Tu Es Ma Lumière

6 - Grief

The King of France looked up at the harsh gasp that left his wife's lips. He knelt upon the soft carpeting, taking a few moments away from his busy schedule of being the King of two countries to spend with his one year old son and heir, and his wife, whom had been confined to their chambers by his mother after a horrid bout of sickness brought about by the conception of their next child that grew in his or her mother's womb, almost at five months old.

"What is it?" the young, handsome Valois blooded King asked, the bright golden spun of his locks glistening in the sunlight as he stood to his full, impressive height. Francis frowned as he saw the letter his wife had been holding uselessly flutter to the ground. She was turned from her family, hadn't turned back. She seemed to be in a state of shock.

"Darling?" he tried again, walking a few steps towards her. The King noticed how cold his wife's skin was as he touched the porcelain carapace that was left visible underneath the midnight blue off-the-shoulder neckline. She didn't follow his gentle caress to face him. Mary didn't really do anything.

But Francis could hear the lament that left her lips.

Alarm bells sounded in his head. His wife never cried. Not whilst the carried their children, not when she birthed their child, not when she injured herself as a child, not when she had horrid news about her homeland. But here she was, letting out cries at a simple letter.

Francis turned her around. Oh, how his heart ached at the sight of the crestfallen expression she wore on her beautiful features, the sight of tears decorating the contour of her cheeks, the sudden paleness of her soft skin and the childlike, lost look in her eye.

"My love," he stated quietly, taking her hands. "what is it? What distresses you so?" he asked her. Mary didn't respond, she just fell into his arms, meek little whimpers falling from her lips as she cried in pain. Her arms bound around his waist, limp in comparison to the tight embrace in which he held her.

Francis let her cry for a few moments, stroked the soft strands of her raven locks, before pulling her back further enough to look her in the eye. "What is it?" he asked. Mary shook her head, launching herself back into his arms as one hand pointed to the letter written to her by her brother, the earl of Moray.

Holding her in one hand, he knelt to the ground and picked up the piece of cream parchment.

'My darling sister and Queen,

It is my duty to inform you that due to your mother, the dowager Queen and regent's recent sickness has taken a turn for the worst during the harsh winter. But two nights ago, her highness scummed to her disease of the lungs and now resides with our father, his Majesty, with the almighty lord.

I send my deepest condolences at this difficult time, however, I must inform you that until you return to our homeland with the King and the duke of Rothsay, it is your Majesty's prime concern to name a regent to rule in your highness' stead until your Majesty may do so yourself.

All my love, dearest sister,

James, earl of Moray.'

"Oh, my love." Francis cooed, holding her again. Mary whimpered into Francis' chest, tightening her grip onto his doublet. Her cries grew in volume, catching the attention of their son, whom looked up from his coloured blocks to his mother. Always attuned to his mother's distress, the Dauphin of France frowned deeply, throwing away the red block in his little hand and started to crawl over towards where his mother and father stood.

Feeling small hands upon their ankles, Francis and Mary broke their embrace to see their little child pouting up at them, extending his little hands out towards them.

Mary let out a half sob, reaching down to collect her baby from the ground. He latched onto her, taking her cheeks in his tiny hands and pressing a kiss to his mothers lips, as it trying to comfort her. Francis smiled down at the sweet baby, running his hands through his long, black curls.

James let out a squeal of approval as his mother smiled down at him, cooing up at his father in pride. Mary's heart melted at the sight of this precious little angel that had been sent to them last winter.

Reaching up, James wiped his mother's tears and gave her a big smile, showing off his two front teeth that had come through a few weeks ago. Mary felt her heart flutter at the sight of this sweet baby who had been gifted to her, so sweet and perfect, who had calmed the fate of two countries -potentially a third- and who had brought the marriage between he King of France and the Queen of Scotland so close and intimate in a way they never expected to be.

The tears of grief for her dead mother stopped as she looked down at her child with her husbands' eyes. Marie de Guise had always been a cold mother whom never showed her only living royal child any amount of affection. She always had the opportunity to meet the heir she had always awaited upon, but never did. She had the opportunity to attend the birth, yet never did. Hell, Marie de Guise never even attended her daughters' wedding day.

So, with her child in her arms and a second within her womb, her husbands' warm embrace around all of them, Mary thought that live without her mother walking amongst the living would be just the same as when she did. Besides, she had a husband and a family to get her through it, after all.