Massacre

2

Francis paced the length of the corner of his chambers that his mother had forced him inside whilst Nostradamus worked. He gripped his long, blonde curls in tight fists as if that would bring health to his Queen or lessen the guilt in his heart. He turned to the bed in which his wife lay and his physician worked tirelessly. His mother knelt at the side of the bed, holding his wife's hand, a tenderness unusual from the Queen Mother. She had always hated Mary, even when she was a child, even more so when she wed her son.

He felt helpless as he watched his wife. The normal, gorgeous, porcelain skin she bore was now replaced by a chalky white that spoke of ill health. It was topped by a thick layer of sweat that stuck her hair to her face and her gown to her skin. Shining, silky, raven locks were replaced by a murky brown, matted and ill. She inhaled slowly, but it was an inhale all the same.

Nostradamus poured tonic after tonic after tonic down his wife's throat, the small vials of green, blue, clear and red creating a worrying collection on one of the bedside tables. He bit his lip when he saw the glint of a blade, cringed when he saw scarlet waves quickly appear onto the chalky skin. The colour of the skin made the blood seem brighter. He watched it intently as Nostradamus mopped it away and bandaged the hand he kept cutting into. It'd been three days, and still, nothing.

He collected his things and bowed out. Catherine waved her son over. He followed obediently.

"Francis, come." she ordered.

Within a flash, the King was at the Queen's side. He kissed her palm and stroked the matted strands of hair from her pretty face that seemed so much thinner than just a trifecta of days ago. He could see her cheekbones prominently through her skin. Her entire body seemed thinner, he noted.

"What's wrong with her?" he whispered onto the skin of his wife's hand. Tears burned his eyes as he felt the heat of her skin.

"It's not the plague. She would've died by now if it was." Catherine bluntly stated. Francis sucked in a breath.

"What's wrong with her?" he asked again.

"He doesn't know." she looked so tenderly at Mary that it startled him. She had only shown that tenderness to the children of her blood. Not Mary, nor Phillip. Damn sure not Sebastian. Yet, here she was, staring down at Mary as if she was her own daughter. "He's running tests, but can't find what is wrong." she stated.

He sat in silence, holding his wife's hand, stroking her hair back. She didn't respond for several minutes, before his heart stopped when Mary let out a moan and a deep inhale, and turned into his touch.

"Mary?!" he held her hand tighter. "Darling, can you hear me?"

"She's been doing that for hours. Nostradamus is confident she's not awake when it happens." Catherine softly stated. Francis sighed.

"I just want to know what is wrong with her." he said, so earnestly, using that same tone he had done when he was a child and she was taken away from him. "How I can help her."  he looked deep into her face. She did nothing. "Why she won't wake up. It's been days, mother." he stated.

"I am aware." she stated sadly. "We must trust Nostradamus, Francis."

~~

Francis' head snapped up from the soft bed beneath his forehead as the door slammed open. Sparing a few moments to observe the sleeping forms of his mother and wife -his mother curled up to his wife, yet his wife slept still- before sparing a glance at the intruder. His hand went to his hip as a reflex to grasp at the sword he still kept at his shoulder, but removed it when he saw it merely Nostradamus. The King looked back to the Queen. Her skin was paler than the soft material of her gown, and she breathed in shallow breaths. But a breath nonetheless.