A/N: Oh, God, after what happened I just want to fill up this story with Frash trash. Or abandon it and cry my eyes out in a corner somewhere. But I thought I'd better finish this part of the story before I move on to...hopefully happier Frash storylines? In any case, I just wanted to warn one and all that my interest in Reign has waned quite a bit this season, and not just because of You-Know-What, but I just feel like the writing has been getting progressively worse, and it's just losing my interest. I might keep watching for Catherine, but I'm still on the fence about it. So I probably won't be writing anything post 3x05 that's canon, but never fear, I'll still be writing.

"How is he?"

The room was silent before Bash's question, the only sound Francis' loud, strangled breathing, the physicians dutifully leaving once the Queen had entered, seated on the edge of Francis' bed, clasping his hand like a drowning woman.

Bash was almost hesitant to come in at all, considering the state of the physicians as they had left, looking as though they were rather relieved to be fleeing.

"Henry has his own personal physician taking care of him," Catherine said, and her voice was softer than Bash had ever heard it, except for the one time when he had snuck into the nursery and heard her singing to Francis when they were both much younger. She did not look up at him, staring down at Francis as she brushed a piece of hair out of his face. "And Nostradamus stayed with him through the night, purging his system of most of the poison. He's in the best of care."

Bash glanced at his brother. Francis looked pale; very pale, although there was a certain blueness to his face that was also alarming, the veins in his neck sticking out, blue and dark in the candlelit room. He almost looked worse, Bash couldn't help but think, than he had last night, emptying poison onto the marble floor of the throne room.

"When will he wake? Do they know what it was?" the questions stumbled out, one after another, before he could hold them back, and Catherine turned to him with such a look of sorrow that he instantly regretted them.

"They're saying he might never wake up," Catherine whispered, and there was such emotion in her voice, that Bash felt he shouldn't be here. Felt he should go now, because he couldn't stand the thought of Catherine de Medici breaking down in front of anyone.

It might mean that the rest of them should as well.

"Nostradamus is a bit more hopeful," she said finally. "He doesn't recognize the poison, but, he believes that if he can identify it, he can find a cure."

It was a bit surprising that neither Catherine or Nostradamus did recognize the poison, Bash thought, rather bitterly, given their like for such things.

The door burst open then, and Bash glanced up, surprised to see one of Catherine's Flying Squad panting in the doorway, looking simultaneously wary of interrupting the Queen when she had demanded privacy, and excited, which Bash thought rather odd.

Catherine raised an expectant brow, and Bash noticed the way her hands had gone white around Francis'.

"The English Ambassador has confessed under torture," the girl blurted out, not even seeming to notice Bash, though he was certainly used to that by now.

Catherine nodded. "Get out," she said immediately, and the girl curtseyed. "Tell the King I'm on my way."

"The English ambassador," Catherine mused once the lady was gone, her voice soft as she continued to stare at her son. "Damned fool."

And then she stood, brushing down her gown and stepping around Bash to stride toward the door with all of the grace of a Queen. She turned back at the last moment, but her parting glance was for Francis, not Bash.

"Send for me if he..." she chewed on her lower lip and looked away.

"Of course," Bash murmured, and the door closed behind her.

He moved then, going to occupy her spot on the bed beside his brother, feeling rather awkward now that they were alone.

His eyes were dry, though his throat didn't feel so, and Bash lowered himself onto the bed and patted Francis' hand silently, a part of him wishing the other would wake up and tell him to stop being such a sap.

Nothing happened, save the flicker of the candle beside Francis' bed.

His brother looked even worse close up; the slightly bluish tint to his skin from earlier seemed puce now, his eyes crusted over with some sort of yellow dust, and, all in all, he looked as though he hadn't had water in years.

That, of course, only made Bash think of Dunn again, and of the way he had refilled that pitcher before handing Francis the wine. For a moment, a flash of anger ran through him, anger at Francis for being such an idiot as to actually take wine from a suspected enemy, if not a known one, but it was gone in the next moment. Lord Dunn was responsible for this, not Francis.

