dulce meum terra tegit

despite what his mother said, francis couldn’t care less about the spreading rumors. he just wanted to be the boy he was just a couple of years ago. he wanted things to be easy again, - well, as easy as things could get for them - but apparently the world had other plans. they were bound to suffer, bound to make the same mistakes his parents had made, and it didn’t matter how hard they tried. for the lives of them they couldn’t get back to what they had.

in that moment, however, with the taste of her lips lingering on his lips (this time for real, not like in the many dreams he’d had recently), francis could almost see the light.  but he also could see the tears rolling down her cheeks, and for that reason he moved forwards to touch them. his jaw clenched, his heart screaming for him to release it, to just let go, but he couldn’t do that just yet. so he wiped away those tears with his shirtsleeve and caressed her warm skin gently, a small smile on his lips. 

when the maid interrupted them, however, his smile disappeared and the king sighed softly and pulled away, leaning with his back against the headboard. he watched silently as his wife spoke to the woman who had been the deliverer of all her lover’s letters. he watched as she bid her goodbye to him. 

francis took a deep breath as the woman left and bit the inside of his lip as mary looked back at him. his eyes were cold again, but he wasn’t judging her or her actions. it hurt him still to think about his cousin and what he had done, but her words surprised him.

as if he could have him killed out of anger. a man his wife cared about. 

so he just shook his head and raised his hand to stop her. he didn’t need that kind of demonstration. 

‘i am not. as much as i’d like to cut off his head myself, he’s a prince. killing him would put france in a delicate position and we cannot afford it. i’ll let him go. he can go back to his brother or throw himself down a cliff for all i care. as for you…i don’t need you to send guards to catch him to know where your loyalty lies. i know that already, marie. as you know where mine resides. my heart is where it belongs. in your hands.’

               francis’ pureness didn’t cease to amaze mary which, in this case, meant it made her heart push guilt and pain into her bloodstream instead of just blood. she felt the emotions take root in her nerve-endings and her every fiber, cutting right to the bone. it wasn’t like she didn’t have reasons to feel guilty. no. she did, and that was why francis’ comfort served both for healing her, calming her nerves, and breaking her in halves upon halves. she pursed her lips and lowered her gaze as he spoke.

               she cared about louis, of course she did, how could she not? but she loved francis, and gone was the matter of louis’ fate as her eyes scanned his face, not looking for anything in particular and only finding his love for her, mercy and the paleness on his face, sickly and wiltering. fear kicked in right then and she had to fight the impulse of throwing herself into his arms and sobbing, more for her own sake than for his: if she started crying like that, she doubted she’d ever stop.

               for a moment, she was forced to picture her life if francis didn’t recover, if he perished and she was alone. sure, she’d felt alone after the protestants tried to ruin her, but she hadn’t really been alone, because francis had been there every step of the way, even if she had pushed him away in more ways than one would’ve thought to exist. but if francis didn’t recover --if francis died--, then she’d be truly alone. it wouldn’t matter if she was surrounded by friends, if her ladies all came to try and pick up the pieces shattered after his departure, because she’d still be alone, the damage would be unfixable and there’d be no consolation for her broken soul.

               one of her hands reached for his, gently intertwining their fingers, bringing his knuckles to her lips and kissing them longly, her other hand gently caressing his cheek. mary found herself holding his gaze with her own, steadily yet with such a deeply rooted painful strike within them, it could’ve made ice melt.

francis wasn’t ready to let mary in again as if nothing had changed. he was broken, he was hurt, she had betrayed him, things had changed and there was no point in pretending they had not. even if he wished to forget he knew he could not. he couldn’t simply let it go.  but he could look at her and try to believe her words, and that was a start. 

when she leaned closer to him, the young king observed how the fireplace’s light hit her pale face, making shadows dance on it. she was so beautiful it almost hurt him to look at her. let alone think about another man’s touch on her cheekbones, or his kisses on her lips. oh, her lips. the lips he thought he would be the only one to kiss. to feel against his skin.  those lips he had been the first to kiss. 

