You Are My Light Part II

224 - Sickness

Prompt - Could you also write about Mary being sick and Francis being so worried and taking care of her? That one-shot would be ✨perfect✨.

Side Note - When going through my list of requests, I found a couple comments asking for a scenario that's already been posted either here or on TEML, I'll write this one out because we all need some fluffy frary every now and then, but please check that something you'd like to read hasn't already been written out before requesting! The other version of Mary being sick and Francis taking care of her is on Chapter 37ish on TEML :)

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"Mary!" Catherine cries out as suddenly, the Queen of Scotland suddenly collapses to the floor. Francis is there in a flash, barely managing to catch her before her head made contact with the cold, stone floor, and probably caused her more ailment. Her ladies shriek in an instant, beginning to run in their wobbly court heels, raising their skirts and practically waddling with the unsteadiness they feel. They crash into the floor with their speed to kneel, worriedly brushing Mary's hair from her face as her pretty blonde husband cradles her to his chest.

"She's with fever." Lola gasps, worriedly pressing the back of her hand against Mary's forehead.

"Someone fetch Nostradamus!" Queen Catherine yells at the stunned crowd of dull nobility, who thankfully have as much sense as it is necessary to give them room. Francis frets over his wife's limp body, running his fingers over her face as she lays limply in his arms. Her head lols on his shoulder, but he can feel her breath against his neck.

"What's wrong with her?" Francis demands to nobody in particular, biting his lip as he looks down at Mary's limp body, her face now beginning to turn an ashy pale color. He bites his lip, beginning to taste blood in his mouth. The metallic taste doesn't phase him at all.

"I don't know." Catherine says, watching as Kenna worriedly unties the cuffs on Mary's gown, Greer and Aylee thrusting out their paper fans and beginning to waft cool air near Mary's face. "Nostradamus will know what to do." she says.

"Give me room!" comes the bellow of the seer of the French Court. The seas of colorful fools part like the seas did as the almighty son carried his flock from one side of the ocean to the other. Kenna looks up as Nostradamus kneels towards the Queen of Scotland, and plucks out a vile of red liquid. He pushes the cork from the glass, pouring the liquid down Mary's throat. She doesn't respond, which seems to worry the physician.

"Take her to her rooms, Dauphin." Nostradamus is wise enough to realise that Francis wouldn't be compliant in releasing his pretty wife from his arms. "We may treat her Grace with the modesty she deserves."

Francis obeys, standing with Mary in his arms. She hangs loosely from his limbs, her body moving with the rapid steps that the King of Scotland takes in his effort to take his wife to their rooms. Courtiers gasp and whisper and point as they take sight of the proof of the rumours rushing through the hallways of the French Court. Mary's ladies gasp and fritter like the vain, shallow women they have been groomed to be, picking up their skirts to fall into step with the tall Dauphin. Kenna and Lola push open the doors to the chambers of the King and Queen Consort of Scotland, holding open the wood and marble as the King and Queen in question make their way inside. They're flocked by servents and handmaidens, who mutter and get to work worriedly, drawing the crimson velvet curtains so the royal chambers no longer saw the bright moonlight.

The Dauphin keeps a concerned eye on his wife as he lays her down onto the overstuffed goose feather bed they share together, servants lighting the candles and beginning to stoke the fire, his jaw being lit and accentuated by the dim light of the room that increases with every candle and push of the firestick. Francis holds Mary's hand worriedly, running his fingers through her hair as Greer, Kenna and Lola get to stripping the Queen of her gown, pulling layer by layer from her heated skin, untying the corset and kirtle until she lay in nothing but a chemise, her legs bare of the satin stockings.

"What's wrong with her, Nostradamus?" Francis asks, watching worriedly as his wife is covered by their bedsheets, but has vial after vial of mysterious liquids poured down her throat. The Dauphin of France holds no regard for his mothers' closest advisor as a prophet or seer, but as an astronomer, or in this case, a physician? He knows that the man can perform the closest thing to magic that this world will ever truly hold in his hands. There is no such things as prophecies or magic or witches or mythical creatures with hooves and human heads, but sickness is a killer in this world. And it is so obvious that he would have to be a fool to turn from it.

"I don't know, highness." the man gruffs. "But I will find out. Please," he looks to the servants and the handmaidens. "the Queen needs space, give us the room." he orders. Catherine glares at the dirty fellows, and they are soon absent from this room.

Francis bounds their hands together tightly, kneeling at the platform of the bed, pressing their knuckles to his mouth as if they are a rosary bead. Of course, he has never been that religious, either, although he is indeed Catholic, but he will pray to whomever he must if his wife would wake from whatever plagued her. He closes his eyes and mutters whichever prayer deems appropriate at this moment, not knowing how long he did so, the thing that brings him out of his prayer is the King of France -looking develished to the point his mother rolls his eyes, perfectly aware of what the King had been doing before this moment- opens the doors, much like he did when Sebastian was gravely wounded in the attack of Callais.

"I heard what happened, the castle is in uproar." is the only thing he says. Francis looks behind his shoulder at his father. He feels a moment of annoyance that the King wears no grandeur cape or leather or silk, simply a turquoise robe and his house slippers. "How is she?"

"Oh, you must be rather worried for the claim to England if it dragged your arse off that of Diane de Portiers." Queen Catherine spits angrily.

"Catherine, not now." Henry says, looking from his wife to their firstborn son and his wife, who remains unconscious in her bed, hair billowing out over her pillows, clawing all around her shoulders, neck, chest and blankets.

"I fear influenza, your Majesties." Nostradamus gravely reveals, his voice low. "The Queen of Scots holds fever to her chest, no colour to her skin, a wheeze to her lungs." he says. "I can tend to her the best way I know how, ease whatever pain she may be having, try and make her comfortable should she wake, but I make no guarantees should this fever remain for days more."

Queen Catherine holds a hand to her chest at the way her son seems to be barely keeping himself from crumbling at the words of the wizard. He lays his head onto her hand, kissing the warm skin he finds there.

"Well, what can we do?" Greer's voice chokes, bringing attention to Nostradamus once more.

"Fetch pails of water, place wet rags onto the Queen's skin. All that can be done is try and break the fever and pray she wakes."

"You must do everything in your power, Nostradamus." Francis says. "Everything. Because I don't know what I will do if I lose her."