"He's really small." It's the first thing he says when he lays eyes on his son for the first time, completely dumbfounded at the red little thing wrapped on blankets upon blankets, nestled on the arms of his exhausted mother.

"He's a baby, Francis." Mary laughs tiredly, and even covered in sweat and completely disheveled she's radiant, glowing. Her entire countenance seems flooded with light at holding her baby in her arms. His beautiful wife, the mother of his son. His thoughts are jumbled and amazed, but overcome by a happiness that can't be named. The biggest of smiles takes over his face without him even realizing it.

"Could I…ah…" He motions to Mary's arms, somehow afraid to intrude or cross boundaries he isn't supposed to.

"Come here, darling." Mary tells him, perhaps guessing his thoughts, as she always has been able to. He approaches her, and she places the baby delicately in the crook he made with his arms.

"Hello." He says to the sleeping baby, softly, unsure. He knows how to navigate difficult political conversations and how to control civil unrest, but speaking to his newborn son is a completely new territory. "Hello, James." He says, finally able to say his name to him out loud, the name Mary and him picked months ago; and tears spring to his eyes because he's not talking to her swelled stomach any longer, but holding his son in his arms.

"I'm your father." He mutters tenderly; and hears Mary's soft, fatigued laugh like bells twinkling behind him. Perhaps it is what makes the sleeping babe in his arms open his eyes to him, big blue eyes that startle him so. To see his own eyes on that little face…suddenly words aren't needed, yet a few he still utters.

"Je t'aime, mon petit prince." He says, kissing the soft, downy dark hair on his baby's head. He turns to look at Mary then, and she wears the most radiant smile he's ever seen on her.

He holds the tiny baby closer to his chest, enjoying the warmth and the weight of this little mixture of both of them, their first child, the first of many.

"I love you, Mary." He tells her earnestly, coming closer to her, and she smiles but she doesn't say it back. She doesn't say it anything at all, but a crystal tear runs down her cheek. She doesn't answer him as her eyes begin to close and then the midwifes, quiet until them, start yelling about bleeding and calling the physician and it being too late, and he's pushed out of the room, all the while holding his son in his arms. He doesn't understand anything as the door is closed in front of him just like Mary's eyes. All that crashes down upon him then, all that he knows, are two things.

He won't see her smile again. The baby won't stop crying.

.

He cries for her at night. The night before they bury her, when she's dressed all in white, her skin almost paler than the fabric and so cold, so very cold; eyes closed, unnaturally still. His mother lays the baby down on her chest so he can say goodbye, and he leaves as he realizes his son will never know the woman who died after bringing him to the world. He cries for her. He helps build her coffin himself, and the other workers say nothing as their King exerts himself as if every nail hammered would bring his wife back or diminish his pain.

He weeps like a child one night, like their child he refuses to see, too consumed with pain. The day after the funeral, after seeing them lock her in the wooden box carved with her coat of arms and roses, they entomb his wife, his Mary, so beautiful and full of live, trapped forever between the marble and the dead. Their sheets, his sheets now, are grasped with angry fists, chest red and mouth open against the mattress drowning out the sounds of his misery. He reigns himself in after that. Drowns in sorrow that no one can see, then in wine. When it stops working, something stronger. Before he realizes it a month has gone by and the castle bustles back to activity even as its King remains at a standstill.

.

He sees to it that his son is tended to by the finest wet nurse, then the best maids, and his own mother is constantly in the baby's room herself and mentioning how he grows stronger and bigger every day after meeting with nobles.

His mother beams with pride at her second grandchild, but she coddles him more than he ever did with Claude, his and Lola's daughter. Perhaps because James is legitimate, or motherless, but whatever the reason he is glad that the boy at least has someone of his own blood caring for him, because he finds himself paralyzed outside of his nursery every time he tries to go inside.

"He's a perfectly healthy baby boy." His mother informs him, and he's happy, he is; but he can't help but turn away and look out of the windows to his kingdom, he can't help but think that Mary should have been by his side, and he curses himself to hell when he thinks that it's James' fault that she isn't.

"He looks like you, you know? He has your eyes." His mother says intently, as if the chance that their son looked like her, like Mary, would bring him back to his knees, turn him back into the worthless excuse of a man he was in the days following her death. Perhaps because it's been three months and he has seen his son only a handful of times when he wasn't busy with his advisors or busy with alcohol and even then, the child had cried while in his arms, utterly unknowing of him and certainly disgusted by the smell of wine perpetually in his clothes.

"I know." He says. I wish he had her eyes, he doesn't. I'm afraid I'll forget what they looked like, he feels deep inside.

.

He takes Claude to meet her half-brother when the baby is nearly five months old, and the blonde little girl all but drags him to the nursery, utterly excited.

