Work Text:
“It’s been so difficult, Francis,” Mary laments, finally. “So difficult.” tears well up in her eyes, threatening to fall and never cease.
“Shh, that’s over now.” Francis murmurs, slowly hovering over her body, spreading his hand tentatively on the milky skin of her exposed arm. He wastes less than a second looking into her eyes, leaning in into her. Their mouths meet gently, unhurriedly, and his slight stubble against her soft skin feels nothing less than the stroke of a forgotten memory. His lips linger, the two of them purely existing within each other, their souls reunited after a lifetime.
He breaks the kiss, his eyes gradually fluttering open. His nose brushes hers in a way that’s reserved only for him, a charming gesture so uniquely his that her heart can’t help but ache and tumble at the remembrance.
Already sitting on the bed they once shared in French court all those decades ago, he extends a hopeful hand that she gladly takes. They both get up, standing in front of one another, skin to skin, suddenly waves of recollection washing over the queen. These four walls held one of her lifetimes dearly and faithfully – their promises, hopes and dreams, most inner and unfathomable thoughts; their days as husband and wife, as the golden king and the queen of scots, and, possibly and most importantly, as just a girl and the king of nothing. Between those white sheets lay a four-year-old dauphin, the strong-headed, albeit infant, Scottish queen and all the bedtime stories they would share over the years: firstly, about knights and princesses; later, about backstabbing politics and thrones. Nevertheless, once the two lovers found themselves together, wholly and utterly, inside these four walls, they were in heaven.
“Come, my love,” he leads her towards her old chests, surprisingly full of embroidered dresses. “You must dress yourself.” He smiles tenderly, letting go of her hand. Her face unexpectedly darkens, fear consuming her being, terrified of losing him again. Her hand intuitively grasps his, a lenient smile gracing his face. “I’m here, Mary,” he leans in, kissing her forehead. “Forever.”
“I never stopped loving you,” she whispers, though her voice doesn’t waver. “I never loved anyone the way I love you.” And she thrusts each word into his skin, his eyes softening, glistening, almost a copy of the water beneath the boat he’d built in times for both of them.
He incites her to pick a gown, and she can’t help but take her time in each individual one. Her first wedding dress stands out though, laying among loud, shiny pieces of fabric, and she holds on to it hard until a lonely tear rolls down her blushed cheek.
“Are you dressed, love?” he calls out delicately. She turns around in her white dress, seeming like her younger and older self concurrently. He exhales, reveling in her simplicity: “The most beautiful queen in all the kingdoms.” Their fingers intertwine as she follows him to the hallway.
“I am no longer a queen.” She breathes, finally facing the reality of her ending.
“You were born a queen and you will forever be a queen, Mary,” his boots mark their every step. “You are the true queen in my heart,” his eyes are fixated on the stone-cold walls of the castle. “And look how long you’ve reigned,” she moves in closer to him, their arms touching with every movement of their bodies. “My heart never ceased to bow down to you, love.”
As they step out onto the castle grounds, the oh-so-familiar scent of grass and flowers invade her body. The sun’s never shone brighter than it seems to be shining today, his golden locks reflecting the light.
“I’ll race you to the lake,” he proposes, taking off without waiting for her reply.
She chases after him, her task somewhat complicated because of her gown. She thrives, nonetheless, and manages to catch Francis by the water’s edge. He extends her arms to her, Mary falling onto him, drowning in his warmth.
“I’m so sorry, Francis,” she cries into his thin linen shirt. “I’m so terribly sorry.”
He holds her dearly, not wanting to let go ever again. “What for?”
“We were supposed to dance in Paris,” her crying subsides to some extent, her hands digging into his skin. “We were supposed to dance under the stars.” His fingers run through her unruly, long hair, in an attempt to soothe her. “Instead, you died because of me.” She pauses.
Then, darker.
“That was my undoing.”
“Everyone dies, Mary,” he starts, carefully. “I was lucky enough to die for the love of my life.” He lays a finger underneath her chin, forcing her gaze to his. His warm hand holds her cheek, his ice-cold ring sending shivers down her body. He leans in, joining his forehead to hers. The blazing sun burns their exposed skin, the birds chirping around them, his breathing the sound she waited a lifetime to hear again. His lips meet hers in an all but new fashion, his tongue slipping inside her mouth tenderly, the intimacy flowing between them.
They lay down by the water, her head on his chest and their lips glued to each other like honey.
“My dearest Francis,” her voice is mellow. “The two decades I spent in the tower were like a stubborn winter that never ceased to awake me.” Her eyes remain closed, tired. “In my so frequent lonely nights, I prayed for your arms to keep me warm, and I often wondered if you shiver as did I.” he caressed her stomach affectionately, patiently listening. “And I strived to remain the strong, brave Mary you once grew to love. My darling, I tried to be courageous as were you in your battles, to be the light in the midst of the endless fog that was my life.” Her eyes open as a reflex of her words, Mary getting up and sitting down in front of Francis. “My heart was tormented without your love to guide me and I held on to our memories together at court as though they were my lifeboat themselves.” Her hand travels to the side of his face, stroking it lovingly. “My love, my heart, my one true husband.” She finishes, kissing his face.
“My light,” he whispers, while the two young adults sway together beneath the mighty sun.
“I longed for your touch every night,” she murmurs, their heartbeats one.
And, like that, in that innocent, pure, sinless devotion was her ending. Mary Queen of Scots, crowned at six days old, the monarch who lost three kings and three kingdoms, could have never conceived that in her end was her beginning.