Tampered Beauty

Marine

(Before I start this chapter, I'd just like to say thank you all so so so much for all the love and positive comments and DM's after my last couple posts. It truly means the world to have so much love and support during this super trying time. I'm gonna try and update as much as possible for the next two days, since I won't be able to update at all from the 7th-14th of October, because of a super dramatic family circumstance and working my socks off in work. So I hope you can all bare with me! Also, I'm planning a couple Modern Frary short stories/one shots in the near future, so look out for them!)

"Mother," Francis noted as he came into the nursery for his youngest son. Sitting in an overstuffed rocker, holding the baby, was Catherine de Medici in the post-dinner simplicity that she usually wore. 

A red satin slip and a thick, fur lined robe combined with crimson velvet slippers and undone hair, a bare face and a lack of usually overdone jewellery to prove her status in France, and to compensate for the lack of royal blood because of her Italian nobility bloodline. Francis gripped the wood of the door, warm from the burning harth of the nursery, looking over this scene that he hadn't ever seen before. His mother looked really quite young without the makeup and hair, jewellery and finery. 

Because of the obvious similarities between he and the baby, it could be thought that Francis had gone back in time to see his mother holding himself when he was just born, when Henry had been ecstatic over the birth of his first legitimate child -a son, at that, King Francois I had noted multiple times- so much so that he had temporarily cut off Diane de Portiers and ignored the three year old Sebastian for a few weeks.

"What are you doing here?" The King of France asked, looking somewhat simpler himself, without the heavy crown he had been sporting for the past nine days they had been in the French Court, no fine robes or exquisite materials. A simple combination of black leather boots, trousers and doublet that hadn't been properly seen since his Dauphin days moved stealthily with it's master, stopping it's slight rustles as he ceased his purposeful steps.  

"I just wanted to see this sweet boy, my love." Catherine answered. "I haven't properly greeted him." she finished. It was true. The first time Catherine had set eyes on young Lucien was when she was treating his mother for her poison-laced candle assassination attempt. But even that wasn't a loving meeting between grandson and grandmother, like she'd had with young James all those years ago, which really wasn't long at all. Not even four years, to be precise. It had been a quick greeting with a weary hold -Mary still didn't trust Catherine, less of all when the known poisoner was giving her tonics to drink, yet knew she had to repay the debt somehow- before the child was returned to his mother for a feed after the poison had been flushed from them both. With the travelling from England to France on separate ships, the Medici matriarch still hadn't set eyes on the baby. And with the nine days of being in France, all of the adults' time had been taken up by wrestling power from Narciesse and general politics, with the horrid reality of the impending war between the Catholic Empress and the Spanish Catholic King.

"Very well." Francis came into the room, closing the door quietly, coming over to his mother and his son. The baby was awake, staring up at Catherine with apt wonder, content and quiet as always, wrapped up in blankets. "Is he alright?"

"Yes, he's very well." the Queen Mother of France replied. "After feeding not twenty minutes ago, the nannies have changed his clothes and put him to bed. I couldn't resist holding him."

"So long as he is not uncomfortable." Francis moved from the back of the rocking chair and towards another seat not too far from the duo.

"He's alright." Catherine replied quietly. "He looks just like James when he was born." she said, after several minutes of comfortable, yet still uncomfortable, silence, the only sound being their breathing and the crackles of the harth.