𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐄 𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐄.
chapter nineteen; What it Takes to Hunt
" I would forsake my country if it meant ensuring her safety and happiness. "

  DEMETRE HAD OPTED out of painting the morning following the news of Mary's proposition. Elspeth had locked herself up in the art wing for two days straight, and while Demetre's worry for her was clear, he had other things to take care of.

  "Demetre, you support this?"

  "Ah, Catherine," The man greeted with a sigh, stretching his hands over his head, "Wonderful to see you."

  "This is serious, Henry will agree to Mary's proposition; I will lose my crown, my sons will lose--"

  Demetre stood swiftly, turning to face the woman. He narrowed his eyes for a long moment, before crossing the room to trade his boots for a new pair.

  "Do you know what it takes to hunt?"

  Catherine scoffed.

  "I'm asking honestly," Demetre said, sitting as he tugged off his shoes, "I know you've hunted people like animals, but do you know what it takes to hunt a wild animal, in its natural habitat and outside of your own?"

  Demetre turned in his seat, raising an eyebrow.

  "No," Catherine sighed, humoring the man.

  "Well, first you have to learn about what you are trying to kill," Demetre spoke smoothly, "How it lives, what it eats, where it sleeps. You have to learn how it moves, and how to track it. How it survives, how it fights against death."

  "How does this have anything to do--"

  "I have weighed out every possible outcome for the four people closest involved," Demetre cut off, swiftly standing, "This is the only one that doesn't involve anyone losing their life."

  "I might as well be."

  "Would you rather Mary wed Francis and see your son's untimely death?" Demetre questioned honestly, "Her refuse and watch Sebastian lose his life, and Elspeth surely break in the worst way a person could? Any other choice leads to these outcomes."

  "At the very least, Elspeth should be marrying Francis, not taking a place as Mistress to a Bastard on a throne," Catherine scoffed loudly.

  "Is that to ensure Francis's comfortability or Elspeth's happiness?"

  "Is this situation going to grant either of those things?"

  "Perhaps," Demetre noted, "I am no fortune-teller."

  "Not for the rest of their lives," Catherine urged, "Demetre, I thought of anyone, you might see reason--"

  "I am!"

  His voice rattled the very castle they were standing in. Like he was a wild beast, the embodiment of the creature he killed, as he lifted that pitch-black cloak around his shoulders, letting it settle on his frame, Catherine swore he was sent by the devil himself.

  Demetre had killed The Grim, a harbinger of death, and now he wore the fur of that animal, carrying on its mission.

  "We all have someone we would kill for," Demetre spoke, eerily calm, "Ours do not align, Your Grace."

  "I care for her, too. I don't wish any of this on her, either."

  Demetre halted, lifting his chin to peer down at the woman.

  "And yet, you came here to convince me to stop this," He spoke, peering down his nose at her with distaste, "That is where we differ, Catherine. You want your crown, you want Francis on the throne or married to a woman good enough for him."

  "Of course I do," Catherine snapped, "He is my son, I would do anything for him- but I care for Elspeth, as well."

  "Not like I do, and that is why your judgment is clouded," He said evenly. "I would forsake my country if it meant ensuring her safety and happiness. I couldn't care less what happens to anyone else, only those that matter to her are safe."

  Catherine almost smiled as Demetre walked toward the door.

  "You love her."

  He paused, his frame stiff as his hand hovered over the doorknob.

  "She is the first person that has truly cared for me," Demetre spoke quietly, "So I do the same for her. Do not find yourself lost in a delusion, Catherine, you are much too smart for this."

↬

  Elspeth was having trouble getting ready. Her mind spun too quickly to focus on dresses or how to wear her hair, but very luckily a very decorated dress showed up at her door to make this choice for her.

  Along with a note.

' Meet me in the art wing. '

  The woman turned it over to find no signature, before looking at the dress. Her heart sunk for a moment, realizing rather quickly that this was not from Demetre. It wasn't his taste, it opposed greatly.

  But she was curious, and suffering with her warring emotions, and chose this over joining Mary and their friends, to avoid questions about the plan.

  Elspeth braided half of her hair up, slipped on the dress, and fiddled with the paper in her hands.

  Eventually, she sighed out and departed from her chambers, toward the wing she'd become so familiar with.

  The woman hesitated at the large ornate doors but eventually pushed them open slowly. What she noticed first was not the man admiring the many pieces of art Elspeth had created, but the freshly replenished supplies overflowing from the many areas of storage.

  "Oh, my. . ."

  "I'm afraid I cannot take credit for all of this," Francis said without turning, "It was all Demetre, not that he'd ever admit this to you."

  She took a moment to admire the fresh pots of paint, the newly stretched canvases, and clean brushes. Elspeth admired the new painter's apron that hung by her easel, as well as a small stack of new palettes. 