for a brief moment he wondered if she recalled how his own tasted, but somehow he could feel she did. just as he remembered her taste. 

he held her gaze easily, like he always did. he wasn’t sure of what she was looking for, but he knew she found nothing. nothing but the pure love he had for her. despite everything. despite anyone. 

when her lips pressed back against his, francis fought to restrain his joy. it was a bitter feeling but one he could only identify as joy. a joy he thought he would never feel again.  her whispered words were enough to make his eyes burn with tears he could not let go. he wasn’t ready to voice his feeling back just yet, but he knew she knew he had never stopped loving her. he would never stop loving her. 

‘tu es mon cœur. pour toujours.’

                       it didn’t matter how many times mary said she was sorry, it wouldn’t fix the damage inflicted, just like it hadn’t mattered that francis had insisted, had given her space and had taken care of her, because that hadn’t made her heal. they just couldn’t heal in the blink of an eye, upon convenience, because the heart knew no convenience, no schedules. the heart was just all feeling, a mess, blood being pushed through their bodies once again in a changing pattern, just like the emotions coursed through their nerves at each breath, each passing second.

                       so it didn’t matter how many times mary said she was sorry, but it did matter what she did from then on. they were on less than steady grounds, she’d earned catherine’s hatred for sure and rumors were like wildfire at court. this time, there was no escaping them. when their lips parted, mary kept her eyes closed for a few seconds, two thick tears rolling down her cheeks as she tried to quell a sob.

                       she was scared. scared of being back in there, scared of what was to come, scared of the accusations, scared of herself, scared for condé and her own neck and, most of all, she was scared for francis’ life. she could not fathom a world without him on it, it just wasn’t possible -- it couldn’t be. it wasn’t worth witnessing, even, nor thinking about. a world without francis, god! what a wasteland that’d be, just empty and meaningless. and mary feared.

                       just as she was about to say anything, a maid knocked on the door and silently walked in and softly called her ‘your majesty,’ in such a hesitant way that mary instantly knew what this was about. before the maid, who had been a luck of confidante and deliverer between her and condé’s secret privates back in time, could say a thing, mary had turned her head to the side for looking at her.

                                       ‘ christine, if he can make a run for it, tell him not to wait for me. and he better not be dumb enough for going to scotland, my country will be just as hostile as france itself -- if not more. thank you. ‘

                       and that was it, those were her final words on whatever fate louis would have. she wouldn’t condemn him, because condemning him would be to condemn herself, but she wouldn’t save him. there were no secret coordinates in her message, it was clear and transparent, nothing hidden in there. when the maid was gone, she sighed and turned back to francis, knowing her next words weren’t going to be welcomed with open arms, nor had been the reminder of her betrayal.

francis realized the mistake he’d done the moment the word “forced” slipped from his lips. he did not mean to say that, to remind her of that, but he didn’t know how to say it better. so he just lowered his eyes for an instant as she shifted her position, but did not let go of her hand. never would he let go of her willingly. unless she asked him to.

the king sit up more comfortably and held his wife’s hand tighter, squeezing it reassuringly to let her know that despite everything he was still there for her. and he would aways be, until god himself took him from her side. he was bound to her, forever and a day. 

again her words bring a childish reassurance to his heavy heart, easing a bit his pain. perhaps it was foolish to cheer for a rival’s defeat, for that did not mean he had won, (won what, he wondered, though. she was not a prize, she was his heart and soul) but a boyish part of his being was happy for that little sign of hope. 

the boy nodded slowly, tugging her hand to bring her closer to him and caressed the back of it gently with his delicate thumb, savoring the feeling he’d been deprived of for too long. in that moment he decided he would never give anything for granted anymore, should she come back to him. with another sigh he allowed himself to smile, sincerely after so long. 

