Dear true love,
I'm a farewell that came all too soon.

.

It begins with a headache. He keeps quiet about it for almost a full week, the dull throbbing on one side of his head becoming almost a part of him, which he pushes down and away, far too concerned with matters of state to worry over a minor displeasure.

It's Mary who notices he is lying when he says he's all right. His brow is furrowed more often than not and she asks him, time and time again, if he feels fine, and he answers that he does, that he is, that everything is all right while he kisses her frown away.

She's far too worried about Scotland with her mother gone for him to complain about something so small, and he has far too many responsibilities as King of France to stop his meetings and find a physician for something as small as a headache that they would certainly blow out of proportion. So he takes one of Nostradamus' pain medicines and then soothes Mary's worries with a kiss on her cheek and an "I'm all right" and he truly doesn't know he is lying.

He's in the middle of a meeting with Mary's uncles when he suddenly loses his balance, his surroundings seeming unstable as he tries to regain his footing. They offer him arms for support and worried looks (that hide behind them a thousand plans and what ifs) but he denies them with as firm a head shake as he can manage and walks out of the room on his own, trying to ignore the sharp pain in his ear and the way his vision swims.

He doesn't mention what happened to Mary, but as he walks in their chambers that night he can see that she already knows, for her face is a mixture between concern and mounting anger.

"My uncles told me what happened today. You've been lying all this time, haven't you? You've been feeling bad for weeks. Have you even seen a doctor or Nostradamus?" She answer her own question. "Of course you haven't. You're sick! And you told me nothing was wrong-" He quiets her with a kiss, his hands on her cheeks.

"I admit, I have been feeling a bit under the weather, just a few headaches, and what happened today… I truly don't think it's anything to worry about. " He can see her brow furrow further, and he adds before she can say anything. "I promise I'll see Nostradamus in the morning all right?"

He thinks that will soothe her, but she doesn't say anything, her forehead crinkled and her eyes searching his desperately.

"Are you angry at me?" He asks her sheepishly, rubbing his thumb on her cheek. "What is it?"

"You're burning up. " She says, tears filling her eyes in worry. He can see the almost uncomfortable grimace on her face at his hand, settled on her cheeks. Her own hands rise up to touch his face; and her brow furrows even more, fear painting her every feature. "Can't you feel it? You're so warm."

He is about to answer her but he loses his balance as he steps back, the ground beneath his feet seemingly turning into quicksand.

"Francis!" Her voice sounds very far away as she tries to hold him up, and he falls to his knees when she's not strong enough to do it. And then all he can see is black.

.:.

When he comes to his senses, it feels like his ears are stuffed with cotton, for he can't hear anything clearly. He can recognize his mother's voice, and Nostradamus', and before he can wonder what's happened to him or where he is, his wife's voice filters through the haze, the lovely sound more clear to him that anything else.

"You said he would wake up soon. It's been a day." Her voice sounds full of anguish, and he wishes his limbs didn't feel as heavy as lead so he could reach out for her, comfort her, but even his eyelids are too heavy to lift. He only registers the hurt in her voice, and then her actual words. He's been asleep for a full day?

"I though it was less severe. He should have come to me sooner, now…we just have to wait."

"Wait? Wait for what? Nostradamus I swear…" He zones out of his mother's threats, focusing on words alone too much of a hardship.

"I should've forced him to go." He struggles to hear Mary speak, everything sounding as if he was underwater, his own body the anchor pulling him down. "I knew something was bothering him. If I…" Her voice fades in and out, but he can hear the pain in it, the way she breathes in sharply when she's trying not to cry.

His heart aches at it, but he can do no more than gasp out "Mary" and feel her grasping at his arm, calling his name, before an unbearable pain washes over him, and he feels like he's drowning. Like his head will explode like the boat full of heroes his father did on his last day on earth. The pain makes him feel as if this might be his last day.

After that, he welcomes the darkness.

.:.

His body is heavy, and he drifts…he drifts between darkness and pain, and he hears them calling out his name but he's too weak to answer back. He doesn't know where he is, he opens his eyes but he doesn't see much, the throbbing pain behind his eyes impeding his vision.

He calls out for her, he says her name like a litany of prayers, but he is not strong enough to get up and find her, not fast enough to catch up to her as she rides away with his brother. He rides away from her, to war, to his child, to the plague that took her not a week after she was born. He can't stop the horse from putting distance between them where there should be none. Mary's crying then, blood pulling at her feet as she holds onto her stomach. Images, fleeting; the feeling of longing stronger than the pain. Mary was the most beautiful bride, she was, and they were so happy; why aren't they happy now?

