A/N

My first story for The Tudors.

I actually dreamt this story, which I have never done before. It has been many months since I last watched the Tudors and over a year since I read anything ff Tudor related. So I am unsure where it came from :)

All the same I hope to continue it, though I am not fast at updating stories recently I will try my best, and I would love to hear any thoughts anyone that reads this may have.

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The room was dark; no candlelight made any attempt at chasing away the gloom. He sat, a lone figure, shrouded in his own lament and remorse, his head cradled sadly within the palms of his hands. He was glad of the night, glad it could hide the wine induced tears that threatened within his eyes, tears he would not allow to fall, even with the shadows enclosed around him. None should see a king like this; he had always been told to be strong, keeping his emotions in check, but it seemed God tormented him, never allowing him full happiness. Oh but he had been happy mere months ago, wrapped within the embrace of his young wife, Katherine, her caress easing the stabbing pain within his leg, a pain that had slowly worsened over the many months, but her pretty face full of the fresh flush of youth gave him cause to forget.

To forget that the years and time were chasing him, he was no longer the man of his adolescence. The things he had once took great pleasure in caused him naught but pain now, his weary body and muscles protested and his aliments tortured his every move. Even dancing caused him agony now, he did no more than observe while others took their joy and he sat upon a gilded throne. But watching Katherine, her blonde hair billowing out with the energy of her musically led steps gave him delight and a strange sense of calm... his rose without a thorn. Ah, but it was true, the blonde beauty had no thorn, but a dagger; waiting to thrust the sharp, jagged point into his side and twist, a gleeful smile upon her once perfect, pure rose lips. She had betrayed him, made it known to all in the court, all in his kingdom that he had been a fool; her wanton ways had torn into his very heart... or perhaps his pride. He had loved the silly girl in a fashion and now none of it mattered. She had lain gladly for other men, spread her legs so they could sample what he himself thought was his alone, and through it all he had suspected nothing. Henry had heard the whispers at court, calling him a lusty old fool, allowing a girl not past her teenage years to dazzle him, marry her and make her queen.

But it was done, her cries and fists banging upon his chapel door had done nought to soften his heart, his will had been set, she was a traitor and traitors only had one fate, death. She had died bravely, so they told him, without whimpering or tears, accepting of her judgement and one axe swing had ended it all, severing her head from her body and bringing an untimely end to her short life. If Henry could have been honest with himself in this moment, perhaps he could have accepted that the weight of her death lay heavily upon his conscience, but his pride once again forbade him any such notions of compassion.

He pressed his fingertips hard into the hollows of his eyes, pushing away the wetness with sheer force, he would not allow himself to fall fully into despair, he could not. Yet the thought of rising and going to his chambers, to sleep, only to wake up on the morrow, to do duties and chores, to carry on as if his life hadn't been shattered into many pieces, the task seemed impossible. His quest, his need for love, to be loved, seemed never ending. Perhaps it was never love, only lust, and lust had a habit of fading with the years. Had the same not happened with his first wife Catherine? Love and excitement turning to bitter disappointment and finally no more than duty, he had been content to fill the gaping wanting with many women, mistresses that were happy to slip beneath the covers of his bed until he tired of them too... until her...

Bewitched many had called it, how could a king's love for his wife of so many years vanish within one dark sensual glance. Those eyes, blue as a summer's sky remained etched into his memories, as did her name, Anne. In the dark he felt almost like allowing his lips to form that word in relation to her face. He closed his eyes, in his moment of weakness allowing the past to crash over him in a soothing wave of warmth gone. Pale skin, ebony hair and eyes that could stun him; even now, remembering caused him to recall that same feeling in the present. The touch of her arms around him as they lay together, content... that familiar smug smile playing delicately at the corner of her mouth, begging him to touch his lips against it. How he wished for that warmth now, that strange feeling of contentment, he felt as though humanity had abandoned him and he alone stood upon the world, shrouded in everlasting night. To not be alone...

He opened his eyes with a small shuddering gasp, before getting to his feet in a sudden moment of rage. He lashed out, sending the golden candlesticks upon the nearby table crashing to the floor. Betrayer! His mind loomed the word. Traitor! Just like Katherine, just like the seventeen year old whore that lay cold in the ground, her head tucked under her arm.

"Now you are bed mates!" he called to the blackness, before allowing a cold and callous chuckle to escape him. He stumbled backwards in his moment of anger and his back connected heavily against the wall. A lie, wasn't it? He knew, didn't he? Lies, all lies... he had wanted her to suffer, couldn't stand the very sight of her anymore, the arguments, he'd wanted Jane, his sweet little dove Jane, his queen, the only woman to give him an heir worthy of his name... Anne stood in the way and many had cause to whisper misgivings in his ear, their goals the same, Anne's death. Could he swear upon God that he believed the charges against her, no, he felt nothing but spite for her then, his mind clouded by old men and their own focus of gain.