"I'll see that he pays for this, Francis," he vowed, before kissing his brother's forehead and leaving.

He couldn't stay in here a moment longer. He felt as though the dark curtains and vapid air were suffocating him, knew that if he stayed any longer he wouldn't be able to keep control of himself.

The moment he stepped out, the physicians hurried back in, and he wondered at that, why they had bothered to stay away when they knew Catherine had already left and Francis still needed them.

Unless they truly believed Francis was beyond needing them, by now.

Bash didn't, however, quite make it to the throne room, where the King and Queen would no doubt be interrogating their prisoner personally before he was dragged back to the dungeons to await his own execution. It hardly mattered in the end, he supposed. He would be there for the execution, if not for Lord Dunn's paltry excuses for what he had done.

Lady Valencia caught him rushing down the corridor, grabbing his arm and pulling him into an unseen corridor, much as she had...that night. He stumbled forward, about to explain that he was busy, that he had to go, but then he saw the tears in her eyes, and paused.

She wrapped her arms around him, as though she were the one needing comfort and not he, and rested her forehead against his chest for a long moment.

Something about the contact made him sigh with relief, an unknown burden lifting from his chest as he embraced her, because, though the world had turned to hell around him, she was still here, soft and warm and alive.

"I'm so sorry about your brother, Bash," Lady Valencia whispered softly, pulling back then. "I've been meaning to find you before now, but I haven't been able to. I'm...I'm so sorry."

"He's not...he's going to be all right," Bash's voice was hoarse, determined.

She glanced up, meeting his eyes, and gave him the smallest of smiles. "Of course he is. I..." she bit her lower lip then, and, once she'd finally freed it, it came away from her teeth with a soft pop, turning very red. "My sister was poisoned by a cowardly assassin back in Venice," and she sounded so small then, so vulnerable. "She...she died." A shallow breath. "Well, you probably don't want to hear about that. Francis is the Dauphin of France. He's strong. I'm sure...I'm sure he'll be all right."

"I'm sorry," Bash breathed out then, because he wasn't sure what else to say. He couldn't imagine a world without Francis, honestly.

Valencia shrugged, eyes staring off at some distant horizon. "I always hated her, when she was alive. She was prettier than I, smarter, too. We were rivals in every sense of the word, fighting for our men, fighting for our positions in society. She would always win at that, and yet she was younger than I. Now...Now I just wish she was still alive, and I'd give up anything for her."

Bash swallowed. "I'm not going to let him die."

She glanced back at him. "I'll do whatever I can to help your brother, Bash, if, indeed, there's anything I can do."

And Bash kissed her. He knew it was stupid; he knew that nothing could ever come of their relationship, but he did it anyway.

Because she was here, and his brother could die at any moment, and she didn't seem to care that nothing could come of it. And that was enough, for now.

"Come with me to see Nostradamus," Catherine invited, and he glanced up from the horse he was grooming. A stable boy should have been doing so, but Bash had always found the action just as soothing for himself as it was for the horse.

He hadn't expected her presence here, anymore than he had her invitation. Neither seemed very 'Catherine,' and he couldn't believe that she had sought out him, of all people. But, at her expectant look, a look which seemed to encompass her disgust for the entire state of the royal stables, he sighed and followed her.

It had been days since Francis had fallen ill, and still, there was no sign of a miraculous recovery, but neither was there any sign that Francis was getting worse. The physicians seemed to have no answer, and so, everyday, Catherine was said to go to Nostradamus, to see what he had to offer.

Lord Dunn's confession, Bash had learned after the fact, was hardly satisfactory. He had claimed, under torture, that yes, he had poisoned the Dauphin's goblet, but would not provide his motivations, and only seemed to sneer haughtily at anyone, even the King, when they asked.

He was to be executed today. As the Queen, Catherine would not be there, but, of course, Bash would be expected to attend.

He wondered if the roaring in his ears would fade once Lord Dunn was put on the scaffold.

They didn't speak as they walked; he rather suspected that Catherine had sought out someone's company, rather than his, specifically, and besides, he didn't have anything of his own to say. He was too caught up in that strange feeling of suffocation that only Valencia seemed to cure, and which had returned the moment he left her bedroom, this morning, attempting to ignore the glowering stare of her bodyguard when he'd kicked Bash out.

