His breathing was in her ear. She could feel him, touch him if she wanted to, but she could hear him most of all. It was such an odd feeling after so many weeks of avoiding each and every point of human contact. Now to have him so close after a week of having him so near that she was protective, but so far as to not cause unease. It was different now. He wasn't a few feet away like the last nine night, but just a few inches away. So gentle and perfect and patient, so unwilling to cause her any type of harm whatsoever. He was perfect, and he was here.
But then she could see him. Each and every time she closed her eyes, even for just a moment. The man who had held her down and tore and ripped until there was nothing left. She could hear his rasps for breath, feel the roughness of his hands as he yanked her gown up and tore her legs apart. She could feel the hatred in his gaze, the fierce repulsion as he pulled himself away and looked down at her. The cowardice of that man who had stood and turned away, an enabler. He was just as bad as the man who had violated each and every inch of her entire being, and the other who had tried to do the same.
She drew in a shaky breath, opening her eyes. He wasn't there anymore. He wasn't anywhere. She had burned those bastards alive with Conde. He was nothing more than ash now, floating like atoms in the air. He was nothing now. He would be removed from history, and he would not break her. A little hurt, yes. A little scared, yes. But defeated, absolutely not.
Mary turned to her sleeping husband. He was there. He wasn't like him. He was gentle and he was patient, he was kind and understanding, the only thing in the world that he wanted was to keep her safe. His measures he had taken had been a little startling, yes, and they may not have all worked. But that was alright. Because she could get through this. It may seem impossible right now, but she knew somehow, someway, she could get through it. Look at Catherine, ten children after her own attack, strong and fierce and alive. That could be her. One day, it would be her. She had a patient, supportive husband and a group of supportive comrades.
She left him for a moment, only one. Slowly moving her body up from the bed, gentle enough to not startle her husband. He slept on, soundlessly, his hand occasionally twitching. Mary wondered what he was dreaming about, but paid him no more mind, before walking over to her desk.
She sat down, and began to write.
You held me down and ripped through my body. You thrusted into my like the sound of my screams made it better for you. Your hand tightened around my throat until my body became limp under yours. You ripped through my body and my mind. I looked into your soul, and you looked into mine. For a time, I trembled at the mere thought of you. I shook like a leaf in the wind, or a kitten in a storm. But the storm stopped. Now, you are nothing but a figment of my memory. Everybody who you ever knew or interacted with is dead. I hold your mere existence in my hands. I am the Queen of Scotland and France. I create myself. Like this paper, Severin, you have been rendered obsolete. Every single atom of your existence is in this paper, and I divide them. I take the words, I scatter them into time and space. Who knows where they will end up, but I care not where you have. I pray you find a way to read these words. You hold no control over me anymore. You no longer control my thoughts or my dreams. All you will be is another ghost of France. And may God have mercy on your soul, as I never will. Rest, Severin. My name will live forever. I will be immortal by my memory. I will never die in the way that you have. You are tiny. An insignificant little man who attempted to ruin me. And you failed. Know that your existence has amounted to this. Failure. Insignificancy. Your world is now gone, and another will take it's place, every memory of you will be gone. And soon, I will forget you. Everything you are is dust and ashes. Everything dies. You are nothing but the ash of your bones and of this paper. May your memory keep my husband and I warm as we kiss your life goodbye.
Mary threw the note into the fire, watched as it burned bright, then turned into nothing.
The Queen of France got back into bed with the King. She glared at the fire, breathed in the smoke of the parchment. She glanced at Francis, heard his breathing. You hold no control over me, Severin. Stubbornly, Mary rolled over. A reflex ran through her husbands' sleeping form, and his arms bound around her.
Mary let out a breath. It wasn't frightening. It wasn't sending a chill down her spine and forcing her to run from him. It was the end of her fear of him. The beginning of a new age of freedom and duty at the same time. She could overcome it, just as she could overcome this.
So, when the sun came up, her husband awoke to his earthly body, saw his wife in his arms, her smile brighter than the sun that peaked up over the trees and the mountains.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
Mary smiled at him. "I will be just fine."