Author's Note: I know better than to think this is an original idea, but it was nevertheless begging me to write it. As of right now, I'm not sure how long or short this story will be. I haven't forgotten about The Shape of Things to Come or In Dreams, I promise. But I just needed something…different to get me out of the writing rut I was in. Review and let me know what you think!

Disclaimer: Showtime owns the series and poor little me is making no money off of this story. Don't sue!

All I know is that the end's beginning...
Let me go and I will run; I will not be silenced.
All this time spent in vain; wasted years, wasted gain;
All is lost—hope remains—and this war's not over...
- "Shattered," Trading Yesterday

7 May, 1536
The Tower of London

The Queen of England had felt ill for days now, though she had been uneasy and restive since her miscarriage months ago. To think, at the beginning of the year she had thought herself, at last, untouchable. Her longtime menace Katherine, whom some had still insisted on calling "Queen," was dead! And she, Anne—she was not only unarguably the King's true wife now, she was also carrying the Prince of Wales within her womb! Her lord could not possibly lose faith in her this time, she had thought. She was finally going to fulfill her promise and when there was a boy-child in the royal nursery, the whole of England would finally see that she was their rightful Queen. Did they not already adore her daughter, Elizabeth? They would love a prince more fiercely still, especially since he would be a true Englishman!

Yet it was not to be. Henry had not shown much renewed interest in her even after she had revealed her condition, and his neglect was more painful than it had ever been in the past. Anne spent those months keenly aware of how much rode on the outcome of her pregnancy; she knew that it was, in a sense, her last chance. Henry's patience had worn thin over those seven years. He had risked their firstborn being illegitimate because he simply could not wait any longer. They had now been married for three years, and Anne had not made good on her vow, and she knew that her husband was already straying. He must feel betrayed—but so did she.

She hated that he was not content to love her and her alone. She was far younger and lovelier than Katherine. If she lost her temper sometimes, he had only himself to blame. What else about her was not the makings of a Queen? She was graceful and fashionable, a kind mistress to her ladies, a loving mother… yes, sometimes she was not the model wife, but only because he was not a faithful husband. He had not even attempted to appear that way, ever since the birth of their daughter. She was not a boy, no, but how could any father not be proud and pleased to have such a child?

But the day she had found him with Jane Seymour, the little wench, upon his knee—that day had decided her fate. It was so soon after Anne feared she would lose Henry, her King, her protector, the man she loved, the father of her child, to a simple jousting accident, so very soon…and then to find him with her own "servant," a woman who would obviously love nothing more to usurp her place…it had broken Anne's heart. She had told him so, but he had not wanted to hear it at the time. He had been so angry. It made her tremble to think of it. That night, Henry had not cared that she was suffering, to—she had had a child again ripped from her body, another little life which she could have brought into the world and cherished as she cherished Elizabeth even still… He did not care about her pain, physical or otherwise. He could only see through the lenses of his own disappointment.

She had indeed miscarried of her savior, but it was not her fault. It was Henry's. He had all but murdered his own son, and it was because he could not control himself—he could not resist whatever charms mousy little Mistress Seymour offered.

And now…now everything had gone wrong.

She had been arrested five days ago. From all that she could piece together, Anne knew that she was in the Tower for betraying His Majesty, which was treason. Several of her friends and even her brother, were supposedly guilty of committing such acts with her. She could hardly believe it. Did Henry truly believe that she—she who had waited so long for him!—would throw it all away to have a bit of fun, knowing the cost?

Would she put their daughter, the most important thing in her entire world, in such jeopardy?

Some logical part of Anne's mind filled in what her heart simply would not accept. The King no longer loved her, or at least believed that he did not. He was tired of fighting battles for her, tired of waiting, just as he had tired of Katherine, so he was willing to accept anything that would let him escape their marriage. Perhaps he had even asked for a way out, and then of course, a way would be found. Anne knew that all to well. He had found a way out for her sake, though it had come at the price of breaking away from Rome. While she and some others had fervently supported such an action, there were many others in England who saw their souls being put on the line for a woman of "no particular" beauty or breeding. Yet she could prove them all wrong, she could, if only Henry had given her the time.

If she should die, something she was not willing to accept, not yet, Anne had to face the cold, hard truth of the matter. She had dug her own grave in so many ways. She had empowered Henry to take fate into his own hands by encouraging his divorce; she had undermined the security of her position, however, from the first moment of their courtship. Anne was hardly a stupid woman. She knew perfectly well that Jane Seymour had taken a leaf out of her own book to woo the King.

And then there was her own conduct. Even if she still held that much of it was Henry's doing, his own foolishness and selfishness, there were times when she had not acted much like a good wife or queen. Her brother had warned her, of course…but she had ignored him. She had been offended. She could not help but wonder now how things would have differed if she had taken George's advice. Would Henry still care for her as he once had if she had "shut her eyes and endured" what he chose to do, straying from the marriage bed? If she had been kinder and more loving, would she in turn have been more lovable? The questions were useless but nevertheless, they haunted her.

