A beating heart

Chapter 1

notes: this is my first fanfic ever so I apologize in advance if it's a bit wobbly. Please review and tell me what you think of it as I intent to upload further chapters.

disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters or storylines form the CW Show Reign, I merely play with them a bit.

1.

The carriage came to a still abruptly, ripping Mary from her dreams. Dreams of him, dreams of them together, him holding her close, their fingers intertwined, dreams of happier memories. But those were just dreams, pretty one, but dreams nonetheless. Her heart ached longing for those sweet moments of pure joy they spent together.

She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts keeping a cool head. Her initial plan had failed and now she had to figure out a way to make things right again, to save him. She had never planed on returning ever again, to see him again, to see the hurt in his eyes and to know that she was the cause.

And then there was Bash to consider. The king would be furious with them both though he wouldn't dare touch Mary, she was an independent queen herself. But Bash was a French subject, the kings bastard son and only allowed at court by his fathers good graces, which would surely be gone now. She promised to keep him save, to protect him from his father, from Cathrin and - as much as it pained her to entertain the idea - from him, the one who's life she sought to protect.

One of the guards helped her from the carriage. The usual trumpets announcing a royal arrival that normally accompanied her were silent. No doubt in order to keep the illusion that she had never left in the first place. The king would hate to admit that the Scottish queen, a mere girl, his claim to the English throne, had slipped through his fingers, escaping on horseback.

She was ushered into a side entrance, surely to keep the gossip at bay, and was told that the king was expecting her in the throne room. She hadn't seen Bash since the guards had taken him into their custody at the tavern they were hiding at. He must have already been brought to the dungeons, chained to wall. She prayed they hadn't tortured him yet, maybe she could convince the king and spare him that fate. She hated the thought of Bash being tortured for helping her, for going along with her plan, though reckless it might have been.

She hurried along the corridors leading to the throne room, garnering looks of bewilderment and surprise from nobles and servants alike. Just now remembering how she must look, not at all decent or presentable in the least. Her hair disheveled, kept in a long and messy braid with pieces of her dark chocolate locks pocking out. Her dress wrinkled and muddy from riding days on end. Also she hadn't taken a bath in days and her usual lotions and oils that kept her body smooth and soft were a luxury that her escape hadn't offered. She tried her best to rearrange her messy hair, tucking some of the loose strands back into the braid and smoothing over the front of her dress in an hopeless effort to look more like the strong independent queen she longed to be, not the scared and trapped girl she felt.

Getting closer to the throne room, she could feel her heartbeat rise and her breath growing shorter and more hitched. Her feet were aching from all the walking and riding and she couldn't bring her mind to focus on the task ahead. She must keep a clear head, calm the kings anger, make him understand. She was feeling sick, the king scared her and after all, she was just a young girl, a queen only by name. She had never had to rule or make any decisions regarding her life as a queen before this day. That was the job of her advisers, her mother, ruling in Scotland in her stead. She was the king's equal merely on paper, and she hadn't the faintest idea of how to make her pleas before him heard, let alone garner his and the courtiers' respect.

Before turning the last corner, she halted in an empty hallway to collect her thoughts. Her mind was racing and her stomach seamed to be tied up in an impossibly tight knot, she was thankful for not spewing out the contents of her stomach right then and there.

It was then that she heard them, footsteps coming her way, they must belong a man's boots by the sound of them. She knew, even before she could turn to face the approacher, even before she felt his breath on the bare skin of her neck, before her nose could detect the smell that was so distinctly his, she knew.

„Mary", his voice was hoarse, lined with the hurt she had caused him. The sound clawed at her heart.

She faced him, keeping her eyes glued to the embroiled tiles on the floor. She couldn't dare meet his gaze, look into those eyes, it would hurt to much. He was her weak spot and now was not the time to be weak, she must stay strong, it was the only way to get through this. So she put on a mask of indifference, praying for him not to hear the hurt and grief in her voice as she spoke.

„Francis" her voice sounded surprisingly calm.

„You came back ..." she could simultaneously hear the hope and incredulousness in his words. He sounded desperate and broken.

„Yes" she answered, fiddling with her finger in her lap to keep them from shaking. „on Bash's behalf." she added quickly, her heart racing in her chest, betraying her cool exterior.

„Why are you doing this Mary? We were happy and you left without any explanation, running off with my brother? You swore you'd wait for me!", he spat the words out and anger was joining the hurt in his voice. With her eyes intently directs towards the floor she could still make out the change in his posture. When before his shoulder were slumped and his stance crooked resembling the one of a broken man, he was now straightening himself out, letting the dauphin take the place of the hurt boy. And she could feel his glare, mercilessly tucking at hear cold and wavering facade of indifference.

She couldn't bare it anymore, she couldn't tell him why she really left. Cathrin was right, he would try to talk her out of it, and he would be successful. She couldn't allow it. She had to get away from him, he would see right through any lies she might present him with. He knew her too well.

So she turned, meaning to flee along the corridor into the throne room. She felt his hand grabbing her by her right arm, keeping her in place. His touch, normally so familiar to her body, felt different. His grasp was hard, unwavering, and even though she had her long sleeve dress as a protective layer between them, she couldn't help but shiver at his touch. He forced her to turn and her body complied following his unspoken command. His other arm reached for her chin, barely touching her skin for she flinched away, forcing her gaze to meet his. Her whole body froze in place and she was loosing herself in those all too familiar eyes. Two orbs the colour of ice glaring at her brown ones mercilessly and it was too much. She simply couldn't bare it any longer. She knew she had hurt him and she knew she would have to hurt him even more, if his life was to be saved. Her facade finally crumbled her mask falling from her face. A single tear escaped onto her cheek, which she hastily sought to wipe away with her free hand that was now trembling she realized.

He tightened his grip on her arm, leaning his torso into her's, „Mary, talk to me, please!" There was pleading in his words and she could see the ice in his eyes melt and turn into two pools of blue water. He might have wanted to seem cold and abrasive, she realized, but he too couldn't keep up his facade.

„I can't Francis, I can't. ... I ..." her voice was shaking and she wasn't exactly sure what she wanted to say, what she could say, could tell him so he would just let her be. His presence was overwhelming and as much as she willed herself to stay strong and cold towards him, her own body betrayed her. Her skin was craving his touch that made her come alive in his hands, her ears longed for the steady rhythm of his heart beating against hers, her mouth longing to taste his.

This was all to save his life, she forced herself to remember. Pictures of Francis cold to her touch, dead in her arms swam before her eyes, taking over her mind. She couldn't get lost in the memories of what they used to have or the dreams of a sweeter future together that would most certainly result in his death. She needed to stay strong for the both of them, she would not let herself be the cause of his death, never.

She ripped her arm from his grasp, using the moment of surprise to her advantage, hurrying away form him, nearly tripping over her own dress in the process. She could hear him calling out her name behind her, begging for her to come back. But he thankfully seemed to have stayed in place and was not following her, for his longer legs could have surely could up to her.

A sense of relieve washed though her body when she finally reached the throne room, gladly facing Henry's anger if it meant escaping Francis' pleading eyes.