cause no harm to anyone. Who wants to play with a kid who can read Greek and Latin, who can speak in Gaelic and is unsightly?"
"There's nothing wrong with being different. I happen to like that you know Greek. It makes this recipe much simpler to make."
"If I were a seer, I would know why no one likes me. I could see into the future and know when I'm going to be shuffled away. Don't you have a potion that could make me like you?"
"Even if you were a seer, it wouldn't change anything for you. People would still think you unsightly, probably moreso."
"Why?"
"Because Sebastian, they can see you have no ailment, and they know your kindness. They choose to be afraid of you, because that is what they want to be."
"Why do people not want to like me?"
The apothecary gave him a wry smile, then reached out a tentative hand and ruffled his hair.
"Because they don't like themselves."
"I don't understand," Bash said, shaking his head.
"You will one day."
Shrugging, Bash sighed again.
"I saw something."
"What was it of?" Bash asked.
"You."
Bash's interest piqued. "What was it?"
"Your happiness, and your sorrow."
"I will be happy?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"By finding peace, child."
"How do I find it?"
The apothecary placed a hand on Bash's shoulder, "By never changing who you are."
"But I want to."
"Yes, but you will fail."
In the evening, the apothecary left the window ajar. He was summoned by the queen, and once again, Bash was left alone in the cramped room.
Before the apothecary had left, he had asked Bash to translate the remaining Greek text. Bash transcribed with a frown on his face. He could feel the light breeze come in through the window, could see the light of the moon. It was almost time for the ceremony, and Bash was just as restless as he had been earlier before. He longed to feel the outdoors; wanted to throw himself into the comfort of grass and stream. Just for a moment. How he hated being so confined. He yearned to taste freedom again.
Again? Bash thought bitterly, Had he ever really felt true freedom before? He didn't think it was something so fleeting.
Slowly, Bash set the quill down. The ink blotched on the paper. He'd probably have to redo it. He stared hard at the open widow. Was the apothecary testing his resolve? Today was Samhain, today the night would be even more beautiful. His mother was probably already in the Blood Wood, lighting candles at her altar. It wasn't fair. All because Francis wants to get married? Marriage was for grown ups, Francis still had plenty time. So why was some Scottish girl the reason he was locked away? It made no sense to him. He shouldn't have to hide for some little kid!
Nodding firmly to himself, Bash pushed back the chair and stood. He narrowed his eyes at the window, as if daring it to speak against him. He gripped the back of his chair and walked towards the window, dragging the chair behind him.
Once he set the chair beneath the widow ledge he stood upon it. He was too short to reach the sill on his own, but the chair gave him ample height. Bash sighed in happiness when he felt the light night breeze on the top of his forehead. Using his arms, he lifted his way through the window, hands planted firmly on the hearth as he crawled. Once Bash's knee touched the ground, he looked at his surroundings in triumph and blinked in unison with the large brown eyes staring intently in his own.
Bash wasn't sure what to do. His body's instinct was to run - to jump back through the window as if to prevent from being caught. But he willed himself to stay still. His heart was beating wildly in his chest, practically leaping out his throat, and Bash swallowed hard against it. The silence was deafening, but what should he say? What could he say? How would the girl before him respond?
Frantic, Bash swallowed again, and looked helplessly upon the girl with whom he'd been caught.
It was she who spoke first, breaking the silence, her eyes staring hard into his own, "What are you doing?"
Her voice was soft, yet demanding. It carried a lilt that he'd never before heard from a Frenchman, but her French was spoken so flawlessly to him that he supposed she was simply from a different region. She was so calm, and so collected, and it made Bash fret even more.
"Nothing," he said quickly, then realized how obvious a tall tale it had been. He could tell she noticed as well by the way her eyes narrowed and her chin raised. She straightened, and although noticeably smaller than him, Bash felt as if she towered over him.
"Why are you climbing out that window then?"
"No reason."
