"Shh," Francis whispered into Mary's long hair, stroking the dark, sweat slicken tendrils from her face. He kissed the side of her head and continued to run his hands down her back. His wife, his beautiful bride, wined loudly, the sound unlike any other noise she had ever let out. She continued to tightly grasp at his doublet, long, thin fingers clamping down upon the fine material. Gasps and sobs made their way out of her throat. Her bruised, mangled throat, that those vile pieces of filth had dared discriminate and contort in last night's attacks. "Shh, my love." he whispered into her hair again, trying his best to be gentle with this trembling little dove that shook in the circle of his arms, but it was so hard to be amiable and benign when fierce courses of hatred pumped through his veins at the scenes his minds' eye tortured him with. He had never hated anybody more than he hated those men that dared storm his home and lay even a single finger upon his wife, his light, his heart, his most prized possession. He never wanted to be parted from her, but he wanted to run out into his lands and hunt those bastards and Narciesse down and make them pay for what they had done to her. "You're safe now, I swear it. I oath it." he swore, purer than the words he had avowed on his wedding day, when he had stood in front of their families and their countries and the entire goddamned world and affirm that he would protect her and love her above all else. His heart? Every single bit of it belonged to her, but he loathed himself more than that bastard Severin and Narciesse for not being able to protect her when she needed it most, for being one of the catalysts that gave those apparent peaceful men reason to storm his palace and destroy the one thing he prized above all else.
Mary stopped sniffling into his chest, slowly looking up into the eyes of the man who she loved more than any other. She felt so childlike, right now. Laying in bed, ensnared in the deep intertwine of Francis' arms. She clung to him for dear life, hadn't let him go since the night before when he made sure that she and Catherine were safe after getting word of the attack. He hadn't gone to Lola, nor had he seen his bastard son. He had gone to her, and he hadn't left her until now. She was sure she looked childlike, also. No makeup, no crown, no jewels, no gown. No, just a nightgown and her hair down and unkempt. Yes, Catherine had bathed her last night, but her hair was already raggedy and filthy already, but, he still stroked it and kissed it as if it was the finest thing in the world. She tilted her head up to look him deeper in the eye, sniffling again. Francis caught the rogue tear from her cheek with his thumb, wiping it away. She took in a deep inhale, staring into his pretty eyes as much as she could. She could see his own pain and anguish, his suffering and his adversity. There was little she could do to alive him of his pain, however. She needed him so much more than he needed her at this time. He seemed to know that, too. Since he brought her back into the ensnarement of his arms again, almost crushing her bruised and violated body into his chest. He kissed her hair again, as if doing so would take away her pain.
"You're safe, I swear it." he repeated it. "They're gone." as soon as those words escaped his lips, he wished he could swallow them back up and remove them from Mary's memory. But her whimper told him that that was impossible, since that was exactly the problem. The man most responsible and the other one who had stood there and watched as Severin ripped and tore and shredded and slashed until there was no more to destroy. And the man who she had managed to strike wasn't there after she had told Catherine about him. He must have made it out before the guards could capture him, and if any did see, they must have thought he was one of the ones who had been injured. One of the guards had even died, but there was no sign of them anywhere. None of the ones Francis had captured and tortured and even froze gave no viable information about what could have happened to those three rogue thugs who thought they could get away with their violation of the Queen of France and Scots and face no consequences.
"You-you have to find them." Mary sobbed into his chest, pushing deeper into the warm alcove that kept her hidden from all demons and monsters. "You have to, you have to, you have to." Mary kept repeating, tightening her hand in his jacket so much that she swore it would rip from the force she held it under. He didn't seem to mind, though. Instead he held her as tight as her bruised midsection would allow him, kissed her hair and her face as much as her damaged psyche would allow.
