Hello everyone! I haven't written in ages, but I couldn't help but be inspired by the countless wonderful stories that this fandom has to offer! So now here is my first offering, and I hope that you would be pleased with it.

Summary: She had ten years of happiness from him, countless years of sorrow and worry as her husband dallied, and seven years of agony. And yet if Katherine of Aragon had a choice, she would choose to marry Henry Tudor all over again.

The Dying Roses

She had ten years of happiness from him, had unprecedented power as Queen of England and its Regent, had enjoyed his trust as he went to France and put her in charge of England, had countless years of sorrow and worry as her husband dallied, and had seven years of agony as he declared that they were never married. And yet for all the sorrow, all the bitterness that her husband had piled on her, if Katherine of Aragon had a choice, she would choose to marry Henry Tudor all over again.

He was a handsome prince when she first saw him, when she was Catalina, Infanta of Spain and he was the Duke of York. She remembered the clarity in his honest blue eyes, as he bowed and introduced himself to her. His lingering gaze never left her; Catalina knew that her future husband had been stealing glances at her during the wedding the ceremony, and his grip was unnecessarily tighter than most as he escorted her in the church to be married to his brother, Arthur Tudor the Prince of Wales.

Even when the others ignored her, when she was reduced to nothing but a widow with no child in her womb and as others prattled on about how her marriage was consummated or not, he still treated her with the adoration and reverence of a beloved Princess. His manners would be not only courtly but also affectionate; she could only blush every time he bowed and still fondly called her Catalina as she returned his kindness with a smile and called him Harry, a name that he preferred.

And when he finally became King, his first act was to summon her into his presence. She had been waiting for that summons for years, waiting for someone to rescue her from the poverty and humiliation that Henry VII had forced her to suffer. Her Henry was her shining knight in armour.

It was a beautiful day for the hunt; the flowers were growing all around the fields. Henry handed a single rose to her.

"Here you go Catalina."

"Thank you, Your Majesty." She replied shyly, marveling at the rose's exquisite petals.

"Do you know what's prettier than the flower?"

"I do not know, Your Majesty." It was an honest reply; although there were many more pleasurable things that could be found in the grand halls of Henry's palaces, at that moment she did not know what could be more elegant and poised than the flower.

"It is you, Catalina. There are only two beauties in all of England, and one of them is the Tudor rose. The other is you."

Then he pulled her into a kiss, a sweet kiss that was better than eating honey or drinking the finest wine available. He held her in his arms like she was a precious doll, something that he would never let go.

"Marry me, Catalina. Marry me and become my wife and queen."

"Yes."

She kept the rose; it was pressed underneath the pages of her bible, crushed so to preserve the flower forever, long after its short lifespan. It was still with her, and she gently ran her fingers over the withered petals softly, wanting to weep for the crumbling fragility of the rose. But it did not matter; the flower was hers, and Henry had given to her. It was hers to keep forever.

She remembered the dalliance that Henry had with Elizabeth Blount. She was a charming girl, with her long blonde tresses trailing down like a golden waterfall. But she saw the flowers in Elizabeth's hair, she immediately thought of what Henry said to her. At least none of them were roses, she found some condolence that her husband's lover was not draped in what she had, and that the Tudor rose was reserved for her. As long as the Tudor rose was for her, she could allow the wound to heal even though it pains her every time for soon the court ladies were abundant with flowers in their hair, all a different kind. She had to keep wondering: did Henry give it to them or not? Did he say the same thing to all those ladies, that little speech like he had said to her on a day May day so many years ago, when she was still innocent of a man's touch?

Catherine closed her eyes, wanting to bathe herself into better times, as she remembered another rose that was offered to her when she was Queen.

There was the Great Seal of England; her power and symbol, her authority and status as Regent and the most powerful in England while Henry was going to fight France, their natural enemy. Beside it was a single red and white rose.

"Henry…"

"Do you not like it? Many would be gladdened by such a sight. Power and beauty all lay before their feet at once." He spoke lovingly at her, as he fitted into his plates.

"I would rather you to be safe." Catherine said in a rush, looking desperately into Henry's eyes. "Be safe; don't take any risks. I don't want our son," with that Henry squeezed her hand to assure his queen of her worries.

"I will come back in time to see our son, the Prince of Wales be born. Do not worry, it will only distress you. You must be well rested." How thoughtful he was of her condition!

"Henry…" She said again, but was only met by a roughish grin that was brighter than the stars and sun combined. Catherine felt like she would melt just under that beautiful smile.

"I bless you, my lord husband with good luck and prosperity. May you vanquish all of our enemies."

"Do not worry, Catalina." She was so happy that he was referring to her name, not the one that the English people had bestowed on her when she became their queen, but her real name as he liked to call her in private. "I will defend not only the country's honour, but I will also defend you and our future son from any harm."

"It is no jesting matter, Henry."

"And I do not speak in jest either. Keep not only yourself safe, but also our son safe."

Catherine drew herself to full height. "I am Isabella and Ferdinand's daughter; I will be able to guard England well while you are gone."

Henry insisted on snatching another kiss of blessing from his warrior queen before heading for battle.

Although that rose had been forgotten quickly, the memory was still as fresh as the day that it Henry had presented it to her. He may not have remembered, or his memory suffered a relapse as he was too busy with his other duties, but he had always loved her enough to bring her a rose: it was their symbol of love as well as the confirmation of their status. Likewise, he had given her a rose when Mary was born. The delivery of a healthy heir was something to be celebrated.