‘you’re right, it will take time. but as you’re willing to fight, then i am too. you’re not alone, mary. you never have been.’

as those words left his mouth, he leaned in to brush his lips against hers, gently, yet briefly. a contact that said little yet everything. he left her the choice, she could either press her lips back or pull away, either fight for him or live forever as strangers.

               the change in francis’ demeanor was clear but mary still refused to hold any hope for the near future. in fact, she was more mentally ready for him to tell her to go than what was to come. for a few moments, she was in disbelief, how he invited her to move closer and how she automatically did so, now at a distance so minimal, so intimate, that it felt both strange and familiar. they hadn’t been that comfortable around eachother, that close, since long before the siege and, truthfully, mary couldn’t believe it was real, any of it.

               the thought that condé might be either at catherine’s mercy at this point or waiting for her somewhere didn’t even cross her mind when she had francis at that little of a distance --if it could be considered distance at all-- because all that mattered was that moment, all that mattered was them, it was him. and, of course, it had always been him.

               her dark eyes bore into his clear ones, trying to find any trace that could tell her francis was perhaps playing her (unlikely, but she was disbelieving it all) --- and found none. and though his words and how he was behaving took her by surprise, what surprised her the most wasn’t any of him, it was how she was reacting to it all: she wasn’t scared. time before, had she had francis so close to her, she would’ve freaked out (in fact, it had happened). nervous crisis ensured. but now she longed to be even closer to him, to wrap herself around him and inhale his scent until it was all she could feel. she wanted to get drunk on his scent and keep him close to her for however long she lived.

               which was why when his lips brushed against hers, her eyes instinctively fell shut and she could do nothing else than press her lips against his, gently, very gently, an acceptance of the touch, of the closeness but most importantly, an acceptance of him back in her life in such a way, just like he was letting her back in.

                                     ‘ i love you-- i love you so much... ‘

something in francis’ heart was screaming for him to put it all behind, to believe to her tears and just let go, but he couldn’t. he had risked for her, lied for her, protected her from rumors because he couldn’t protect her when it really mattered. a mistake he was still paying for. uselessly his mother had told him that would have happened anyway, they would have killed him first and then finish her off.

the thought made him want to puke. mary, his beautiful, beautiful mary hurt like that. she was so pure, so perfect, and now she was gone.  or so he thought, for the woman who asked for separate lives to be able to continue her own with another man, could not be his wife, the girl he’d known his whole life, his companion and queen. yet he could see her now, holding his hand and crying tears that looked so real, so heartfelt. 

he felt guilty every time he looked at her, but now, underneath those crystal tears he could see her strength bloom like flowers in spring, and he couldn’t help but being proud. his woman had risen from her ashes like a phoenix and he was proud. even if he’d had no part in her recover. 

her response was sincere, he could hear it from her tone and he would’ve lied if he’d said it hadn’t reassured him, but there was still something uncertain about it. about them. but that, he knew only time could heal.  so he took a deep breath, but he could not hold his tongue.

‘how easily you forgot about him, marie. he’ll be brokenhearted, but i can’t say i’m sorry about it.’

he whispered, never looking away.

‘well i will happily drag him to hell myself, but even then i won’t be able to force you to stay at my side as my queen and wife. that will be your decision to take.’

                     yes, he would be brokenhearted and mary was well aware of that, but she couldn’t bring herself to quite care about it, about him. it was strange, how such strong feelings she believed to have for him could just --- go. lola had warned her not to confuse gratitude with love and what mary was now feeling was sure more like gratitude, something lighter and that didn’t feel like a need. in a way, she felt like a child that had just demanded her parents to let go of her hand for walking. she felt like she’d ripped off a bandage, one she’d been putting cold compresses over for keeping the pain quiet and calm, like one would with a fever.