There are wet cold rags on his forehead, and someone reciting the Holy Mary. All he wants is his Mary. He doesn't know when he's awake and when he's not, the world blurring into a mess of pain and suffocating sounds, and always reaching for Mary but never finding her.

When he wakes next he doesn't know how much time has passed. The pain has faded to a dull, continuous throb, and Mary's sleeping figure lies next to him. He doesn't wish to wake her, so he keeps his hands to himself, but he finds that he can move them now and it is a welcome surprise. He doesn't remember much since the last time he was awake away, except a vague notion of collapsing in his rooms after speaking with Mary.

His mind struggles to make sense of what was dream and what was reality, nightmares plaguing his sleep, and continuously calling out for Mary and she nowhere to be found. At least the last proves to be untrue, and just a product of his tired brain, since his wife sleeps peacefully next to him, as beautiful as ever. Even though she looks quite pale in the early morning light, and there's a tint of purple under her eyes like she hasn't enjoyed a good night of sleep in some time, and he hurts to think it might be because of him.

Her brow furrows in her sleep, as if something plagued her even in slumber, and he decides to wake her. He needs to see her eyes as she realizes that he is awake once more. His arms feels heavy when he raises it to touch her face softly, but he manages it, his finger caressing the purplish skin beneath her eyes, his thumb rubbing circles in the pale skin of her cheek. Her eyes open at once, but she stares at him for a moment, as if she can't recognize him.

"Francis?"

"Good morning." He says, trying for a half smile. He doesn't know how well he manages it but she sucks in a breath, a tentative smile puling at her lips. When she's convinced he is real enough, her exhale is audible, and then her arms are around his neck, holding on almost too tight. He wraps his arms around her as best as he can, still not able to sit up properly, and it's not long before he feels the warmth of tears of his neck.

"He said...they told me…you'd never… wake up…" she hiccups, trying to reign in sobs, and his hands caress her back. "Are you well? How do you feel? Francis I was so scared." Tears fall mercilessly from her eyes, the anguish and hope there as clear as the daylight streaming through the windows.

He doesn't' feel better though, he just feels more numb, and a terrible reality tries to settle in him, but he pushes it away for the time being. Still, he doesn't answer her, he doesn't want to lie.

"How long…?" He is surprised at how his voice sounds as it scratches its way out of his throat. Mary hurries to get a glass of water from the table besides their bed.

"Almost 3 days." She brings the glass of water to his lips, helping him drink it when his hands don't grip it hard enough. She wipes the water that spills down from his lips with the back of her hand, a smile on her face. "But you're awake now."

He tries to return her smile, but he doesn't feel awake at all. Everything feels foggy and dull, as if he was existing in a dream, as if this respite from the pain and tiredness of the last days might float away like smoke and he'll be pulled back into the darkness to call for her, always call for her.

He knows what he must do then.

"Will you call for my brothers?"

"Of course." She says quickly, returning the glass to its place. "Charles and little Henry have been dying to see you. I think Charles is quite cross with you actually for missing your sparring this week…" Her chatter dies away, her exuberant happiness at seeing him awake and speaking clearly flickering off when she notices his expression. Her brow furrows, understanding downing on her as she takes into account that while he is awake, he is as weak as ever, his voice faint. Tears fill her eyes.

"Francis, no-"

"Please. Ask for my brothers, all right? All of them. And my mother as well." He asks again, and she nods, once, something akin to a stubborn hope settling on her features; but she never was able to deny him anything, and so she leaves the bed after kissing his forehead softly to do as he says. She puts on a robe and tells the guard to look for Bash, and find Charles and Henry's governess.

He sees Mary dress from his position on the bed, a maid tying her corset, and he thinks of how stupid his fingers feel now, of how he'll never untie it again or hear her sigh his name.

"I can feel your eyes on me, you know?" She turns around, smiling, and he can't help but return the gesture. She walks over to him after the maid leaves; a forced excitement on her features and it makes his heart ache.

"When you get better, we'll go to Anet again. I always wanted to visit in the summer." She says, falsely bright, and he tries to ignore the tears in her eyes for her sake. "Do you remember how you wished I could walk around with no corsets? I would walk around with no dresses. Just for you."

He smiles at her efforts to bribe him, and he's almost sure that incentive works, but the aching pain in his head doesn't lessen. He knows she's trying to carry on as normally as possible but he can almost feel his blood running ticker through his veins, and he knows, what he won't say out loud, what he won't tell Mary just yet. Although he knows that she knows, and she's clinging to hope desperately.

She leaves them alone when his brothers come in, Henry and Charles hurrying towards his bed, Bash lagging behind. Charles waits at the foot of his bed as his youngest brother tumbles over his words, asking if he's well again.

"I feel much better." He tells him, hiding the effort it takes to sit up and messing his blond hair.

