Disclaimer: I own nothing of The Tudors, including characters, locations, etc. That all belongs to Showtime, its producers, the respective actors, and history. Hear that, world? I OWN NOTHING.

Author's note: This one-shot just came to me while I was watching the S2 episode of The Tudors when Katherine of Aragon dies. She writes the king a final letter, which is true to history, but it is unknown whether or not Henry VIII ever read that letter. In the show, though, he does read it, and he's totally alone. That struck me as odd, since royals were almost never left alone, then or now. I was inspired to write about his tearful moment with Katherine's letter, and what he must have been feeling throughout.
I will note that in the show, it appears that they bumped up her date of death to sometime earlier, possibly Spring 1535. In reality, Katherine died in January of 1536, and Anne was already publicly pregnant by then. I adjusted the series time.
Please read, review, and enjoy.

January 8th, 1536

The messenger delivers the letter, pristine despite the weather between here and Cambridgeshire, as the sun sets. The business of the day is done, and Henry had expected to have his dinner privately this night. With Anne the Queen, perhaps, but definitely not in the great hall. For some reason, he's been feeling more aloof and contemplative lately.

Now, he forestalls the servants and cooks, sending word that he is not to be disturbed.

Katherine has written him, for the first time in a long while. About to reject the letter, the young carrier collapses into the obedient stance and delivers unimaginable news: she is dead. The defiant Spanish woman had passed into the next world on the seventh, a short time ago. He hands a copy of her will and a final letter to Cromwell to hand to him, but for now he only takes the letter. He opens his mouth, stricken mute for a moment. She's…dead?

It is one matter for some—a few certain people, he knows exactly who—to speculate that her death would truly be the end of his troubles, the end of Anne's contestation against her. It is quite another to hear it as truth. The thought of death is a troubling one that afflicted Henry daily, but mainly it is thoughts of his own death. Katherine he had assigned to her own fate years ago; when he cut her off from court and tossed her away from his side, he had wiped his hands metaphorically of her future. She refused to take the Oath of Supremacy, as he knew she would, but he did not execute her. He had no right, as the people would surely have revolted against him. He knows her strength, her courage…or rather, he did. Henry knows her popularity outranked his for the longest while.

And now, it is over.

Twenty years of marriage, several births and deaths of children, friends, and family, one ecclesiastical court and banishment later, and their battle is finally finished. He should feel relieved.

Instead, he feels bereft.

Katherine's dead. Dead and gone.

He pushes the messenger out, shunts him off to Secretary Cromwell who is loitering beyond the door, as always. Henry bellows for the rest, nameless faces the lot of them, to get out as well. Totally alone in the royal apartments, he wanders for a moment, tracing the sealing wax of Katherine of Aragon with his finger, dully stepping around the great table to rest his shoulder against the wall.

Twenty years and more, a heartbeat in the grand scheme of time, and yet it seems like so much more to him. It is so much more, truly.

Digits trembling, he slides down the wall as he breaks the seal, moved by the power of this final gesture of the woman he cast away. As his bottom hits the floorboards, Henry summons the courage to unfold the parchment to read what she wanted to say to him.

His lips, against his will, turn up at the corners as he scans the first lines. Ever the protestor, ever proclaiming her right as his true wife, she had addressed him still as such and commended herself unto him. He reads on, temper flaring as she used her ongoing devotion towards him to tell him to have more of a care for his soul than for his lusts. It is in more temperate speech, perhaps, but he read it plainly enough. But after he pulls back for a second to cool off, he starts over from the beginning, hearing her lilting accented voice once more. Indeed, he had cast her into many troubles, and himself into more than enough cares.

Reports of Katherine's removals, at his behest, to poorer homes as far away from London as he could properly send her resurface in his brain. Spies within her household tell only of the illness and poverty she endures as part of his ignorance of her. She grows older, as does he; as he gets embroiled in the politics of his country more than ever before, she becomes weaker, apparently unable to walk for several weeks.

And still she forgives him, in her own words, and prayed that God would in turn do so as well.

She was fiery, brave, Spanish. A true daughter of Isabella and Ferdinand. A true Catholic princess. When they had married all those years ago, in that wedding that should never have happened, he vowed to protect her from devastation and penury, which his own father had cast her into after his brother died. As both his father and hers haggled over dowry and all things money-related, she became the Poor Princess in every sense of the title. He swore to cleave to her, more than once, and keep her safe. And he praised God, and hoped for His blessings.

A month ago, Henry would've sneered at her words. God is surely on his side now as ever. It was God's divine will and holy word pressing upon his conscience to end his marriage to his brother's wife, the very same lady who transcribed this message. She had deceived him and so they would have no sons, no living children—Mary hardly counted as a mere girl.

Now? He was not laughing. So many months have gone by, a few pregnancies with his true wife Anne, and all she had to show for it was one living daughter. Just like Katherine. Two little girls borne out of the hopes and prayers of two desperate mothers, and a slew of dead boys in their wake as well. Henry swallows down the bitter memories, and forces his eyes to focus on the page.

She was begging him to be a good father, a good man, to their only daughter, who had done nothing but be his own.