"Are you making any progress on the identity of the poison?" Catherine demanded, leaning over Nostradamus in a way that was rather too intimate the moment she entered his supposedly secret chambers beneath the infirmary, Bash couldn't help but think. Not that he believed the vile rumors that Catherine and the Court Seer were too close; it was absolutely unthinkable.

He had a hard enough time imagining Catherine with his father.

Nostradamus shook his head, steady hands working at the ingredients in an attempt to unbind them from each other, now that they'd hardened. "Various poisons," he murmured, more to himself than Catherine. "Mixed together. But there's something else in here, something I can't seem to identify."

Catherine's eyes hardened. "Well, find out what it is, Nostradamus." And then she sashayed from the room, leaving Bash and Nostradamus in silence.

"You've never seen this type of poison before?" Bash asked as she left.

Nostradamus hesitated. "I fear I've seen something very much like it, but the ingredients can only be found in..." he stopped. "Well, I'll need more time before I find anything decisive. You should go, Sebastian. Be with your brother."

Bash nodded, swallowing thickly, but he knew, even as he left, even before he decided on a destination, that he wouldn't. He couldn't stand to sit by and do nothing and watch as Francis stayed ill; he had to do something, had to feel something other than the oppressive suffocation.

So he went riding.

It was the first time he had gone since Francis had fallen ill; he'd felt too guilty to go before, but now he felt too miserable not to. He couldn't stand another moment inside the castle, not knowing if that moment would be Francis' last, knowing only that there was nothing he could do about it.

He didn't return til midday, because he knew that he had to eventually, and, as he came back into the castle, saw something rather strange, for this time of night, off in one of the lonely corridors on his way back to his chambers. A servant had accosted him the moment he entered, telling him that there had been no change in Francis, and now he only felt tiredness, so he was tempted to pretend he had seen nothing.

His eyes narrowed as he watched Lady Valencia and her bodyguard interacting. Even from here, he could see that something was not right between them; the bodyguard was holding onto Valencia's wrist with a bruising grip, as if he had any right to touch a lady in such a way, and yet Lady Valencia did not pull away; her grimace of pain was the only indication that he was indeed hurting her.

The bodyguard leaned close then, too close, Bash thought, to be proper between cousins, and hissed something in her ear before dropping his hold on her and storming away.

Valencia looked after him, rather pale, and Bash took a step forward; to confront the bodyguard for his treatment, or to ask her if she was all right, he would never know.

"Bash," his mother's voice called out, and he turned in surprise. "Come along. Your father wants you escorting me."

He stared at her, confused. What social event could possibly be more important than making sure Francis was all right?

Diane lifted an eyebrow, her arm already extended, looking quite bored. "The execution? Your father wants the family to provide a united front, and he believes your presence there will be...influential. Well?"

He'd almost forgotten about that, and another stab of guilt ran through him, another invisible hand wrapping its way around his throat.

"We are gathered here to witness the execution of Thomas Dunn, for the attempted murder of the Dauphin of France. Let this be a message to all, that King Henry will not tolerate any attempts on the life of his sons and heirs, and a lesson, most of all, to his enemies. And that Her Majesty the Queen of England condemns any crime that interrupts the Franco-English Alliance," the herald boomed out, and Bash wondered how many times he announced executions; Bash recognized him as the same herald who announced foreign dignitaries, and wondered if, by his time of life, executions were simply dull in comparison.

He had been to a precious few; his father had demanded he attend his first at the age of thirteen, so that he understood the gravity of ruling, even if he would never rule, despite Diane's objections. Diane had been there as well as most members of the Court, though the King was forbidden by law to attend any formal execution. Bash had already learned the sword and the lance by then, had already had his fair share of killing, and hadn't quite understood, until he was standing before the scaffold and watching the execution play out, why she was so concerned.

Executions were not like deaths in battle. They were messier, and impossibly more real.

