Note: Again, sorry for the wait but I simple have too much on my hands right now. I wanted to say a huge thank you for the amazing reactions to the last chapter. It was incredibly difficult to write and it makes me really happy to know you guys enjoyed it.

Also, as mentioned last time, I had to 'split' this chapter because it would have simply been to long. So this is is the first part, the second one will be uploaded sometime next week.

I hope you enjoy :)

(disclaimer: I own nothing)

37.

He leaped out of the way, cowering behind the now opened door. A second later and the men, who were now mindlessly staggering through the empty alley, would have seen him. His heart hammered in his chest and the adrenaline, cursing through his veins, almost brought stars before his eyes.

The flesh covering his left shoulder throbbed with pain, as he had slammed against the hard stone behind him. Now, wedged between the mill's wall against his back and the scabby wooden door covering him from the men's view in the front, he did his best to catch his breath. The icy air streamed into his lungs, numbing his mouth and nose in passing. The backs of his boots scraped against the rough face of the stone bricks behind him and he dug his gloved fingers against the wall to keep as quiet as possible.

The sky was black and the moon and any stars one might have glimpsed in the sky were absent above him. He must have fallen asleep, sitting against the wall. A dim light and the fading colour of orange and rose were creeping up from horizon. He shivered and felt the ache in his muscles. Both his legs and lower back were throbbing from the sudden movement, when he had leaped out of the way. He silently cursed himself, he had been utterly careless to sink into deep sleep in this position. It dawned on a miracle that the men, whoever they were, hadn't yet seen him. He could hear the sounds of their boots on the frozen ground slowly fading into the distance and he carefully propped himself up against the wall.

If the men really were, who he suspected them to be, it was imperative that they didn't discover him here, crouching behind a door. The fingers of his right hand slowly crept across his torso and carefully found the shaft of his sword. His grip tightened and he collected his thoughts. He would have to think of a plan, and quickly.

For now, the men had moved out of his view, behind the part, the door before him was obstructing. He could hear there slurred voices and audibly drunken laughter. The noise echoed through the empty alley and carefully tried to sneak an eyes out behind the door. He couldn't understand what they were saying exactly, the words sounded foreigner but familiar. It was definitely not French and he concluded that they must be foreigners. The language, it wasn't Spanish or Italian, he knew enough of those languages to recognize that it sounded too harsh to be either. He focused his thoughts, no it wasn't one of the German dialects, the words weren't hard enough. It must be English, he concluded.

His heart seamed to skip several beats at the realization. He had actually found them, reached the hideout his mother had spoken of. It had to be them, the chances of meeting random English travelers or merchants at this hour, in this shabby mill where close to zero. His fist tightened around his sword and his heart hammered against his rib cage with every echoing beat.

What was he supposed to do? He had, since a young age been trained at the art of sword fighting and duels, but this was different. No one had ever thought to teach the future King the skill of hiding in the shadows and sneaking past enemy lines. Now that he stood here, alone and without any idea how to proceed, he regretted his gap of knowledge. His tutors and father alike had alway insisted on one on one duels, as it was the only honorable way to fight. In their eyes, cowardly hiding from one's enemy and trying to outsmart them with cheap tricks was a dishonorable deed not befitting for a future king. Those kinds of tasks where to be left for guards and hired knives. They were the ones to slash men's throats in the dead of night and assassinate any unwelcome foes. After all, there was no honor to be had in stabbing the blade into one's opponent's unsuspecting back.

He would practical hear his fathers words, his hard voice screaming from the realm of heavens. ‚A true man faces his enemy and fights.' Henry had uttered it in a fit of anger as Francis had never been the keenest when it came physical confrontations. He had in no way been bad or clumsy with swords - on the contrary he greatly appreciated the beauty and art worked into every single blade - but he would always pail in comparison to his older brother. Bash had been a natural, he had spent days hunting in the woods and could out maneuver any man, at least with a sword. Politics, talks of strategy and spending had always been reserved for Francis. He had been sheltered and kept hidden at court. His pure royal blood had been his greatest value to both France and his parents. No adventures or spontaneous visits to Paris, not an hour unaccompanied by either guards or his mother. Bash had been free to roam the woods or the rest of the word, for what Henry had cared. He had been jealous, had envied his brother's freedom but after having tasted it himself the allure had faded. Being forced out of choices, forced from Mary's side for, what they had called, his own safety, had drawn up a different kind of prison entirely. This time the walls hadn't been placed to keep him inside but as far away form the one thing he had desired most.

