The new Queen of France doesn't know what wakes her from her slumber that's so hard to attain these days. Is it the howling of the wind, the gale of a summer storm? Or is it the sweet smell of the petrichor in the air, the same one that's lingered since the Christening of the King's first child? Is it the pittering crickets, or is it the hooting owls in the stables? Is it the echoes of the dogs of the court, as they howl at the wind, or is it the slight humm of violin strings as the nights' celebrations slowly ebb into the history books, celebrating the anniversary of the birth of Princess Margaret, before she'd be swept away with her nanny, back to the estate in Angouleme. Is it the warm blankets, sticking to her skin due to the heat of the air, or is it the hot breath against her neck, living and dying on her skin within the moment? It is the substantial arms locked tightly around her protruding abdomen, iron tight, yet so blessedly softly at the same time? Is it the slight ache in her lower back as she reaches the third sector of her childbearing months? Or the growing body in her womb, who squirmed and tosses and lightly pushes an occasional foot or a little hand out in the most inconvenient times? Is it the slight smell of grass that lingers in the pillows, after her husband had came back to their chambers with dewy clothing and slightly off colour hair, muttering something about wrestling in the grass with his littlest brothers and Sebastian? Is it the horrid smell of just warmth in the air, the same one that never failed to make her stomach churn, in a way that spoke nothing of her pregnancy? Is it the smell of lemon that clung to her nightgown, or the blessed darkness interrupted only by the moon, who shines grandly in all of her majestic majesty, surrounded by her courtyard of stars, the one who reminds her of her impending time to birth this child, to grace her countries with a son and heir, and the key to Empire, should fate swing in her direction? Is it the niggling sense of worry and doubt about her political issues and the court whispers, or is it the terror of birthing a daughter and not a son? Is it the gentle kick to her skin as she places a hand onto her substantial abdomen, and in the glow of the moon, the symbol of fertility in this world, they tell her not to fear, they assure her and calm her, and tell her the things that awoke her do not matter, not really.
And, with that knowledge, the Queen of France and Scots smiles to herself, placing a hand onto her husbands' substantial hands, the ones that cradle their unborn child so tenderly and protectively, the ones that assure her and defend her. And, quite easily, it seems, the Queen falls back to her slumber once more, delighted with her contentment.
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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!-