That first one, the one he had seen when he was thirteen, was the execution of a woman for high treason; she had fallen for the Spanish ambassador, back when France was not quite so friendly with Spain, and told him everything she knew of France's defenses at the time. She had pled insanity, infatuation, but King Henry had not listened to her.

She had cried all through the execution, up until the very last moment, with her head upon the block, and, when it was over, Bash thought he had been the most relieved person present, for most of those watching had cheered.

Lord Dunn, for his part, did not keen or wail, as many did before an execution. Instead, he stood tall, eyes silently condemning the crowd, as though he had any right to do so, as the executioner stepped up behind him, sword in hand.

He looked more like a martyr condemning his accusers than a criminal going to a just death, Bash couldn't help but think, with some disgust, from where he stood only a few feet away, beside Diane and the other more important courtiers.

He'd always wondered at that; why the nobles wanted to be so close to death, where they could quite literally find themselves stained with blood, while the commoners were made to stand well behind them, this being a public execution.

A guard moved forward to push Dunn toward the chopping block, and he gave the man a glare before saying to the crowd, "I have committed no sin in God's eyes," and lowering himself onto the block before the guards could, to the jeers of those watching.

The sword was quick, and, in a moment, it was over.

Bash was not a vindictive person, he wasn't.

But he thought that the man who had tried to kill Francis - who might even have succeeded - should have suffered more than that.

The moment he re-entered the palace with his mother, he was nearly bombarded by the tittering whispers of servants as they rushed down the halls, muttering amongst themselves.

He managed to catch their words quickly enough, but only because, for a brief moment, the roaring in his ears faded enough for him to hear their whispers, and because he was listening.

The Dauphin had woken up.

When Bash was finally able to see his brother, after Catherine and the King and the royal family had spent so long in there alone with him, a time that Bash didn't begrudge but did find slightly irritating, it had been hours since he'd woken up.

The way Bash had heard it, he'd awoken at almost exactly the same time Lord Dunn had been executed; a hell of a coincidence.

Francis coughed hard into his elbow, before glancing up at Bash with bleary eyes. "Hey," he whispered, throat scratchy. Bash wondered if that was because he'd been screaming or simply from disuse.

He was still far too pale, far too ill, far too thin, but he was alive, and Bash could hardly contain his joy over that. He didn't know what gods to thank; in the back of his mind, he thanked them all.

Catherine was lying on the bed beside Francis, curled up, asleep, looking strangely vulnerable as she only was before her son, one hand still clinging to his own, and Francis glanced at her fondly before looking back at Bash. Bash wondered what he'd had to do to get her to actually let her guard down enough to sleep, though, Bash supposed, at this point, he'd have asked her anything and she'd do it.

Except leave him alone for an instant.

For a moment, Bash wasn't even sure his brother could see him. He seemed to be staring at something off in the distance, over Bash's shoulder, before his eyes finally focused on him.

It felt strange, talking to his brother while Catherine was there, asleep or not, but Bash was far too relieved that he was awake, that he was alive, to care at the moment.

He wanted nothing more to pull Francis into his arms and hold him until Francis threatened to have him imprisoned for it - as he used to threaten when they were younger, and such displays of affection had made Francis so uncomfortable - but he managed to stay back.

"Hey," Bash breathed, eyes wide. "You're...awake."

Francis gave out a low sound that was almost like a chuckle. "Ye...Yes, I guess I am. It seems I keep finding myself in the infirmary lately. Did I miss anything important?"

And, despite himself, Bash snorted, thinking of the execution, of the renewed treaty to arms with Italy, of Lady Valencia. "Not really, no," he murmured, and then brushed the hair out of Francis' eyes, as he appeared too weak or too distracted to do so himself. "How are you feeling?"

Francis coughed again. "Like hell."

Bash was not amused. "You certainly look it."

Francis flinched at those words, glancing down at his hands with something like trepidation in his eyes, and swallowing rather hard.

"Hey, you're safe now," Bash said softly. "Lord Dunn has been executed. No one's going to hurt you again." I swear it.

Francis glanced up at him with some surprise. "...Lord Dunn?" he asked, sounding far too shocked that an Englishman would try to poison him.

