ofscots: (tears stream down your face)
[personal profile] ofscots
 It's all a bit of a haze, honestly, after she finds out. She doesn't really remember checking to make sure her memory of the Queen's execution site is correct. Doesn't really remember figuring out the best way to get there. Doesn't really remember packing her small backpack or buying the ticket or getting on the train. 
All she remembers is standing in the ruins of Fotheringay Castle before the plaque dedicated to the death of Mary, Queen of Scots for the first time and feeling like the world was about to give out under her feet. It was only the small handful of other tourists that kept her from falling to her knees from the emotion that overwhelmed her.

She shouldn't have gone back, after that. It wasn't exactly like it helped. But something pulled her to the site in the same way she'd been pulled to France, so she'd kept coming. 

She hadn't expected to be followed here. Hadn't expected that anyone would know to come here when she'd barely known what she was doing herself.

Still, she recognizes the young man who comes to stand beside her as she gazes, a little glassily, at the plaque. As the familiar figure settles beside her, she cuts off anything he might say with the quiet murmur that escapes her lips, "I died here."
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Moira Scott | Mary, Queen of Scots

March 2017

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