#[ francis ii / threads. ] no. there cannot be two kings. which is why i reject your offer. my reign will not end without a fight.

[khruseosold]

Long overdue starter // @loialte​ (Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots)

Tutors, advisers, ears grew weary of these repeated speeches of responsibility, expectations and a Dauphin’s inevitable succession. His attentions never truly knew falter however, they had merely been inhabited with a true-felt wish for differing focus— one such as the image before him now; had their Maker ever filled another canvas with a subject as beautiful as she? Mary Stuart, the recipient of a gaze as intense of blues as his own, the recipient of all adoration and devotion of his heart, and his ears were ever happier to be the recipients of her voice opposed to all other, the only one which spoke in tones as melodious and bright, he’d never tire.

The approached sensation of a cold material to his hands, accompanied by some rushed words from her, gathered his focus and brightened a countenance, bemusement and delight filling every inch amidst his features. It was a demeanour he’d known well, one oft a consequence of one of his mother’s visits, “Mary. Mary,—” Though he knew she was hardly genuinely distraught; a bare lean forward, intrinsic as much per usual, permitted his lips to briefly seek out her own in momentary silencing (and in truthful delight of his reuniting with her). Upon his growing separation, a nose brushed the tip of her, before further distancing left none more than the tip of an index at her chin, “That’s better.” And the rebirth of his earlier delight, “Now, what has my mother been up to, this time?”

[khruseosold]

I’m trading pain for pain, I hope you don’t mind. <3 // @regentofscots

Profound and ever so ingrained it was after these weeks of habitual presence; the ache grated a heart and mind alike, every singular time she captured his attention and vision as a whole. She was a rose, was she not? His rose, soft, divine, yet withstanding and immune to nature’s wither altogether. Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots, she was all truth he knew or ever had to know; the ease to his troubles, the strength he craved and unknowingly to herself, his conscience in dark hours as these. His wish were that she relented, ceased in her unforgiving interrogations— yet he’d known no opportunity to grant her it either, he never would, not with this. His unfathomable deed for France, for all others  of his family; it’d been his own, yet the consequences could be weighed on all those he’d done it for; the end of his reign and life  could not know or mean the end of theirs. Such a prospect was equally unfathomable, and there was no way to tell her of such a reality— such withhold was the only protection he, himself, could offer; and one other.

The liquid swirled within the chalice at his continuous rotation of it, every motion, in this moment, surely a clear representation of his heart’s trouble to any who’d bear to look and take in. And yet, despite perfectly aware of this, his choice of company had him find his place, precise and ever intended, beside one Marie de’ Guise. One sip served as prelude to another, “She is strong,” A smile was offered amidst his pause, though the next found quietude, barely audible, as if an absent-minded whisper, “—so, very strong.” Physically, emotionally, mentally strong, and ever headstrong. The temporary lightening of countenance and poster faltered in slight, a gaze calling its reverence of his love to halt and instead lowered to his side, briefly towards his company before it lowered to his chalice, weighing his choice of words, “I need her in Scotland.”

[khruseosold]

Tag drop: Francis II.