"Is someone in there...?" the girl asked him, and Bash gingerly shook his head.
"No."
"Are you a thief?"
"No!"
"Then why don't you just use the door?"
"It's locked," Bash said. That was truth; he always heard the shift in the door.
The girl cocked her head, "Why would someone lock you in a room?" she asked, with a crinkle of her nose. Her face held suspicion, and rather than answering, Bash simply shrugged. Why not? He thought self deprecatingly.
"Are you sure you're not a thief?"
"I'm not a thief!" Bash said, flustered by her questions.
"Okay. Then what are you then?"
"I'm no one," Bash said stiffly. He looked to the side of them, now more paranoid of discovery from a guard than of being caught by the kid in front of them. How long had they been there? What if someone found out he was gone? What if -
"I don't believe that." The girl rolled her eyes. Then, "Are you a spy? Have the British sent you to spy on the King of France?"
Now it was Bash's turn to crinkle his nose. "Don't be silly. Do I look like a spy? Do I sound like I'm from England?"
"Well, England recruits people to spy on their native monarchy all the time. Mother tells me that. She would know better than anyone. So I believe her." The girl pursed her lips. "If you're not a spy for England, then are you the King's spy?" she asked. She paused. "Have you been spying on mother and I? I know that the guards have spied; they give us secret glances when they think we aren't paying attention. We led a guard in circles around the castle yesterday. He was following us the whole time. Mother says France cannot be trusted. Did the King and Queen recruit you to spy on me? You could befriend me, and I'd never expect. We're both kids."
Bash wasn't entirely sure what she was talking about, but he was certain she thought his Father and Catherine sent him to spy. "I'm not a spy," he stated.
"Are you an assassin?"
The words were ridiculous. As if a child could be an assassin! But looking at her face, he saw her hold her breath and steel her resolve. She flexed her hands and changed her stance slightly, and Bash furrowed his brows. Is she preparing to run away? Bash wondered. Does she...really think I'm an assassin?
Wryly, Bash asked slowly, "Whom would I be an assassin for?"
The girl didn't hesitate. "England."
"Why would I be here, if I was an English assassin?"
"To kill me. That is why we left our country so secretly. England recruited a Scotsman. He was a villager. He filed an appeal. I think one of my advisors is a spy. England knew we were going to ally with France. The villager acted like any other. And then he brought out a knife, and he grabbed me." The girl pointed to her cheek, and for the first time, Bash noticed a thin scar. "He was going to take me prisoner and send me to England. They wanted to kill me there. But mother's guards killed him. And then we got on a ship, and came here. I don't really like it here. I want to go home. But mother says we can't yet. She wants to secure the Scottish-French alliance. But I already met Francis, so I don't understand why we can't leave already."
The girl backed up to give him some room. "I guess you're not an assassin. We can be friends if you want. I believe you aren't a spy or thief, too."
With the space the girl gave him, Bash stood straight. He dusted off his knees, "What made you change your mind about me being an assassin?"
"I talked a lot. If you wanted to kill me, you would have. I was completely defenseless."
Bash looked at her. "Oh." He guessed that made sense.
"By the way," she moved to the side of him, "I don't believe you aren't doing anything. So I'm coming with you."
Bash narrowed his eyes, "No."
"Yes, I am."
"No, you're not."
"Are too."
"Are not," he said irritably.
"I'll yell for a guard. You'll get in trouble then, huh?"
Bash's eyes widened. "No! Don't do that!" he panicked. He gave a big sigh, "Fine!"
The girl beamed. "I'm Mary."
"Yeah, whatever."
"Don't be such a little kid," Mary pouted.
"You're the little kid!" Bash retorted.
"Shh!" Mary hushed him. "Not so loud or we'll be caught!"
You were loud just a minute ago, Bash thought grumpily. Then, "Not like you have to worry."
"Well..." Mary looked around them and shuffled her feet. Bash raised a brow.
"What?"
