Her mind refused to believe the sight before her, refused to process the reality of the situation. But there was an air of undeniability that hung around them, solid and unmoveable, a force that knocked the air from her lungs. Mary stood still, hands shaking, lips quivering, and tried to quell the overwhelming fear and nausea that rose within her.

Bash lay on his back, hands motionless at either of his sides, face a mess of matted blood, caked to the soft flesh. His breath was a raspy intake of air, rattling and unsure, a faint hope of his body's attempts to heal itself.

Mary took a slight step towards him but was stopped by a gentle hand on her arm, holding her in her place.

"You don't want to see him like this," Francis whispered into her ear, his hand moving from her wrist down to lace his fingers between her own.

She was grateful for his interruption, grateful for his hand, steady and reassuring without words.

"What happened?" She asked the room at large.

Nostradamus was engrossed in his work, deft and skilled hands weaving laces across the torn flesh, eyes rapt with attention.

"We don't know," King Henry answered. "He went riding alone and his horse brought him back in this state. He's been unconscious, no one can ask him."

Mary felt the shudder that rocked through Francis pass through the point where their skin met and she squeezed his hand a little tighter, hoping to share a piece of her strength with him. His eyes found her face, tender expression full of promise.

"Will he be alright?" Francis asked, turning away from Mary reluctantly.

"It's too soon to tell," Nostradamus murmured without looking up. "But it's best if you all leave. He needs rest."

Their reluctance to leave was written across the plains of their faces but they turned from the room nonetheless, then stopped in their tracks by a cough and splutter of words.

Bash had awoken, eye alight with pain and fire, breath hissed between clenched teeth in agony.

"No." It was a whisper filled with urgency. "No, you can't."

Francis felt cool air touch his hand where he released Mary's and crossed the room to his brother, bent low at his bedside.

"Hush, Bash. Everything is fine." Hollow words filled with empty promises.

"No," Bash repeated, struggling against strong arms to sit upright. "No, you can't let them."

It wasn't Francis he was talking to. It wasn't anyone in the room before him. Bash was somewhere else, his mind in a place separate from his body.

"Mary," he croaked, voice thick.

Francis turned to her stunned face, eyes alight with fear.

"You can't let them near Mary." Every word Bash spoke was a struggle against the potion Nostradamus had given him. Sheer determination had forced him awake to declare his message.

"Who?" Francis urged. "Who can't be near Mary?"

"They'll hurt her."

Francis gripped the sides of Bash's face, turning him until their eyes met, light on light. "Who, Bash? Who is going to hurt Mary?"

Bash coughed, a spray of blood splattering across Francis' pale face, and closed his eyes, breath ragged.

"Out!" Nostradamus cried. "Your being here is not helping him."

Francis stood, body shaking. Defiance prickled his tongue. He wanted to argue with Nostradamus, wanted to shake Bash awake until the information he was so desperate to reveal released itself from the safety of his mouth. But it was abundantly clear that Bash was in no state to be of any help.

Eyes never leaving Bash's now still form, Francis backed out of the room, past his parents, past Mary, until he found the safety of the hall, trying to subdue the tremors that rocked his body. He sensed her before he saw her, the scent of her skin carried by the soft wind that blew through the corridor. She didn't speak, just crossed the space separating them and placed her hands on either side of his neck, the thrum of his heart steady under each of her palms.

He opened his eyes to meet her face, wanting to be the one to reassure her. But fear for his brother, fear for Mary, held his mouth firmly shut. Francis wanted to lean down and press his lips against hers, but a wetness on his face stopped him. He raised a hand and dragged it across his flesh, pulled it away and was repulsed by the crimson of his brother's blood which stained it. He tried desperately to wipe it away, hands shaking.

"Stop, stop."

Her voice, a whisper of urgency, of longing, of heartache. Francis placed one of his hands on the curve of her cheek, hoping to find a distraction in her face, and watched as she pulled a handkerchief from her breast.

She raised it gently to his face, the silk soft against his flesh, and carefully wiped away Bash's blood, now smudged in streaks across his cheek. The cloth smelled of her. Francis closed his eyes and tried to lose himself in the moment, tried not to remember that it was his brother's blood she was cleaning from him. One of her hands steadied his waist, a warmth radiating from her palm onto his skin, cold with worry.

"Mary." His voice was a whisper of it's former self, filled with anguish and fear.

Words were empty. Mary wanted to reassure him with something with more solidity. She pressed her lips against his, softly so she could savour every curve of them. Francis held her tight against him, almost finding comfort in the arc of her back, the lines of her waist, the warmth of her body. Almost.

He pulled away, eyes burning with an intensity she could not follow.

"I can't lose you." Every ounce of anxiety and despair flowed out his mouth with his words.

"Francis." A breath of exasperation. "You're not going to lose me. I'm right here."

She pressed her palm to the curve of his cheekbone, desperate to convey her presence with her skin.

"Bash was trying to warn us. I know he was."

"We will not know until Bash wakes up and tells us that for himself. We cannot guess at such things." Fear gripped her. It sounded as if Francis was about to make an excuse.

He shook his head, pulling away from her. She felt the loss as a physical pain.

"I can't. I won't."

"Won't what?" she cried, reaching towards him but he stepped away from her hand. Rejection burned through her veins. "Francis don't push me away. Not now."

"I need to find out who is behind this."

She could see the weight of his determination settling behind his eyes.

"And we will," she spoke, taking another step towards him and sighing with relief when he didn't pull away. "Together."

"No, Mary. It's too dangerous. Until we find out who is trying to kill you, and now is trying to kill my brother, there is no together."

She physically recoiled from his words. "What are you saying?"

He hung his head in grief. "I will protect you with my life. And I will always love you. But right now, I can't be with you. I need a clear head so I can punish those responsible."

He said it so factually, Mary almost believed that he meant it. Instead of arguing with words she crossed the gap between them and pressed her lips to his. His hand cradled the back of her neck, deepening the kiss until he pulled away. Eyes closed, Mary sighed.

His lips found the tender skin between her eyes and he pressed a kiss there, flesh lingering against flesh, savouring her.

With every ounce of strength Francis had left, he said the words that broke his heart. "Goodbye, Mary." Then turned on his heel and left her.