Anne had far from accepted her fate yet. She knew it would take a miracle sent by the Lord himself to reprieve her, but the Lord was good, and she and the others were innocent of everything except her own failing to provide him a son.

All these troubles very well could have contributed to her queasiness, then. There was no reason to complain about her treatment, for it was not poor. She found cruel irony in the fact that she was even now staying in the very chambers where she had slept with Henry the night before her coronation, yes. And yes, she was by turns angry, frightened, sad and lonely, but Sir William and the ladies with which she had been provided-they were all respectful, even kind.

Things changed two days earlier. Anne felt unwell all morning, and when she ate the small breakfast that had been brought for her, she could not keep it down. Yet by midday, she felt well again, if a little anxious. This cycle repeated itself until finally, that morning, she decided that something must be done about it.

"Please fetch Sir William and have him call for a physician at once," Anne instructed. Her voice trembled despite her best effort to maintain the semblance of calm. She wanted to be brave, but so many things had gone wrong and so many things still could that Anne did not know how to cope with all of them.

At first, she half-expected that Sir William would tell her a physician could not or would not be sent to see her, and when the girl returned with the assurance that one would indeed arrive, she had to remind herself that he would not be Dr. Linacre, the court physician whom she had become familiar with after all these years. They sat in silence while they waited. None of the women asked why their mistress needed a physician to attend her and Anne was not going to volunteer her suspicions. If they were incorrect, she would rather it be between herself and this physician, not fodder for future rumors after she was…exiled. Or dead.

It felt like hours had passed before the door finally swung open to reveal Sir William and a second man close behind him. He bowed to her, grim-faced as always.

"A doctor is here to attend to Your Majesty," he announced, motioning to the stranger who also bowed.

She got to her feet at once. Her fingers were laced together so tightly that her nails dug into the flesh of her hands. Her eyes darted nervously from her jailer to the physician and finally she turned her head to look at the women. They all wore bland expressions which masked whatever curiosity they may be feeling. In truth, they were kind enough, but she nevertheless wanted some privacy. If the news was not what she wanted, no, needed to hear…well, she did not want them to see her disappointed.

"Thank you," she said. "Do you think we might…he might attend me alone, Master Kingston?"

The man bowed again, and this time his expression was more sympathetic. "Of course, Your Majesty. Your ladies and I will wait outside…"

Anne's attendants rose automatically, as if some invisible force compelled them. Each bobbed a small curtsy; each murmured an almost unintelligible "Your Majesty" as they filed out of the open door. Sir William was the last. He shut the heavy door and she could hear the key scraping in the lock. It left her with only the physician, and suddenly she was frightened. She did not want to know. This was her only hope. What if he should take it away?

But if it was true, and no one knew…

He bowed once more and smiled warmly, a genuine smile. "Your Majesty, I am Dr. Blackwell. Master Kingston said only that you were experience stomach troubles…?"

The warmth in his smile and in his voice was enough to drive Anne nearly to tears. She nodded. "Yes…I…it has been every morning, sir, for three days now, but I have always felt well again in the afternoon." Did the optimism in her voice sound as desperate to him as it did to her? Could he know what this might mean?

"And your…monthly courses, Your Majesty?"

Anne wrung her hands. She had not paid much attention, not since her dreadful miscarriage, especially not in the midst of the fear and uncertainty which had nearly swallowed her whole during the past few months. Had Henry even come to her bed? Yes, surely. Even he knew that he had a duty, no matter how impatient he was, no matter how tired of her he was… And her courses? What of those? Dear God, they had not come, had they? She would have remembered…she must have remembered…

Slowly, Anne shook her head. "I—I do not think they have come, sir, not for a month at least."

It was such a relief to see this simple, kind English face. It held no mockery or even suspicion. Perhaps this was one of the few subjects who had accepted that the King's first marriage was invalid and that he had a new Queen…or perhaps he was simply willing to do his job without worrying that the woman before him was the Queen of England and that it was likely her fate rested on him. Perhaps that was too extreme, too much pressure to be put on one poor man…but it was how Anne saw things. The pressure was, in truth, on her. If he told her what she suspected was true…oh God. How would Henry receive such news?

"Your Majesty, I will need to…examine you," Blackwell ventured. He was obviously trying to be delicate, and in another circumstance she might have found it amusing.

"Of course." Anne tried to smile. She glanced over her shoulder; the bed. That was where all other such examinations took place. "Of course…" She made it to the edge of the bed on unsteady legs, her hands trembling as they tugged at the laces of her gown to loosen it for him. She finally gave up, however, and sunk down onto the mattress.