"Leave us, please." He requests of the nurses inside the room when they arrive, and he walks toward the crib slowly, Claude's little hand pulling on his doublet the only thing that pushes him forward. He's shocked at how much his son has grown. Whenever he thinks of the baby the pain of losing Mary is sharp on his chest, intricately tied with his birth forever. The bleeding hadn't stopped. He'd lost her. He shakes his head as if to clear before he picks the baby up, carefully, trying to hush the soft cries that begin as soon as James finds himself in unfamiliar arms.

He sits himself down by a chaise where Claude can climb besides him, and her little hands immediately go to the baby's face.

"Be careful." He says right away, trying too hard and not enough to see his late wife in their son's face.

"Little nose." Claude sings. "Little fingers." She says when he unwinds the baby's swaddle from around him, letting the boy move his arms and kick his little legs freely. He hates the thing, has no idea why the nurses insist on wrapping him so tightly.

"Mary is his maman." She says sweetly, while playing with the baby's toes. She'd seen her stomach swell, had even talked to the baby while it was still inside his mother. Because even after everything, Mary had been kind to Claude, she'd looked past his indiscretions and forgiven him and then cared about his child as if she didn't pain her. His sweet Mary.

"Yes, she is." He says; is, not was. She always will be.

"Papa, where's Mary?" Claude asks him, and he stops cold, his thumb stopping to trace circles on his son's dark head, because like every single time, it hits him with full force. The fact that she's gone to a place he can't follow, that she's left him and their child and he doesn't know how to do it, any of it; how to care for him, or stop drinking so much, or live, or maybe just stop fucking disappointing her like he surely has been doing for the past months.

"It's time to go, Claude." He tells her sternly. "Your mother is probably wanting you back." He lays the baby down on his crib and calls for the nurses to come back inside before taking his daughter's hand.

"Don't swaddle him so tight. He seems uncomfortable." He orders one of the maids once they come back in.

"Of course, your majesty." She curtsies, and he nods in acknowledgment before leaving the room and not looking back.

.

It's not fair. It's not fucking fair, any of it.

That Mary had to watch Lola and their daughter together all the time, that she'd cried at night, that she'd suffered because the thought she'd never have that. That she endured three years of that sorrow quietly, and when she'd finally become pregnant she was ecstatic. They both were. She stopped wearing her high heeled court shoes right away, her corsets, stopped worrying so much, let him take control of Scottish affairs for a while. She'd done everything right, everything! Then why?!

Why wasn't she here?! Why couldn't she see her son grow up? Why wasn't she the one to sing him Scottish songs to sleep or read him her favorite books? He hates himself for not saving her, hates God for taking her away from him. Damn it, he hates it all! His hand flies furious against a vase, sending the porcelain flying and shattering into fragments.

He turns at the sound of a gasp from the door. There stands his mother, wide eyed, and a toddler hiding behind her skirts.

"He wanted to show his father his painting." His mother says almost apologetically, a piece of paper obviously painted by small fingers on one hand, holding James' hand on the other.

God damn, he ruins everything. Francis rubs his hand over his bloodshot eyes and unshaven, coarse cheeks before turning around, calmer for his son's sake.

"James." He reaches for his son but the little boy jumps back, his pout trembling and fear in his eyes. His mother looks at him sadly before picking James up in her arms.

"Maybe another day." She says apologetically, leaving him alone, and then…Then the King of France just sits on the floor and weeps. Everything's fallen apart.

.

"Give James a bath and put him to bed, will you?" He hears coming from outside the door. "Grandma will be right with you, my darling."

His mother doesn't knock as she strides back inside, and he doesn't have enough shame or dignity to leave his spot on the floor next to the fireplace.

"Francis, I'm sorry, I didn't know…I would have never wanted him to see you like this." His mother brushes back the hair from his eyes much like he does for James, pure pain in her eyes.

"I just miss her… so damn much." He says tickly, staring into the flames.

"Your son misses you." Catherine tells him keenly, offering him a hand to stand up. He doesn't take it, instead rises to his full height and hugs his mother tightly, as if he was still a child, like he wishes he was.

"Oh, my dear." She says, holding him just a tightly, rubbing his back, and somehow, letting someone else in makes a little of the pain on his heart begin to leak away.

.

It's a little over a week afterwards, once he's sure there's not an ounce of wine left in his system, and he's shaved and bathed at least twice, that he visits his son's room. He's with his governess, trying to finish a puzzle, his hands still chubby with baby fat trying to push the wooden pieces anywhere he thinks they might fit.

The woman stands up once she realizes he's there, and immediately drops into a curtsy.

"Your majesty. I didn't know you would be visiting today." She says, then motions for James to stand up and the boy does so with big eyes.

"He-Hello, Father." The little boy says, clearly having practiced it before, and it breaks his heart that he's been keeping himself away from his son and his pain between maps and advisors and wine for so long that his own son doesn't feel comfortable around him. Just like his own father did with him. Francis doesn't want to be like his father a second longer. He drops down on one knee to James' height.

"Hello James." He's grown up so fast. He remembers when he used to watch him toddle around the castle on short little legs, or pull on Sterling's tail, the old dog taking care of his son like he used to do with his mother.

