In the End is Our Beginning

I hear the bells from across the grass hills, the nearby village, and the birds and the wind. The castle smells of freshly baked bread and the dampness of the stone. The thick blankets weigh me down in the grand, four poster bed, fit for a queen and the empty space beside her. But I feel nothing.
The servants are silent as they dress me, each taking the utmost precaution to not touch me unnecessarily or mess up in any way. I am perfection. As if me looking like a queen will bring me back to being a queen, will make me ready for today. They know it won't, but they do it anyway, brushing my hair even though it no longer shines, smoothing the heavily embroidered gown to kill any wrinkles. Perfection.
I hear several pairs of footsteps approaching the wooden door. I focus all my energy on the sound, heavy against the stone floor. The sound used to frighten me, when I was defenseless against those men, each taking their stab at the queen, one more than the others. But if there is one thing I learned from royalty, a queen has no use for fear or regret or guilt or disgust. Or love. Not anymore. The door swings open just as it did that night and I look up and see the same men, they all look the same. But I rise all the same. A queen must always rise.
I focus on the grip of their arms on mine, leading me down the hallways of a castle I don't know. One grips slightly less than the others. Pity. He pities me. My face hardens but I keep walking, the unending stone hall closing in around me but I keep it up, uncollapsing. An easy task for something, or someone, harder than stone.
We finally reach the end of the hall and exit the damp castle into a clearing. Light overtakes my eyes and slowly, one by one, each person, each servant and noble, comes into my view. There are hundreds. All staring at me in pity. All I know is to keep walking, one foot at a time, following the guards' grip. We step onto a platform at the front of the crowd. A block. A blade. An exquisite gown.
The guards force me down to neal before the block. A queen never neals before subjects. I look out among the crowd, my heart weighing me down closer to the block. My people, my subjects, all staring at me waiting to watch me leave the world. Who gave them the right, to see my final breaths when I cannot.
"Mary Stuart, you have been convicted of treason for conspiring to assassinate Queen Elizabeth I of England. The price of your actions is your life." As if I don't know. As if I didn't see this day every night for the past twenty years, fleeing from castle to castle, hiding in shadow after shadow. Growing closer to my grave every moment. I didn't need to hear it again.
The executioner picked up the blade, taking extra time to show it off to the crowd. A show and I'm the entertainment, the main event. It gleams in the light over my gown, black as the night.
I take my final look out into the crowd. To think, my last sight will be of pity. Of the people I once ruled, but now they rule me. My eyes scan them over once more, committing each face to memory. Until I see him.
The blonde curls I ran my fingers through, feeling every last golden circle. The neck and jaw I showered with kisses every night, finding that one spot of warmth that would become the home I could never return to. The deep blue eyes staring into mine now the same way they did the first night. The feathers from our childhood pillows floating down surrounding us in childlike love, beginning what was the end.
Francis.
My mind races faster than it has in twenty-seven years, how was he here. Standing in the crowd, about to watch my death. Memories flood. The feathers. The lakeside. The carriage. His cloak. Stolen kisses. A life that lasted a thousand years but ended too soon. A single tear runs down my cheek and I feel. I can feel.
"Francis." I whisper. No one hears me. And all of a sudden, the blade comes down. But I rise. A queen always rises.
I stand too fast. My mind becomes blurry with motion and emotion, tears streaking my smile. Francis.
His arms open as I almost trip over the block, fighting my way toward him as I have for the past twenty-seven years. My one true husband. My one true love.
And I can feel his arms again catching me, writhing in ecstasy from feeling his touch again. And I can hear his laugh and see his smile, the same bright smile during our wedding dance. And I can feel his lips crash against mine bringing me back to life.
The people, the peasants and the nobles, disappear into thin air. I am spinning in a whirlpool of colors I have never seen before. The castle blurs, the blade blurs, and all I can see is him. Francis.
"Mary," He says incredulously. I can't speak, only smile and laugh. He came back to me. He came back.
He takes me by the hand and begins to pull me out of the crowd, away from the castle and the crown, away from it all. But I pull him back and let him crash into me, pulling his lips down to mine. "I love you," I say, "I never thought I'd get to say that to you again."
And he only smiles and kisses me back. "I love you too, Mary Stuart, forever."
We run, hand in hand, husband and wife, boy and girl, out of the gates forever. Through the grass I can no longer feel on my feet. Under the sun rays, warmth I can't feel on my skin. All I can feel is his hand, tight against mine, never letting go. And all I can see are his curls bouncing in the breeze as we run down to the water. The boat he made me so many years before sits on the shore, smiling in the wait. The boat we sailed on, sharing our last moments of happiness. The boat I sailed on so many days after he was gone, attempting to find the strength to carry on. I never did, until now.
He lets go of my hand to push the boat into the water and I immediately feel lost. I am slipping away like the tide on the shore. But his arms find me and lift me into the boat. I lean down to kiss his permanent smile. And I feel it. Peace.
He sits next to me, our bodies pressing up against each other, the way they were made to be. Tighten the sail. Pull the rope. Hold on. I never forgot and he sees this and kisses my cheek. "You did it," he whispers.
"No, you did."