"How is your reading?" He asks, remembering that Henry had been having trouble with Latin.

"I don't confuse the words anymore! Do you want to hear?" He asks excitedly.

"Perhaps later." Francis chuckles. "Will you promise me something?" The boy nods and he goes on. "Be good to mother all right? And play a lot, with everyone you want. " Henry smiles at his words, unless Francis pleads his case their mother won't allow Henry near the servants' children.

"When will you come play with us again?" Henry asks, and he doesn't answer, just nods to his nurse that stands at the door, and she calls him to her side. "But Francis!"

"No buts, go. And… you can spend the rest of the day outside, no more lessons." He says, which fixez the small boy's frown immediately. "Tell your tutors the King of France commands it." His brother nods and runs to his nurse, thanking him.

"Will you come?" Henry asks from the doorway, where Bash watches the entire scene with cast down eyes.

"Not quite yet." He tells his brother, and the boy nods sadly before his nurse takes him outside.

"Why are you still in your night clothes? It's noon already." Charles asks him after Henry leaves, not wasting a second of his time. "Francis? Are you truly well again? Why was Mary crying when she walked out?" He continues, unrelenting. He could always trust his older brother, could always expect an honest answer. "Are you going to die like father?"

"You are going to be a great King." He tells his brother instead of answering, and it doesn't matter because his words are one and the same.

"No." He only says, and he hastily wipes his eyes trying to hide any signs of weakness.

"I'm sorry Charles."

"I don't want to be King! You're a good King!" Charles shakes his head. "Francis." His brother's pleading tone tears at his heart, but he can't do anything but offer his embrace as comfort, which the boy readily takes, hugging him.

"Take care of Mary for me, all right?" He asks when Charles pulls away. "Love her like you love your sisters. And be a good older brother to Charles. Can you promise me that?" The boy nods. "And Charles, being a good King doesn't mean ignoring your heart. Know that." His brother nods again, although he's too young to know exactly what he means, he hopes he'll remember it until he is older.

"I'm going to speak with Bash now, all right?" Charles complies, leaving with one last look to his brother, and then closing the door behind himself.

"Francis, what the hell do you think you're doing?" Is Bash's loud question once the younger boys are gone.

"Not even on my death bed, brother?" Francis asks him jokingly, a certain heaviness lifting as he says it out loud.

"You are not dying, don't be stupid." Bashs says gravely, walking closer to him. He just looks away.

"Francis."

"Take care of her." He says, looking at his older brother once again.

"No. No. You are going to do that yourself. After everything that we went through you don't get to do that. You are not going to die and leave me your heartbroken wife to look after. Are you listening to me?" He asks, his tone almost angry. "You better fight like hell to stay alive little brother because I have my own wife, I won't take care of yours." His response is adamant, and Francis wants to smile at his brother's insistence. Bash has come to love Mary like a sister. He'd lay down his life for hers, and he knows it. He needs that reassurance.

"Francis, listen to me! You are going to be well again-"

"You and I both know that's a lie." He interrupts.

"Don't talk like that. You are the King of France." He says, as if the title granted him some sort of immunity to pitiful ear infections.

"A dying King." He answers, grandly. But then has to close his eyes against the wave of pain that flashes through his head. "Promise me you'll look after Mary." He says again, with more difficulty, his forces draining out from all the effort. Even talking and sitting up straight it's taking its toll. Bash finally nods.

"If she goes back to Scotland-"

"Kenna and I will be happy to follow." Bash says, his hand on Francis' shoulder, reassurance that his wife will never be alone. That she will always have friends by her side.

"Thank you, brother." He says, and no other words are needed.

Bash is the one that hugs him hard now, like Francis did years ago after their father died. It's Bash who now holds onto his brother like he is his anchor, even as he is the one slipping away. It's quiet after that, but the silence is full of peace. Their rivalry has finally been put to rest.

Bash doesn't leave until Catherine comes in, and then looks at his brother from the doorway, offering one last playful roll of his eyes at Catherine's stride inside.

"God help you." Bash mouths. Lucky bastard, Francis thinks. And how far they've come, how much time has passed.

.:.

"Francis!" His mother is quick to sit next to him on the bed, her hands going to cup his cheeks as she showers him with kisses.

"Mary came for me with the news that you'd awoken, I hurried here and the guard tells me you're entertaining your bastard brother." His mother says. "Well, that's not important now, I'm just glad you're better." She says, brushing his hair back, her tone so elated that Francis regrets the next words that leave his lips.

"I'm not."