A sole breath flows out of his open mouth, the smallest of sobs a great king like Henry can let out without succumbing to sudden tears. Mary, dear Mary, his Pearl of the World. He may have no sons, but he does have his precious girls. And his first, his Mary, conceived as a mistake in the wrong marriage. She is a young lady now, old enough to be a mother herself. A mother and married to a good man. His eyes sting as he thinks more upon the situation he's put her and Katherine in.

He separated them to protect himself, and Elizabeth, his only true heir. Mary would be finding out about her mother's death soon. She hasn't seen her mother in over four years, all because he didn't want to risk war and political maneuvering from the two of them working together.

As a mere girl, she is incredibly intellectual, and gifted in music. Or at least she was. For the past two, nearly three years, she's been serving her half-sister, a punishment for being the wrong gender, the wrong child from the wrong marriage.

Mary is an absolute jewel, a diamond in a rough hell, and he knows for a fact that she is there because of his folly. Because of his selfishness. Will he change it? No, he cannot, for he is tied to Anne and her interests. And dear Elizabeth is his heir now; to give Mary precedence over her is tantamount to reversing the decision of the English convocation on his marriage to Katherine. And he is not wrong about that.

As the tears begin to flow, though, he does understand that he can mourn for the lost potential of his Pearl. He can mourn the cruelty behind any kindness he will show her in later years. He should be a good father, but he mourns the fact that his actions have caused him not to be.

A plea for the provisions of Katherine's remaining servants follows. For all her support, she only had a handful of people attending her at the end. No Thomas More to fall back upon, and Ambassador Chapuys is forbidden still to set foot anywhere near her person, whether living or dead. These people are cheap lives, ones easily paid off for giving some comfort to the Princess Dowager. They can at least have wages for their troubles, Henry assents silently.

One line remains. One last sentiment from the woman who once was his wife, once was his dear friend. And as he reads it, he folds his arms across his chest, curling into a tight ball and cradling the parchment close. He cries quietly, so quietly that none beyond the doors of his palace apartments can hear him. He is King, he must always be strong and not show emotions save for fury and fondness. Sadness, he discovered long ago, is best kept to oneself when one is royal. After all, it shows weakness.

And in it is her love, her unending love, and her desire to see him one last time. A desire he could never grant.

Her name is signed below, not as grand as it used to be, as "Katherine the Queen". Reportedly he's heard that she had refused to relinquish her title and swore to refer to herself as Queen until the day she died. She held true to her promise.

Katherine always did keep her promises, Henry knows this for a fact. And her final wish, he knows deep in his heart how much she must have meant it. Unbidden, the image of the woman he'd loved and then threw away like refuse shot into his mind: bright eyes, flowing hair, proud stance, and her will of iron. Her beautiful mind, her skilled political handling, her loveliness. He watches her transform from the older woman he'd grown to despise back to the princess he'd coveted and back again. She was still a good, lovely lady, and he was her Sir Loyal Heart. He'd promised himself to be hers forever. His Spanish Princess had become the English Queen, and he threw her down into the dust, forcing her to be what she wasn't. The letter he's holding close and worrying over with his blunt hands should never have been written.

His heart cracks and weeps for her.

Just who has Henry become? Where did the young duke who fell in love with the foreign princess go? Certainly he still exists in the flesh, bright blue eyes and full manly figure, but much has changed. As his first finger slides along the deep grooves forming on his brow, he considers this physical change. He's no longer young or malleable. Over forty now, his hair will run to gray very soon and he knows he is in danger of losing his looks, too. None of that shocks him so much as his inner turmoil. Inside, he's become cold, almost heartless, able to sign the death warrant of an old friend or callously force a woman into destitution for being intractable. Henry has learned that as king, he can get what he wants when he wants it, and if he is defied and denied, he will destroy anyone in his way. And he's not hesitated on following through with his terrible revenge: Wolsey was banished and arraigned, More was arrested and executed for being God's servant before his, and now Katherine...she has fallen victim to his changes.

'What brought this about?' he wonders. 'When did I lose myself, my humanity?'

Just who is Henry the Eighth, without Katherine of Aragon to temper him?

He knows he must pull himself together, go out to his people, but he cannot stop the tears from falling. So he retires early that night, tossing fitfully in bed and dreaming of Spanish dances and lullabies, of her voice and her face, a smile reversing the cares and sorrows heaped upon her.

The news has, by the next morning, spread like wildfire across the court, and nobody knows how the King will react. Queen Anne, they expect, will celebrate with dancing and bonfires, and all kinds of joy. But what of the King, and his changeable moods? Will he mourn the loss of the Dowager Princess, or will he crassly bang along a part in Anne's choreography? What of the King?

He appears in yellow, a color of mirth in England. However, he emphasizes the fact that in Spain it is the color of mourning, and his vestments are bordered in black. His clothing is a visual compromise, but his face, though stormy, sheds no further light on the subject. Publicly he announces the plans for the next eventual joust and dances, and speculates about having a grand banquet and masque tonight. Some cannot believe these ideas; he is joyful, after all. He grits his teeth, smiles, and endures the stares as he shows off his Elizabeth to the ambassadors. Nobody will ever know what it cost him the night before to be even remotely happy today.

He mourns his lost princess privately, but he regrets nothing. He has Anne, and Elizabeth, and he still has his crown. He is still Henry Tudor, King of England.

But now, there is no Katherine, Queen of England, and with her death Sir Loyal Heart has wept and laid down his arms for the final time.

Edited 7/1/16.