The King of France grits his teeth in pure, unbridled anger. It was so prominent in his veins that the blonde began to tremble viably in his own body. Why? Why?! He was turning into his father, that much was certain, as if the bastard child and rumoured mistress wasn't enough. He was breaking each and every promise he ever made to Mary. The King knew that if he couldn't be honest with his Queen, he would loose her. She would pack up her things and go back to the country that needed her, her birthwritten country that she had left behind to come to him as a child.
Was it the fact that he could so, so easily lie to the love of his life, or the fact that that same love could easily believed his lies, that ached his heart? Mary was his best friend, his lover, his confident, his Queen, his light in the dark, tumultous life of rule. How could his world not see the hurt in his eyes and the deprevity within his soul? Had ruling made them so unatuned to each other's needs, or were the words he had spat in anger and hatred things that she felt within herself?
The blonde began pacing his chambers, wondering when his wife would return to him as she always had. How long had it been since she had ran from the room in tears? Minutes? Hours? Days? He didn't know, and he didn't care. All he wanted was for her to return to him and apologise and beg her to forgive him. He didn't care about the consequences anymore, all he wanted within this earthly world was his sweet, beautiful Mary within his arms. With her, he could brave the storm of France and Narciesse. Without her, he would wilt and die like a rose within the winter's kiss. The guilt began eating him alive, burning his insides in a rage so furious and prominent that, that same rage he had unleashed upon his wife to keep her safe. His hatred of himself, his father, Narciesse, his choices burned him alive, from the inside out. That rage was never towards Mary, it never had been.
The two of them were quite the beautiful mess. They had both made mistakes, horrible mistakes. Olivia and Bash and Lola and Jean. Some worse than others. But those decisions in the past couldn't dictate their future as it was now. The issues between them had to be resolved before they turned into two people, wed but alone, bound in the eyes of God but going down two separate paths, justifying their sins as acts of survival. Before they became so bitter they couldn't stand each other, like his parents had. Before they did things that were unrepeatable holes within their marriage and their love. Before he did something he regretted. More things that he regretted.
The King's anger burned like a volcano, erupting on the one person he had sworn to love and protect more than anybody in the world. The lava refused to smoulder, he saw red. Why couldn't Mary accept the hint he gave her to leave him be? Let him wallow in his own self hatred and misery? Why did she know him so, so well? Why couldn't she be the meek, submissive little wife he needed her to be?
His foolishness made him want to strike himself, like he had wanted to in the night with Count Vincent and had been looking back upon his foolishness with Olivia. Why was he thinking in such a way? Mary was an enigmatic, passionate spitfire! The fact that she did not bent the knee to him was one of the things he adored most about the Scottish Sapphire Queen that he had adored since the age of five! She was smarter than anybody he had ever known, more resourceful and capable than anybody in this physical world.
He inhaled, deeply, shakily, pulling at his hair in a grip that began to hurt. He didn't know where she was, if she was with anybody. Was the huddled in a corner crying? Had she gotten ahold of the whiskey imported from her homeland and was drinking her sorrows away? His obsession over his wife made his heart stutter and his mouth dry. All he wanted was his sweet, perfect Mary within his arms once again. All he wanted was for his wife to appear through the doors, to allow him the opportunity to push her against it and apologise and beg forgiveness until she believed his words. He wanted to fall to his knees and worship her, to not leave their chambers the next day in his mission to pleasure his wife. All he -Francis de Valois-Angouleme, second of his name, son of King Henry II, King of France, King Consort of Scots- wanted was for the entire world know the level in which he adored his wife and Queen. For her to know that he thought her not a failure, but an earthly Goddess, possessing everything he could ever want within a woman.
He belittled paganism, but understood fully the need to fall down and worship the feminine form in all its glory. He held Mary, an earthly Goddess sent to him by the almighty Lord, holding no need for any Peitho or Astarte. She was his world, his light, his heart, his moon, his stars, his son, his entire life, and he had hurt her. What kind of man, King, was he? He clung to the hope that it was good Mary didn't know what kind of monster her husband had became. A monster that would have been the father of her child if she hadn't lost their precious child before it had a chance to survive within this world. Their poor, lost child. Such a heartache, the lowest thing he could stoop to.
Anger burned through his being, coming out through tears. He collapsed in the settee in which he had shattered Mary's heart, yanking at the hair upon his head once more. His stomach churned as he remembered her tears, her gasps for breath as she ran from him. Anger and heartache caused a golden goblet to become decapitated as he threw it from one side of the room to the other. He needed a drink, he needed something that would make this situation not so bad.
