"Shh," Francis whispered into Mary's long hair, stroking the dark, sweat slicken tendrils from her face. He kissed the side of her head and continued to run his hands down her back. His wife, his beautiful bride, wined loudly, the sound unlike any other noise she had ever let out. She continued to tightly grasp at his doublet, long, thin fingers clamping down upon the fine material. Gasps and sobs made their way out of her throat. Her bruised, mangled throat, that those vile pieces of filth had dared discriminate and contort in last night's attacks. "Shh, my love." he whispered into her hair again, trying his best to be gentle with this trembling little dove that shook in the circle of his arms, but it was so hard to be amiable and benign when fierce courses of hatred pumped through his veins at the scenes his minds' eye tortured him with. He had never hated anybody more than he hated those men that dared storm his home and lay even a single finger upon his wife, his light, his heart, his most prized possession. He never wanted to be parted from her, but he wanted to run out into his lands and hunt those bastards and Narciesse down and make them pay for what they had done to her. "You're safe now, I swear it. I oath it." he swore, purer than the words he had avowed on his wedding day, when he had stood in front of their families and their countries and the entire goddamned world and affirm that he would protect her and love her above all else. His heart? Every single bit of it belonged to her, but he loathed himself more than that bastard Severin and Narciesse for not being able to protect her when she needed it most, for being one of the catalysts that gave those apparent peaceful men reason to storm his palace and destroy the one thing he prized above all else.
Mary stopped sniffling into his chest, slowly looking up into the eyes of the man who she loved more than any other. She felt so childlike, right now. Laying in bed, ensnared in the deep intertwine of Francis' arms. She clung to him for dear life, hadn't let him go since the night before when he made sure that she and Catherine were safe after getting word of the attack. He hadn't gone to Lola, nor had he seen his bastard son. He had gone to her, and he hadn't left her until now. She was sure she looked childlike, also. No makeup, no crown, no jewels, no gown. No, just a nightgown and her hair down and unkempt. Yes, Catherine had bathed her last night, but her hair was already raggedy and filthy already, but, he still stroked it and kissed it as if it was the finest thing in the world. She tilted her head up to look him deeper in the eye, sniffling again. Francis caught the rogue tear from her cheek with his thumb, wiping it away. She took in a deep inhale, staring into his pretty eyes as much as she could. She could see his own pain and anguish, his suffering and his adversity. There was little she could do to alive him of his pain, however. She needed him so much more than he needed her at this time. He seemed to know that, too. Since he brought her back into the ensnarement of his arms again, almost crushing her bruised and violated body into his chest. He kissed her hair again, as if doing so would take away her pain.
"You're safe, I swear it." he repeated it. "They're gone." as soon as those words escaped his lips, he wished he could swallow them back up and remove them from Mary's memory. But her whimper told him that that was impossible, since that was exactly the problem. The man most responsible and the other one who had stood there and watched as Severin ripped and tore and shredded and slashed until there was no more to destroy. And the man who she had managed to strike wasn't there after she had told Catherine about him. He must have made it out before the guards could capture him, and if any did see, they must have thought he was one of the ones who had been injured. One of the guards had even died, but there was no sign of them anywhere. None of the ones Francis had captured and tortured and even froze gave no viable information about what could have happened to those three rogue thugs who thought they could get away with their violation of the Queen of France and Scots and face no consequences.
"You-you have to find them." Mary sobbed into his chest, pushing deeper into the warm alcove that kept her hidden from all demons and monsters. "You have to, you have to, you have to." Mary kept repeating, tightening her hand in his jacket so much that she swore it would rip from the force she held it under. He didn't seem to mind, though. Instead he held her as tight as her bruised midsection would allow him, kissed her hair and her face as much as her damaged psyche would allow.
"I will, I will." he stated, the affidavit from the King of France was said with such passion that it brought more tears to her eyes. He gently pried her face from his chest to look her in the eye again. A deep sapphire met with the cloudy aurelian, the pain in their eyes so pitiful and powerful that a bystander would have his breath pried from his lungs. "But in the meantime, you must rest, my darling." he stated quietly. "There are guards outside, we've patrolled every inch of this castle, they aren't here and they can't hurt you anymore, my angel." After he had found her with Catherine, Mary had cried for hours and told him all she physically could her rape and her attackers. The sun had began to rise when Francis managed to coax Mary from his mothers' chambers and into her old ones, for neither wanted to go in the royal chambers where the rape had concurred. He had managed to slowly help her into one of her nightgowns and into bed, but still, after hours of trying, the Queen did not succumb to her rest that her body so desperately needed. She wouldn't let him go, whenever their skin would stop touching for even a moment, Mary would wail in such a manner that Francis swore began to curdle his blood. That's how he ended up in bed with her, fully clothed and holding her. But as much as he didn't want to be parted from her, the need to go out with Sebastian and hunt four bastards down was nearly killing him. The King of France thought his blood lust for Tomas' or Vincent's blood was bad, but it had nothing on the blood lust for Severin, his two accomplices and Stephane Narciesse's blood. He swore he could taste it on his tongue like a vampire would anticipate his next ensanguined feast.
