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“I shall never forgive him”, Anne murmured, as she nuzzled her face into the crook of her neck, and the warm breath that tickled her skin lit her insides in an all-too familiar fire.
Slowly, but confidently, she wrapped an arm around the waist of the languishing Queen, appreciating the subtle way in which her body relaxed under her touch. Pliant, delicate, in a word, perfect. A bitter smile tugged at her lip, and she buried the growing pit in her stomach in the scent of her curly hair. It smelt like sweat, and it smelt stale: all of the luxurious products Anne would cake herself in to look the part could not hide the state in which her loneliness, locked as she was inside these cruel walls, threw her in. But beyond the stench of a doll forgotten in a dusty closet, Madeleine had learnt to recognize the sweet perfume of the flowers of the gardens of Amiens. She had feasted on the sweet aroma one too many nights spent consoling the grieving sovereign, had explored every pore of her skin and gotten so intoxicated that she had come to forget that after a good night of drinking, one was only left with pain and a deep-bone exhaustion and only the fleeting memories of happiness.
Oh, how she wished they could remain that way forever, be it as a loyal confidante and her sovereign, or as a mistress and her docile servant. Instead, all she said was:
“I am honored, your Highness. But you mustn’t let it get to you.”
Madeleine retreated from her Queen’s embrace, but only to better cup her porcelain face between her hands.
“You have to promise,” she pleaded in the commanding voice that she had so often employed with her, “that this isn’t the end of you.”
A stifled hiccup and eyes that shone with tears were her only response. She waited patiently for Anne to get a hold of herself; her liege’s hands pried her own away from her cheeks and instead pressed them against her breast.
“I can’t lose you too”, Anne cried, as her tears started to flow more freely. A few tear drops, fallen onto their intertwined hands, made de Fargis shiver; still, she held firm.
“Ma mie, you have lost someone before, and in an irreversible way. You can grieve again, and come out stronger,” she coaxed. “And you won’t be alone,” she shushed her before the Queen could interrupt. “Mme de Chevreuse was there for you then; she will be with you this time, too.”
“Oh, light of my life,” the Queen exclaimed, “all of Marie’s cares pale in comparison with yours; I see that now.”
“I will write to you,” she cut the poor, lost soul that clung to her like her life depended on it. “I may even come back someday, once you have managed to cut the snake’s head.” The falsehood fooled neither of them; but if keeping up the illusion managed to keep them going forwards, even just for a little while, then she would gladly lie to her Queen instead of for her. “And then you will have the pleasure of my company again,” she smirked as confidently as she could.
“Oh, my dear… I am surrounded by my enemies. I cannot do this-”
“But you have to.” Her fingers, still clutched tightly between the Queen’s, grazed over the skin of her neck, and she wanted nothing more than to pull her closer, her blood boiling with desire as much as with a creeping rage on both of their behalves. That, however, she reasoned with the demon on her shoulder, would only make the separation harder; what Anne, perfect Anne, sweet Anne needed was a clean break, or she would never let her go.
More abruptly than she’d hoped, she shied away from the Queen and stood; the other woman cried out and, reaching her arms out for her, clung to the skirt of her dress, creasing the delicate fabric between her fingers. In any other circumstance, she would have loved to see her on her knees like this, their roles reversed; and even now, the temptation to indulge danced around in her tormented mind, as tears pricked the corner of her eyes.
“If you truly must go,” Anne managed to blurt out after a few moments of tense silence, “I want you to have this ring,” she croaked out painfully, and, finally unclutching her shaky hands, she removed it from her finger. “I always thought it’d fit you wonderfully,” she sighed, and Madeleine found she didn’t have it in her to stop her from slipping it on her ring finger, “if only you had been a man…”
A moment’s silence, and then she gently pried her hand away. “I have never needed to be a man to be yours, my beloved. But as much as I wish for it…” She backed away, one hesitant step after the other. Even now, and especially now, she was torn between her affections and her common sense. Her eyes trying to burn the face of the angel before her in her mind one last time, so that she could always carry it with her.
She took a deep breath, and turned around.
“As much as I wish for it, you cannot stay mine.”