"Why?!" he screams, tears falling down his cheeks at a rapid rate. How had he became a man such as this, he had such hopes for the future upon the day he wed. If that man looked at his elder self now, he was sure that he would spit upon him now. Why did this have to happen? Why did he have to love his father to such a degree? The man couldn't stand him at the best of times! Simply because he held the blood of the Queen and not the Parisian whore! He was an awful, sickening tyrant of a man, an awful husband and -if possible- a worse father to all of his children except Henry Fleming and Sebastian. Francis had tried so, so hard to please him all throughout his childhood, his adolescence. To make him just smile at him, pay him at least a bit of attention that he gave so willingly to Bash. One of the reasons he had married Mary was to please his father, he had taken mistresses to prove he could be just like Henry! He'd treated Mary coldly in the first few weeks because that's what his father did to his mother! Everything he did was for him, and now-
The door slammed open.
Francis' heart stuttered as he jerked up, hoping to see his wife in the doorway. But he was sorely dissapointed and rather frightened to realise that, in the doorway, stood not the Queen Consort of France, but the Queen Mother. And she looked furious.
She stormed into the room, her face drawn with anger. "Tell me-" her voice is clipped and cold, it startles Francis. "why I've had to spend the last two hours comforting your hysterical wife because of things you've said to her?" she snaps, standing in front of him, towering over her son. Golden child, King, or not, Catherine de Medici would always play mother to him. "You-you say to her that you blame her for the miscarriage? How could you be so cruel to her? To loose a child you did not get to hold is a horrible, traumatising thing to go through, Francis! I know better than anybody! You can not blame her for this! How could you be so-"
"I killed him." Francis' voice cut through his mothers. Dead and cold, staring up at her with eyes that held no more emotion, no sparkle of any kind. It stops her in her verbal tirade.
"What?" she frowns.
"I killed him." he says again. Francis stands, towering over the small woman. "I killed father." he says grimly.
Catherine's eyes resemble hazel buttons, they are so wide and stunned. She says nothing, tears grow in her eyes. Her small hand raises, the jewelled rings upon her fingers glittering in the dim candlelight. She seems to be in conflict of whether to strike him or not. He does nothing, just stares down at her, beginning to walk. His words are emotionless and chilled.
"I took Montgomery's place within the joust. He was gone to us the moment he slaughtered those innocent men, heroes of Callas. I couldn't admit it before, but I could then. I knew what I had to do the moment he touched my wife." his words are plain and unadorned, cold. "He was going to kill me, I had to kill him first. Narciesse manipulated me into confessing, and I-" he inhales sharply. "I'm his puppet now, he's blackmailing me. I-I should have killed him then and there. But I wanted to be different, and now he blackmails me into doing his bidding. I-I can't tell her, she'll be implicated and-"
"Shh." Catherine places a finger onto his lips, stilling his words. "Oh, my child." she brings him into an embrace so tight that the King would find bruises upon his torso for days to come. But it doesn't matter, his mother holds him so tight that it seems that everything may be alright. And when that mother is Catherine de Medici, it may actually become a reality. "You've been carrying this all alone?" she whispers, holding him to her. She pets his hair as he buries his face within the crook of his mothers neck.
He nods, sniffling. "I-I had to lie to her to protect her. She can't know, I can't risk her life. Anybody's life, but hers." he whimpers. Catherine cooes at him, stroking his hair. "Don't hate me. I-I didn't want to do it-"
"Of course not, my love. I could never hate you. I understand, he was a monster in the months before his death. I don't blame you, child." she holds him as if he is a child, stroking his golden curls that she so adored. "I could never blame you."
"What're we going to do?"
"What we're going to do-" Catherine pulls him back and pulls his head down, looking him in the eye. "is we're going to find whatever evidence Narciesse has, and we'll kill it. We'll kill them all and burn the memory of what happened. And then, we'll kill that bastard for putting you through this." she hisses in pure hatred of the man who dared harm her cub.
"And Mary?" he whispers.
"She's in my chambers, I had to give her a sleeping drought to get her down-" his face falls. "after she wakes tomorrow, you'll go to her and explain why you say what you say and await her judgement. And after we take Narciesse's head, you can tell her the truth of everything that's happened between then and now." she instructs, her hands leaving Francis' face, taking his hands. "Trust your mother, my child. Everything will be alright." she says firmly. "I'll make sure of it. Anybody who harms you, their families will weep, tears of blood. Trust that, and trust me."