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Prompt - maybe you could do one like this where it's from catherine's pov and she realizes how much francis loves mary?
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The Queen of France walks briskly down the hallways of French Court, just having left the nursery in which her youngest three sons were safely contained playing with their nannies. Charles, little Henri and tiny Hercules were safe, under guard, and Margot was contained in the salon under constant supervision, not wanting to leave her little friend, the Viscountess de Lorraine's daughter. She needent worry about them, but yet she did. The echoes of Count Vincent's day of tyranny still echoes throughout her mind. The frantic worry for her children's safety, not knowing if her sons would survive that night, the memories were almost as bad as the day itself.
But it was over, she had to remember that. It was all over now. Mary and Francis had killed him, and she had murdered his assailants. Henry was returned and the children were safe under the King's protection. If Catherine be only a Queen, perhaps she would be satisfied. Yet she was not just a Queen, she was a mother first and foremost, and the worry for them after they were in danger would never, ever pass. She knew that. She knew that ever since her precious golden child had wheezed his first breath after leaving her womb.
Francis. Her saviour from the block, the undisputed favourite child of her litter. He had acted so much a King that night, fearlessly putting himself in the way of Count Vincent's path. Coming back to save her and Mary and Mary's girls from undoubtable ruin and perhaps death by the incensed mans hands. Making sure the servants and the nobility were secured back within their quarters after helping one of Mary's ladies into the infirmary. The fear for his life as he was so willingly giving it into the Count's hands, the franticness as she desperately pulled at his limbs, begging him stay with her after the bargaining went bust. Catherine de Medici knew that would always haunt her until she joined the great beyond.
She also found herself checking his rooms more often than not, just grabbing a glimpse of him before leaving. It didn't matter if he be sleeping or taking meals or working, she just needed to lay her eyes upon him and prove to herself that he be safe and alive. Her blood still chills, it's only been a few days since the fiasco, the feeling that she could have lost him so easily. Who knew if she'd ever see him again, or if he'd even be alive to lay eyes upon his mother? The thought harms her, so she thinks it not.
Instead, Catherine de Medici comes to a stop as she notices the young man with his pretty future bride. Mary's sitting down upon a stone bench, the blonde Prince stands near her, almost guarding her from some invisible threat. She knew why Mary sat down more often than not. Her poor back had been marred with deep bruises after she had been flung from a stone pillar to a solid table, the limp in her gait more obvious when she placed one foot in front of the other in motion.
Displeasure mares her features, as she takes a look at how protective her sons' stance is. Francis may have been so willing to give his life for his Court, but she knew as well as he did that he was really giving it up for Mary. For Mary's safety above that of the Court. She remembered the fear and anger in his eyes as she suggested that the Count take his lust fixture from them and keep her, ruin her to gain her hand in marriage. Take her away from Francis and France and save him from her. Things had been going so well with the girls' eye taken by Sebastian and Francis comfortably in bed with his first love, the D'amencourt girl. But it seemed Mary paid no more attention to her bastard step son than she did any other male at court, and Olivia hadn't been seen since the night of the siege. Damn it all.
But what Catherine remembers more is Nostradamus' words to her. His union with Mary will cost Francis his life. He had whispered to her on the day of Mary's return to Court. Anything but that. So, anything -anybody- but Mary. Even if Francis ended up hating her for what she had done, if he ever found out the truth, she would be most content if it meant that Francis would be alive to hate her, rather than be buried and cold because of that girl and his love for her. That night, his fate nearly came true by his own hand. She couldn't bare it.
The Queen of France nearly hates the Queen of Scotland for the love her son bares her, and had always bared her. If she thinks it over logically, then Catherine knows Mary has done nothing wrong. All that the ravenette Queen had ever done was cause Francis to be madly, recklessly, foolishly in love with her. And that love nearly cost him his life.
Catherine respects the girl for her actions that night. The fearlessness she showed as she dove the blade into the Count's throat. The bravery she showed, to get through a near damning assault, the strongness of her voice when Catherine frantically tried to buy her poison more time to work. It reminded her of the strong and braveness that the little Scot showed when she was little more than five years old, so strong and brave, making Francis heal himself from his sickliness to come and join her up trees or wading about in streams or ponds. The fearlessness and the strength and the bravery would make her a marvellous Queen. But just not the Queen of France.
She hears a small giggle, looks over to see the girl and the boy smiling widely at each other. Francis' hand is interwoven in Mary's hair and she's giggling at him. From her viewpoint, Catherine cannot see if her son smiles back at her, but she's almost certain that he does. Mary's hand on her son's hip is so natural that she only now notices it. Her son rests his forehead onto the girls' own, and Mary's eyes close. Catherine can see her posture relax as much as her corset allows her, and their fingers fold into each other. They're at peace in a world of uncertainty, and with the sunlight hitting them just as it was now, they seemed almost angelic.
They speak so quietly to each other that Catherine cannot hear what they say. But she can guess that her son has plotted something for the girl, because Mary's smile grows so wide and she all but jumps into his arms happily. Francis laughs, spinning her around once, before letting her down and pressing a kiss to her. It's long, but it's natural. The girls' white lace gown contrasts perfectly with the darkness of her sons' clothing. Catherine feels almost voyeuristic to the moment.
It gives her the first true sense of what she will be destroying if she goes through with her plan to split them apart. More than their almost kiss at the waterside, more then their frantic embrace over Vincent's dead body. The Queen of France realises what she will be tarnishing, how deeply it will hurt the one who means the most to her, so much so that a pang goes through her chest and down her spine. She does not want to harm the children she rose in such a way. Now that she has witnessed the true, deep love that the two of them share with each other, the kind of love that barely anybody will ever get the privilege of finding -least of all, her and Henry- it feels like the worst crime in the world to sever such ties.
But she must do so. She must, because if she does not, her son will be forever gone to her within this earthly world. In the eyes of her son was a love and a devotion and an oath towards this girl, one so deep and binding that she had never seen anything like it in any other man's eyes. Not even when she looks at her husband, who looks at his mistress. It's a love so, so deep that will one day be his downfall.