"Don't speak like that. You're still a little warm of course, and a little pale, but that's to be expected after so many days under the covers. You'll be out of bed in no time-"

"Mother." He stops her rambling, covering her hand with his own. "You and I both know I am not better." His says, watching his mother's face crumble piece by piece, layer by layer until he's exposed to the fragile, destroyed woman underneath. Tears spill from her eyes, and he truly doesn't remember if he's ever seen her cry before.

"But Nostradamus, he said…he said your fate had changed." Her voice quivers and it's one of the few times he sees her so deeply vulnerable. "He said you would live a long life, with Mary by your side and children...he said…" She continues, desperately, hiding behind predictions and superstition, the shield she used her whole life. It offers no certainty now, no protection; it never will again.

"Promise me you'll be kind to Mary, for me." He asks. "Swear you will treat her like a daughter. Please." He doesn't care about the pain in those moments, he doesn't care about himself of how he can feel his grasp on the world becoming more fragile; all he needs is for Mary to be safe, for her to be protected and safe and happy when he won't be there to try and do so himself.

"Francis…please, I can't bury my first child." She begs of him, her hand caressing his face like he was still 8 years old and sick, and she had stayed up all night sitting next to him to check his breathing, or in case he woke up searching for his mother.

"Just…promise me." He asks again, wishing for nothing than for them to put their feud behind finally, for Mary to put her arms around his mother like she did the day of his father's death. He couldn't help but look back at them then, and it's the only thing he wants to see again now.

"I swear it, on my immortal soul, my son." She says, acceptance another bitter pill life has forced to swallow, and she builds her walls again, taller than ever. "It's all right." She smoothes down his night shirt, and his eyes fall closed out of pure exhaustion. "I love you."

"Is he all right?" Comes the panicked cry of Mary, as she sees her husband's closed eyes. He is too weak, too far gone to calm her, but then his mother tells her.

"Yes, my girl. He's merely sleeping."

.:.

He doesn't have the strength to sit up the next day, the mere attempt making him dizzy. Mary stays by his side the whole time, she refuses the servants appointed to take care of him and helps him change herself, holds water to his lips and feeds him what little broth he manages to swallow. She's always there, unrelenting, even as he fades in and out of their conversations, a fog taking hold of his brain. The hours of the day seem too few, and before he notices it is dark outside, and his wife is changing into a white nightgown on one side of the room. He's come to appreciate the lucid hours he has with her, merely speaking a luxury he took for granted but now would give anything for more time to do.

"We name our son James, to honor my father." Mary tells him as she climbs into bed that night. "And he has your eyes, and your bravery, and your honor." She rest on the pillow next to his, his breath too laborious for her to lay her head on his chest like they used to do. "You teach him how to make swords, because every future king needs a skill, and I teach him how to read, and he always wants to show you how much better he's gotten. We have a daughter, and we name her Anne. And her hair is soft like silk and as fair as yours but she has my eyes. Her laugh sounds like the sweetest bells, and she's so kind. I braid her hair like I learned to do in Scotland, like Aylee taught me when I was young. And you play catch with her every night after dinner…"

His eyes fall close, a smile on his face. His mind putting together the picture of their life Mary paints with her words. She talks until he falls asleep, and carries on even after that, until tears don't let her continue.

.:.

He wakes up to beautiful brown eyes searching his, the bright light of day coming through the window. It all feels as if in a dream, the pain gone, the weigh on his chest having disappeared over night.

"Good morning." Mary tells him, and she sounds far away, as if she was also a figment of his imagination. Sometimes he thought she might be, such a beautiful creature for him to call wife, but then he looked into her eyes and realized that the love in them was something he could never come up with on his own. It was something bigger than either one of them.

"I love you." He just tells her, before he wakes up, or falls asleep, he is not quite sure which. All he is certain is that the woman beside him it's the only thing that matters.

"I love you too, more than anything." She tells him earnestly, smoothing down his shirt almost nervously, pressing her lips to his.

He can do much to return her kiss, his head feels immensely heavy.

"You can't go back to sleep, my darling." She says. "We have a busy day ahead of us, remember?"

He doesn't, he's distracted by how truly beautiful she is.

"After dinner you usual game..."

His eyes want to close against his will and he fights to keep them open, but it's a losing battle. He hears her speak as if underwater, certain words clearer than others; and at least he's glad that this is the way he'll go- although he never wanted to leave her.

"Fight it, Francis…"

He wants to fight it, for her, but he doesn't know how.

"Children…"

"That's such a beautiful dream." He says. Her voice fades then, and so does his breathing.

And then….Then he drifts away.

a/n: Tittle and lyrics at the beginning from "Dear true love" by Sleeping at last. That song hits you with feels.

I began writing this ages ago and never got around to finishing it, and at the moment I'm trying to tie up every unfinished fic I have lying around.

Also, I'm sorry. I promise I dont have a thing for Francis dying.