You Are My Light Part II

234 - Childbirth

Side Note - We're messing with the timeline, ladies and gentlemen. No prophecy, no Frolivia and no convent. Frary was married at 14, and there's no fertility issues.

Also, working with the worst keyboard in the world right now, so sorry in advance for the spelling and grammar errors that I missed in post-production!

/

"Oh, my dear," the tall, dark haired woman tuts as she slowly saunters into the chambers belonging to the Dauphiness of France and Queen of Scotland. That very same young girl looks up slowly, her eyes flicking towards her creator. "you're ready to pop, aren't you?" she asks, coming closer to the bed so the young girl doesn't have to move her head to see her. The dowager Queen of Scotland reaches down and presses a hand to her daughter's very very prominent stomach. It almost dwarfs the young girl, the size and extrusivement of the womb that may well carry the key to the uniting of Europe.

"Mother," the fifteen year old Queen of Scotland whispers, exhaustion evident in her eyes. It doesn't take a keen eye to see that the pregnancy of Mary I of Scotland has taken a lot out of the young girl. Hell, the girl has barely turned fifteen, her husband not even! And yet, the two of them are here. The girl lays in the overstuffed bed, her skin without almost any color at all, purple and grey bruises underneath her dark eyes, all speaking of ill health and exhaustion that holds nothing to do with sleeping. She appears weak in the eyes of her mother, for it appears that the girl herself is almost unable to move, the child within her taking every ounce of energy early maternity had given her. And, although the large swell of her womb holds weight, the girl appears to be thin, her hair matted and unkempt, a sheen over her eyes and skin. "mother, it hurts." she whispers, her golden haired husband looking up from the embrace their hands stand within.

"I know, I know." she tuts. "But you must be strong, Mary. You must yet bring your child into this world. Think of the power that this babe brings to Scotland, to France." Marie de Guise says, touching her daughters' crown. 

The King Consort of Scotland looks to his mother in law, and to her, he is still a boy, and yet, he will soon be a father. She can see the beginnings of a man in him, taking in the wide set shoulders and the slightly builtness of his chest underneath the black doublet he wears, the strongness of his jaw and the set of his steely eyes. He is certainly a handsome young man, but she can tell by the highness of his cheekbones and the plumpness of his lips that there are some feminine aspects of beauty that hold no place on an alpha male King. This French Dauphin certainly takes after his mother more than his father, although the bright blueness of his eyes throws her for a loop. The Medici's are known for their hazel eyes, and the darkness of the King's eyes are set in her memory when she signed the marriage agreement when the children were little more than toddlers.

The Dowager Queen of Scotland pulls back from his observation of her son-in-law.  She casts a look at the loose curls hanging past his jaw, almost to his shoulders, the bright blondeness of them almost creating an angelic halo or a crown in their own right, but she blinks in astoundment when she realises that Francis had been sizing her up, as she had him.

Good, she thinks with a small grin. Very good.

/

The shrikes of the young Queen of Scotland echo through the palace's hallways. Even guardsmen and passing servants wince as they take note of the Dauphiness' childbirthing. The drama of it all, hearing the young girl's cries as they only increase in volume and desperation. She's so young, still a child in more than one aspect of this life, but, still, she continues to bring her child into this world. And, judging by the length her cries had gone on for, the child refuses to leave his mothers' womb without a fight.