                     louis condé would be brokenhearted but there was nothing mary could do about it, not anymore. he’d always known she was a monarch, married, she had duties but, more than that, that her heart belonged to another. one thing would become certain in the near future, and it would root from the feeling of being taken advantage of. mary had been frail and vulnerable and he’d been persistent on his advances while at the same time understanding her tragedy and helping her mend in more ways than one. but he’d also gotten under her skin at a time when she couldn’t really say no.

                     talking of which, the use of the word “force” brought a shiver upon her, running down her spine uncomfortably, making her shift slightly in the position, but not quite pulling away. although it hadn’t been used affirmatively (in fact, francis had said he couldn’t and wouldn’t force her), the mention of it still terrified her, bringing the night vividly over her. but she wouldn’t pull away, she wouldn’t, she refused to do that. her expression was unflinching when he spoke.

                                    ‘ i haven’t forgotten, francis, but he was never really in my heart... ‘

                     how could she explain this when she really didn’t want to talk about it any longer? how could she show him that she was still his mary deep within? that she was still there, with him, right there. most importantly, that she wasn’t going to leave him and not out of convenience, not out of duty or out of need, but out of want. a sincere desire to remain by his side, which was something she hadn’t felt since before the assault.

francis couldn’t help but feel a bit ashamed in that moment, he was a grown man acting like a hurt boy. he couldn’t let that jealousy control him, he wanted his tone and his words to be cold out of pride, not out of jealousy. he wanted to be a good king, a king that sits proud yet alone on his throne, a king that sees past his wife’s betrayal.  but he knew he couldn’t be. he could not simply ignore the pain in his guts at the mere thought of her, and he could no longer curse his heart for wanting something so normal. love was the only thing a king was not allowed to feel, and the only thing francis was jealous of. yes, he’d felt it and still did, but it wasn’t the same. 

he knew he was hurting her, and a part of him was glad of it. she deserved to feel like he did.  another part, however, the boy that woke up in the middle of the night just to wait for the fireflies to come with her, felt lower than anything. he did not want to hurt her, he loved her. still did. forever would. 

and it was both his blessing and his curse.

her words mended little, but he could at least see she was trying to fix things. he wanted to help her, lord if he did, but he did not know how. when he was a child and broke something, someone was always there to fix his mess or protect him. and he just never learned how to fix something. let alone someone. so he just looked down at their joined hands and then up into her brown eyes and nodded slightly. he wanted to smile, but he did not manage to. not when she was still mentioning him.

‘yes, i can imagine. but he will return, you know that, don’t you? and what will you do, then?’

                         if only she could take his pain away, if only. if only she could take back all she’d done, all that had hurt him so, if only. and if only the idea of all of that didn’t terrify her to the point of making her heartbeat rate pick up, she would ponder over it more profusely. but even if it was possible to take it all back, to take his pain away, it’d probably mean that her own suffering would go back to being as deep and recent as it had been time back, with no new flesh covering the open wounds all over her goddamn body, with nothing to shield her, like an armour, from all that scared her so damn much now. and yet, she dared think about that: about taking his pain away, even if it meant carrying it on her shoulders, too, next to all the things she carried herself already. when it came to francis, mary lost her sense. it was senseless, you see, to think about such things anyhow, being that she could never take his pain away, she could never take back her actions, all the pain caused, but it didn’t hurt to think about all those what if’s in that situation (except that it did and it was starting to weight down on her chest).

                         his question cut deep within, nearly in her pride, as if she would go back to him, as if her tears weren’t the most sincere thing that he’d seen of her in months, as if ---- but he was right. he was right to resent her and to ask and all of those ambivalences were waging a voracious war inside her head, within her ribcage, and how could she escape what she couldn’t say?

