My chambers lie in wait, a swarm of people humming around like bees circling a comb. The priest's prayers of consecration sound behind me. A bit warm, the rooms stifle in the presence of too many bodies.

Kenna's hands unclasp the jewels from my neck and retrieve the earrings from their holes. She lifts the crown off of my head before removing the veil situated beneath it.

As Greer catches the hem of my skirts and begins to lift gently upward, I feel the chill rush against my thin underdress. Perhaps the room is not as warm as I think.

Perhaps my body simply is, flushed from the day – flushed from anticipation.

Lola unwinds my hair from its tight coil, ever-the-more darkened by the candlelit night. She runs the brush's bristles through to soften the waves, letting them fall about and frame my face.

Only when she ceases the motion do I realize she has asked me a question.

"Hm?" I look to her, apology in my eyes for not having paid attention.

"Are you all right, Mary?" Worry marks her features.

She has noticed the trembling.

I realize that if I were to speak, I would never succeed in conveying the labyrinth of thought and emotion that lives inside of me at this moment – so I nod my head, knowing that all of my ladies understand what tonight will cost me in time. Little need exists for explanation.

Greer spins me in place and the ladies retreat to the entryway, where my mother excuses them with her cold approval. And, then, they quit the chambers.

I find I'm grateful they will not be watching tonight. Prying eyes still flank the room.

That shudder of fear with which I have become so comfortable moves its way along my spine as I take in the spectators. Eager to return to the festivities, they shift their weight anxiously between their feet. Somehow, I think they realize how absurd this tradition is, to watch and confirm the consummation of royals.

Rooted, my legs seem to be frozen where my ladies left me. My thoughts weave in and out of the fabric of the scene, and I do not register his presence until his breath puffs soft and warm into my ear.

"Can you do this?"

I crane my head to catch his gaze, meeting his eyes. Too many words have not been spoken leading to this day. Too many missed apologies.

But I nod my assent regardless. Tonight might be the fulfillment of duty, but his strength enables me to stand in this moment – his strength has always given me cause to stand, even when against him. It matters little now.

"Can you?"

The first words I've spoken in hours come across feeble, shaky. He holds out his hand and nods to it, as he did so long ago when he came to my rescue with the English emissary. My lungs feel stripped under the weight of his action.

Empathy glints in the eyes that rise from his hand – the first glimpse of empathy I have seen in the wake of all that has happened. The sight causes a long-dormant piece of my heart to spring to life, thrashing about wildly within my breast. I reach for his hand, unable to ignore the way its enveloping with his own kindles the already present flame within me.

Breathe, Mary.

"Absolutely."

We move toward the bed, time having slowed its course if only for the moment. The hum has become an unexpected stillness, the prying eyes fading from view as the focus of my attention gravitates toward the way my skin prickles at its contact with his.

I realize the curtains have been closed on the bed as he helps me into it, his fingers grazing my leg – remembering what they once did without thought, without hesitation.

Were we really ever just two besotted idiots, rolling about between bedsheets and anticipating this very day – when we could be free and fully public with our passion for one another?

His eyes meet mine as he lays me down underneath him, but I cast my eyes aside to avoid the pain I still see in residency there. Perhaps I also want to keep him from noticing the regret and hope for forgiveness that might rest in my own.

But he grabs my chin and pushes it back so I can see him fully. Part of me is grateful we have an audience. This will be over soon.

He said he wouldn't, that night in the dungeon … but will he ever forgive me?

His eyes soften and his finger stretches out to catch a stray tear that has escaped and begun its traverse down my cheek. It might be a trick of the light, but his eyes give him away - part of him already has. I sigh, the burst of air rattling out as I exhale.

He leans to whisper into my ear, something he doesn't wish the onlookers to hear.

"It's just you and me, Mary." A pause breaks as he rests his head briefly on my shoulder, and I feel a small smile emerge against my skin. "The others may be eagerly awaiting their return to the feast, but I fully intend to take my time."

He pulls back to look into my eyes, still seeking my consent though we are now married – and though we have long been one flesh. And then his lips alight on mine, tugging tenderly in that all-too-familiar fashion of which I have long deprived myself.

My senses cloud over with the feel of him, with his scent.

There is no escape, not now. And I don't want one.

I can do this, and I will let him take his time.

Author's Notes: This was written for our daily F/M thread challenge, which is intended to keep us busy for the remainder of the hiatus. We get 24 hours after the prompt is released to write something. Today's prompt is "wedding day/wedding night." This assumes all of the baggage of 109-111, with assumed continued baggage through their eventual marriage.

Disclaimer: I have no claim of ownership on "Reign" or its characters - that belongs to the CW, CBS and Laurie McCarthy. I just like the chance to play!