"I-I can't!" Mary spluttered, shaking her head, even as it was burrowed into his warm chest. "Every time I close my eyes, he's there, he's on top of me and I-I-" she broke off into another round of hysteria. Francis tensed at the reaction, despising that quartet of hell-destined devils who had dared harm her even more than he did a half hour ago. Mary was an angel and to lay even a finger on her guaranteed a man or a woman a one way trip to an eternal afterlife of flame, an affect to God that was so unforgivable that the devil would come to terms with the almighty lord before he, Francis was sure of it.
"Shh, I understand." he stated. But he didn't. He did not have the faintest clue about what she was feeling and how to get her through it. Francis knew that rape happened in his Kingdom -he had to be a simpering simpleton to believe otherwise- but he had never been taught how to comfort a woman after such an intimate, dreadful attack. He knew what had happened to his mother, he had overheard her stating it to a friend when he was thirteen years old, but she didn't know that he knew. He knew that Henry had known about what had happened to his meek, malicious little Medici wife, but knew for a fact that Henry had never comforted her about what had happened to her. Francis had never been in such a pair of shoes before, and he had no idea how to take away from Mary's suffering, even just a tiny bit and even for just a moment. "I love you, I will always protect you." he tried, but although she heard them, Mary didn't react to them.
He started stroking her hair and whispering sweet nothings in her ear, in an effort not to comfort -although he did hope she took comfort in those words- but to try and settle. It seemed to be working, for Mary's grip on him started to lighten and loosen. Her body began to move slower and slower, her cries beginning to quiet. Her head nestled into the crook of his neck and he took comfort in it, stroking her like one strokes a cat, cooing soft, loving words into her until his bride finally took to her slumber. He lay her back upon the overstuffed pillows they had once rested upon together, a world away. He brought the covers and the blankets and the furs up to her chin, since her fragile wrists and bruised throat were so tender that Mary couldn't physically have a gown that covered the skin. She was stuck in one of the shapely, satin gowns she had worn early on in their courtship, just after Vincent and just after they started becoming intimate. She was cold and she was exposed, something that Francis couldn't allow.
She was just deep enough in her slumber that Francis thought he could sneak away and alert Kenna and Greer to stay with her whilst he and Sebastian went upon the hunt. But, as if he was summoned by his brothers' mind, the door suddenly swung open and in walked the King's deputy. Startled, Mary let out a wail and threw herself back into Francis' arms, her body trembling once again. Francis let out a sigh and held her close again.
"Sorry, I-" Sebastian began sheepishly when he saw that he had frightened Mary, but he frowned deeply when he saw the extent to her fear. How she clung to his brother and hid from him, crouching into a ball as if a defence or protection mechanism. "Mary?" he frowned. He looked at his brothers' grave eyes and frowned deeper. Something wasn't right. This wasn't the Mary he knew and at one point, had loved.
"What's happened?" Bash asked his brother. "Is this about the attacks last night? Is she so jumpy because they came so close?" he asked. Francis shook his head, beginning to comfort his wife, he had broken out into quiet sobs against his shoulder again. "Mary? What's wrong?" he frowned. Mary didn't answer him, just continued to cry against his brothers' shoulder.
"I suppose you were going to find out sooner or later." he sighed. Sebastian frowned deeper. Find out what? He watched as Francis turned his head to his wife who still was clinging to him, legs curled up into a ball on his lap, her head burrowed into the crook of his neck, arms clamped tightly around her husband. Sebastian absentmindedly noted the highlight in the curvature in his half brothers' jawline when he turned to his wife to speak to her again. "My love, can I tell him?" he asked, once she had stopped crying to such a degree of hysterity. She was now just sniffling against his neck, but wouldn't look at either of the eldest sons of the second King Henry Valois.
Mary paused, but nodded silently.
"I-uh-" he stuttered, running a hand through his dishevelled curls. "I suppose Kenna was going to tell you, or you'd find out from mother somehow, but, uh-" he stuttered again, as if he was deliberately putting off saying those words. "Mary, last night, she was raped, Sebastian. She was raped."
I mean no offence to any survivors when I write this piece, I mean the greatest respect. This is just how I wished the writers would have dealt with the immediate aftermath of Mary's rape, also I wanted to see Bash's reaction to hearing the news.