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Prompt - I know it's dark, but what about Mary getting pregnant after her attack in 2x09? She thought it was a possibility in 2x10, after all. And obviously, she has to get rid of it.
Side Note - I mean no disrespect to any survivors when I write this, I mean the greatest respect.
Side Note - Continuation to the last 2x11 rewrite, but with an obvious time skip.
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"Mother, what's wrong with her?" the blonde, bereft King of France pleads, placing a gentle hand onto his wife's back as she continued to get sick in the chamber pot that, three hours ago, was as clean as a whistle. He stays upon his knees near Mary, close enough to comfort, but far enough that she didn't get spooked. His brow is creased and his normally beautiful blue eyes are darker than ever as he watches helplessly as Mary continues to get sick, over and over and over again.
The Queen of France is on her hands and knees on the cold stone flooring of French Court. Her pale lace gown sticks to her with the perspiration she feels all over her body. Her knees ache from being pressed into the hard stone, her stomach and throat burn. Her fingers have long since gone numb, clinging to the metal pot for so long. Her hair was pulled back by a ribbon, so she didn't have to worry of dirtying it further with the contents of her stomach.
"I don't know." Catherine stresses, looking at the Queen of France who resembled more the frightened five year old Queen of Scots that she and Henry had taken in. Mary looked so, so small right now. Desperately clinging to the chamber pot, sobbing with the unpleasantness of her situation and the haunting of her mind through various points over the past two hours. Even Catherine looked powerless at this situation. In more ways than not, she was.
With every wave of sickness, Mary's small body continues to tense. Relax, tense. Relax, tense. Relax, tense. Relax, tense. Relax, tense. The cycle had continued for the better part of two hours. The third had been plagued with inconsistent vomiting, until it got worse at a frightening rate, leading to her spooked husband frantically sending for his mother, not knowing what else to do or who else to trust with his wife in such a state. And not just her physical one, either.
"Did she eat something?" Catherine asks. "To trigger this? She has no fever, nor any other symptoms." the Queen Mother of France thinks, before she begins trying to force herself to believe this hypothesis more than she had believed anything in her life. The truth crept up on her, behind her shoulder, before she even knew it was happening. But even if she did know it, the truth was so terrible for her to believe it. Better to believe a lie if it caused a little less pain to a girl who had already suffered so tremendously.
"No." Francis breathes, gently, lightly, drawing circles on his wife's back, staring intently at her, but speaking to his mother. "No, she can't have," he says, tenativley reaching out with his other hand to draw a sweat slickened lock of hair from her face. Mary didn't jerk, and Francis wouldn't dare let himself believe that it was because he was the one touching her that she didn't tense. It was probably because she was so busy getting sick, she didn't even notice. He wasn't sure where this incubus came from. Mary had been freely touching and clinging to him ever since her attack happened. "she hasn't been eating at all. Not since last night." And it was two and a half hours past noon, now.
But the truth is a horrible thing. It crept up on both mother and son, King and Queen Mother, like the most startling incubus and succubus imaginable. So sudden, yet in such unison. It startled them both into looking up from Mary's sickened form and into each others' eyes. They're wide and Medici light, although Catherine's hazel gaze is penetrated with a horrible ease in contrast to the icy gaze of her sons.