The fact remained, glaring and obscene; he had wanted to believe she had betrayed him.

The despair once again washed over him, his life was in tatters, and now the guilt of decades had decided to try and swallow him whole, yet he fought stubbornly against it. He could hear her; hear Anne laughing at him, that infectious laugh ringing in his ears as a bell chimes the hours. He pushed his hands against his head, vainly trying to block out the sound but it continued, his mind resounding with it. He allowed his tired, exhausted body to slip to the floor, still supporting his weight against the wall; he sat like a broken puppet, his strings cut.

"You never change Your Majesty."

The female voice made him start violently and his muscles clenched, spurring him onto his feet.

"Forever blaming others... when all along it is your own mind that decides the fates."

"I told all that I wished to be alone." Henry bellowed. "Why do you defy me?"

"I defied you many times Henry."

It felt as if he had been slapped for a moment at the use of a term so familiar, none but the closest to him were permitted to utter his name.

"You forget who you are in the presence of madam!" He moved to walk forward to the source but as if began to speak again he halted.

"It seems many things are forgotten in time, the sound of my voice your memory no longer holds, though once you willed for nothing more than to hear it spoken softly within your ear."

The hair suddenly stood on end along his arms and upon the nape of his neck. "What jest is this?" His words held a fierce reluctance to play along with the game. "Who sent you on such a dangerous errand?" He clenched his fists, his anger gaining control. "I swear it is poorly played and will end in punishment. That you even dare!" He let out a humourless laugh. "This goes too far." He turned upon his heel, his destination set upon the door and his waiting guards outside.

Then that laugh sounded once again, filling the room with a chilling familiarity.

"Oh Henry, punishment? Have I not already been punished enough for one lifetime?"

Henry stood frozen, his mind willed him to turn but his limbs would not comply. "It cannot be."

"It cannot be," the voice mocked, "but somehow it is."

Slowly Henry forced his body to turn, his eyes scanning the darkness but finding nothing.

"Where are you?"

"Here" the voice replied simply.

"I cannot see you."

She laughed. "That is a shame."

He felt himself becoming irritated. "You are dead!" he shouted into the darkness. "Are you an evil spirit come to torment me in my weakest hour?"

"I did not come, you called out to me."

Henry took a step forward. "I did no such thing, what need have I for..." He paused, the words drying upon his tongue.

"A whore?" Anne finished, her tone hinting with spite.

"No, I did not mean..."

"You did not mean and you cannot say, because you know it is a falsehood, a falsehood that you took for truth, no matter your true heart."

"By God show yourself."

"No." The voice was firm, edged with anger. "What right have you to call upon me?" The words dripped with venom. "What right have you to order me to do anything?"

"I am the king!" Henry roared.

"Yes" the voice hissed. "So you are, Your Majesty, all bend to your will, your petty wants."

Henry placed a hand to his head as the words echoed around the empty room. "You cannot be here" he rationalized, more to himself. "Anne is dead; I have gone mad with grief and despair." He repeated the last few words over and over, closing his eyes to the shadows.

"Perhaps you have." The voice was still there, clear as day.

"She is not here; it is all in your mind, a dream of sorts, no more."

"Oh, if but I were."

The tone of bitter contempt seemed to push all thoughts of ignoring the situation from him, his memories flooding a torrent of images into his mind - of acrid words and heated exchanges. His stomach plummeted with the unpleasant feelings they left behind in their wake. He felt the bile of anger beginning to rise within his throat as it had so often done in the long ago past when she had been alive and she had challenged and belittled him.

"Anne!" He threw out the word as a warning, one she herself must have heard many times.

The laugh sounded once again. "So now you will argue with your own imagination! For you just said that was all I am."

"Do not toy with me Anne." He barrelled forward in the direction the sound had come from, flailing his arms in strong swings to be sure she had no way of concealing herself from him further. But his hands passed through chill December air that the cold room had allowed to seep through the cracks. "Anne!" He called her name again but all was silent and still. He turned this way and that before rushing to the table and fumbling to light a lone candle. He held the sputtering dim glow out and walked to every darkened corner, casting eerie shapes across the gloom.

When he was certain, he returned to the table with full knowledge that the room was indeed empty save for himself. He sat down leadenly, the cold creeping further into his bones; the fur cloak he wore now seemed to do so little to ward it away. Henry rubbed his brow, concern growing within him. Perhaps he was losing his mind...