"It isn't my fault! Francis won't be nice to me. I told him that mean boys grow up to be ugly, and he said that he wished I'd disappear, so I hid when he wasn't looking, and he freaked out. I think he went to get guards."
"Why didn't you tell him it was a joke?"
"Because he deserves to worry. He was being mean! He told me to shut up."
"Maybe he had a reason," Bash muttered to himself. "Let's go then," he told Mary, "before your bad decision gets us caught."
Mary frowned at him, but walked alongside him. He walked away from the window, from the apothecary's dingy room of medicine and chemistry. His heart was heavy; it had been so long since he'd been outside.
He led them in the direction of the Blood Wood. His strides were long and he saw Mary struggle to match it. "So...where...are...we...going?" she breathed heavy.
Bash snickered. "To the Woods. You're not very fit."
"Your legs are longer than mine!"
"Yeah, and you're still not very fit."
"Whatever!" Mary huffed. "Why are we going there?"
"Because."
"Is there treasure in there?"
"Not really."
"Are you going to slay a demon?"
"What are you going on about?"
"This mystery!" Mary exclaimed. "I'm trying to figure out our adventure."
"We're trying to quietly sneak off into the woods." Bash hushed her. "It's really not that mysterious."
"You are, though. I don't know why you were locked in that room or why you're going to the woods. I don't even know your name," Mary said.
"That's because it isn't any of your business."
"But it's not fair. I told you my name."
"I never said I wanted it."
"Meanie! Friends give each other their names."
"We aren't friends. You're just a nosy little kid."
"I'm a Queen," she quipped, "I can go if I want to. You're just a little kid, too. Which is why we should be friends."
"Don't queens only befriend royals?"
"You live at the Castle. Aren't you of an aristocratic status?"
"No. I'm a bastard."
"Oh." She was silent a moment. Bash wondered what she was thinking. Would she turn away now, and leave him be? "I think that's okay. We can still be friends." She gave him a wide smile.
He never would have expected the object of his scorn to be like this. He had realized - midway through her earlier chatter - exactly whom she was before she had told him. Mary, Queen of Scots. Francis' intended. The reason he had to sneak out of that stupid room in the first place. That was the main reason he hadn't wanted her to come with him. He had decided, the third day staying in the cluttered confines of the apothecary's room, that he hated Queen Mary.
But nothing about her was hateful, not truly. She seemed to talk too much and listen little, but that didn't really bother him. She didn't bother him, he found, but that knowledge did.
He didn't reply to her, and surged them forward with an irritated crease in his brow. They were only a few yards away from the clearing. But he heard a twig break, and reacting instantly, grabbed Mary's hand and pulled her behind a tree.
"Find her! Or Mary de Guise and the King will have our heads!"
"Was the Prince sure she went this way?"
"He speculated."
"What!"
"He said he made a wish and then she was gone. Such an idiot boy, to be next in line."
"She's the problem at hand."
"You're right. Damn brat. Let's go!"
"Let's check the woods!"
"But - today is a holiday for those Pagans!"
"We'll be alright. We will ask if she's been seen and we will leave."
Bash held his breath and waited for the guards to pass him. He was thankful they didn't go a different route, walking right by he and Mary, completely unaware. When they were gone, he sighed heavily.
"Great!" He said angrily. He looked down. Mary and he were still holding hands and he snatched his away. "You're so troublesome!"
A sad look crossed Mary's features, and she looked down at her hands. She slowly slid to the ground and tucked her knees under her chin. She hugged herself, and hid her face in her lap.
Bash looked down at her, still very angry. But he heard her sniffle, and guilt twinged at him.
"I just...wanted to celebrate something with my mom! I had this opportunity and I might not ever have it again! I've been in that room all the while, because of you! Because people think me unsightly because I'm a bastard!" Bash wasn't just angry anymore, he was sad. He didn't want to have to go back to that room. He wanted to enjoy the evening. The freedom, however fleeting.