In the end his brother's skills with blades had not helped Bash on the new playing field, he had found himself upon. Surrounded by noble lords, in velvet slippers instead of muddy boats, and armored with scrolls of parchment instead of swords, he had looked utterly out of place. A wild animal confined in a golden palace where rumors would drown out any truth and the gossip could prove as deadly as a freshly sharpened blade.

Maybe Bash was already gone, save in a place far from anyone's reach. He dearly wished his brother the best for his next life. Too many mistakes had been made in this one, some to awful to take back. It hadn't been his fault, Francis knew that. Mary had been the one to pressure him into marriage and the crown but still the feeling of resentment lingered. The kiss at the lake, that one short moment, which had brought the walls raveling down around him. His brother had loved Mary, maybe not as deeply as he himself but it had been there all along. And maybe if it hadn't been for the child, his child, Mary would have opened her heart to him. The thought made him shudder.

Anne, his child, he loved her more than anything in this world. This was a sin he could attribute to Bash. It had surely been no coincidence, the morning after his death sentence had been declared, she had gone missing from her crib. Bash had conspired with the English to keep the French throne and as a result, Anne was gone. A sudden surge of angered flamed through his body and the tiny hairs along his arms and spine rose in accordance. If he couldn't save her, he would never forgive his brother for his actions. What baffled him most was the fact that Bash must still believe Anne to be his, and still he had sought to kidnap his own child. It disgusted Francis beyond words and he felt the emotions swallowing him. A tear escaped onto his cheek and he only know realized the build up of liquid filling his eyes. Hastily, he dabbed his face dry and bit the inside of his cheeks, focusing his reeling mind.

He had to move. It might be reckless, but he didn't really have any other choice. If he stayed here, behind the door they were bound to find him and escaping back to his horse was out of the question. She was here, she had to be and there was no fiber in his body ready to give up on this chance. Here in the cottage, just behind the wall, he convinced himself to the truth of his words, repeating them over and over in his head. All he had to do was turn from behind his hiding spot and look. His heart raced and the beats sent the tips of his fingers pulsing against his tightly fitted gloves.

Carefully, he peaked from behind the door, to find the alley empty. The men must have made their way deeper into the small village. Maybe this would give him more time, a chance at least. He tip toed around the door and found the room behind it empty at first glance.

There were a couple of chairs crowded around a feeble looking table and heaps of weapons and armor laid crowded around them. He narrowed his eyes and tried to adjust to the dim light in the stuffy room. There was only a single spare candle illuminating the tiny chamber and its shadows ghosted across the narrow walls.

With his hand still around the shaft, he drew the swords a couple of inches in preparation and nearly stumbled backwards when he made out a figure at the far back. A man sat hanging over his stool in a corner and light snores sounded from his direction.

Francis swallowed, trying to hold onto the surge of braveness that had overcome him earlier. A loose floorboard screeched beneath his boot and he held his breath, listening for the man's rhythmic breathing. He was still soundly asleep as far as Francis could tell and he took the chance to carefully search the rest of the room with his eyes.

There were boxes and bags scattered across the floor, filled with all kinds of supplies and food. Shields stood stacked against one wall and the corresponding swords lay to their feet. He quietly stepped over multiple blades and was only meters away from the sleeping English man when his eyes fell on a small bundle.

His heart stopped and his breath caught in his throat. The bundle looked familiar, the same type of fabric the bloodied rattle had been wrapped in. And indeed when he looked closer he could see the pale colour of a baby's face. It looked utterly surreal, too pale and unmoving. He froze for a moment uncertain what to do, when Anne opened her eyes beneath him. Both pairs of almost identical blue eyes starred at one another and he could sense the child's confusion.

Another heartbeat passed and her cry ripped him from his temporary paralyses. Without a second thought he grabbed for her, pressing the baby tightly to his chest as he heard the man behind them stir to consciousness.

„Kenna" in the pitch black cell he only recognized her from the distinct sound her heels made against the stone floor. „What in god's …" but she cut him off.

„Shhh, we have to be quick." she whispered and he felt her pull at his arm.

With all the might in her small body she had dragged, half shoved him from the hard wooden bed. His bare feet hit the ground and the cold burned like scalding fire. Exerting a heavy groan he lifted his body into a standing position and felt the ground shift beneath his feet. He had spent more than a fortnight confined to his cell, well below the castles halls and the strain those days had left on him, became visible in his feeble tries at carrying his own weight. His arms and head felt heavy like dense pieces of lead pulling him back to the ground. He felt himself stumbling into Kenna's surprised arms, their bodies collided in an unmannerly fashion and it was all she could do to keep them upright.

