Withered Rose

"Mary, please, you must tell them! It could save you both!"

"And who would believe me? They would write me out a desperate liar, something I am not."

"Mary, please! You must do something! Come up with something, you cannot let this happen!" Greer sobbed to her Queen. The raven haired beauty smiled softly at her, running a hand through her blonde hair, landing on her cheek.

"There's nobody to save me now, Greer." she smiled softly. "I'm going to die today."

"Your Majesty." a voice said. Mary pulled away from her crying ladies in waiting, sparing a second to wipe away their tears, before looking over at the man in black, standing behind the door frame.

"What is it?" she asked, her voice soft and gentle, almost melodic in nature.

"It's time." he said.

"Very well." Mary accepted, taking a step away from Kenna and Greer, although they each clasped one of her hands. "Shall we depart?" the Queen of Scotland and France asked, looking over to the man -who all of a sudden seemed like a boy- in the shadows. 

The Queen seemed almost enthusiastic, something that startled the young man more than if she screamed in hysteria. The Queen of Scotland and France seemed almost enthusiastic to walk to her execution.

"Madame, are you well?" he asked.

"Of course, quite well." Mary accentuated. "Shall we depart?" she repeated.

"Yes, m'lady. This way," he gestured with an arm. The tall, resplendent Queen of Scotland walked past him, ladies in waiting in towe. Head held high, shoulders back, regal. As regal as she'd always been.

The courtyard was full of spectators. Barely any nobility, as well as loyalty. Simply loyal subjects in their dark greys and blacks, standing silently in a large contingent. Almost three hundred people came to witness the death of a true Queen, all her own subjects, all aware of the miscarriage of justice that was occurring before their very eyes. In the middle, restrained by guards, was the heir appointed of Scotland, James Stewart, the Earl of Moray. His eyes were wide, and he jerked harshly with every passing half-minute. He couldn't let this happen, but he must.

To the side stood the King of France and Scotland, the catalyst to his Queen's execution. Beside him, the short, scorned harlot known as Lola Flemming. In her arms, a wailing baby. Of course, they were also catalysts in their own right. The now scorned, disowned and land-stripped former Lady stood in silent tears, suspiciously close to the King of France and Scotland.

This was their doing. And everybody knew it.

"Her Majesty, Mary of the house of Stuart, first of her name, Queen Regnant of Scotland and it's isles, Queen Consort of France!" the herald cried, his words shaky as the gate opened. In walked the Queen of Scotland and France, Ladies in Waiting in towe.

Fearlessly, she walked confidently up the steps to her execution scaffold and block, her head held high. In unison, the people in the courtyard bowed for her as she travelled over towards the execution block.

What a marvel the young, beautiful Scot was. Donned in a red ball gown covered in gold embroidery, gems and pearls, a sheer crimson housecoat covered in gold embellishments and a matching veil, she was un-comparably beautiful as she took her final steps. Raven hair fell in soft waves down her back, a complicated braid at the back. She was dressed to the nines, crimson satin court heels clicking against the wood. A large golden crown was on her head, sparkling with gems, firmly attached to her hair with many small clips. Earrings brushed against her shoulders, so long and substantial, glittering in the summertime sun. A necklace and rings to match, there was no doubt that she would be going out like a Queen.