Reign Men and Monsters

Perfect hug was perfect.

A missing scene that explains Bash's quick return to the castle in time to meet Francis in the hall.

* * *

A rider appears on the horizon of their home, his and Kenna's, just as he is burying the man who pretended to be The Darkness. Pretended to be a monster. It had been a monster, slaughtering and sacrificing innocents, but he had been only a man at the end. His blood had been red and his heart had stopped beating, just like any other man. He goes down into the dirt to be fodder for the worms, just like any other body. That's how we all go out, Bash thinks, man and monster, in the end.

He is lost in thought when Kenna approaches; soft foot falls, hesitant and unsure. He thought they were past this uncertainty.

"Bash," she speaks, her voice low, "a rider has come, from the castle."

He turns to look at her, his wife. She is ashen, eyes watery.

"What? What is it?"

"Bash, he has a message. There was an accident, at the tourney. "

_Francis._

"Francis. Francis? Is he safe? Mary? Is she alright? What did the messenger say? "

"They're fine; they're not hurt." she replies and his shoulders slump in relief. Safe.

Thank the gods.

"But Bash," she continues, "your father. He decided to ride in the tourney. In the joust. He's been hurt. Badly, I think. The rider was sent for you. To bring you back. So that you could," her voice falters, and breaks into silence.

"So I could go to pay my respects."

She nods, tears in her eyes.

He wonders who her tears are for, if they are shed for the man she had once shared a bed with. If her tears are for the crazed man with fire in his eyes that had married them, shoeless in the great hall.

"So I could say goodbye," he says, with a sigh that hurts deep in his lungs. Damn that man.

He leaves Kenna, and Pascal, and rides hard for the castle, the spring winds still cold against his cheek as he races against the setting sun. The rider had told him to go with all haste, that the King, that his father, wasn't likely to see the new day. Gods. His father, the man who had held him in his lap and showed him how to grasp a sword, will be dead before dawn. The man he had loved against everything, whom he had fought with, and laughed with, and whom he had adored.

He rides hard, and he rides fast, for the man who told the dirtiest jokes. He rides into the wind for the father that had shown him how to love, through the relaxed and precious adoration he had always held for his mother. He continues, and he does not falter, because though his father has transformed, has become hard where once kindness was, Bash knows the man beneath, loves the man underneath.

He gets to the castle's gates an hour past sun set. The true bite of the night has crept into his bones, and he is chilled and exhausted, mentally and physically. The whole ride he has seen the two images of his father juxtaposed on top of the other, and he does not know which will greet him when he sees him at last. The man or the monster? The men gravely nod as he passes, quickly, his feet setting a rapid tempo against the stone of the keep. He must be a sight, his face drawn in desperation, dirty and dusty from the road, traveling the halls of the palace unconsciously, getting closer to his father's chambers, and to the fate that awaits him there.

One of the men, Ronald, if he remembers, swiftly falls into step beside him. In hurried speech, the guard informs him of the accident, of the lance, the injury, the reports coming in. He assures him that Charles and little Henry are safe, under guard and with a nursemaid.

"The dauphin is in with him now, M'lord." He nods, and they turn the corner into the family's private wing. So close. He is here, father, he is here.

"Thank you," he offers, and starts to say something else but falters. He doesn't really know what to say, what does one talk of when a mad king but a loved father will die this night?

He enters the final hallway, one he had run up and down so often as a child. There is shouting coming from the room at the end of the hall, and if it's possible, he walks faster. He can see Francis coming at him, leaving their father's room with all haste. More shouting from the room, becoming more comprehendible, more understandable as he gets closer.

_Long live the king_

What nonsense to yell that out as a king lies dying?

_The king is dead._

Gods. Damn it. Damn it all. His speedy steps come to a stop. All he can do is take a deep breath. He was so close.

Francis still approaches, his brother's face drawn, and haunted, and still the guards and courtiers announce

_The king is dead._

His father is dead.

_Long live the King._

His brother. Francis. His brother is king. It is a jolt of sudden awareness, and it sweeps away all his grief for a moment. Francis is now king. He knows what he must do. Has known what to do since his little brother was born, his hair gifting him with a golden crown from the first moment he met this earth. He kneels, his legs weak with the exhaustion of all that has happened these past days, but his form is perfect, his honor is real, his brother is king.

He is only there a moment before Francis' arms surround him; lift him up back to his feet. Francis' embrace is tight, and he holds on to his brother with all his will. Bash can feel the trembles in his brother's chest, the tears against his shoulder. They stand there; shoulder to shoulder, tight and solid, a statue of Henry's sons, almost picturesque in their grief. Bash's father is dead, Francis' father is dead. In a moment they will worry about insane Kings that are gone, and princes that must ascend thrones. But for right now, for the here and now, they hold tight to each other and mourn a man they had loved.

Both men and monsters are buried all the same.


End file.

Reign, Angst, Family