A/N: I DON'T WANNA TALK ABOUT IT YOU GUYS CAN'T HATE ME AS MUCH AS I HATE MYSELF RIGHT NOW JUST GO LOOK AT FOR REASONS AND A PITIFUL EXCUSE OF AN EXPLANATION FOR THIS.

love is watching someone die, so who's going to watch you die?

He'd followed her from France back to Scotland. He hadn't been able to comprehend the idea of a life without Mary Stuart in it, and after losing both his father and his brother, the idea of losing her was unthinkable. His mother had protested, of course, had begged him not to go - she'd been inconsolable after Henry's passing, but Bash had been resolute. Mary was leaving. So was he. Neither one of them had a place left at court, and Scotland was as good a place as any to start over. He still remembered that day like it was yesterday, remembered kneeling on the wet soil by the ship that was going to take her away, offering his sword to her, offering his loyalty, offering his fealty. Offering his love. She'd taken it with tearful eyes and a nod, and when he rose he gathered her in his arms immediately. She was still mourning Francis, still mourning France. Still mourning their childhood, their innocence. He could taste that longing for days gone by on her lips. He could taste her sadness, could taste her hope that maybe things in Scotland would be different, easier. So he'd gone with her, his sword at his hip and her at his side, and when they landed, he did what he did best - he disappeared. No one knew he was in Scotland except for his queen and her ladies, not at first. And when his presence was impossible to hide any longer, he introduced himself as Bastian, told everyone he was a musician from France. It was not the first time he lied for her. It would not be the last.

Learning to play the lyre was hard. Learning to love her in secret was harder. She had to marry again, impossibly soon after returning to her home, for the safety of her people, for the safety of herself. He stood on the sidelines of the wedding. He played for her first dance with her new husband, and refused to miss a single note for her. Not for her new husband. Never for him. But he wouldn't allow her to stumble on her wedding day, not if he could help it. Bash didn't attend the consummation - wasn't allowed, didn't want to be there - and instead set about destroying his quarters for two hours after she left the celebration with a hard look on her face. Her eyes had been dead when they'd found his, and it had taken every ounce of his self control not to tear her new husband apart limb from limb right then and there, to gather her up in his arms and run away with her, run far away from Scotland, away from France, away from England, away from anyone and anything that could cause her harm or pain or sadness. He exhausted himself throwing things and tearing his room apart, and when his breathing was at its heaviest and rage had finally died into sadness, he sat on the floor and he sobbed like a child. He sobbed like he hadn't sobbed since his father had died - since his brother had died. And when his tears were spent, he left, trying to seek out a horse, a way to leave for a few days. Her ladies had stopped him - 'she'll need you', they said. And if there was one thing Bash couldn't do, it was leave Mary when she was in need. So he stayed. He always stayed. He was there for her through it all, silent and watchful and calm and logical, even while his heart was being shredded in his chest whenever she took her husband's hand. It had never been this hard when her husband had been Francis. Maybe it was because he'd known she loved his brother. Maybe it was because he'd just wanted his brother to be happy. Maybe it was because he'd never really believed he'd had a chance at making her happy until Francis had died, and now that she was married again, he'd still be stuck in the shadows.

He should have minded it. He should have hated it.

He was just grateful to be near her, to be around her presence.

A fortnight into her new marriage, she came to him in the middle of the night, her hair unbound, her nightgown loose. She crawled into bed with him, he stroked her hair, and they made love for hours. His name on his lips - his full name - brought tears to his eyes. He should have felt shame, should have held her while she did the same. And he did, but the real shame came when she had to leave, when the sun was rising and she'd be missed, and he grabbed her hand and begged her to stay. They both nearly broke down when she shook her head and pulled from his grip. He nearly crumbled when the door shut behind her.

It never got any easier.

It went on for years, loving her behind closed doors. It never got easier, releasing her. Especially not when she started to complain, lounging in his bed with a glass of wine and staring pensively at the windows.

"I wish I were a bird," she'd told him once. "A bird doesn't answer to anyone but the sky."

Mary had never explained that to him - had never had to. Life went on, but he watched her husband more closely. Watched the way his fingers dug into her arms, watched the way he stared at her palace like it was his. His hatred grew under his skin, and when Mary found she was with child, she sobbed in Bash's arms for the better part of a night. They had no way to tell who the child would belong to. He'd have no way of knowing if the child was his. He kept careful watch of Mary through her pregnancy, rarely leaving the rooms she occupied. He was there when she fell ill. He was there when she recovered. He was there when she swelled with child. He was there when she gave birth, a room over with his ear pressed to the wall, listening to her scream in pain. Listening to the wail of a child that could be his. Listening to her husband come in. It was killing him, it was all killing him, but he'd sworn long ago that he'd die for her if need be. He'd do anything for her. So when problems rose with her husband, and rose and rose again, he didn't have to think about it.

He took three men with him to kill the King Consort of Scotland. He hadn't needed any of them.

Life had started to pass in a blur to him after that. Life didn't matter. Only Mary did. Another husband came, crueler than the last. Bash stayed his hand for months at her request, at her tearful pleas that she needed a husband, she needed support and she needed safety. He'd gotten on his knees more than once, begging for her hand like he'd never begged for anything before. She had wept when she told him no. He'd known all along he was never a public option, known all along that a Scottish queen could never marry a French bastard. Not even one who'd changed his name and given up everything for her love. He did not ask her again, but when she found herself again with child - this time most assuredly his - and when she lost the child - children, there were two of them, and they had been his - he snapped. He injured her husband, drove him away from Scotland. They found out a year later that he'd gone mad and died. Bash couldn't find it in him to feel sorry for the man.

