In Francis' chambers, the new couple enjoy the morning. Fearful of anybody finding out about their recent intimacy, Mary lies in Francis' bed fully clothed. She watches his beautiful body become clothed once more, somewhat unhappily. Her future husband did have a ridiculously handsome body, and given recent events in this very room, she would very much enjoy it if he was bare to her forevermore.
The young Scottish Queen shook out those thoughts. As much as she adored them, there were more important things to think about. Catherine's, Nostradamus' and Sebastian's words still haunted her, and she only managed to push them away last night when she buried her face into Francis' neck and enjoyed the feeling of him above her. Those horrid words, No. All images of Francis' death are tied to your union. You will be blamed for the death of the queen's first-born. You will blame yourself, most of all. I see Francis, barely older than he is now, cold to your touch. You are wed, but childless. Alone at this court -- without a friend to comfort you. They couldn't hold any weight, they simply couldn't. It was nonesence. The Lion hadn't fought the Dragon on a field of poppies. The Lion and the Dragon scuffed a little, but it had been Francis to fight Tomas and eventually killed him. Both had shared the details of her once fiancee's death with her. The wizard prophet's words could hold no more weight than any other man's words. Sebastian could tell her that every Englishman with a grudge against she and France would suddenly drop dead along with the ailing English Queen Mary, leaving the throne open for her. That had as much chance of happening as Francis -a young, healthy, resplendent young man- suddenly being dead to her touch.
"I want you to know whatever happens, that I love you." Mary states softly, feeling the sheets underneath her. The Queen of Scotland could smell him on the sheets, that unique smell of pine, lemon, cinnamon and mint. Her own perfume could be detected in the cloth. The two of them, forever intertwined. She gets his attention, and he lets the shirt he was trying to put on lay over his frame limply.
"What's going to happen?" he smiles, raising a brow. "We're getting married tonight." he smiles. Unable to help it, Mary smiles in response to his clear happiness. An alliance over a decade in the making finally coming to fruition. Finally becoming the man she loved's bride. "I know you're scared." he states, leaning on the bedframe. Nervously, Mary's eyes flickered to the pillows they had lay upon the night before to take her rest. "Talk to me. If it's about England..." he trails, remembering the fear she had felt whenever his father lustily insisted that his wife proclaim her claim to the English throne before the bastard daughter of Henry the eighth of England could succeed to the throne.
"It's not politics..." she shakes her head. "It's us. We already have so much. To ask for more... Do you think we're testing fate?" she asks, reaching out a hand for him to come closer to her. He obeys, crawling into the warm sheets that had covered their bare bodies from the world for the last few nights.
"Testing fate?" he asks softly. "How?" his voice is soft, but slightly amused. Mary had never been one to believe in fate or destiny. Of course, their destiny was always foretold to them, simply because of who they were, however. She would rule Scotland, and he France. God willing, they would do it together. But that was as much destiny as it was obvious.
"By believing we can have everything we ever wanted." she says. "Perhaps that privilege is reserved for gods, not queens and kings. Perhaps there is a terrible price to pay." she states. As much as she didn't want to believe Nostradamus' words, the genuine fear in Catherine's face -something she never, ever showed. Only a few times as a child whenever Francis was sickened or in danger- as she begged her to not marry him to save him, did hold weight and the ability to make her decision to marry him waver. Bash's certainty as he told her that the prophet was right more often than he was wrong didn't help matters, either. He seemed so comfortable talking about the man's prophecies. Secure, almost.
