Little Mary Stuart squealed loudly, running away from her foster brother as he took a hold a behemoth of a beetle in his small, six year old hands and began to run towards her with it. She squealed in mortification, the hem of her small white dress and shiny black shoes coming up dewy and greenish from the bright, green grass that lay under their feet. It oversaw the large Valois-Angouleme-de Medici estate that, it itself, lay upon the beautiful, small French island that the young Scottish girl had found herself evacuated to last spring.
Her foster brother, the eldest, legitimate child of her foster parents, laughed in mischief, his long, scrawny legs carrying him quickly around the grounds just before the orchid. The orchid lay bare, having been picked apart for the war effort. Fresh apples and sweet berries were being transported to those brave soldiers all over Europe, who were fighting the Nazi menace with every inch of breath left in their lungs. His long, blonde curls swept backwards over his shoulders as the two of them dashed around, blissfully oblivious to the world that lay just outside of their watery defence.
It was surprising that the two got on so well, after all. The little Scot had been evacuated from Edinburgh, after the bombs had gotten a little too close for her mother to bare, not able to bare the thought of holding her child's body in her arms as her husband, the child's father, was away fighting Nazi tyranny with his squadron of Scots. Taken in by her mothers' close friend, the boy's father Henry, the young girl had found herself spending days upon days on the steam train and hours after hours on various boats and ships and horseback to finally get to the Valois' residence upon a small island just off the Eastern coast of France.
Mary Stuart's entrance into the home of the Valois had been anything but welcoming. A cold, ruthless and heavily pregnant matriarch and an absent patriarch, two weary, legitimate children and two elder, illegitimate children who were anything but welcome into the home. Thankfully, the eldest, legitimate boy had warmed to her, even if Elisabeth and little Claude didn't have much to do with her. The staff in the home would rarely see Francis without Mary, and wise versa.
Those two are joined at the hip, they would smile amongst themselves. Sometimes they would catch the two sleeping in the same bed after an exhausting day of playing make believe, or would catch the pillows being massacred by an intense pillow fight that left no prisoners. In their lessons, the two would intensely read over astronomy and Greek mythology, being so fascinated by the ways the physical world worked, that they were granted the privilege to forget about the horrors of the world around them. Francis had begged and pleaded and cried to his mother so much that his request to sleep in the same room was finally granted, several weeks after the girls' arrival. Staff chuckled when they saw the two telling stories or reading at candlelight, hidden by a blanket fort, but the real reason was to not continue the make believe long after the sun had gone down and the clock had struck twelve, not entirely anyway. The real reason lay upon the forms of the two children laying intertwined together, tear tracks still present upon the girls' cheeks after she had awoken them both with horrid nightmares of her previous life, when she had seen her Fleming cousin, a child barely older than her, perish in the bombings, never having stood a chance against the Nazi's, anyway.
It had gotten so, so much worse after Mary had received word that her mother had been a fatality in one of those air raids, succeeding in covering three children from the bomb and the shrapnel. Francis still remembered how she had shook and screamed and fell to the floor with the letter still firmly in her hands. It was a stark reminder that although they were safe from the Nazi menace and most of the war, being hidden away on a tiny, little island, there was still a war going on.
But all of those horrid nights had been forgotten for the moment as Mary sat upon a tree branch, gleefully away from Francis and that horrid beast he so enjoyed taunting her with. Neither noticed when Henry Valois, the patriarch of the household, father to an illegitimate son Sebastian -who was motherless in his own right, Diane had taken a trip to Paris just as the city had been taken over by Nazi troops, never making it out- as well as his litter with Catherine, walked up to the two children, taking time away from the others and his wife.
"Mary." he stated loudly. Both Francis and Mary turned from each other and towards their father as he walked down the small hill towards them. Mary hopped down from the branch, whilst Francis popped down the bug, looking towards his father, noting what he had in his hand.
"What's that, Papa?" Francis asked him. "Is that another letter from Mary's Papa?" he asked, remembering how excited she had been three months ago when she had received a letter from James Stuart, informing her of his safety and love for his only living child.
"No, it's not." she observed. "It's yellow." she whispered, her heart already starting to sink at the sight of the yellow paper and the look upon Henry's face. She bit her lip, feeling Francis' hand wind around her fingers. "It's a telegram." she whispered again, swallowing thickly. Her heart raced painfully, a deep, shaking breath leaving her lips as Henry handed her the stiff paper. She knew what a telegram was, what it represented.
"We've just received this, mon petite," Henry informed them both. "Your mother and I, and your sisters, will be right over there should you need us." he stated, walking swiftly back towards the growing family as they enjoyed their picnic.
"I don't want to open it." Mary stated to her dear, dear friend. "It hasn't happened yet if I don't open it." she stated faintly, looking at the unmistakable markings of the imperial war office.
"Whatever it says-" Francis paused, taking her hand firmer in his own. "or doesn't say, I'm here, okay?" he asked. Mary nodded, swallowed, gaining the strength and the bravery to open the letter.
As she did, Francis cast a look over to his parents, who stared at them. His icy blue gaze told them to turn away, give Mary her space. Thankfully, they did.
The six year olds' honey coloured gaze frantically scanned the letters on the page.
Miss Mary V M E Stuart,
On behalf of the department of war, it is my sad duty to inform you that your father, Lance Corporal James H R M Stuart, was killed in action in the performance of his duty to his King and Country. The department wishes to convey to you it's deepest condolences in your great loss. On account of existing conditions, the body cannot be returned at present. To prevent any aid to our enemies, please do not disclose the name of his section or station.
"Oh." Mary whispered, catching nine medals that fell from the letter. But it was Francis who had to catch her as her knees suddenly buckled into the muddy dew of the ground below them.
"I'm sorry." Francis whispered, bounding his arms around his friend. "I'm so sorry." he whispers again, cursing the pain she felt as her body began to tremble at a more violent speed, and small sobs began to escape her little body. "I'm here, I'm here."
आप पढ़ रहे हैं
Tu Es Ma Lumière
ऐतिहासिक साहित्य~Reign AU/Collection of Oneshots~ The world can be dark, Mary, and uncertain and cruel. The only thing that matters is that we face it together. No matter what happens, you are my light ~Frary Oneshots/Taking Requests~ Book reached it's chapter limi...
