The room is warm, lit by the flickering candles and the roaring fire to keep the chill away from the most important and powerful man in France. His Queen quietly closes the door behind her with a soft click. The guards had barely given her a second glance after she approached the royal chambers of French Court. They had been surprised, of course, it had been weeks since Mary approached the door of this room. The last time had been that horrid night where Severin and his band of bastards had beaten her and held her down and-

No. She cannot think of such things, she cannot think of that night. The worst night of her life has to become nothing to her but a mere memory. It holds no power over her if it is just a memory. A horrible, horrible memory that will eventually be forgotten and cannot influence her actions or invade her mind anymore. That's what Charlotte de Martiers said, the woman she had met at Antione's gathering had told her. When it becomes a memory, it holds no power over her. She can control it, and she will control it. She will control her body, and she will save herself.

The room glows golden, it's beautiful and it's serene. Catherine's changed the room around three times since, she cannot remember the spot in which they hurt her. Perhaps it's where the selection of wines and whiskeys lay before the two couches, perhaps not. But that is hardly the point. She walks foreword until she can properly see the object of her intrigue.

He's sleeping, burrowed deeply into the covers, as he always had been when it was cold. The Queen of France smiles gently as she sees how crooked and great his hair becomes as his head lays upon the pillow. He looks so innocent as he sleeps, he's such a beautiful man. Unburdened by his mistakes and the general gist of ruling two countries. So many nights, they would lay like this, together, wound in each other's arms, keeping each other warm, away from the world of coldness and political scandals. She aches for the simplicity of it all, it cannot forever go on like this, can it?

It would not, Mary would make sure of it. So, she goes foreword and sits at the edge of his bed. He doesn't wake, but he stirs, laying on his back. She smiles at him gently, he's so handsome, so young. There's been so many mistakes between them, they've only been married less than a year. There's no finery around him, he looks like the young man he was, instead of the powerful King he could be when the sun came up.

She just watches him sleep, such love and hope in her eyes. And, even though she doesn't want to admit it, regret.

The Queen leans foreword slightly, placing her hand at his forehead, brushing a lock of hair from his face. She's not in control of her movements, her hand sliding down to his cheek. She cups it, it's so warm and well built. A breath leaves her, she touches him for the first time sine he so foolishly and gallantry tried to protect her from Narciesse's threats when he left with his brother to kill Montgomery and Balfont. He's so handsome, he's her husband. How could she have ever pushed him away? She brushes her thumb slightly, like she did when he found her and Catherine in the dead of night after she killed Gifford and his man. How he had ran to her, held her with such a tight grip it reminded her of when she had been ripped away from him to go to the French convent.

Mary shivers, then. That hadn't gone to plan. The excurgence by the English to murder the nuns and the children all to get to her and drag her to England would haunt her for the rest of her days, she knew that well. But, it was a memory, one that held no power over her now. Time would come to deal with England, but for now, they would settle France, then they would settle Scotland, then they would deal with the bastard Queen of England.

Her thumb slides over his hair, it's so soft and beautiful. She loves his hair so much. It's so beautiful.

Her husband moves, then. He leans his head into her palm, still sleeping. She smiles softly, he's so beautiful. She loves him, she always has. Even when he's asleep, he's aware of her and her presence. They're so entuned, so entangled, so connected. Even when they were children, it had always been like that. Whenever one of them would have a cough, the other would know it. Whenever one of them was hurting, the other would know it. Neither of them understood it, but it was what it was.

She loves him, she wants to be with him. She wants to have a future with him, she wants that disgustingly perfect domesticity. There was only one way she knew how to get that. She isn't in control of her movements anymore, and she doesn't know if she wants to be.

Their lips touch, so slowly, so gently. Yes, it's probably not best to do such a thing as he's sleeping, but it was the only thing she wanted to do in that moment. His lips are so soft and with a perfect natural pout. They're sweet, she can taste the wine he had drunk before bed. Her body relaxes. She loves him, she loves this. How could she think she could go a lifetime without him?

Her hands cup his cheeks, their kiss growing deeper. He begins to rouse from his sleep. She doesn't know what he'll do when he wakes, but Mary's so pleasantly surprised when he returns her kiss, his fingers tangling in her hair.

Francis rouses slowly. There's a woman kissing him, holding his face. Immediately, he knows who it is. The King is full of delight and warmth, his wife is here with him, in his arms, she's kissing him of her own violation. He smiles into the kiss, his fingers sliding into her soft raven strands, holding her gently.

Mary begins to move, crawling over him, to his side. He's delighted, she's in their bed again, in his arms, safe from the world and the horrors that they had endured. He kisses her until she pulls away. Blue and golden eyes open, watching each other.

Mary's lips stretch into a girlish smile. He beams at her, eager, thanking God that she's here, with him, not pushing him away anymore. Without question, he didn't expect such a thing, but he's delighted nonetheless.

"My love." he murmurs.

"My Francis, I'm here."