Blackwell offered her another comforting, calm smile. "Please lie back, Your Majesty."

Anne closed her eyes. She felt sick, this time from nerves, and could not even find the words in her mind to pray. But surely God knew of her troubles anyway. Surely he would watch over her. Instead of payers, she turned to memories. Behind her closed lids, she was no longer in the Tower, but in the gardens with her daughter-with Henry… the rustle of her gown as she tried to keep time with her husband…the warmth of Elizabeth's little hands against her neck…

"Please…after everything we've been to each other…" She curled her fingers around his collar, wanting only to keep him there until he saw reason. She loved him so deeply, yet at this moment she was so fearful—of him and of what he might have been told. "After everything we were! Please…"

His face was hard, his eyes cold; he was unmoved by this pitiful scene: the woman he had longed to make his own for such a long time, with their beautiful child in her arms, pleading with him from the very depths of her soul. Henry knew her; he knew she was not wont to beg for anything. Yet here she was. And it did not matter to him at all. Not even Elizabeth mattered. Just like Mary, just like Katherine. Was it God's punishment for her past sins? Surely he—and Henry—would have some mercy…

She twisted away from him and continued for a few paces, up the stone steps, before she turned and looked at him again. "One more chance," she insisted. "One more." It escaped her lips as a whisper, almost a prayer.

He stood there as though he was a statue. "Henry…"

But then he was coming towards her…maybe… Anne stretched out a hand to stop him when she realized he was about to pass her, but he pushed her away.

Anne felt her heart breaking. She rushed after him again, stopping to watch him walk away. He would not even turn-he would not even look at her. He would not look at their daughter. Somewhere, somehow, she knew that this would be the last time she would see him. She could hardly bear it. "Your Majesty!" No reaction-not even a pause… "Your Majesty!"

Please, God…please…

"Your Majesty, I beseech you!"

She hugged Elizabeth more closely to her as her knees gave way. She began to sob, as her daughter hid her little face in her mother's shoulder.

"Your Majesty…my lady…"

The physician's voice interrupted the fading end of that memory. She slowly roused herself. Blackwell stood, hands folded, by the side of the bed. Anne sat up; she was not particularly surprised that the horrors of the past few weeks would be enough to separate her completely from the present. Now, however, she was very much in the present. Those memories would always stay with her, haunting her, but there was little she could do to change what had happened; the only thing she could hope for was to change what might happen now. That depended upon the findings of this physician; there would not be another opportunity for a second opinion. It was all she could do to keep breathing steadily.

"I am very pleased to say that—"

Whitehall

"–Her Majesty is with child."

Thomas Cromwell stood in the King's audience chamber. He looked quite pale, even sickly, as he delivered the news that a physician sent to the Queen, imprisoned in the Tower, had confirmed that she was indeed pregnant. It was not good news. It meant that the King was not going to get what he wanted: a quick way out of this marriage. Though he could pass the child off as one of Anne's lovers, Cromwell knew he would not be so quick to make that conclusion. The investigation, which had really been a sham, would have to go more in-depth and Cromwell would have to produce solid evidence. He could hardly torture George Boleyn or the other noblemen—the court would not stand for it—and thus, he knew it was unlikely he would get confessions from any of them…except Brereton, of course, who seemed all too willing to confess.

As for the King, Henry did not know how to accept what he was hearing or how to react. He was tired of this tumultuous marriage. He was tired of Anne. He wanted his angel, Jane, to be by his side as his wife and Queen. Yet he could not do away with Anne if she was carrying a child, no matter whose child it was. The English people would rise up in fully justified anger if they knew…and if they did not, Henry would always have the blood of an unborn child on his conscience.

His unborn child? Or one of her many lover's? George Boleyn's, perhaps? That would make the child an abomination, not fit to be born.

But if it was his child…he could neither execute Anne, no matter how betrayed he felt, nor could he annul their marriage for fear she would have a son. Yet even if it was a daughter, how could he then justify annulling the marriage? This child changed everything. It meant that he may never be able to end this cursed affair; he may never have his beloved Mistress Seymour as anything more than a mistress. It meant that Anne would go unpunished for her betrayal. How she would gloat! She would never let him forget what he had nearly done to her. She would never learn her place.

No, she would learn it, and learn it now. He could hardly execute her, nor keep her locked away forever—but he would keep her there for as long as it took to make sense of this mess. He would not let Anne forget that he was her lord and master again. Let her fear him, as a wife should, especially the wife of a King! Let her hold her tongue.

And if she was guilty—if this child was not his—Henry would not hesitate.

