A/N: Not mine...
She was dead. Anne Boleyn, Queen of England, was dead. Sir Thomas Wyatt still couldn't wrap his head around it. They called her a witch and a harlot and was killed by the one she gave her life to.
His heart cried the tears his eyes could not.
He was in his small room absentmindedly glancing through his books when his eyes fell onto a line:
Her beauty shined outward as a star
Never to be eclipsed by the moon
He suddenly ripped the paper and fed it to the fire. Then the next. And the next.
When his door opened he didn't look up from his task. "Wyatt." It was Thomas Cromwell, his patron. "What are you doing?"
Finally he looked up. "Burning thoughts of her."
Cromwell nodded. "Good. The king asks for you."
Wyatt's expression turned fierce. "Him. He killed her- had her killed."
Cromwell beat his fist on the tiny desk. "Stop! Let those words die in your mouth. As he killed her he would surely kill you. Think, Wyatt, for you drag me down as well."
Wyatt looked miserable. "She is gone."
"Until you meet again. But you must meet with the king in the meantime. I think he wishes you to write for the new Queen."
He looked surprised. "Queen? Already?"
"Even now he wishes for a son. With the Lady Jane Seymour."
"Perhaps it is Henry's fault there are no sons."
"Enough! Do you want to die?"
"I don't want to live."
Cromwell fought for patience. "You are a poet, Wyatt. You will soon find love again."
Wyatt nodded slowly as he mournfully looked in the fire. "But there will never be another like her."