Mary's imprisonment had caught no one off guard - no one, it seemed, except Bash. Bash, who couldn't believe anything bad about his beautiful queen. Bash, who followed her through it all, who loved her in every place she was imprisoned in.

And now, here he was, watching her pace around her cell. She was shaking.

It was funny how fear took tears away, how fear made you shake and made your breath catch in your throat, made your heart clench and feel like it'd never beat again, but no matter how devastated you were, you couldn't seem to cry. He'd tried everything to get her out. Nothing had worked. They'd always been found out, always been moved, and now here he was, staring at her in her red dress and realizing suddenly that he'd always hated her in red. Blue had always suited her so much better. What a terrible time to realize such a thing, right on the cusp of the moment she'd be taken away from him. Everyone else had gone; when her ladies had finished dressing her, they'd allowed him in the room, and now all they could do was wait for the guards to collect her. And then for her cousin to collect her head.

His throat felt dry, and when she passed him again, he grabbed her hand - her delicate fluttering shaking hand - and pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her and burying his face in her hair. He was shaking too. He hoped she wouldn't notice, but the sobs that finally escaped her throat told him otherwise. He was supposed to be strong for her. The fear would be over for her soon, but she'd be leaving him behind. So he stroked her hair, tilted his head back and let his own tears leak into his hairline. He wouldn't let them fall on her, would allow her this one last bit of dignity before they stripped it away from her with her life.

"I don't want to leave you," she whispered into his chest, and something inside him - his heart, maybe - snapped in two.

"I won't leave your side for a second," he vowed. Never mind that he wouldn't be allowed to hold her hand until she left this world. Never mind that he wouldn't even be the last thing she saw. She wasn't even offered that, a kind face to keep as her last image. Her shaking got worse then, and he gripped her tightly, holding her against his body and loathing the idea that soon, too soon, someone would come in to drag her away from him.

They'd been through so much, the idea of being without one another was terrifying. He whispered words of love into her hair, promises of undying devotion in half forgotten French. "Wait for me, on the other side," he begged her, and she clung to him, protesting at first that he had to go on, that she couldn't bear the idea of anything happening to him for her sake. He wouldn't hear it. "Wait for me," he begged, "I won't keep you waiting for long."

"I won't go anywhere without you," she sobbed, her voice breaking as his hands dug into her sides to keep her as close to him as possible. "My soul will wait as long as it needs to, until you join me again."

He kissed her, and for a moment he missed the days when they were children, when he was too afraid to press his lips to hers without her permission, when he was still waiting for her to rebuff him at any moment.

That was when the door opened, and Mary had clung to him like a terrified child.

"It's time," someone told them, and he'd looked up, pure terror in his eyes, nearly ready to get on his knees and beg them for more time. That was when he saw the girl next to the jailer, and his horror grew. It was Lola. Neither one of them had seen her in years, since she'd been married and left for the highlands. But here she was, holding what looked like a dead animal. Mary threw herself at Lola, still sobbing, demanding to know why the woman had come, why she was putting herself in danger in such a way. When Lola explained the plan, Mary's sobbing had only gotten worse, but grim resolve had tightened in Bash's chest. Mary refused. It took her nearly twenty minutes to be told that this was the only way, this was her only option, and she'd begged them not to make her. When Lola started to unlace her queen's corset, though, Mary nearly lashed out, screaming that this wasn't an option. Bash had to take her face in his hands, had to beg her with all the tears he'd refused to let fall in her line of sight, had to make her promise. He knew she might hate him for it, but if it kept her alive he could deal with the hatred.

So Mary had swapped clothes with Lola, the girls tying each other's corsets. Lola had bound Mary's hair one last time, and Mary had helped her lady in waiting into the wig she'd brought. It wasn't a good match - Mary had lost too much weight in prison, and the eyes were a dead giveaway. But their skin was the same pale shade, and as long as Lola kept her eyes down, no one would question it. Mary protested and protested, demanding they listen to her, and for a second she was the ghost of the sixteen year old queen she'd been when he'd fallen in love with her. But Lola wouldn't hear it, and when a guard finally came for the queen of Scotland, Lola had kissed her friend on both cheeks and left with her head held high and her hands steady. The jailer outside the cell had come for them then, guiding them out in a hushed whisper to a boat waiting in the nearby canal, and Mary had gotten into the boat without protest, her eyes dead and her movements slow. He held her when they pushed off, he apologized into her hair as sobs started to wrack her body.

"It was the only way, it was the only way," he whispered into her hair, and she clung to him, her sobs starting from her toes and spilling violently out of her lips.

"She didn't deserve to die like that," Mary managed.

"Neither did you," he said gravely, and she was silent.

They traveled for what felt like an eternity, ate through the sack of food and four skins of water they'd been given, and when they landed in Germany, they were delirious - but alive. It took weeks to find a place to live, took longer to figure out what they were doing. But when they settled in a fishing village, far away from civilization, it felt right. Mary took care of goats, Bash worked with ships, and finally, finally, they were happy without obstacle.

Mary still wept for the children they once were, for the friend she'd loved who'd died in her stead, for the son she'd had to leave behind. Bash wished he was enough to fill the void. Maybe he never was. Maybe he never would be. But when she cried, she still reached for him. When she smiled, she still reached for him. She learned to laugh again, learned how to dance again in the little field behind their cottage. And for them, that was enough.