Rebirth

Chapter 2

The days blurred into one. Months passed since Francis' death, almost three, she had been told. But, to the former Queen of France, the time had been nothing but one, long, endless day. One dark, murky, endless day. The routine had been simple, wake after a night of broken sleep, reach out to touch him as if it had all been a dream, cry at the lack of him, work herself up into a state that lead to vomiting, dress, force down food to appease Greer and Kenna, vomit again, attend mass, eat lunch, vomit again, walk around the dull gardens, attend mass, cry, dress for dinner whilst reading letters, force down more food, vomit and cry some more, before falling into another dreamless rest. And then, the day carried on. And on and on and on and on again. One endless, bitter cycle.

As if responding to it's masters' death, France had been dark and murky ever since. Overcast and cold, infertile and bitter. Her people carried on, King's were dispensable and came ten a penny, after all, as if nothing had ever happened. But, the mourning Queen with nothing left stayed in her horrid cycle. It was never ending, never ending and cold, words becoming a foreign language to her. It was just silent, grief never being more of a cruel mistress.

One day, just as she was notified of Charles' impending coronation and his hopefulness that she attend -the nine year old boy and his younger siblings had always adored her so- the Queen of Scotland knelt before a trunk, slipping the lock out of place and opening it. The air inside was stale and murky, but the clothes glistened with a regal heir that could not be denied.

And then the smell rose from the chest.

His sent rose from his clothes. Pine and cinnamon, lime and grass, mint and that perfume he always dabbed on his neck, that bright, warm amber, that rich and earthy sent becoming so purely him, the sent she breathed in as they lay in bed as man and wife, she sent the inhaled shakily after the pure ecstasy only he could give her. It brought shudders from her spine, bumps to her arms and legs.  

And of course, tears to her cheeks.

Unable to bare the pain of his loss any more, she rose to her feet, closing the chest. She gasped for air, the room suddenly smaller. Her throat closed and she gripped it in vain, trying so earnestly to attain more oxygen, but it was fruitless. 

Her knees buckled and her limp, pale and so little body collapsed to the floor. In an attempt to stop herself, one hand flung out to the table nearest her, only to bring down her blood red diary book with her. It lurched open, showing the world her final entry, written in her mother tongue, signed three days prior. 

Her eyes opened. She watched the words, all onyx and Galican and calligraphic. It seemed like they belonged to a stranger, but her thoughts filled the page. The final four sentences caught her eye, the blurry, water filled onyx orbs watching the words dance before her, words she hadn't spoken to anybody else.

Tha mi a 'smaoineachadh gur dòcha gum bi an leanabh seo a' tadhal air a bhràthair agus air athair. Agus mar an ceudna cha toir mi air falbh a chaillteanas, cha'n ann a chum an comhfhurtachd. Cha bhith mi a-riamh ag innse fìor fhoisneachd a-rithist, tha e coltach. Tha e air falbh, agus tha mi gun fheum.

I think, perhaps, this child will soon join his brother and his father. And I shall bare his loss alone, not a hand to comfort me. I am never to know true happiness again, it seems. He is gone, and I am undone.