  A mountain of supplies from Paris, despite her loss in the fight.

  "I must say, I'm. . . surprised," Elspeth said finally, "That you're the author of this."

  Francis peered at the small piece of paper, shrugging small before looking back to the art.

  "How do you choose what to paint?" He questioned, peering over his shoulder for a moment.

  Elspeth joined his side, staring over the masses of art she'd created during her time in France.

  "I paint what I wish to remember," She admitted quietly, "Faces I won't forget, moments worth more than gold."

  Francis admired them for a long moment. A portrait of Mary, one of Sebastian, Demetre, and even himself. An art piece of six Scottish women dancing in France, one of the friendly faces fighting with wooden swords, and a man peering over the French landscape.

  "You could make a fortune selling these in Paris," Francis said suddenly, turning to face her, "Live freely, as your own woman; an artist in your own right."

  Elspeth smiled lightly at the idea. The idea of taking up residence in the hub of all art, along with her brother, creating right alongside him.

  "Has my mother spoken to you, yet?"

  "No," Elspeth answered, "I suppose she's occupied with other things."

  Francis huffed out a laugh, shaking his head.

  "What is it?"

  "Just. . ." Francis sighed, "She was willing to kill all of them, just for me to sit on the throne. She was ready to kill Bash and Mary- I've no doubt she would've killed my father if given the opportunity."

  "Unconditional love is a dangerous thing," Elspeth said quietly, "If wielded by the right hand."

  "The only other person she mentioned, fondly, that is. . . was you."

  Elspeth buried her shock, swallowing her nerves as Francis paced lazily around the room.

  "She. . . has this determination," Francis said, "This conviction. To give me the life she thinks I deserve; the life that she wishes for me."

  "It is not the life you want?"

  Francis took longer to answer this time. He came to a halt, right in front of her- Elspeth had never felt meek in front of the man before, but now his eyes seemed to pick apart every feature of her being.

  "I wanted Mary," He breathed out, "I was ready. To be with her, to be king- I wanted that life. I still do."

  Elspeth's brows softened as Francis's posture slumped.

  "But all I have now is freedom."

  "A thing many would kill for."

  Francis felt the sting of guilt as he recognized the pain in Elspeth's expression. A woman that never wanted to be owned, that wanted to run wild and free, was giving it up to be a mistress to the man she loved. The man she was meant to marry. 

  "What will you do?"  Francis questioned.

  "I. . ." Elspeth breathed in deeply, turning to the familiar faces she'd painted again and again, "Would you like the honest truth, Francis?"

  "Always."

  "I will paint," She said, turning back to him, "I will paint, and write and go on walks and rides with Demetre. I will spend time with Kenna.  I will try to convince the staff to let me bake. I will busy myself until I am exhausted, so I am not forced to know the inner workings of what Mary and Sebastian are doing. I will turn a blind eye to all of it because no matter how strong I am, it cuts me deeply knowing that he will lie with her until she bears a child to be heir."

  Only then did the first tear fall from Elspeth Lien's eye.

  "It hurts me more than I can express," She continued, her voice wavering, "But I love him. I have never loved another before, Francis. So what am I to do? Let it go?"

  "Love should not be pain, Elspeth."

  "Love is only pain," She whispered, shaking her head as more tears fell, "Love is longing, and pining, and agony until you see them again. To love someone is to surrender your heart, and hearts are fickle things that are often stung by things not meant to hurt them."

  Francis rested gentle hands on her shoulders, dipping his head to meet her eyes.

  "Love is kind, Elspeth," He said softly, "It is gentle and kind; of course, there cannot be love without pain, but. . . but that is not what love is."

  Elspeth nodded, despite the emotions whirring around her mind.

  "If you need anything," Francis said honestly, "Do not hesitate to find me, Elspeth Liens. . .  My mother has this delusion that because of this situation, you and I would marry. But I know you are something much more valuable than this."

  "What is that?"

  "A true friend," He spoke, with a soft smile, "So. . . anything, Elspeth, and I will be right here."

  "Thank you."

  Francis only nodded, before pulling the woman into a tight hug. One that reminded Elspeth greatly of her brothers' hugs, the kind that soothed any confusion or pain in her mind, the kind that brought her back to herself no matter where she had gone.

  Elspeth was not sure how she would fare in the arrangement, she was not sure if her relationship was strong enough to weather this storm, or where she would go if it fell apart. But Elspeth Liens knew, for certain, that she would miss Francis de Valois a great deal more than she ever expected to.

( AUTHOR'S NOTE. )
which are you picking;
Sebastian "I will love you until
my last breath" De Poitiers
or
Demetre "I would forsake my country if it meant
ensuring her safety and happiness" Langlois
LOL I'm having a BALL writing these men
seriously.