In The Embers

Part 1

We live and we die

Like fireworks

Our legacies hide

In the embers

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Mary shuts the door of their chamber loudly and lets out a muffled sob, she slides down the cold door ever so slowly, the frigid wood hard against her back. She pulled her knees to her chest, like it's the only thing that she can hold on to. Her hands are still trembling and her dress is still stained with blood—Francis' blood—she feels the sudden urge to remove it and keep it away from her sight as an attempt to deny everything that has happened, maybe by then it won't hurt, maybe by then her heart won't feel as though it is being repeatedly crushed inside her chest.

Later that evening, she refused to let the servants inside the chambers, insisting that she can change to her night gown herself. In truth, she doesn't really want them to see her in that state, she doesn't want them to look at her with pity. She knows she needs to be strong now more than ever, if not for herself then for the people Francis has left behind—Francis—even the mere thought of him makes Mary feel like air is being pulled out of her lungs, the pain suffocating her. Just hours ago, Francis was the one untying the corset of the very same dress she's wearing, and now that dress is nothing but a painful reminder of what she has lost; her home, her most precious possession, her husband that so dearly loved her, and whom she also loved—loves—in return.

After changing into her night gown, she crawled to their bed that now seemed awfully big for just one person, she reached for Francis' pillow and clutched it tightly to her chest, inhaling his scent that is barely there, never mind if her tears are still unceasingly falling from her tired eyes, never mind if they are wetting everything in their path, she doesn't have the strength to wipe them, doesn't have the strength to pretend that she is alright, because she's not, and she probably never will be . And though exhaustion alone should have driven her to sleep, her mind insists on keeping her up, the memory of the happenings earlier haunts her even when she shuts her eyes and there's nothing but silence save from the crackling of fire and her stifled sobs.

And though she doesn't want to, she recalls the smile of relief she and Francis threw at each when they thought the fight in the woods was over—when they thought they're already safe—but then she also recalls the way Francis fell on his knees and unto the ground after saving her. And the way he grasps her wrist so tightly like his life depended on it, the way he struggles to say every word amidst the look of pain in his eyes, she barely even registered the words that he said, she was too distracted to think of a way to save him, there must be a way she silently prays, and probably she was also thinking—hoping—that this is all just a bad dream, like the nightmares she used to have when Francis lied sickly beside her, his breathing labored and slow. But she can't fool herself, right in front of her is Francis dying in her arms, and there's nothing she can do about it, and so with Francis' pleading voice she found herself promising blindly the things that even she herself is unsure of. She promised that she'll stay, that she'll help Catherine become regent, that she'll take care of his son, and that she'll do for Francis' sake... but to wed another—to love another—that's something that she can't—won't—do. She said that she'll never love anyone the way she loves Francis, those were her last words that she spoke to him and in truth, those are the ones that matter most.