"You are going to a village which has likely been exposed to plague," she says exasperatedly, her heart hammering in her chest. Fear, jealousy, insecurity. She trembled with her confusion and her desperation and her vulnerability, fighting back the urge to clamp her arms around him and never let go. "If you bring back people who may have been infected with it..." she had begged him, trying everything she could to try and convince him. It seemed, however, that that was precisely the issue at hand.
""People"? " he had sounded flabbergasted and outraged. Like he didn't recognise her anymore. His discombobulation and disbelief that she would think, talk, act in such a way as this came out clearer than ever. "Your friend." is she really? Is that what Lola is to her? Her friend?
Not her lady, not her cousin, not her betrayer, not her executioner. But a friend. How is that possible? Is he as blind as she? "My child," he stressed, as if that would make her understand. He forgets, she cannot understand. She will never understand. Just as she will never bare a child. She felt so sick at his words, the verbal claiming of the little bastard who would one day be the cause of her downfall. She hated it. She hated Lola. Now, she hated Francis. She hated everything about this situation, but she hated his insistence to put everything they may have at risk all for a little bastard and a foolish whore who had gotten herself trapped in plague ridden lands. "perhaps my only child." It is then, that the Queen of Scots, now of France, feels the last crack that her heart can physically take. She, the baron, infertile Queen. He, the virile future father. He lashes it at her without mercy, the words cause so much pain that she wishes to cry out there and then. But, she cannot humiliate herself with things so pitiful as feelings. Many-a-night, he had held her as she cried upon the first day of her bleeding. The desperation, the regret, the fear. And now, it is nothing but ammunition to him. Who was he? Who was she?
But she is a Queen, even if he refuses to act a King. So, she does what rulers do. She buries her feelings and puts on a stone cold exterior, feeling the last nail in her heart slam the bind, deaf, useless appendage shut. From him, from everything.
It seems as though he realises his merciless attack was uncalled for, for he parts his lips and exhales, looking down at her as his chin raises. He doesn't speak, she must.
She had chilled her voice, putting all her feelings aside. "You're not just risking your life, but everyone in this castle. If you leave, and you return with anybody who is ill..." she had begged him to not risk his life. His countries future, her countries' future, the future of a third whom watched them with bated breath. Her future, their future. Did he honestly not realise what he risked for Lola and the little bastard? The future of two countries, one who had finally gotten the chance to relieve herself from the years of abuse from England. And he risks everything that they dreamed for just like that? Did Lola mean that much to him, that he would risk everything that they dreamed of building? A better world, one which would go up in smoke the second the plague kisses his skin and stops his heart.
His voice had softened whereas hers had hardened. Perhaps he knew he had said wrong with the next phrase as he forced her watch her own abandonment."Mary, you said you felt yourself growing harder." his voice is soft, but it holds undertones of anger and resentment and hatred. No longer does the soft voice he used comfort her. No, it seems belittling, like he's talking to a petulant child whilst he, a wise grown man, does his bidding. "Don't let it happen." he backs away from her. Her beaten, tattered remains of what used to be a heart grows quicker, the speed increasing as the pain does. The anxiety, the fear. He was actually going to go through with this. He was going to run into the arms of death like a valiant, chivalrous fool on a noble steed, and he would run off into the sunset with his lover and his bastard child. They would be together, is that what he wanted? Did he hope that he got a child to stick to Lola's womb all those months ago? Why does he talk of such matters as if they are easy? Why does he not understand that Queens must feel no feelings and go on for the sake of the people? "Listen to your heart, and you will hear it as clearly as I do." she lets out a whimper as he mounts the burly brown brute, settling himself, before rolling his hips, making the horse begin to walk.
"You are the king of France!" she begs, running after him. "You no longer have the privilege of obeying your heart!" she had tried to earnestly to stop him, but it was no use. Her voice sounds shrill and it hurts her throat, her entire body trembles as she realises that there is an overwhelming chance that this would be the last time that she would ever set eyes upon him. He was going to run into death. She was going to loose him to not only to the foolish little whore, but to death. She would never see him again. Her country would burn with no King, no alliance, no heir. And he didn't care. He went anyway. Without a thought for her or her safety, of not just the plague, but from the people within the castle. They had come before her. Now, and forevermore, she knew his priority and her place upon his list. She would always know.
"That's not the kind of king that I want to be." and then she was alone. Forevermore. Alone.
The gates shut as he sprints under them. The foolish King sends her the coldest glance over his shoulder, his chest heaves. She can do nothing as he turns from her, from their court, from their life together, giving it all up for Lola. Did he honestly want her so much that he would let Kingdoms burn to save her from herself? Why would he harm his lawfully wedded wife in such a way, after swearing to her not so long ago, that he was hers and no others?
The smaller he gets, the closed her heart becomes to him. She has no choice, she must push him out of her heart and out of her soul. He had made his choice, and he would risk everything for Lola. Why didn't he love her -Mary- anymore? Had loyalty to the whore cost her the man she loved, the man she needed?
But the cannot answer the question, because the pain in her chest becomes too much, and her knees soon become bloody and muddy as they make acquaintance with the cold courts' flooring. Instantly, she's surrounded, as her torso and head meet the dusty, muddy stone. Her knees ache, she can feel the blood slide down her calves. People shriek and titter around her, they desperately call out for help.
Her eyes close before any help can come. Come back to me, she begs, the moment before she falls unconscious. But he's gone. He's gone. Her body sags as the burly wizard comes into contact with the mealy of frantic servants and nobility. He does't come. He's left her, and he wasn't coming back.
//
Why don't people understand that Francis abandoning Mary for Lola in the plague was extremely messed up and he shouldn't have done it?!?! Anyway, this is just a little introspective on our favourite King and Queen, and our Queen's thoughts when he abandons her for Lola and their bastard son. Please let a girl know what you think in the comments below, I'm being plagued by insomnia right now and it really sucks, so I'm trying to make the best out of it by updating.
Also, I'm backk! I forgot to put this on the other rewrite I did, but in any case, I'm back! I finally kicked most of my ear infection and I'm back in front of a keyboard. Keep an eye out for this and TEML, since they're going to be more frequently updated for the next little while. By the way, Part 2 of TOWR (The One Winged Raven) is stalled for a bit, seeing as though this damn website deleted half my chapter, so it's gotta be redone. Soon, promise!
Next rewrite, 3x05! (Part 1 of 3!) I promise it's not gonna be sad.
Stay safe, be kind.
love,
me
:)