Bash nodded. "He was executed just this morning. There was more than enough evidence against him to warrant it, and even Mary Tudor agreed with that sentiment."

Francis paled now, almost as much as he had been while he was still unconscious. Far too pale. "But...Did he confess?"

Bash shrugged. "He didn't have to, Francis. Father could see that there was more than enough evidence against him to press a verdict, not to mention that you fell moments after he finished speaking with you, according to...everybody watching."

"But it couldn't have been Dunn," Francis interrupted, staring at him with a wide-eyed look.

Bash sighed. "Francis, he was the only one there with the motive, and a very strong motive at that. You're engaged to Elizabeth's greatest enemy and rival, and Mary Tudor is dying. And besides, there was that issue in the archery range, where you nearly took his head off. He hated you, and I'm sure he would have been more than happy to poison your drink."

Francis shook his head, though he flinched at the word 'poison,' and Bash immediately regretted bringing it up. "No, it couldn't have been Dunn. That doesn't make any sense."

"Monarchs have been known to employ traitors without their knowledge before-"

"He warned me, Bash."

Bash glanced up then. "He...what?"

Francis sighed, running a hand through his blonde curls. "He warned me, at the party, that someone was going to try and kill me. That's why I never left with Natalia, like I was planning. I was afraid an assassin would catch us in the halls, or something. It wasn't...he was warning me because he didn't want England to be engaged in a war with France. Somehow, he knew there was going to be an attempt, and he was warning me about it. I didn't think to look for death in a random glass of wine."

Bash stared. "That's not..."

"Why would he do that, if he was planning on killing me himself?"

Bash shook his head. "I don't..." he fell silent then, staring in shock at the blanket on Francis' bed as if it supplied some answer for him.

"Bash?"

Bash's eyes widened, and he jumped to his feet, without an explanation, running from the room.

"Have you found out what that ingredient is yet?" Bash demanded, even as he burst through the door to Nostradamus' chambers.

Nostradamus glanced up from the herbs he was hard at work at, giving Bash an assessing glance. "I fear so," he said ominously, and Bash blinked at him. "Well?"

"But they make little sense to me. To be this mixture, that missing ingredient can only be one thing, and that ingredient can only be found in the hills of Italy, at a very high cost. I suppose an Englishman might have had that sort of money, but Elizabeth lives in the Tower. If she provided the poison..."

"She doesn't have the funds to make something so fine," Bash finished for him. Then, "Bloody hell."

"You don't think Lord Dunn was at fault?" Nostradamus probed.

Bash didn't answer, running from the room to look for his sword. No, he didn't think Lord Dunn was at fault, and it was too late to save the man now. But someone else was, and they were still very much at the palace.

For there was only one other foreign dignitary in France; Italy and his daughter, Valencia, even if they had no motive, no purpose.

He knocked on her door and gave her a strained smile as he walked into her chambers, pretending for all the world that all was fine.

He felt like he might sick up as she murmured such happy congratulations that his brother had finally woken up, and then asked if he would like tea.

He nodded, unable to bring himself to speak, and watched as she poured.

"Are you going to poison that, too?" he demanded, before he could stop himself, and she froze for a moment, before continuing to pour easily.

"How did you figure out it was me?" she asked calmly, not even seeming concerned.

Bash bit down on his tongue before responding. "Your bodyguard's rather protective of you."

She snorted. "That's hardly an answer."

"Not protective enough not to sell you out under threat of torture," Bash went on, and watched with something like satisfaction as her fist clenched involuntarily.

He was a fool, such a damned fool. And to think, he'd slept with her.

"Why did you do it?" Bash demanded hollowly. "France and Italy had just signed a treaty of friendship."

Lady Valencia snorted. "Peace. As if France has ever been known for that. My Lord had asked me to, and I could not refuse him."

Bash shook his head. "Your father asked this of you? But he seemed..."

She snorted. "My father is not my lord, Sebastian. I did this for the Pope himself, because he asked it of me in confidence. And why should I not, when such a deed committed for the Pope of the Christian religion will forever gain me a place in Heaven?"

