❝She no longer has
a crown on her head.❞
⟶ In which the Mikaelsons believed she was
dead and folklore, but so they were. The
Violet Thistle they used to call her, Mary
Stuart.
...
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𝗔𝗖𝗧 𝗢𝗡𝗘: 𝗦𝗧𝗥𝗜𝗖𝗞𝗘𝗡 𝗪𝗜𝗧𝗛 𝗚𝗥𝗜𝗘𝗙
THERE WAS GRIEF, BUT THEN NUMBNESS. Silence followed suit as the woman awoke. There was nothing else her body had been able to comprehend other than those three things that greeted her at every waking moment for the past two days. She was grief-stricken, and in a deep haze of darkness, but once numbness hit, she'd pay no attention to her head that was a blizzard full of worries. When silence hit, she lost all sense of the world.
Be happy. he said.
Her eyes were empty, body unwilling to unlatch itself off of the silken blankets she laid under. A knock on the door announced a visitor and should have conjured the woman's attention, but it didn't. Instead, she continued to stray her vision off to the plain stone ceiling that was blocking the haze of the sky to reach her.
"Mary?" a suckle voice called.
No voice answered, only shallow breaths greeted Greer, the woman's lady-in-waiting.
Greer pursed her lips into a simple line, roping a sigh stuck to her throat. She stared at her lying friend with sympathy and pity, Mary lost more in a few days than any other woman in her station could.
An alliance, a husband, a country, and her heart.
The servant of the Queen set down the fabrics that were strapped on her arms on Mary's tableside. Greer auditioned once again, "Mary? Mary!"
Finally, Mary turned to her lady-in-waiting with the same rivering drowse set eyes. A curve began to mist itself onto her sullen face, it was one that was mournful but waltzed with gratitude. "I don't feel any ready to face the Court," she spoke in a hoarse whisper.
The ginger beside her nodded, agreeing with her statement, but spoke words that contradicted the motion. "You must face the Court. You are a queen."
"I am no longer Queen of France. There is no need."
"There is," Greer interjected.
"You are still a queen. Even if you are not of France anymore," she stated, then hustling her monarch up. "Come, there are people to greet."
"Lola, come in," Greer motioned. "Come help me dress her."
A lady of the same age as the two entered the chambers, dressed in black velvet, mourning the loss of the father of her child and friend. Mary winced at the sight of her. She was jealous of what Lola had provided her husband within his life—the thing, she, as his wife, failed to give—a son. She had seen them a few days before the attack, giggling with their baby son, Jean, just like a small, happy family. Mary forgave her companion a long time ago, but some part of her, no matter how big or small, would always envy and resent Lola for it.
