Hallelujah

Warning: This story will contain mature scenes and carry triggers of sex, domestic abuse, forced marriage, neglect, rape/dubious consent, miscarriage and childbirth. Read at your own risk.

'And love is not a victory march

It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah'

Jeff Buckley

17th May 1536, Palace Of Whitehall, London

Her first wedding had been simple; quiet and rushed. Not unlike this debacle here, she thought. It made her laugh that both her weddings were to be held in the same place and officiated by the same person. The first time, she had loved her husband-to-be far too much and it had consumed her. He had consumed her, filling her very veins with his essence. There were differences with this wedding though, the biggest being that she did not love the man who was to be her new husband. Although, she had to admit her wedding dress was far finer this time.

She looked at her reflection in the large gold ornate mirror, looking at the cut of the lace and silk gown and how it highlighted her slender waist. She had decided to forgo the corset today, and she was glad her body was still slim after three pregnancies. Her neck was adorned by her signature pearl 'B' necklace. Her dark hair was tied up tightly in an elegant bun, with brilliant white daisies entwined in it. Anne was not a vain woman by any stretch, she knew she had many faults, but narcissism wasn't one of them. However even she could say she looked attractive today. A gentle knock at the door roused her from her thoughts.

"Annie, you look beautiful" sighed her father, Thomas, his dark eyes cloudy with, what Anne thought was, regret. Thomas gently pulled his youngest daughter into his arms, cradling her close.

"I wish I could have changed things" he whispered to her, kissing her raven locks.

"It is not your fault, Papa, we did not know how things were going to play out" she soothed her father, drying her own tears onto his quilted doublet.

Thomas sighed, his little girl did not deserve this. She was to be married off to a man she hated and then kept far away from court in exile, as the man who held her heart married another. He cursed the bloody Seymour family for the fifth time this morning before carefully placing the long white veil over his daughter's pale face and gently taking her thin arm.

"Papa, Annie, it's time" called George, his head peeking through the archway into the church. They all knew that although this was a bitter blow to them, it was better than the alternative.

Anne nodded at her brother and allowed her father to sweep her forwards towards the church.

XX

17th May 1536, The Palace Of Whitehall, London

The ceremony and after party had gone by in a flash, she could remember only flashes of it, thank goodness. Poor Cranmer's pale face and bumbling words, the look of victory in Henry's eyes, the cold and unfeeling lips on hers. And now, Anne found herself in the cold rooms of her new husband. For a man who was to be brother to the Queen, his rooms were rather plain. One wall was lined entirely with books and there was a large bureau by the dying fire.

The draft in the room made her shiver violently, drawing the silk shawl tight around her thin frame, ignoring the small goose bumps that broke out along her ivory skin, crying out their discomfort. The small dying fire by the bureau, gave the spacious chamber little warmth. Sighing, she slipped the silk nightgown down her angular shoulders and allowed it to pool on the stone slabs at her feet. Her pale hands covered her body as best they could. His hands, though soft were not gentle, as they tugged at her elegant bun, freeing her raven curls and allowing them to tumble down.

"No need to cover yourself. I'll be seeing it all in a moment anyway" he drawled, in what she thought was a bored tone.

Nodding stiffly, she lowered her hands, staring at the wall behind his head, her dark eyes unblinking. His blue eyes looked over her, drinking her in. He could admit that she was a beautiful woman with her dark hair, ivory skin and stormy eyes. She looked as if she had walked off the pages of Homer's The Iliad, her beauty could rival the mythological Helen of Troy. His eyes drifted further down her body, taking in the perk form of her breasts and the way the pearl 'B' necklace adorned the space between them, before his eyes fell foul on some awful discolorations.

"What is that?" he questioned, his brow furrowed, gesturing at the blemishes that covered her skin.

She looked down at the floor, choosing to ignore him, wondering if he was referring to the stretch marks that sat clear on her lower stomach and the sides of her narrow hips. He sighed irritably, gingerly poking at the blossoming marks that kissed purple and yellow on her arms and hips.

"Did he do that to you?" he prodded again, catching her chin in his hand, forcing her to gaze upon him.

"You should not ask that of our gracious majesty" she spat at him, shoving him away from her and pulling her long raven hair over her to cover herself.

