[Elizabeth hadn't believed Gabriel when he had said those things, it was easier than in the middle of war, of being captured and degraded like he had, to just ignore it. But it was planted, the suspicion was there -- it always had been. Her cousin Mary was next in line. Eventually it would come to something, it couldn't not. Not in her family, not with how they ruled. A royal family born out of civil war, who murdered and burned -- the literal thousands dead to cause so much change.
The video started when Elizabeth stood up suddenly in her seat, a small woman in a huge hall. The book that she'd shoved away from her, the chair hitting the ground. There's a sound, it's not a word, somewhere near a plea, and grief, pure broken grief for that which there is no words for. Shaking as she decides better than to just shove the book away. She picks it up and throws it with the full force. The words on the cover briefly seen: The Complete History of -- before it's gone across the table.
A prince must never flinch from being blamed for absolute ruthlessness.
She'd hated those words, even though she knew it was true. But she thought, then, it had been enough. She'd had those men slaughtered in the night, god was it ever going to be enough? She's ruthless even now though. It's deeply ingrained. That temper that was all her father's. The book wasn't enough. She took hold of the tablecloth and pulled it. Plates, glass, clattering and shattering everywhere, echoing around the room. Picked up a cup that hadn't fallen to the floor and threw it too, watching it bounce of the wall.
God what was she going to become?
Her head bowed over the mess she'd made, it felt like being stripped of everything again. Her stomach hurt, her heart felt like it was burning against her ribs. and the guilt -- there wasn't a word, in Latin, French, or any language for how it shuddered through her. The grief in her words over rode anything else, left her ragged and worn.] Mary, I'm so sorry. I am so, so sorry. God please, please forgive me, I can't -- [she pressed her forehead against the cool wood, trying so desperately to keep calm, and keep in control. Couldn't keep still for it, it didn't fade. It wasn't going away. Her nails scratched the wood, dragging down. It should of hurt, but she can't seem to feel it.]
I never wanted this. For either of us. I thought giving up my happiness, my body and my heart was enough, I thought my people's love would save me this... [she rose again, swaying for a moment, her hands clenching and unclenching, moving to claw at the back of her neck or press over her eyes like that would stop the tears burning in them. The words she'd never say to another, babbling out. Her hands press against her sides, fist in her skirts, unable to keep still] They die for us, and we are nothing. The call us ordained by God, and we are wretched sinners. [she laughs, and it sounds sick] We are more foul than any murderer, for they are not worshipped and we are. Our fathers damn us both by their blood. By our blood. My beloved cousin, I'm so sorry. We are a disease on each other, as we are a disease on lesser men, to be royality is toxic... I didn't want you to die, I don't. I didn't want to be the one to order your execution. Please forgive me. Please. Let other men covet this, let them be the fools. I want my people to prosper, I want you to raise your child... I want... [broken gasps between tears, they echo just as much in the silence] I'm so sorry this must go first before us. I'm sorry our lives must be as nothing. I'm sorry neither morality nor virtue saves you. I wish you peace, if not in life, then in death. Your executioner will be the best, just as it was for my mother, I promise. [she draws in air, and it hurts her lungs to even do that.]
... If this is the legacy that they all praise me over, I hate them for it. If this is my great act, let it never be sung of... Let the punishment of loneliness be enough to atone for my sins. God wash me of this blood, I beg of you.
[Elizabeth walked away from where the device had fallen, moving without comprehending she might of been watched. Poor fools, they know not what they do. Not pity, she didn't know how to be pitied any longer. Not for this, why would they? No doubt they'd only speak of victory she would win against spain, like that made it better. That was all she was supposed to look to. Queens don't cry, queens don't falter, they are immovable, untouchable, pillars of brief divinity for lesser men who knew no better. Women did, but women were weak -- and it was as one she become a shadow of herself. Her cousin, her poor cousin, her poor people that would die for her mistakes. Would they were any other family. She hated the crown, she hated it more then anything she could possibly remember. When was this ever going to be enough? When she had nothing left to give? But she already knew the answer, this wouldn't end until she was dead.
When she found nothing else to destroy easily, she turned on herself. Systematic destruction of all that she was, because she didn't see how any of it mattered anymore. Ripping the pins and ribbons from her hair, the bracelets from her wrist, the rings from her fingers, save her state ring, and when she snapped the necklace, the pain of it tore a scream from her throat. Threw them one by one at the wall, watched them break out of their settings.
(Little flashes of brilliance as they caught the morning light. Cold empty stones. Just stones, and men prized them so, like they filled some crevice of the heart and of the soul.)
Till there was nothing left, stripped down and she crumpled to the floor. Couldn't hold herself together anymore. Wrapping her arms around herself, she curled in, doubled over as she wept and cried to be forgiven, for she never could forgive herself for this.]