A.N. Lyrics from (italiczied thingies) from John Mayer's 'Edge Of Desire'. Poetry is by Pablo Neruda, and pretty much symbolizes Mabastain (at least in my opinion :D).

I don't actually know what this is. It formed while I was watching Downton Abbey, and now it's a fully-fledged ficlet and i'm just going to publish it and let you guys tell me what you think. Okay? Okay.

this is an AU in which Mary and Francis do indeed get married, but Mary never gets over Bash, so they eventually get together and start...i suppose i'll call it an extra-maritial affair?

Anyway, I hope you like!

READ AND REVIEW, PLEASE.

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

- Pablo Neruda

i. young, and full of running; tell me where is that taking me? just a great figure eight or a tiny infinity...

A woman is to be faithful to her husband, obedient to him in all ways. She is to save herself for him and keep herself for him, lest she soil her reputation and her marriage bed.

A woman is to love none but her husband, and to lay with none but him.

(Oh, if only.)

(If. Only.)

i want you so bad i'll go back on the things i believe.

Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots, prides herself on being a good Catholic girl, one always goes to Mass and Confession, who prays every night. Two months ago, her one failing was that she had consummated her marriage before it actually occurred, but the priest absolved her, and God forgives, after all.

But Sebastian Du Poitiers is her one everlasting failure, and she doubts she will ever be cleansed of him.

She wishes she did not want this, and she most certainly did not plan it; it is against everything she has been taught since she was a small child, and she feels it like a stain on her immortal soul.

But no matter how large the stain grows, it will never overwhelm the sheer amount of everything she feels as she looks across the pillow and sees his dark hair on her sheets, his bare form entangled in hers, his eyes twinkling and shining and true.

(Everything is in him, and he is in her, and there is a part of her, a selfish sinner within her, that could not bear to lose him.)

love is really nothing but a dream that keeps waking me. for all of my trying, we still end up dying. how can it be?

One of the king's favored is getting married, and Henry throws the wedding at court; it's big and lavish and Francis spends the whole time flirting with a courtesan whose breasts are practically falling out of her tightly-laced dress, so Mary feels justified in saving two dances for Bash.

(As much justification as she has, she still feels a guilty flutter of lust when his arms go around her, and she can't stop herself from picturing herself in his chambers.

In his bed.)

The orchestra strikes up the tune, a lively dancing song, and Bash pulls her perhaps a bit too close to avoid suspicion (she can't bring herself to care, quite honestly) and the scruff on his chin tickles his ear when he whispers to her.

Dancing with Bash is always an exhilarating experience, because it is never just dancing.

When he twirls her, she feels her world fall away, and when he pulls her flush against him, her body fitting with his in every possible way, heedless of the eyes that watch them, she feels her knees buckle beneath her until she thinks she could melt into a quivering puddle and mind it not all the while.

He knows exactly what he is doing to her, as he holds her this close, rocks her as gently as this. He looks deep into her eyes, and she sees in his blue depths a challenge, an unspoken word.

Mary is described by anyone who knows her as head-strong and stubborn, so she answers his challenge by holding him just as close, digging her fingernails slightly into his back, reveling in the hitch in his breath, and the way he looks down at her promises retribution later that night.

(This is a complicated and twisted game they play, all full of signals and looks and-

And promises, because Bash has never broken a promise to her, and that means more to her than any of Francis's endearments.)

don't say a word, just come over and lie here with me. because i'm just about to set fire to everything i see.

(Later that night, she will follow him into his chambers –Francis is with the blonde courtesan, and no one will miss her tonight in the confusion of the wedding- and she will kiss his teasing words off of his mouth, and he will chase her doubts away with a single touch of his hips to hers, because theirs is a love that was made to help them forget, and that is exactly what they need.)

Sophia De La Montag comes to Court; she is tall and fair and beautiful, and she fancies herself in love with Bash, draping herself over him fetchingly and quite inconveniently "appearing" whenever Mary and Bash are together, and Mary does not appreciate it.

Whatsoever.

At all.

Period.

She tries not to let her irritation show in public, and instead marks him as hers when they are alone, makes sure that he will never forget her as Francis has.

He laughs at her jealousy as they lay next to each other, sweat-covered, chests rising in unison. He holds her to him tenderly and whispers in her ear that she is adorable when she pouts.

"I am not pouting," She tells him drowsily, swatting at his nose. "I simply don't like her."

"You have no reason to," He replies. "I am yours."

She looks at him deeply, searching his eyes for any sign of doubt or hidden fear. "Truly and completely?"

"Truly and completely," He promises. "I would give you anything within my power. Grant you any wish."

"What if I wished for you to leave me, and never return?" She asks, and she feels him tense.

"Ah, but that is out of my control," Bash teases her. "I could no sooner leave you than I could leave my heart. My love for you is out of my power; I am simply subjected to its will."

His words ignite something in her, a warm fire that is consuming and saving at the same time.

"Will you still feel this way, ten years from now?" She asks him as she rolls on top of him, his hands coming to rest at the bare curve of her waist. "Will you still love me as such once the forbidden thrill wears off?"

He presses a kiss to the inside of her wrist. "Will the sun still hang? Will the stars still shine? For my love for you is as steady as the universe, and forever insatiable. Mary," He whispers, looking into her eyes. "I will never grow tired of you."

(And this is it; this is why he hold a part of her Francis never will, because as the heir to a throne Mary has spent her entire life preparing for possible futures and eventualities and things. She has spent every waking moment preparing for changes, but Bash is constant, and in his consistency lies everything.

He is the stars and the sun, heavy in the sky, he is the force that pulls the river downstream and holds the trees to the earth. He is everything around her, and he is within her so completely that she cannot breathe, cannot function, does not exist without him.

This love that she feels is all-encompassing, and Mary has given up trying to escape it, because-

Bash is gravity, and without him there is no sense to the world.)

so young, and full of running. all the way to the edge of desire. steady my breathing, silently screaming, 'I have to have you now.'

When she wakes up the next morning he is there, and she thinks that she has slept too long and should make her escape.

His hair is askew and his eyes are shut fast and he is dark against the white of her bed.

He is dark against the white of her immortal soul, and his love is an inkblot that will never wipe off, and she will not even try.

He is one sin she refuses to be absolved of, one confession she will never say the Rosary for.

(She never wishes to be free of him, and if this is the sin that will damn her to hell-

She will wait for him there.)

I want you so bad, I'll go back on the things I believe. So, there, I just said it.

( I'm scared you'll forget about me.)