Bash Kingswood ⚔ Sebastian "Bash" de Poitiers (forgery) wrote in dunhavenic, @ 2019-07-28 12:21:00 |
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He had been chasing a murderer. For months, he had felt as though he was turning in circles, mistrustful of anyone in his midst because he was out there and he would strike once more; again and again until he was stopped. The loss of Delphine had been a hard blow. Their relationship had been complicated at best, but there was a part of Bash that cared deeply for her...loved her. He had lost so many people that he loved. Now, the murderer was finally stopped. He had solved the mystery and ended the bastard himself, but not before discovering too many foul pieces of information about Catherine de Medici. He knew that she could be slippery; selfish and cruel. She did everything for a reason. Those reasons were most often her children, if not herself. What he had uncovered could not simply be buried. There had been hot, burning embers of anger sweltering in his gut for months now, and they were stoking to a flame...hot enough to burn him alive. He had seated himself at her desk, his mind dark and brooding as he waited for her to return. Predictably, her first inquiry was of why he was sitting at her desk. He and his mother had always been a sore spot for Catherine. Even when they had grown closer - when he had helped her - there would always be a divide. “You were protecting Kristoff, and I know why,” he informed her. Fact, not a question. “What are you talking about?” For now, she would deny all claims and protest any wrong-doing. He knew how she operated. He had watched for years. “You paid Duke Boinel to attack Claude. All so you could take the Regency from Narcisse. That’s what Kristoff held over you.” It was a vile fact. Duke Boinel had been paid to abuse his half-sister, all to discredit their marriage and displace Charles’ faith in Narcisse. “Well, that is nonsense. Who told you that? Oh, Sebastian, you don’t believe--” Her tone remained airy and aloof. He cut her off. “You knew he was a murderer and you protected him. All so he would keep your secrets. You allowed him to continue to roam these halls as a Kings Guard.” He stood, his hands slamming down against her desk in his fury which burned brightly now, “Delphine is dead because of you.” “Don’t you dare lay that poor girl’s death at my feet.” She seemed particularly offended by that judgement, but turned placating. It sickened him that it was all an act, “How can you take the word of a mad man over mine? Sebastian, we are family? I have been like --” “Like a mother to me?” He paused, watching the smile fade from her lips, “When Francis died, I felt so alone, I reached out to my real mother. I sent letters to Diane at all of her chateaus. She never wrote back.” He watched as she drank her wine, presumably covering whatever reaction she might have otherwise had. He walked slowly out from behind the desk so that he could truly face her. He wanted to see it in her eyes. “When I realized what she’d done to your daughters years ago, I cast Diane out of my life. Not only because of her crimes, but also because I knew that if you ever discovered the truth, you’d murder my mother with your bare hands. Since she’s gone missing, I can’t help but wonder…” “You are not thinking clearly.” An edge had crept into her tone, sharp as glass. “Did you kill her?” He paused for an answer, but there was none. His voice lifted, “Did you kill my mother?” “She murdered my children. My babies.” Her eyes had gone cold and hard. There it was. The truth of it. Not quite a confession, but enough of one. If Catherine knew, then his suspicions were correct. “Where is she?” He might have been able to move past it, had he been given some peace...some closure, “My mother deserves a proper burial.” “Does she?” All pretenses of acting...all claims of being innocent were gone now. What Diane had done was unforgivable, certainly, but she had still been his mother. He had still loved her. “Her body is in the sea.” Catherine said this with such satisfaction that something snapped inside of him. He lunged for her, his hands wrapping tightly around her throat even as they struggled back towards her desk. A livid scream ripped from his throat, even as a few items clattered to the stone floor from her desk. She clawed at him, but he tightened his grip, “Bash...think!” Her words were a gasp, but in that moment, he hardly cared. He would strangle the life out of her, “I am...the Regent...of France!” Her words came haltingly, her throat working beneath his tightening grip, “By my death at your hands...you have no proof!” He drew his sword, intending to drive it through her heart despite her protests...despite everything they had once done or meant to one another. He ignored her gasps and struggles...her pleas, “Is your mother...a woman who would sacrifice anyone for her own gain, worth dying for?” It was those words that finally drove some sense into his mind. He could not stay there. He could not lay eyes upon Catherine without wanting to drive a dagger through her heart for what she had done. But he pushed her away from him. With a gasp, she fell to the floor and he screamed again, all that fury building up inside of him. The sword in his hand was still a temptation. A beckoning call. He pointed it to her chest, satisfied to see the real fear in her eyes...the knowledge that he could take her life without remorse. Maybe that would be enough to sustain him. “Since you are the real King of France,” he threw his sword at her feet, hatred in every word, “Consider this my resignation as your deputy.” As he turned to walk from the room, he knew that he could not stay at court...even in France. What was once his home could never be again. He would ask Mary if there was room for him to join her on the voyage to Scotland, but he would never return to his home country. He couldn’t. There was nothing left for him here. Sitting up from the couch with a gasp, a cold sweat had broken out on his skin. He rubbed a hand harshly over his face, blinking blearily at the clock on his phone. So much for his relaxing Sunday afternoon nap. An ache settled into his heart. The acidity of the anger from those dreams still ran through his veins. As Catherine’s face floated into his mind, he thought of Lucy and for a moment, his anger intensified. He didn’t know that it was fair...that this anger and hurt were now tied to someone who was a friend. He didn’t know how to make it stop or fade. He didn't know if it was a good or bad thing that after all of his dreaming of Bash...the violence no longer surprised him as it once had. For a moment, he held that phone in his hand and stared at the clock that ticked away. His own relationship with his mother was strained at best. His step-mother had always been a sore topic, too. She might not have been murderous, but she had never liked him. Ever since his mother had agreed to ship him off to Dunhaven, effectively freeing her to live her life however she pleased without the need to care for him, Bash had felt relatively abandoned by all of his parents. Now that he was an adult, they rarely spoke outside of holidays. With that ache in his chest, however, he opened up his contacts with a sigh and only hesitated for a few moments before he pressed the call button. It rang seven times before there was any answer. “Sebastian?” “Hi, mom.” |