"Don't you understand Francis? My time with you is limited, and the fate of my kingdom lies on my shoulders."
in which a queen who is dying loves a king who has yet to live.
plot by @gallerias
[ painting : ophelia by john everett millais (1851-1852)...
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Isabel held the handkerchief to her lips with an unmissable intensity. She coughed heartily, her lungs aching and her knuckles gripping the white cotton square. It didn't take a fool to notice the crimson blood splattering and soaking the fine material.
"Your Majesty, are you alright?" A servant squeaked, her presence inside the gaping corridor easily skipped. Isabel turned to the young woman in fright, and smiled pleasantly at her once she had wiped at her lips.
"Would you check my luggage, make sure my bow and quiver have been packed? I would hate to leave without them." The order held no obvious tones of dismissal or exaggeration, something the servant was quick to silently judge.
Isabel strode down the castle corridor once the servant had disappeared, the sound of her heels clicking sharply bouncing on every brick layered into the place she called home. She was headed towards her meeting room, where she hoped to see her council. Sure enough, when the Queen marched through the doors and into the elaborate space, eight men stood huddled around the table. A ninth stood to the side, his hands clasped behind his back and his head bowed in shame.
"Oskar!" Isabel beamed, ignoring the judgemental stares from her council and hurrying towards her older brother. The man chuckled deeply, returning the embrace she quickly threw upon him. "What are you doing here? Not that it's anything but a joy to see you after so long."
"I am here on business, mały aniołek. Much to the displeasure of your council." Oskar scoffed, eyeing the men with a sense of unbridled fury. Isabel, having felt her heart soar at hearing her eldest brother call her 'little angel' once more, rested a reassuring hand on his arm.
"My lords, Oskar is of as much prestige as myself. I know you hold grudges, but we have more important matters on our hands than ancient blood."
Isabel strode over to the meeting table, where the council members exchanged the uncomfortable looks the woman was all too familiar with.
"Beg your pardon, my Queen, but the blood is still fresh," one of her ministers spat. "Your brother abdicated only three years ago, if you do recall."
"Yes, I recall, Bradeni," Isabel quipped, folding back the ruffled attachments at the end of her sleeve so that her hands could search the documents on the table easier. "But our tour of France shan't be decreasing in importance any time soon."
"It is not a tour, m'lady," the minister coughed, glancing at his fellow colleagues. "You are to meet the Dauphin of France, Francis Valois."
"Yes, and we will then tour the country in an effort to unite ourselves peacefully with the French. We've discussed this for months." Isabel pressed, reciting the details as proof she had indeed been listening to the countless meetings.