And yet their happiness would not stay long. Henry soon turned to other things for focus, from Wolsey to other ladies. The roses soon ceased in her household, and her collection never expanded again. But she kept all the old ones.

Years past, with various ladies parading before her as Catherine wondered if they all usurped her as Henry's beloved, and was glad every time that her beloved husband would quickly forsaken them as he picked them, until the moment she realized that Anne Boleyn was poisoning Henry's mind when she saw Mistress Boleyn playing with a single rose uniquely with two colours, twirling it about as she walked around.

And then the roses started appearing everywhere where Anne Boleyn was found.

They were playing a card game. Mistress against servant, the old queen against the new lover. It was definitely an interesting match, but Catherine refused to comment on it and merely dealt with each hand to the best of her abilities.

"You have a pretty flower, Mistress Boleyn."

"Thank you, Your Majesty. His Majesty gave it to me as a present." The lady said, her bold eyes dancing with mirth. "He said that I was the most beautiful thing other than this flower." The lady took particular relish in delivering the crushing blow.

Catherine did not say anything though. There was nothing to be said, or was there an occasion to have voiced her thoughts. She continued playing the cards in silence, and Anne Boleyn looked very pleased, although Catherine was not sure it was due to the comment that she had made, or just because she had a very good hand in the card game.

She placed her next card, before Mistress Boleyn delivered the crushing blow, by laying down a King of Hearts on the table. The young girl was looking so pleased with herself that she raised to full height even with her petite stature, and Catherine quietly made a comment. "You are unlike all the others, Mistress Boleyn. You will have all..."

"Or nothing." Both ladies chimed in at the same time, as Anne Boleyn continued look defiant with the rose perching haughtily on her hair, as her eyes were daring Catherine to say something. She never did.

If she had said something that day, rebutted with a cruel comment or something declaring that she was an Infanta of Spain and the Queen of England, would it have made a difference? If she had told Mistress Boleyn about her own collection of withering and pathetic roses that she had lovingly received and cared for, would the girl have gracefully leave the stage? Catherine didn't think so; from that moment on, her prayers not only included the strength that she would need to compete in this martial battle but also the salvation of Anne Boleyn who was too short-sighted to know half the sorrows that she patiently endured.

Now it was too late for any regrets; she was sent faraway to a palace that Henry deemed fit for her station, but Catherine knew better than to complain. It was a test that God gave her, to judge her faith and her strength in helping all those that she loved and all those that needed deliverance. Never would she give in, never would she admit that she had consummated the marriage with Arthur, not when Henry offered her forgiveness and titles and wealth and her daughter and even a beautiful rose garden; her husband was missing the point completely.

She once told him that she loved Tudor roses above all others; back then Henry had laughed then kissed her enthusiastically on the lips, grabbing her tiny waist to swing her round and round until she was so dizzy that left and right were undistinguishable. Knowing that Henry carried this remark with him always made Catherine smile softly, for it meant that Henry had cared and loved her enough to remember something so trifle and said in a whim. But he still does not understand, and for that Catherine wanted to sigh.

The Tudor rose was her favourite; that was something that she would never deny, but the reasoning behind it was something so simple that she was amazed that her husband did not grasp the fact. It was not because it was an exquisite flower or the symbol of her husband's House or even for its rarity, but because Henry gave it to her. Catherine would've loved anything, even a common flower like the daisy if Henry had offered it to her.

Not only it was a gesture of love from Henry, it was also an unsaid promise that she was always going to be his beloved, that at the end of the day that only she mattered. He had singled her out of all the ladies, and gave it to her. No other had the honour of being bestowed such a beautiful flower by the King other than her, Catalina, Queen of England.

But that didn't matter now; like her, they were all old and withered and hidden away, crushed beneath like they were yesterday's beautiful dreams. She was losing her strength, and the roses were long dead from its lovely prime. Katherine could only look at them sadly, fingering the worn petals as she recalled her husband, so tender and alive in her memories when he had presented them to her, the energy that he had given her.

Her hold was slipping though, and after her lady had summoned her confessor and she had received her last rites, she pointed to the petals that were at her bedside. Her lady looked at her in confusion.

Using the remaining strength that she had, Catherine whispered her last wish to her faithful lady that stayed beside her through all her agonizing times.

"Give my love to my husband, Henry…" She wanted to say more, but Elizabeth Darrel patted her hands. She didn't need to say anymore; the young lady knew what she wanted to say, she thought she knew what the Queen wanted to appeal to her husband.

Katherine of Aragon, Queen of England, closed her eyes to eternal slumber.

Author's Notes:

Not sure what to say, other than that this is a rather reflective piece right before Katherine's death. I was actually going to make a mini-epilogue at the end, where she wakes up in her version of a fairytale with Henry and be happy again, although that never managed to fit with the rather tragic tone of the one-shot. So unfortunately, I couldn't even write a happy ending for this tragic queen.

Please do take the time to review, as I would love to contribute more stories to this small but wonderful fandom, and I would love to get people's opinions on my take of the characters. Sometimes I do tend to more history and my own thoughts based on history rather than the show, but I feel like there is a leeway for this fandom.

Finally, I have more ideas that I would love to write about the Tudors, so if anyone can beta/help me out in general, that would be awesome! I am currently debating between a story where Henry's allowed multiple wives (I know, there is already several here, but I do think I have enough of a twist that it should be somewhat original), or a story where Henry dies before schedule. Feel free to PM me or just mention in a review.