                         she pressed her lips together until they became a thin line and nothing more. mary knew he was right, she knew he was entitled to be mad, to be hurt, to be jealous, but it didn’t take away all of her own pain, that which she carried like a flag at this point, a silent testament of all she’d had to endure, before and after the night of the siege. before and after she’d come to know the truth of what francis had been doing out in the castle that night. ah, yes, how many nights had she stayed up thinking that - selfishly - if he would’ve been there, nothing would’ve happened to her? or maybe it would’ve, still, but maybe she would’ve been like the girl in catherine’s telltale, stepping out untouched, like that lie they’d told, the one everyone at french court had repeated like parrots, such a hurtful thing turned into a little anecdote to the book, for history couldn’t know.

                         going back to his question, over her running thoughts, escaping the screams that loomed over all of those thoughts in her head, mary swallowed and looked down at their intertwined hands, feeling like that’s where she was supposed to be, even when things were more than just the average messed up from court. and she knew francis needed to hear something brutal, a partial truth on her side, but something mostly sincere. how? simple: she couldn’t think about louis in those moments, she couldn’t think about his reaction, about his return - if ever.

in those last weeks francis had experienced various kinds of pain, from the not quite identifiable pain of betrayal - which did not hurt a particular part of his body, but simply hurt - to the sharp, strong pain of  his ear infection. it had spread to his head and it burned like nothing he’d ever felt. and yet, he preferred that. it was more a more comfortable feeling. the idea of being so close to god, to death, was so much easier to face than waking up in the middle of the night to an empty bed, aware that his wife was lying comfortably in another man’s arms.

so, even if it took all his strengths, francis refused her help, her presence, her pity. she could keep her decency, she could keep it all. he was, after all, a survivor, and he was not going to waste his second chance chasing after someone who did not love him anymore. 

of course, as she took his head all those thoughts and good purposes disappeared. and once again, there was only mary.  the king sighed, not holding her hand back, but not pulling away either. he simply took a moment to rejoice the feeling of her skin against his own, of her small, delicate fingers intertwined with his, and a chill ran through his spine.  her hand was warm, and he found it odd. he was quite sure she had just arrived, - and he knew where she had spent her night, for he had protected her from his mother’s wrath - so he did not explain how was it possible for her to feel so warm. so familiar. so his, still. 

oh, how he longed for her touch, her kiss, even, and how ashamed those thoughts made him feel.  her words, that plea of hers, felt like a sharp knife in his heart, and francis briefly wondered how many times more did he have to feel like that for her, but still - and he cursed himself for his good heart - they hit him. so, with another sigh, the king raised his free hand weakly and stopped her stuttering.

‘just what? you can stay, if that’s what you desire. i don’t particularly mind your presence here, but i suggest you to warn your lover you might be late.’

                          mary should be thankful, she knew, for at least he wasn’t telling her to go. he was allowing her to stay next to him and, moreso, stay in france after all she’d done. goodness, she could be considered a traitor for all she’d done, all her crimes against the crown and her own marriage committed out of something she’d started calling love, rooted from a need to get away, to feel safe away from the place that harbored the assault and all those sweet, sweet memories prior to the terrible tragedy. her stain, her shame.

                           and mary knew, she knew she should be thankful (and she was, of course) but the sting of pain was still there, like a bowstring tensing, ready for the final shot. the mercy shot. but that mercy shot never did arrive, it was always left pending, left her with the tensing, only the tensing, the waiting, the holding her breath for the pain to ease. ever the same, you see. as he spoke, she brought his knuckles to her lips and placed a couple gentle kisses on them, coming to look at him through thick, dark eyelashes at the mention of louis.

                           cringing inwardly, the monarch cursed herself off for doing all she’d done and couldn’t help but feel like francis’ poor health was caused, in big measure, by her. and perhaps, just perhaps, all of that could’ve been prevented had she only been there, with him. but she hadn’t -- she couldn’t have been either way, with or without condé, that was her excuse at the moment, that was her shield against the overwhelming weight of the world on her shoulders, the death sentence waiting to fall on her neck like an axe. she swallowed and willed herself to talk, willed herself to forget -ignore- the uncomfortable feeling stirring at the pit of her stomach with such closeness.

