❝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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CHAPTER TWO : YOUR GHOST
Terror reigned in the shrill voices of the crowd. Red stained the ether and the gravelled ground; the air thick with blood and rain from heaven. Heads were spiked on the abysmally chopped wood that built the welcoming gates. Bodies were piled onto each other, each meeting an inferno as a final bed on the Earth. Children whimpered at the sight of hell on their land. How beautiful the morning was they thought. How incredibly fast the hours and life could progress to meet such an end. It was beyond human comprehension.
A woman mounted on an ebony stallion emerged from the fire, eyes bearing the same weight of the flames. She scanned the inferno for a mere moment before an icy smile replaced the monotonous sense of her lips. The woman swiftly carried her horse to a child of five, coated in perspiration, dirt, and blood. Again, she smiled, but this was different. It was a kind smile that told a persona of trust. With an outstretched palm, she offered the child a haven.
"Come darling, let's head to safety," she said. Voice gentle and saccharine, almost motherly. He accepted her.
"What's your name, darling child?"
"Michael."
It was the next day. It was a fine morning: the sky was unhindered by clouds; the weather warm; and there was to be banquette in honour of the late King's death. France was a colour of orange and warmth, but the Court swathed in black. A clear contrast to the people outside the soap opera that was the Court.
Greer had just woken and was ready to take to her station when she saw Catherine out in the garden, lifeless. Pity washed over her, the woman just lost her golden boy— her son. The lady-in-waiting watched her for a few moments more before heading to Mary. She headed to the Queen's chambers and knocked.
"Mary?" she signalled.
As she pushed through the old medieval door, she quickly noticed the Queen polished in sweat, and pale as could be. There beside her was Lola, face in frantic mask.
"Greer!" Lola exclaimed, leaving the bedside of the Scottish queen, "She's caught a sever fever."
"Why haven't you called the physician?"
"It'll be rumoured that she's dying, and if the English hear of this, there's no doubt that they'll attack the bordering cities," Lola explained.
The strawberry blonde nodded in agreement, "I suppose so."
"Has she woken at all?"
"No."
Greer took her hand and placed it on Mary's profusely sweating head. It was so hot that it was beyond human touch. She glanced at Lola, "Stay with her, I'll fetch the physician."