"Would you, eh, would you like to go riding with me tomorrow?" He asks, foolishly afraid of rejection from the nearly four year old.

"Yes, Father." James says, then looking up to his nursemaid, that gives him a reassuring smile. He hates himself in that moment for all the time that he's lost, and promises himself he won't lose another second. He smiles in that moment, and James' answering smile make him think that his son doesn't hate him like he thought.

"Where we go?" James blurts out suddenly, earning him a glare from his nursemaid.

"You majesty, he is still very young-"

"Would you leave us?" He asks kindly.

"Of course." She curtsies and walks out. James is looking to the floor, and he stands up offering his hand. The boy looks up to him, surprised perhaps at the amount of attention he's receiving today from his father.

"Sit with me?" He asks, helping James up on the windowsill where he takes a seat himself.

"Riding where? Where?" James asks, excited for the trip. Francis knows he's been badgering his grandmother for a Pony for a week.

"See those hills over there?" He asks James, pointing toward the far off green planes outside.

"Where?" James asks, straining to look outside. He's surprised when the boy climbs on to his lap then, it's been so long since he's held him, but James seems to not notice it. Francis brings him closer to himself, smiling faintly, and then points out of the window.

"Back over there. I used to go all the time with your uncle Bash…" He begins, and then just talks, tells his son tales of his hunting trips with Bash, of what animals live there, makes up stories as he goes along, but just talks and talks until he realizes that James has fallen fast asleep against his chest.

He brushes back some of the little boy's dark hair away from his forehead. His throat stings, his very chest aches at the realization that he blamed his own son for Mary's death after she gave birth to him. That he's let her down and he's let James down, and that all this time of short little visits every week and paying more attention to his country than to his child make him undeserving of the tittle of Father.

"I'm so sorry." He whispers to James before kissing his forehead, and laying the boy down on his bed.

.

He sits James in front of him on the horse, and they gallop softly through the hills beside the castle, the little boy screaming happily at being on a horse for the first time, and Francis feels a sad sort of happiness flow through him, the knowledge of what he's missed buried in his own sorrow and pain, and the joy of knowing that there's still time.

He stops just above a hill, the river beneath them and trees as far as the eye could see.

"You will rule all of this one day." He tells James, and the boy looks up at him wide eyed.

"Really?" He stumbles over the word.

"Yes. And you will be great King, you have your mother's blood." He says, and mentioning Mary doesn't hurt as much as it usually does.

"Mother?" The boy keeps quiet for a second before continuing. "Grandma said she heaven." James explains, and it hits Francis that he's never spoken about Mary in all of these years, not to Bash, or his mother, or anyone. It only seems fitting that James should be the one he talks to, as his son never actually met her, or saw how wonderful his mother was.

"She is heaven, I'm sure. She was the best person I knew." James turns to look at him as much as he can and not fall of the horse, completely absorbed by his tone of voice. "She was so beautiful, your mother. The most beautiful woman I ever met. But she wasn't just that. She was brave and smart and fiercely loyal. And she loved you." He looks down at James, who's listening wide-eyed as it's the first time his father has mentioned his mother to him. "She loved you more than anything."

"James I…." He doesn't know how to do this anymore, without Mary and after years of numbing the pain in his chest with wine he hardly remembers, but he tries. "I haven't been a good father to you. "He says simply, honestly. "And I am so sorry." He gets it out of his chest, and he doesn't know just how much does the boy understand but he's never been more honest.

"Let's go back, I don't want you to catch a cold." He says, and reign the horse back in direction of the chateau, a very quiet little boy sitting in front of him, holding the reigns above his father's hands.

.

"Did you have fun?" He asks once James is safely back in his room, and his advisor are trailing behind him because there are matters he needs to tend to.

"Yes Father." James answers him, guarded once more at the sight of those old men waiting for his father outside. Francis know he can't expect to be treated warmly after so much time of abandonment but his chest aches at the thought that his son and him will have a relationship like he did with his father, it would be all his fault.

"You can call me Papa." He says, kneeling down in front of James, who only looks at him, saying nothing. Francis' throat constricts. "Would you give me a hug before I leave?" He asks his son, opening his arms, and the little boy just looks at them, at him. And then James is throwing himself into his arms and hugging him as hard as his little arms can.

"Don't leave, Papa." He says quietly, and Francis stands up with his son in his arms. He remembers twirling Mary in his arms years ago, asking her to marry him, remembers every single thing that they went through and though his chest aches with the memories he knows that the result of all that love is laughing in his arms now. Their son, his son that needs him more than anyone else. He was a wreck, a part of him will always be now that Mary's gone but he's not alone, and he should have never felt that way.

"Je t'aime, mon petit prince." He tells his son, and James looks back at him with his same blue eyes and a big goofy smile, and the pain on his heart lessens because despite his foolishness not everything's lost. Somewhere on the back of his mind he has an image of Mary smiling the first time he held their son, and all he can do is hope that she'll help him somehow, and that perhaps she's smiling right now.