"And your bodyguard?"

She shrugged. "Well, I couldn't very well smuggle the poison in myself, could I? My ladies go through all of my belongings at the behest of my father to ensure that I'm not keeping any letters from...unsuitable suitors. And, he was here to ensure the job was done, should I fail."

He blinked at her. Once, then again. No, he decided, that didn't make any sense whatsoever. "But...why? Italy and France are allies, the Pope admires King Henry for his fight against the Protestants."

"Why? Because your precious King Henry would marry the Dauphin off to that little Scottish bitch, Mary Stuart, and the Pope does not think it a favorable match, at this time. Not while Queen Mary of England, who has always sought to further Christianity's interests while your King Henry hides behind his Protestant friends, grows fat with a child, an heir to England. A marriage between Scotland and France will only strengthen Scotland's claim to the throne, and weaken Queen Mary's future child's. The Pope does not think that wise, not while the Protestant Elizabeth still lives to garner support as well. England will be split between the three of them, and there will be a terrible reckoning for that."

"So why not just kill Elizabeth?" Bash demanded, reaching for the knife at his waist.

Lady Valencia raised an amused brow. "And start a war with the greatest naval force in the world? Mary may loathe her Protestant sister, but she would never turn down the chance to attack Italy, especially now, with such turbulent relations with the Emperor, and killing the little Queen of Scots isn't possible either, as she is a queen in her own right and one cannot kill a monarch."

"The pope gave dispensation for that engagement, knowing full well that Queen Mary of England has yet to have an heir," Bash breathed out, still confused. "And Mary Stuart is a devout Catholic. This isn't about Mary's claim to the English throne. What is it about?"

She didn't answer, only smirked at him and took a step backward, further into the room. He wondered if she had a weapon hidden in here, and was about to pull it out on him.

Bash was faster. He ran forward, tipping over the table of porcelain china without a thought, grabbing her, pining her against the far wall. She let out a scream, perhaps thinking the guards would come and save her, but she had forgotten one important thing; the guards outside her door were French guards, and she was just an Italian bastard.

He'd never actually killed a woman before, never even fought one, but he thought perhaps he could kill her, if she pushed him, and she must have seen this in his eyes, for she stopped struggling and went limp, glaring up at him.

"Think, Sebastian," Valencia taunted. "The Pope doesn't care who's controlling England, so long as he can control them. Can you imagine, Sebastian, the power King Henry will hold once he controls England, Scotland, and France? Why, he would be even more powerful than the Pope, and with an army of that size, he could easily march on Italy again, after nearly devastating her the first time. This was a warning."

"My brother nearly died!"

"Yes, and he should have," Valencia mused, not even seeming to register the knife at her throat. "My sister certainly didn't put up quite so strong a fight."

Bash froze. "Your...your sister?"

Valencia laughed. "Be careful, if your brother does live, Sebastian. I've often found siblings to be the most treacherous of them all. After all, we leaders do need the practice, especially when we're so young and green."

He took an unconscious step back in horror, and then tightened his grip around the knife, pulling her close again.

"You wouldn't kill an agent of the Church," Lady Valencia said tartly, confidently, lifting her chin defiantly, exposing more of the skin of her neck almost in challenge. "And risk eternal damnation."

Bash snorted. "I'm a pagan, my lady, my soul is already damned to Hell by your laws," he muttered, and then struck.

The event was explained away easily enough without war coming between two countries, and only a precious few knew the truth. The official story was merely that Lady Valencia's bodyguard had fallen in love with her, had taken her virtue, and then, fearful of her father's wrath, disappeared into the French countryside, never to be found again. Lady Valencia, distraught, had killed herself with a bejeweled knife she'd received as a gift from Bash, whom the Italians had thought she might marry, if such a marriage was agreed upon.

It was a scandal, but it would avoid a war, and was evidently plausible enough that her paranoid father had no objections to it, even if he had learned the truth easily enough.

It was better to have a ruined, dead daughter than one who was a traitor and attempted murderess.

That was the first time Bash took a life for his brother. But it would not be the last.