(This is pretty awful, so I'm probably gonna rewrite it whenever I have a spare moment. Hope you enjoy it, though!)
"These secret visits to your son" Mary sniffled, her heart trembling in her chest."... A-and the baby that I lost..." she tried again, but her voice trembled with tears, growing worse and worse the more she tried to be strong. "You worry that I can't do it." Mary clarified. From his place in which he had his back to her, Francis' lips parted, and he shook his head in vain, begging her stop. "Do you worry that I can't bear you a child?" she whispered, much like the heartbroken six year old who had received word that her mother wasn't going to spend Christmastide or Mary's birthday with her, like she had sworn all year long to do. It had been Francis to comfort her then, but he couldn't do it now. Truthfully, if meant honesty wouldn't mean her probable death, he would have told her everything about the truth of his father's death. Her thinking that he was disgusted with her for not carrying a child to term made him want to drop to his knees and implore her to see sense. That he didn't blame her for not having a child. Yes, he was a little dissapointed that they had yet to have a baby of their own, but he would never be disgusted with her or cast her aside for not giving him a son for the succession or a daughter for the marriage market. He would spend hours confessing each one of his sins to her if he thought it would make them closer together, he would tell her every moment in which he killed his father if he thought it could save her.
Mary's heart was his to protect as her husband. But as her husband and King, so was her head. He worried for one rather than the other at this current moment. If he told her what he had done, she would be in danger. And he couldn't do that. She meant more to him than anybody, more than Catherine, more than Bash, more than Lola and more than Jean. For her, he had to protect. For her, he had to lie. "Yes. I worry because, as a king and a man, I want heirs. Is that what you want to hear? Does it bring us closer for you to know that your failure disappoints me beyond words? Have I answered you fully?" he was so caught up in his bitter words -words so bitter that they nearly caused him to loose his dinner- that he didn't realise Mary had collapsed onto the nearby settee and had buried her face into her hands. He could hear her choked sobs, see her shoulders shaking. God, Francis had never hated himself more.
She sniffled slowly, pulling her face up from her hands. Francis wanted to whip himself as he saw the damage his words had caused. That dead, empty look in her pretty eyes and her pretty face. His resolve broke as he looked at her. God, if it would get rid of that broken, sullen look, he would tell her everything.
Mary saw him getting closer to her, his arms outstretched as if going to hold her. As if there mere thought of his touch burned her, Mary cried out and pulled herself away, wiping her tears. Sniffling in an attempt to be strong, Mary looked at her husband who had caused her such pain. Could he really abandon her not one year into their marriage? Shun her in favor of Lola and his bastard, so he was free to make a dozen more copies of him with a woman more fertile? Was he going to legitimise his little bastard and make him Dauphin?
Mary shook her head, able to see their future. She may not have Nostradamus' talent, but she could see their future now. The two of them, cold, bitter, alone. Francis taking to mistress' beds each and every night, with Mary lonely doting on any possible children she could have. The two of them working against each other, hating each other, only being together for pretence and duty. They were to become his parents. Wasn't that a lovely notion?
Mary shook her head, wiping her face roughly. She cleared the tears from her cheeks and managed to see his eyes in the midst of such heartbreak and shock. Mary sniffled, swallowing thickly. She finally managed the nerve to look up at his face.
If possible, he looked more heartbroken than she did. She wanting to hold her and the agony of being prevented, the crease in his brow and the pain in his eyes. He looked pale, sullen and sicken himself. His face was drawn and he looked more regretful than ever before. She trembled with the aftershocks of his words, but she could see his eyes.
"You're lying to me." she stated plainly. He shook his head, his sullen look hardening into something worse.
"No-" he started. Mary cut him off, walking over towards him. She could read his eyes, see his hopes, his dreams, his aspirations.
"Yes. Yes you are." she cut him off. "You are." she stated.
He hissed in a breath, turning from his wife. Damn her! She could always read him like a book! Why did she have to know him so, so well?
Mary didn't take that as an answer, spinning him around to look him in the eye. He sniffled and Mary wiped her own tears, cupping his face.
"Francis, please." she pleaded. "You're lying to me. Please, tell me what's troubling you." she paused, stroking his hair that had fallen into his eyes in errant curls. He shook his head, but Mary brought him to look into her eyes again.
"Mary, don't make me say any more, please." It was his turn to plead. Mary brought him close again.
"You have to, Francis. Tell me, now."
"If I do, it will endanger you."
"Me simply existing puts me in danger, every time I leave this room, I am in danger. You don't have to protect me from things that are constantly around me." she pleaded, cupping his face. "I love you." she whispered.
At those trifecta of words, he simply broke. Francis' knees buckled and he was sent to the floor in a heap of weeping. He held on tight to his light, his strength, his security, as she knelt to the floor beside him. She pressed his head to her breast and he weeped like a child. Mary cooed into his ear, stroked his beautiful hair. Mary wrapped her arms around him, trying to protect him from the lift they lived and whatever haunted his mind. She cooed into his ear again, whispering sweet nothings as he continued to cry, just like the time he had been heartbroken that his father had forgotten his birthday and was screamed at by Catherine because of it.
"Mary," he whispered. His light, his heart, his strength and his Queen continued to hold him and stroke his hair. It was soothing. She gave him as long as he needed to continue to talk. But he was going to tell her, he realised. She'd get it out of him one way or another. The heartbroken whispers of his wife mixed with the firm demands of his Queen told him that the words were going to spill from his lips. "I-I-" he stuttered. Mary shushed him, kissed his head. "I killed my father, Mary." he whispered. "I killed him."
