Tu Es Ma Lumière

163 - Aftermath

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Side Note - Same AU as part 122.

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"That is cold," the Queen of France whispers, holding one hand to her heart, the other pressed up against her heavily pregnant belly. Her body trembles, she is too warm with the multitude of fires within Nostradamus' medical lair. A cold sweat runs down the back of her neck at the thought of what her beloved little golden boy had had to endure at the hands of England this day. "I am a Medici, and even by my standards, poisoning a little girl with a letter from her mother, that is cold." she finishes, looking up at her wizard prophet, the height difference between them uncomfortably laughable as such a time as this.

"I am aware, my Queen. The King sends for his own physician to cut his respite in the Dunkirk rivers short, to tend to the Dauphin's betrothed with urgency. I, however, cannot give him the answer that he needs." he says, casting a look at the two children at the other end of his workspace. The sun is long since retired, the room -deep in the bowels of the French Court- stiflingly hot, thanks to the sensual lighting of several fires and a ludicrous amount of candles. "He writes to the regent of Scotland, informs her of England's latest attempt upon her daughters' life. The-the letter was from the Scottish Queen's mother, I cannot help-"

"You don't think that Marie de Guise would have had anything to do with this, do you?" Catherine gasps. "My friend, you cannot think in such ways! It makes no sense, yes, the daughter of the Duke of Loraine is as ravenous for power as my own husband, but think of this! Marie holds no claim to the Scottish throne if her daughter is killed. She cannot rule if Mary's heart ceases its beating. She will be cast way and Scotland will fall into the hands of their enemies!" she pauses. "You and I cannot figure the exact concoction laced within the wooden fibres, and we are masterful of this art. I highly doubt that Marie de Guise is as handy with the glass bottles as you or I am." she finishes, casting her own look at the little ravenette laying weakly upon an overstuffed cot nearest the fire. A day had not come where the Queen Consort of France had shown the Queen Regnant of Scotland any maternal love. The girl in which, for the last two years, had been considered a true foe and enemy to Catherine. At first, it seemed that the then five year old -fresh off a three week long trip across the stormy seas, with all but her suffering from sickness- had wished for the kind of love that she showed to Elisabeth (not Francis, Mary had never been that stupid), but as the years past and the French Queen's heart grew more and more cold and vacant to the Scottish Queen's body, soul and mind, it seemed that Mary was content without the attempts of praise or gallantry. Catherine never would admit that seeing the child as she was now, did bring about some sort of horrid satisfaction. Damn the child for turning Francis against her! But, no matter how much the alliance could sway either way, there was no questioning that the childs' bloodline was unattainable and unquestionable. She could prove herself useful in the future, even if seeing her like this did soothe the ache in her heart whenever Francis smiled at her like that. "Nostradamus, be honest with me now. What will happen if Mary does not wake from this attempt upon her life? If my husband will be forced to send her coffin back to her homeland in not so long a time? Can you see such a thing? What will happen to the alliance if it does? Will-will France hold claim to England in a way that holds more weight than she does at this moment? Will my beloved child hold rule unto three countries when God calls my husband home?"

"At the risk of offending your Majesty, I do believe that your concern is pressed upon the wrong area of this life." Nostradamus says, pointing towards the two children once more. Catherine turns slowly, and allows herself to see the tragic, pitiful scene made so unfairly beautiful and picturesque by the firelight. Mary's skin is no longer a glowing porcelain (one of the things she had been famous for in her short time in France), but a chalky white that spoke of ill health and unquestionable suffering. Her hair, darker than any raven's wing, is messy and unkempt, like she hadn't brushed it in weeks, even though the young girls of the royal nursery had spent hours in the salon this very morning. The knots and twists almost repulse Catherine, who hadn't known she was so very vain until this point. Mary glistens with perspiration to the point where beads of sweat fall from her seven year old brow, something that again turns the Frenchwoman's stomach. However, it seems to matter little to her beautiful little son, she realises with the same starkness that she'd have if Nostradamus decided to throw a bucket of iced water over her face and body. The beautiful little Dauphin kneels before his little Queen as she lays limply in her cot. Their hands remain tightly interwoven, tied together by the Dauphin's own rosary beads. Francis had never been one to use them unless they were in mass, yet here he was, with the black beads tethering his little siren to him. His head is bowed unto the bed, she cannot see his face, but she can see golden curls so messy at this moment. The Prince's shoulders shake, his mother can tell he weeps, even if he does so without a sound.

The Queen inhales slowly, in the same way that she did whenever Henry fathered Sebastian and left the delicate little Dauphin with a wide berth. She bites her lip to keep the emotion at bay, refusing to feel what she knew one day, she'd have to acknowledge. This little Queen meant so much to her beloved child. Her death, her disappearance would break the boy. Somehow, within the space of two years, she had turned him from the fragile little sickly baby, into the rambunctious boy that ran around and climbed trees and pitched apples over the seawall. And she knew, that one day, she'd have to make peace with the fact that she, his beloved, doting mother, no longer held the first position in his life.