By the time the King of all France can no longer keep his head held high at the breakfast table, his Queen knows that her beloved husbands' days are numbered on this earth. This earth, a world so poisonous and cruel and dark and lonely, a world who doesn't deserve a man so good as this. She begins to feel that horrid darkness overcoming her when she sees him like this, suffering so much in a fate he does not deserve, but she cannot let it overcome her. She must be the beacon of hope and light that he always thought she was.
Soon after, his condition becomes harder to deny to Court and the foreign dignitaries who are frustrated to deal with the Queen about their business. It is their fault they cannot see the light, they cannot understand that what lays between her thighs does not define how strong a ruler she can be. They are too weak and feeble to understand that they will die on the wrong side of history, with their minds to small to understand a concept a Queen on the same pedestal as the King. Perhaps with their blood on her fingers, they will obey.
The fire within her, the fire that had always shone so bright even in the darkest day, the fire that came so close to extinguishing out thanks to a peasant who had nothing left to loose, it grows larger and brighter with every passing day that she takes ten minutes from her schedule to check on her husband. Who, by the day, shakes and sweats and bleeds at the hands of the royal physicians and their bands of frantic men. She grows more powerful with her rage at the sight of his knuckles clenched white, and she knows that this will not do.
Mary's eyes glow with tears when he frantically gasps out her name, reaching a limp hand towards her. She hurries to obey, kneeling to his side and holding him as best she can. The Queen ignores the salt of his sweat and the metalicness of his blood when she kisses his face over and over, brushing his hair back in a gesture so tender that it brings an ache to her heart. He gasps and clutches her as much as he can, hissing in breath after breath when the physician finally ceases cutting into his skin and is sent away by the irate Queen, who gently treats him with gentle touches and soft words until he has settled again.
In another universe, the King will swear that his illness never did cool his longing for his wife, and hints of that are true in this universe, too. The King will finally settle in the arms of his Queen, and she will gently lean them both back into the pillows so he may be comfortable once more. She rubs the tonics and salves into his wounds and his ailments, cleans his own blood from his skin and changes his clothing until he is settled against her breast once again. He'll open his eyes to her bust, and whisper his plan into her neck.
Mary will be questionable, because of court she will be, but if it is his will, she will always obey. Her ladies will unearth her skin from her clothing once the sun has receded, and she will finish her day of tending to him when he is layen comfortable against the new sheets. She will cautiously climb atop him and she will kiss him until he is sent into an otherworldly oblivion for several moments, his hands gripping her tighter, fingertips leaving bruises on her pale skin in an attempt to plant a child within her womb, although he hates the fact he cannot touch her as he once did.
The pleasure will be there for the Queen, yes, but it is married with pain that leaves her cheeks wet with not just sweat from the exertion of taking them both to another world, one better than this one, even if it was just for a few precious moments, to be in a world that held none of the pain that this damned one held in store for both of them.
He is strong, he is so strong, and he is so perfect. He stays that way until Mary is caught by the physicians getting sick in the chamber pot after Francis himself points it out. Court celebrates when her belly grows with child, and Mary finds herself cherishing each and every sudden change of mood, each time her breasts grow tender and painful, she smiles each time she finishes getting sick, and when the time comes, she is elated with each and every kick and turn from her womb, for the lord finally rewards her after so much pain.
"You will be a beautiful mother," he whispers onto her stomach, resting his head on her breasts as he looks and touches at her extremely swollen abdomen. He's so weak these days that he can no longer leave the bed. It's a small mercy that court is so elated with the swell of the Queen's womb that they are quickly pacified with some bogus excuse for the lack of the King. "It's a comfort to know I got you there." he whispers, touching her stomach, the one midwives are certain houses more than one child. She brushes her fingers through his hair and pretends that it's the children inside of her that cause the tears. He doesn't believe her, but what can he do?
She goes into her childbed with him near, she kisses his knuckles as she's hit with another pain, and grows weak-kneed when her waters spill. She breathes calmly, assures him that she will be alright, that she loves him, before Greer pulls her towards the birthing chambers. Even the poppy Sebastian has slipped into his wine cannot send him to sleep, as he can hear his wife's cries echoing through the walls, and finds himself fighting his brother, who tries to hold him back into the bed, while all Francis wants is to be at her side as she has been by his.
The King of France is delivered his heir several hours later. A squirming little thing with matted blonde hair and wrapped in a blanket that has been bloodsoaked only once before. He smiles with relief, touches his son's head and kisses the newborn child, but he is struck with fear when he can hear his wife's cries again. He is delivered two more sons, three blonde Princes having left the Queen's womb this night.
Mary is delivered to him as soon as she is bathed and nursed their children. Exhausted, but so happy, clutching their three sons. He kisses her as much as he is able, and she loves him so much that it brings tears to her eyes again. He christens the boys with names, and she obeys his will immediately. He tells her of his grief at not being there to watch his boys grow, the boys that look identical in every single way. The Queen cannot help but be relieved that they take after his father, but the fire that has burned inside her grows brighter with the determination that this will not be their goodbye.
She calls upon the Pagan Gods and Goddesses, she makes a pact with the devil himself, a pact so horrible, but so necessary. Sebastian's little girlfriend performs the prayer, to the horror of those who wish to bid the King goodbye. Mary pays them no mind as she sits there, holding her three boys who must grow with a father. They must. They will not know the pain of no parental figure, that she will not allow, it is a pain she knows herself, but it is a pain she will not inflict on France.
The King's heart beats again, and England weeps with the loss of their daughter.
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You Are My Light Part II
Historical Fiction-Reign Oneshots/Taking Requests- The world can be dark, Mary, and uncertain and cruel. The only thing that matters is that we face it together. No matter what happens, you are my light. Part 2! -Read TEML first!-