He scowled her, deciding to ignore her in case she was bating him to say something treasonous. He stripped to his breeches quickly, knowing he had a job to do and that consummation was of the upmost importance. He needed to protect his sister's marriage and that meant tying the sharp-tongued witch to himself.

They got into bed silently, both lost in their own thoughts. He groaned, knowing that this was too be an unpleasant coupling, despite her attractiveness. He heard her exhale and watched as her breath left her mouth in a visible cloud. He turned to the flickering candle by the bedside, and blew it out, allowing the room to be bathed in only what silver light the moon could offer through the crack between the heavy velvet curtains.

He turned to her, his hands fumbling with the laces of his breeches as he sought to free himself. She lay there, quietly, listening to his heavy breathing, taking deep breathes herself in an order to calm her disarrayed thoughts. It wasn't her first time, by any measure but she was still nervous. Once free, he was on her, heavy and insistent, with cold hands prying apart her limp legs.

"We need to do this" he murmured, obviously affected by her unwillingness.

"I know" she whispered, unbidden tears coming to her eyes, "It's just that…I…I feel as though I'm betraying him".

He let a sharp bark, his laugh was cutting and bitter, much like himself. His blue eyes bore into hers, seeking, always searching for more.

"I can make it good for you", his voice was gruff, perhaps addled by the wine he had been drinking at dinner or by his tiredness. Her hand rubbed the coarse stubble across his jaw as she smiled wistfully.

"I doubt it", she whispered, parting her legs to allow him to settle himself between her thighs. He sighed again and fumbled, positioning himself at her entrance, pushing slightly to enter her. His breath hitched as he felt himself glide in to her.

She felt the air leave her lungs in one exhale. God, she had missed sex, she had missed the passion, the way a man would become undone. The initial sting as she felt him seat himself in her full, the way her muscles stretched to accommodate him, the ache as she became accustomed to him. She rolled her hips against him involuntarily, moaning quietly at the hiss that left his mouth. She enjoyed the control she could exert over him, it was maddening. His lips fell upon her neck, littering kisses against the hollow of her throat, feeling the fluttering of her pulse beneath the skin.

"Gods" she whimpered, as his fingers deftly rubbed her clit, making her toes clench as he pounded her.

"Faster", the order fell from her mouth, before she could stop it. Henry had never sought her pleasure. Their sex had been good; passionate and angry mostly, but he was never one for anything other than granting his own pleasure.

Anne could feel the anger and injustice build up inside her, in the same way she could feel her orgasm rising. He pushed into her, harder and faster than before, sweat making them both slick. She knew he was close, she could tell by the erratic and rough thrusts. She brought her hands up to his back, bringing them down hard and sharp, leaving bloody welts on his warm skin. A low groan left his mouth, before he brought his lips down upon her pert breasts, biting and sucking at the ivory flesh, sucking her pebbled nipples.

"Oh Gods, oh Gods" she whimpered as he thrusted into her, his pace irregular before he brought his sharp teeth against her shoulder as he filled her. To her surprise, he didn't stop (despite having achieved his own pleasure) and he circled her clit, making small cries of satisfaction leave her mouth. The wave came over her before she realised what was happening, and it pushed her over the edge and into the abyss of pure bliss.

They lay, tangled, and sweaty, foreheads pressed against each other, breathing heavily. He tilted his head towards her, in such a way that Anne thought he was going to kiss her. Instead his voice rang out, cold and crisp.

"I told you so".

He rolled off her with a smirk, before turning his back to her and settling down for sleep. Anne's fingers ghosted over her lips. How does a man like that make me feel like this, she thought angrily to herself. Her eyes flickered over to his sleeping form, irritation coursing through her veins before surprise over took it. She realised he was remaining in bed with her, she couldn't remember the last time she had shared a bed with someone. Perhaps January, after the miscarriage…

She knew she needed to go to sleep, she needed a clear head to deal with court tomorrow before she took her 'leave' and returned to Wulfhall. Shoving dark thoughts from her mind, she snuggled into the blanket, sleep taking her.

XX

Notes:

I know that this idea has been done before but I wished to try it out myself and put my own spin on it. I do hope you enjoy it. Please let me know what you enjoyed and how I can improve.

That was my first go of writing a mature adult scene so let's hope it is realistic enough.

Thank you for reading.

Disclaimer: I do not own Showtime's The Tudors, Michael Hirst's ideas or British History itself.