"B-but I don't think you're unsightly! I like you!" Mary looked up. She was crying, snot hanging down her nose, tears streaming down her face.
Bash blinked. "You like me?"
"I've had fun! You're funny and mysterious! You're nice to me! Francis doesn't like me at all! He never plays with me! We have to get married but he's not even my friend!" Mary cried. "He doesn't like me, and I can't even go home right now! I've tried really hard for Francis to like me. I just wanted him to worry about me!" Mary hid her face again. "You've been so nice to me. And I don't care if you're a bastard. A friend is a friend. I didn't mean for you to not like me, too - I just wanted someone to play with."
The more Bash listened, the less mad he became. He started to feel bad, making her cry like that. No one had ever called him a friend before. It gave him a queer feeling. It held a pleasant sound. "I'm sorry," he said finally. "Maybe you just have to take it slow with Francis. You're very demanding. He doesn't like that type of thing. It makes him flustered and overwhelmed."
Mary sniffed.
"And I think he was worried. So he must like you a little bit at least."
Mary looked up. "Really?"
"Yeah."
"I'm sorry you won't get to see your mom because of me."
Bash shrugged. "It's okay. Nostradamus says it's because people don't like themselves that they find me unsightly. You told me you don't feel that way at all. So...I guess nothing is your fault." Bash sat beside her and looked up at the moon.
"Who's Nostradamus?"
"He's the apothecary at Court."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"So then...what are you going to do now?" Mary asked, wiping her face.
"I'm not sure," Bash replied.
"I should probably go see Francis and say sorry for my prank."
"Yeah. He won't be happy though."
"I know." Slowly, Mary stood. She dusted her butt and Bash chuckled. "What?" she asked.
"Girls are weird. Your butt isn't even dirty."
"How would you know, Gross-O!" Mary retorted.
Bash laughed softly. "You're a mean girl."
"Sorry."
"You're okay."
"I still don't know your name. What am I supposed to call you?"
Bash paused. "Sebastian."
"Is that your name?"
"Yeah. My mother and father and brother call me Bash. You can too, if you want."
"Does this mean we're friends?"
"Maybe."
Mary beamed, and it seemed to Bash that he earlier sadness was forgotten. "Okay, Bash," she said, "don't get caught."
"I never am."
Mary giggled. "You're a troublesome boy."
"You're a troublesome girl."
"Well. Let's play together again tomorrow, okay?"
"Maybe. If you behave."
"How dare you! So cheeky. I'm a queen, remember? I always behave."
"Yeah, maybe in title and maybe in theory," Bash said with a shrug. It was true. There was nothing queenly about her at all.
"Ugh! Whatever!" But she was smiling. "See ya!"
"Yeah. You too."
Mary ran away, and Bash watched her leave. He looked up at the moon again. "I guess there's always next year for this," he murmured to himself. "I hope that brat doesn't knock on the door, when she comes. She better use the window..."
And use the window, she did.
She had come every day for four days. The fifth day after their meeting, she'd not knocked on the window like the previous times. Bash noticed this, but he tried not to.
At noon he snuck out and walked the courtyard. As he approached the tree clearing, she was there, leaning against a tree. He walked to her and stood before her. Mary looked hard at him in silence.
"Are you the Sebastian? You're Francis' brother; I was told I'd never meet you."
So she had found out who he was. That must have been why she hadn't came in the morning. Of course, why would she come, knowing the truth? Bash straightened his back and stood tall.
"Is it a problem to meet the bastard brother?" Bash asked Mary, trying hard to act braver then he felt.
Mary scowled. "Why do you call yourself that? You should love yourself more. You're so free," she told him earnestly. Then, "You lied to me."
"I didn't. I just didn't tell you."
"Well you should have!"
"You didn't come today."
"Because I was mad at you! You kept the truth from me!"
"It wasn't your business!" Bash shouted back, annoyed.