Yes, they would get to the bottom of the matter, even if Henry had to take matters into his own hands. If he never got his Jane, he would know the reason why. And if Anne…if she was innocent, if she carried his child…despite himself, despite all the anger which had been building inside him ever since Brandon had told him, Henry felt a rush of hope. If Anne had not betrayed him, despite how poor of a wife she had been, then there was the possibility that she may give him a son yet. And if that was the case, he would never think of Jane Seymour again. Yet there was no time to speculate yet. He could not forget what he had learned of Anne's conduct unless her name was cleared.

Was it possible that Cromwell and Brandon had lied to him in the first place? Henry had wondered that from the beginning, though he knew that he had been all too willing to believe the worst of Anne from the start. Once upon a time, he had refused to hear a single word against her. Now, things had changed.

His thoughts strayed to Elizabeth. Though she was a "disappointment," since she was merely a girl, what a girl she was! Henry could not deny her brilliance, nor could he help but see himself mirrored in her. The worst part about Anne's betrayal had been facing the possibility that their child was in fact hers with another man's and not his at all. Yet he knew better. He knew she had not slipped away to bed-to bed anyone else, certainly not her brother while they were in Calais. He remembered the night Elizabeth had been conceived poignantly. It had not been so long ago. She was his, she had to be! No matter what other sins Anne had committed, she had at least given him that gift…though in a way, Elizabeth's birth was a betrayal in itself, since she was not the son which her mother had promised him.

Elizabeth was his as much as Mary was. And if there was no question about that-what did that mean now? What did it mean about the allegations against Anne?

"Master Cromwell, I want this physician's account verified at once. Send Dr. Linacre to the Tower," he instructed slowly. Linacre had examined Anne—as well as Katherine—in the past. He would not lie in an effort to save the Queen as some country doctor might.

"Yes, Your Majesty," Cromwell said, bowing stiffly. He turned on his heel, clearly ready to escape.

"Master Cromwell, I did not dismiss you," Henry snapped. "You are also to renew interrogations of all suspects in this matter…including the Queen." The last time he had seen Anne, she had not denied or confirmed anything; she had simply begged him for another chance. He had not wanted to hear it then, and he truly did not much want to hear it now, but he had little choice. He would never rest easy with whichever decision he made unless he knew. He had been so sure before, but now…

"Yes, sire." Cromwell looked truly grim; it was almost amusing, or would have been if it did not make Henry less sure still. Of course, it could be that Cromwell was displeased only because he did not want to see the King's hopes for Jane fall through…but it could, he supposed, also be more than that. He could fear for himself.

Cromwell had nearly reached the door by now. Henry stood up. "Master Cromwell!" he called yet again. He could almost see the man stiffen, either in fear or annoyance.

"Your Majesty?" his voice sounded strained.

"Send Archbishop Cramner to me. I wish to speak to him myself." Whatever else her faults might have been, Henry knew Anne was not an impious woman. She was as dedicated to her beliefs as Katherine had been, though those beliefs were very different, and if she had anything to confess, anything which truly troubled her conscience—such as cuckolding her husband—he felt sure she would have confided in Cramner. And if Cramner valued his own head, and the life of his friend the Queen, he would in turn confide those things in the King.

Paler than ever, Cromwell inclined his head in assent, leaving Henry alone with his very jumbled thoughts.

Night descended slowly upon London, but the darkness filled Anne's chambers in the Tower quickly indeed. She sat by the high window, too far below it to look out, staring into the fire which had been crackling since well before sundown. A warm hope had begun to spread throughout her whole being since the moment she had heard Dr. Blackwell's pronouncement that she was with child. One hand now rested tenderly against the bodice of her gown. If she miscarried, she knew her life-or at least her marriage-would surely end…but the Lord would not have sent this gift if he meant for her to die, surely. No. She would finally fulfill what she had told Henry she would do so long ago: she would deliver him a son. He would see that she was the only wife and Queen he had ever needed. Somehow, he would see. He would forget about that mouse of a girl, Jane, and return to Anne as his most beloved lady.

"'Here I am,'" she murmured to herself, almost under her breath, "'a servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.'"

A smile tugged inadvertently on her lips. Her ladies all looked up, surprised to hear her voice. She had said nothing to them after Dr. Blackwell's visit, and only after Dr. Linacre had arrived very late to tell her of the King's orders and had examined her himself and confirmed what Blackwell had said did Anne reveal to them the reason for her illness. They had all been, or at least acted, delighted.

Her smile widened a little at their surprise. "From the gospel of Luke," she told them. She was not bearing God's son, but perhaps Henry's, and indeed this would be her immediate savior, though Christ was the eternal one. She felt that the Lord had finally smiled upon her. He would stay with her; he would help her name to be cleared, and return her to Henry's good graces as well as his love. He would not abandon her. She knew Katherine had insisted that God was with her—but Anne had the proof that Katherine had never had.

In seven months, she thought, all of London would at long last cry Long live Queen Anne!

And more importantly, Henry would again be hers and hers alone.

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