The new Queen of England sits silently at her new vanity table. It's dark, she can hear the echoes of the people running to their Anderson shelters, the hums of the Gerry planes flying overhead, hoping to strike one more time while the flag remains at half mast. They're coming closer, the differences in tones of different versions trying to catch her people hiding in the train stations and in the shelters and in the small slivers between buildings, little scruffy children not yet evacuated hiding in their mothers' breast or their siblings' arms, holding meagre bread crusts in their little dirty hands.
She's exhausted, her body aches, her head aches with the weight of the crown so forcefully implanted upon it. She's so young, not even sixteen, how did things come to this? The last one standing, the little Queen with a world to save, with Europe burning and the Gerry's coming closer with every loss the British army faces. Just three years ago, before Cousin David chose that American whore over his country, his crown, before Mother and James and Arthur were taken by the bombings, before her half siblings fell to assassination, before her dear Papa was ripped from her this very night, things were so simple, so happy.
Mary remembers the song her mother would hum to her when they were little in Sterling, when Windsor sat on the throne and Henry was still a ruling King. She remembers the winters in Scotland, skating with her father on the frozen lake outside of their home, writing her name in the ice. She remembers sneaking into the kitchens with James and Arthur in December, getting their hands dirty with caramelised dates and cherry's and and other loveliness that they enjoyed, hiding under their beds with a candle lighting them up, with Mother and Father at the doorway pretending they couldn't see their feet sticking out of the edges.
A beautiful world, one Mary will never see again.
It had been too late to save Mother, James and Arthur when she and her father had got to them in London, but it didn't have to be too late to save her father. The-the gun was aimed at her, and he jumped in front of her. And then-
Mary sniffles, rubbing her face with the back of her hand in a way that would have had Governess Baudelaire shrieking at her. There have been too many tears today, from her, from the country, from the government. She's exhausted, she's grief stricken, she's sickened, she's defeated when the game hasn't even started yet.
Her lower lip trembles and she buries her face in her hands, beginning to weep again. How can she bare this pain? Her heart is broken, her family is dead, she is a Queen of a burning country that starves in the darkness, the lion above them slowly coming in for another swoop.
"Mary?" a voice says.
Tears in her eyes, she looks across the large room and spots her closest companion standing several feet away from her. When did he come in?
"Francis," she gasps, getting up from her chair and rounding it, before she crosses the room like a child, throwing herself into his arms. He stumbles back, but catches her in his arms, letting her weep. He weeps, too.
"I heard what happened, it's everywhere." he tells her. "I'm so sorry."
"The-the shot was meant for me," Mary sobs into his white suit jacket, it appeared to be glowing from the dim three-candle nightlight. "I-I saw him aim at me, but Papa pushed me out the way and jumped in front before the guards got him. I didn't know what happened, he pushed me onto the floor, but then I heard the bang." Mary shivers in his arms, and he holds her tighter, his eyes soft, tearful as the Dauphin -is he still?- of France holds his dear friend closer, looking into her eyes, the dim light highlighting the curvature of his jawline. "I-I saw him laying there, blood coming out of his mouth. I tried to stop the blood, people were going crazy, but-but it was no use. I can't-" she trailed off, her words thick with the tears in her throat and streaming down her face.
"It's alright," he whispers. "it's going to be okay."
"H-how? He wasn't meant to die, Francis! The gun was pointed at me, me! Not him! He should still be here, be alive, be King!" she pulls away and turns from him, and Francis watches her. "How-how am I supposed to pull this off? Be Queen? Queen of a country I spent most of my life knowing nothing about? It was only into month two father got the crown, I was never supposed to be an option for the throne, it was supposed to be David, and then it was supposed to be Albert, then Elizabeth. But we know what happened to them, don't we? Because of that bastard David, and Adolph." She sniffles and throws her hands down. "I loved him, he was a good father, even when we got the crown. A good man, my mother loved him, Francis and Louis loved him as if he was their own father." she extends a white satin arm as if gesturing to them, but they're not here. They're fighting in Boudreaux. "I-I can't do this, I won't. It-it's only been two years, I'm not ready. I don't know enough about politics or political intrigue, I-I don't know what to say to Winston when he comes to me on Monday. Maybe-maybe I could govern a country, technically four, and juggle the commonwealth on top, but not one at war, Francis. Not one at war." she whispers. "That devil is a stones throw away from us, he's breathing down my neck, no doubt he'll send over another to try and take me out, finish the job. How-how can I do it? I don't know how to."
"I'll be here." Francis affirms. Mary turns to him. "I'll help you, remember, I've been heir since the day I was born, I-I've watched my father in privy council meetings, I've helped him deal with the money he juggled on a daily basis, the balance between Germany and Spain and Navarre. I'll help you, my parents will help you. Maybe forever, if the-" he doesn't need to finish his sentence. "You're not alone, Mary. I'm here, and I'm never going to leave you, ever. Do you understand? I'm here for you, I'll help you through this, and we'll get that bastard for what he's done to you, for what he's done to me, our countries. I promise you, we'll succeed."
Mary stares at him, transfixed, before she walks with purpose towards him, shocking them both in the way she grabs the back of his neck and pulls him in for a kiss. It's deep and rough, and he responds with vigour, their cheeks wet with tears as they cling to each other tighter, with everything they've lost, they'll find each other in this chaos. Mary and Francis make their way to her new bed, never leaving each others' touch.
Later, when they're both bare and exhausted, and the candles have melted to the hilt, the room is dark and the Gerry's have danced their little dance for the evening, the new Queen gets up from her new bed, from her lovers' arms -ignoring the sting between her legs and the blood on the sheets- crawling to don her satin white robe once more. She goes to the balcony and opens the doors, smelling the stour and the gunpowder and the metallic scent of blood. She can hear soft weeps, the whistling of wheels as they're pushed through the streets, the crunching of bricks and mortar and cement as they're pushed into piles, the ash of smouldering fires and smoke, and looks up to the sky. It's beautiful and almost normal. The moon shines bright, staring at her.
I will win, Father. I will avenge you. I promise you this.
//
Sorry for the lateness of the update, I've been dealing with no inspiration and trying to get Nevorum up and running again. Please leave a request or a comment to try and get the updates up and running again :)
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You Are My Light Part II
Historical Fiction-Reign Oneshots/Taking Requests- 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. Part 2! -Read TEML first!-