"You're my friend! It is too!"
She was so mad she was panting; so angry, that he saw tears in her eyes. Bash felt the indignation leave him at the sight.
"I'm sorry," he said shamefully. "I'm sorry, okay?"
Mary sighed and sniffed. "Promise to not hide any more things."
"I promise."
Mary smiled at him.
Bash felt a tingle in his stomach.
§
There was a throng of people in the castle courtyard. It seemed that all the participating villagers and the nearby villages had come to bear witness to the first ever French Highland Games. Children were running wildly through trees, women and men were looking around with wonder.
Kenna, Aylee, and Greer were dancing in the middle of a crowd. It was a Scottish dance; they tapped their feet to the ground and hopped gracefully about, arms in arcs around their heads as they alternated their movements. They were all wearing blue gowns that stopped at the front at their knees but tarried long behind them in the back; white flowers delicately adorned their heads as crowns. Occasionally, one of them would pause and teach the crowd their movements, before grabbing a villager and dancing beside them. The laughter and awe echoed throughout the great space around them, lifting through the trees and into the sky.
Lola was watching the children play tug of war in a nearby puddle of mud.
His father was examining all the villagers' crops, jewelry, and creations.
Bash watched the scene from the watch tower. He looked down at the faces, eyes searching for hers - always, only hers - she was speaking with a group of children. A child sat on her lap, mesmerized as Mary's hands wove them tales of pure wonder. He wanted to be among those children, hearing her voice take him far away.
He walked slowly down the stone steps and towards the courtyard. The day seemed an endless blur, and Bash wondered once again if, perhaps, he really were in a dream. However, he knew that once he saw her tears, once she came back to him with the pieces of her broken heart, that reality would prove itself too real.
Bash went towards the secret alcove, the small passage way to the courtyard. He leaned against the stone wall, and watched as Mary sat at her station, a regal look upon her features. Bash knew better however, knew better than anyone the secret emotions she was hiding in her gaze.
The Hammer Throw was first. Bash watched as a man planted his feet firmly in the hearth behind a log. The man held a long iron handle, with an iron head at the end. Bash watched as the man swung his arms 'round, his body molding with the motions of his hands before throwing the hammer behind him. It was a challenge of great physical dexterity, and Bash raised his brows, impressed with the villagers' prowess as they competed. There was pure joy on the faces of his father's people. He'd had played a small part in their happiness, Bash realized, but though entertained, he did not share their earnest joy.
It was when the fifth competitor for the tossing of the caber bent his knees, juggled the weight of the long log in his hands, and balanced it on his palms, that Bash heard a voice on the side of him.
"These games are long, aren't they? So physical. The Scottish people are strong."
"Our people aren't doing too bad," Bash replied. The competitor was running with the caber balanced, "I'm impressed."
"And yet, your eyes see beyond these games, and your mind and heart remains elsewhere."
Bash watched the caber flip up in the air a moment. It landed farther than the man before, and the fifth competitor was crowned the victor. "Is that what your visions tell you, Apothecary?" Bash said.
Normstradmus passed to his left, and leaned in close to the archway Bash stood in. 'My visions have told me many things. But this revelation can be seen clear as day. One simply has to gaze upon your countenance." He watched the stone put a moment before saying, "But my visions have shown me that which plagues your heart. The things which you think. Things you should not."
Bash didn't direct his gaze towards the apothecary. Nostradamus continued.
"It's been awhile since you've addressed me by title, Sebastian."
"As you said, my mind has been elsewhere." Bash thought a moment. About his past. About Mary. "I asked you once, if I loved her. You told me I did not."
"I never said you did not love her. I said your feelings had yet to claim the word."
"You knew these things would come to pass. You saw all of this. Was I not a friend enough to you to earn warning? Had I been displeasing to your eyes back then as well, and thus you let me walk this path?"
"You were like a son. I saw not the things I've seen of late. I saw exactly what I'd told you then. I never foresaw you'd act on your desires."