Why was she here, had she come to save him or was she the angel already reaching her tempting arms from near heaven? It might as well be a dream, the sane part of his mind tried to argue. She had no business being here in his cell and the longer he pondered her presence, the more unlikely a sudden salvation seemed. He hadn't even spoken to her in weeks, they had once been close, friends, the likes only the young Mary had come close to. But the daily burdens the crown had lain upon him hadn't only poisoned his marriage, no he had lost all the people he had once held closest. That loss had pained him more than the freedom he had left behind with his youth. He could tolerate the hours upon hours he had spent in stuffy privy chambers, and the constant company of men twice his age, if only the people, his heart truly yearend for in the lonely hours spent in his empty bed, had stayed by his side.

He didn't blame them, not really. Everybody loved the King, who successfully sat his throne, the man who stirred his county to peace and prosperity. But he wasn't that man, not by a long shot. The heavy crown had never quit seemed to fit his head. It had been as if even the vain piece of jewelry had forsaken him from the first second. The crown would fit his brother marvelously, he could almost see Francis before him. The crown resting perfectly upon his golden curls and every of his brother's movements oozed respect. He would excel atop the French throne and in truth Bash was relieved to hand on the burden.

The months since his father's death had felt like pure torture and every time he had looked into his wife's eyes, the hollow cold would make him flinch. She despised him, maybe hated him even. The touch of her skin, her delicate hands and sweet smelling hair, he longed for it still. The past week, he had spent his nights shivering under a meager ripped blanked, while his mind had tried to find the welcomed nothingness of sleep. And she had visited him in his dreams, almost every night. Sometimes she would kiss him and hold his hands until the morning while other times her eyes had been filled with inexplainable hatred and her words had cut deeper than any knives ever could.

Those nights had been the worst, he had woken to a cold and empty cell with the last remaining tears lingering on his bridled skin. It was in these moments that even the prospect of the warming fires, hell was promised to offer the undeserving, seemed a better choice than his present miserable existence. It was the torture and unnecessary prolonging of his death, he despised, not the act itself.

He had long ago come to the conclusion that this life would not carry him into old age. The dreams, that had filled both his and Mary's heads had been full of false promises and lies. It had been so innocent in the beginning, her simple wish to save his brother's life. He had believed it then, the prophecy, almost welcomed it. Mary had caught his eyes, the very first time she had stepped into his life as a small girl. Those strong brown eyes and her fierce spirit, he had always admired her for it. He had loved her, still did, but it had never meant to be. Sometimes hearts were supposed to break for reasons unknown to the mortal. Their story had never been meant for the books of history. The prophecy had given him hope in a time where the prospect of their marriage had been the only thought on his mind. He had dreamed of being the husband at her side, the man she could trust in, who would gift her the his unconditional love. He would be her prince, her knight in shining armor.

If Nostradamus' words had been true, he wasn't so certain anymore. He had advised Mary that the only possible way to save the man she had always loved was to marry another, and she had done just that. He had welcomed her with open arms, eager to exert whatever little love she might give him. He could be content with anything as long as he had her, a fairytale only a misguided child could believe. She might have loved him but never in the way his heart had done each of its beats for her. Mary still saw him as a friend to share her burdens with, a brother to entrust with the burden of her secret love for another.

In Francis eyes, and maybe even in her own, he was the person, who had destroyed their love. The resentment in his brother's eyes, the pain of betrayal, they had swallowed him. The hollow anger Francis' words had reeked of and the awful sound they had created in his own ears. He had known all along, the real truth behind Mary's actions, the lies she had told his brother. And Francis truly had ever right to despise him for keeping her secrets. He may have belied the seer's words but his brother had had a right to the truth, he saw that now. It had been so foolish and arrogant of him, the thought that he was the one keeping Mary save. She had withered at his side, faded in the long shadow he had unknowingly cast across her.

As much as his dreams might still long for her, the prospect of a life at her side seemed unthinkable now. Too much and happened and maybe time had finally brought the proof, all three of them had longed for. He had loved her, and there was no reality in which he could ever forsake that commitment his heart still felt towards her. But shallow love was nothing without trust and understanding, it was all but an empty shell filled with lies and guilt. He had let her go the moment he had agreed to the English's plan, a desperate act, he most certainly wasn't proud of. He had done it out of pure self serving survival, the hope that maybe they could still pull him from destiny's reach, cling to the last threads of his pitiful life. He had betrayed her, them both, one last time and the pain drove the tears into his eyes. He had been desperate and not the brave man he had alway made himself out to be. This would be his punishment, the flaming fire his pagan routs condemned him to. He welcomed the flames and even the excruciating pain felt like one last chance to repent the sins his mortal body had committed.

