Tu Es Ma Lumière

155 - Swordplay

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Side Note - Continuation of Return (I think it's part 57)!

Inspiration - Shattered windows and the sound of drums

                      People couldn't believe what I'd become

Side Note - I'm taking a lot of inspiration from lyrics at the moment, so there's gonna be more on the way!

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It's strange, he thinks, the more different things become, the more they stay the same. He has always known that his future wife and his father were different to the common man, the common noble. But he had always assumed that it was because of the weight of literal countries resting upon their shoulders and the crowns resting upon their heads. The kind of crowns that cannot be taken away by the death of their spouse and that can only be taken away when their hears ceased movement and their lives passed into the next, heavenly domain that no man can know.

It's been three years, now. Since his future wife and Queen came barrelling back into his life after years apart. Three years since the departure of the ruined Lady Olivia from French Court. Her ruined flesh had been sold at half price, his mother's words, he thinks bitterly, by the Lord Charlemagne of Versailles. Three years since the sporadic visits from Scotland and France by the Scottish Queen. He had seen her power grow, he had seen her grow into a true, proper Queen, but yet, there was still no wedding date set in stone.

Perhaps that's why his father and his future wife continued to spar in front of a crowd of French nobility spectators. The Queen of France and her ladies continued to look with disgust at the act of a woman wielding a sword, and holding her own with it. But, perhaps he is wrong. It seems that the women look upon the Stuart Queen with disgust purely because of the leather breeches she wears and the black tunic, whilst the men look upon her with distain as she continues to dance with his father. 

Ever since that day, no older than fourteen anniversaries since birth, he had always known that Queen Mary I of Scotland and it's isles could hold her own with a blade and a bow. She could beat Sebastian with one arm behind her back -and they had tried and proven this hypothesis, one time. Mary's dominant arm had been tied behind her back and she had sparred an even match with his bastard half brother- and Bash was one of the most skilled swordsman in the field. And now, she was more than a match for the burly brute of a man who ruled France with an iron fist. It was quite a marvel, really, seeing a woman such as she, using her blade so well against a man such as his father.

Her grunts and gasps were just as legitimate as the Kings' own. The metal shrieks and screams as it meets and parts, meets and parts, meets and parts over and over and over again. They continue to dance this violent waltz. The game of hunter and his prey holds no presidence in this dance. It was obvious that Henry was the aggressor here, but Mary was such a skilled counterer that it hardly mattered how hard the King struck his sword at her, she could counter with cat-like reflexes and appeared to just be toying with him at parts. Whilst in a test of strength, their blades pushing against each other, the King had brought the Queen so close that their noses were so close. He tenses, knowing how much his father enjoyed the taste of fruit so forbidden, and he did know that touching his son's betrothed wouldn't be above the King's accolades. But then, there she is, so easily dancing around him, landing impressive shots of her own, countering and attacking with precision so smooth and precise that she may as well be a man. He knew, then, that even if they wed, he could never find the bravery to force her to bow to him.

Finally, Mary's resistance broke. The Dauphin watched in wonder as she disarmed his father with such ease that he doesn't know words to describe it. She is no longer the nine year old child who covered in the face of death, for the Stuart Queen stood in front of the Valois King, his blade in her left hand, the right pulled around her chin and jaw, cocked, resting gently against the vein of his neck. They look at each other again, in that way that made him nervous. 

It takes him an embarrassingly long amount of time to realise that that look perhaps isn't lust at all. Instead, it's a look of reverence and recognition, a respect of sorts. As if they have acknowledged the trials and tribulations from monarch to monarch, and have finally considered each other true equals.

It worries the Dauphin how he can get Mary to look at him like that. For, who was he, a foolish playboy Prince, in comparison to a respected Queen such as she?