Bash watched Mary kiss each victor, modestly and chastely. Watched as Francis stood at her side. Jealousy whispered to him. "You always left the window open. You knew. You always knew. You led my heart to ruin."
"I saw happiness in your future, and I only dared to set you on the path. Your destruction has befallen you of your own accord."
"I loved her even then."
"You still don't know the meaning of the word."
She was beautiful. A green, chiffon gown, a lace bodice and corset that tempted even saints to gaze upon her frame. Her brown hair was curled and pinned, and upon her head a crystal crown. The expanse of exposed skin upon her neck and chest made his throat dry. Bash shook his head. "Then tell me, Nostradamus, this meaning I seem to have failed to comprehend."
"Your actions will bring death and despair to the ones you love. You will be the downfall, the backwards spiral, of her happiness, and your own. You have already brought her despair."
Bash took in a shuddering breath, body cringing, his guilt a whisper in his mind. "I have regrets."
"You have none. You feel no true remorse. You wish not to undo that which you've done, not really - I sense how hard you've tried to convince yourself of your errors. Yet though you are morally conflicted, you had already decided long ago the choices you have chosen."
"You are wrong."
'You can pretend with yourself all you want to, but my visions do not lie. And what I feel and see when I look at you are not lies," Nostradamus said. 'Her despair, though it may plague you, whatever this thing you have done, its outcome is exactly what you've wanted. Perhaps for a very long time."
"So you mean to tell me that if I truly loved her, I'd not act this way?" Bash shifted his gaze to stare at the seer, eyes narrowed.
"The corruption of your heart is blackening your soul."
"You speak as if within me there has always been corruption."
"There has been. But I'd once seen visions of your salvation."
"And now you do not. Tell me then, what am I to do?" Bash asked roughly. Then, "I cannot escape her. She has consumed me. I want everything she is. All that she has to give."
"You must undo what you've done. You must, or you shall never be happy. You will never have salvation."
"Funny," Bash said, "this is the closest thing akin happiness I have ever known."
"Sebastian! Listen to reason; I implore you!" Nostradamus urged. "End this selfishness."
"Selfishness?" Bash echoed with raised brows. "For my love to be love true, I must cease my selfishness? Seer, that is all love is. This selfish, hateful thing. It makes it beautiful, its ugliness. Humanity is ugly, which is why we crave it; for through our combined ugliness, it becomes radiant, Nostradamus. And Mary has never been more radiant to me then now."
"You will rot in a nameless grave. Your hands will be stained in blood," the seer warned. But Bash had had enough of cryptic messages. They meant nothing. For he would shape his future. He would make a future with his queen.
It was as if Nostradamus had heard his thoughts. "She will hate you, Sebastian. I swear it."
The apothecary's words made Bash pause.
"She will never forgive you. You must stop acting on your desires. You will lose everything. Lives will be lost. Nations will fall apart. And that which you would have done everything for, it will elude you even in death; she will hate you. The Scottish queen will forever hate you."
The words were pleas, feared promises of things not come to pass, yet almost inescapable. But when Bash stared at Mary again, when Bash's eyes clung to her frame and his fingers clinched into tight fists of want - he could care less about Fate. About dark promises.
"Visions change," he whispered.
"These will not."
It was as the wind had whispered he was staring. Suddenly, Mary's eyes sought him out, held his gaze. Bash exhaled a shuddering breath,for the uncanny way they seemed to always meet each other's stares. And then for the sadness he saw there. He realized that he couldn't let go whatever connection they shared, that he needed it the way he needed lungs to breathe.
"Sebastian. She will hate you, if you don't turn from this path. You must, before it's too late," Nostradamus whispered. "Sebastian -"
"She already will hate me," Bash interjected, his voice a mere whisper of its. own. Hoarse and broken. "She knows it not yet, but she already does."
[The Petals that Fall: End]