Would Mary weep for him at his funeral, would his little brother pay him his last respects? He would be gone by then but the thought of the two people he had valued most in his life, despising him even beyond death seemed to crush the last burning flames in his chest. They might never forgive him and he would have to accept that fate.

He only hoped that his death would bring them the comfort both had yearend for too long. If god would grant him one last wish before the gates of heaven and hell, he would plea for their love, the life both deserved. Their peace would be his reward. Time had proven that their love had been gifted from the gods' themselves, an indestructible force one must bow before.

The had run from their fate for more than a year, sought to flee the inescapable. Nostradamus' prophecy might have been wrong and he prayed that Francis might live a long and fulfilled life aside Mary. But even if the words held a spark of truth, he understood now, there were worse things than death. If all that had been meant for them were few years before his brother's passing so be it but the time they would spend with one another would be worth it. He pitied them, Mary, his brother and himself, if only one had come to the conclusion sooner, it might have spared them much unneeded pain and suffering on all sides.

With a bitter sentiment he recognized that maybe one of them had. Francis might have never believed in a seer's half conscious words but his foolishly brave and self unnerving nature would have never allowed Mary to leave his side. He would have been relentless in their shared future together, even if it had meant his death. He knew it, as he himself was now glad to pay with his life for Mary's happiness. But they hadn't told Francis, and it was almost humorous how Mary's desperate tries to save Francis had brought them nothing but sorrow.

Now their wishes would be full filled, they would share their lives together, a better and brighter future.

„A better life." he hadn't noticed that he had spoken the words out loud.

His head was heavy upon Kenna's hands and he was genuinely surprised that she was really here, holding him upright. His finger weakly scraped along the outline of her arms and all the strength seemed drained from his body. He couldn't believe that there was another person, a real person and not just a dream, standing before him.

„Bash, listen to me." her hand ungently nudged his face as she urged his heavy eyes open. „We don't have much time, the guards will be back soon, we have to go now!"

He slowly felt his head nodding at its own accord. She pulled at his arms and the force her body produced, forced him reluctantly out the opened door of his cell. The top of his head collided against the ceiling multiple times but the klicks of her heels before him didn't stop. Her skirts ruffled against the moist walls as they hurried along the dark path. He had no idea what plan she was following and his mind was to numb to make the effort to care. A lifeless marionette, blindly following its master's will, it was all he was capable of.

They hadn't gotten far when heavier steps sounded behind them. The men, most likely guards chasing after them, would catch them in seconds. But Kenna wouldn't give up, the closer they came the more relentlessly she pulled at his arm. Only when the stronger arms grabbed him from behind, forcing both of them to stop did she give in.

„No, no, don't take him." Kenna cried out in desperation but the guards didn't so much as blink in response.

One of the man had caught her arm and was dragging her back into the corridor they had come from.

„No, let go of me!" she screamed at kicked at the man but he was almost twice her size and left her no chance.

In one last desperate attempt to at least save her, he fought back against the man, who pressed him against the wall. His elbows found the man's stomach and he could hear an exclamation of pain in response but the arms around him were too strong and wouldn't relent. He helplessly watched as the one guard dragged Kenna away and his own hands were bound at his back.

He expected the man behind him to bring him back to his cell or maybe even execute him on the spot but nothing of the sort happened. The distant torches had given them at least a glimmer of light in the underground tunnel but suddenly all the light faded away his eyes closed before the world around him. There was nothing left, nothing but impenetrable darkness.

The fire reared on the front lawn and its flames mirrored on the frozen water of the lake. Shadows danced across the castle's stone and the movements were bustling with doom. The night was pure and the sky unoccupied but still, not a single star could be seen on the canopy. A howling wind drove through the trees, eliciting eery sounds. Ghosts were dancing around them, brought to life by the burning stake.

The pyre, set directs before her baloney, slowly disappeared in the sea of flames. It wasn't the freezing air or threatening flames that scared her. No, the unbroken silence made the hairs on her skin stand and she shivered despite her thick coat.

She was powerless, forced to watch as a bystander as the man, she had sworn her life to, faced the death brining flames. Her fingers clutched around the fabric, she hadn't let out of her grasp for hours. They were all gone, and she would be left in this cursed place on her own.

When the screams finally reached her ears, a single tear escaped her eye. The sounds were gut wrenching and the terror filled her head. A man crying out in utter agony and then silence again.

Thank you for reading! Comments and any thoughts on the chapter are always welcomed ;)