                                       ‘ i- i don’t know where he is... ‘

                           we were together but--

                                       ‘ i lost track of him when... no matter, tis not important anymore... francis, i’m so sorry. ‘

If it hadn’t been for her smell, so familiar and hers, despite everything, Francis would have believed his illness was playing games with his mind, making his last moments on earth even more painful by seeing things and people that shouldn’t have been there. But she was, and she was real, and he could feel it. And her presence was burning more than touching the fire. 

His wife. His traitorous, as she had been called by his own mother, wife. The wife he knew, deep down, he couldn’t live without. But he wasn’t living, was he? No, he was dying, and she was there just because she had to be there. Because no matter their relationship, a Queen needs to be present at her King’s death. Oh lord, those thoughts made his mouth bitter. If someone had told him, a year from their marriage, that things would have ended up like that…well, he wouldn’t have believed them. When they got married, he truly believed he was the happiest man on earth. When they got married, it was out of love, despite everything. When they got married, he thought they could have been the ones to make it. Useless to say it, he had been wrong.

Francis knew she wasn’t really there because she wanted to. Hell, maybe Condé was right outside, waiting for her, giving her something he couldn’t give her any longer, deserving her love more than him. But he couldn’t stop thinking why. He’d had time to wonder if there had been something he’d said, or something he did to make her destroy all they had, but there was not a single reason that could have made her act like that. Yes, she blamed him for what had happened, and she was right to do so, lord only knew how much he blamed himself for it, but she also had blamed him for other things, things he’d had nothing to do with, but she did it anyway, and, after what she had been through, Francis couldn’t find a way of telling her she was wrong. So he had done the only thing reason had adviced him to: he had let her go.

And now, she was there, her soft voice was broken, and he knew that tone. She was crying, he could still recognize it, and he could imagine the small frown between her eyebrows, (one that he used to kiss when she was upset) but he couldn’t quite see it. It was a little dark, and she was, as always, too far. But his reply came, as bitter as the taste on his tongue.

“Alright, you came. I will tell my mother, so she can spread the word. You may go back to him, now, the Queen’s duty was to pay a visit. No one ever said how much it had to last.”

                      the wait between heartbeats was incredibly slow, the silence in the room only broken by his worked breathing, a ringing in her ears that only got louder and louder as the silence became deeper and deeper. mary had lost track of louis when she’d seen the outline of the castle, she’d pushed her poor horse to the limits of speed and was there long before any of the guards that had found her. in the castle, wary looks, people murmuring, but it didn’t matter. her two fears were, one, catherine bursting through the door and strangling her and, two, francis’ wellbeing. he had to get better, he couldn’t-- no, inconceiveable.

                       and though her pain was so big, still, heavy in her bones with unwated touches and unheard screams, with a trauma so big she could barely hold it inside her ribcage at times, mary’s first impulse upon his rejection was to move closer, reach for his hand, fingers intertwining with his with both gentleness and a hint of desperation in her whole demeanor, expression changing, the frown turning deeper. she was taken aback with how cold his hand was, a clear contrast with mary’s nerve-heated palm.

                       it took her a second to realize what she’d done, the primal reaction, perhaps what she truly wanted and what she hoped he still longed for, even after she’d become the snake in their safe haven, even after she’d pushed him away and ran to someone else’s arms for quieting her thoughts and running away from those clear hues that knew her so well, too well, that irradiated a pain so big and a guilt so heavy she could never bear it in her fragile, deteriorated state --- but that was before. if condé had been good for something, it had been for reminding her that she wasn’t irreparably broken. and though she was grateful, in the end he wasn’t her home and her safe place wasn’t in the crook of his neck and in the steady sound of his heartbeat. that was francis, all francis.

                                                  ‘ no... ‘

                       the plea like a whisper, fell from her lips shakily, nearly like an afterthought to all she was feeling and couldn’t voice.