Ok so, this is Henry's thoughts as he died. I know, I know... He's probably extremely out of character, and he probably didn't have such an insight in his deathbed. But I am all for the theory that he thought of Anne in his last minutes, I mean c'mon 10 years are not as easily erased as he tried to make everyone think. I went with the show's idea that he truly believed in Anne's accusations, even though we know better. Reviews make me extremely happy! and sorry for any mistakes, english is not my native language.
Time; many people had spent their lives, attempting to solve this mystery. How could time be so variable? Feeling, at certain times, too short, and at others, too long. However, it was not the case in this situation, King Henry VIII knew his hours on earth were numbered; as he laid in his bed, he tried to remember his life, tried to weigh his good and bad actions. Any Christian faithful to God, as the King was, in their last minutes weighed their lives, to be certain that they would be granted, the so desirable, heaven.
He recalled his childhood; remembered his siblings Arthur, Margaret and Mary. The way they played in the gardens, with their lives ahead of them; the way he envied his brother's future; the way he felt when he met his brother's beautiful fiancée, Katherine. He remembered how fate worked through unfortunate circumstances to give him everything he ever desired, the throne and the beautiful princess of Spain.
Oh, how he had been happy in the beginning of their marriage. The joy he felt at the birth of Mary, and during those days, that he witnessed the growth of a princess. He also remembered, the down points of his marriage; the bitterness taking over his heart as he lost each one of his heirs; the resentment he started to feel towards the queen and the indifference that took over; the long process of his annulment, and his constant preoccupation, from that day on, for the legitimacy of that.
As Henry's thoughts followed a chronological line, her face appeared before his eyes. Instead of confronting those thoughts and memories, however, he decided to brush her to the back of his mind, where she belonged.
He, then, skipped to his third wife. His sweet Jane. How he had loved her. He adored her sweet, appealing smile; her shy, blue eyes; her beautiful fair skin and her gorgeous golden hair. Jane gave him a son, an heir, and that was the thing he loved the most about her; but apart from that, she remembered him of his own mother, good, dutiful and quiet; she had not the impertinence of his two prior wives, she did not attempt to question his choices nor meddle in politics. In his deathbed, however, Henry started to notice Jane's flaws, things he would have never admitted in his lifetime.
She was too quiet and shy; he had hated the way her eyes ran from him as if she was scared. Perhaps she was; he had, after all, sent the queen before her to the scaffold. He had hated how she did not have any opinions; not in music, not in literature, not in arts, in nothing! Worst of all, he had hated how he did not feel any desire towards her. This last complaint, however, could not be put in Jane's fault; it belonged to a certain person that proved that this kind of desire existed. When her face appeared before his eyes, again he jumped to the next queen.
Anne; even her name was a painful reminder. Anne of Cleves was a sweet girl that accepted her quick removal from history with a smile on her face. She was a good friend, later on his life. Perhaps that was what he truly needed after Jane's death; she had fulfilled that part, and he admired her for that; she took good care of his children and he was truly grateful, especially for her good treatment of Elizabeth, something he was never able to do. Having no more thoughts to give his short marriage to Anne of Cleves, he moved to his fifth wife.
His Rose Without Thorns, how wrong could he have been? She was nothing but a whore! The reason he married Katherine, was always clear in his mind, lust. He had believed then, that she brought back that long lost fire. He was wrong, though; shortly after he married Katherine, he realized he needed to rename that feeling, for it was not lust his second wife presented to him. But apart from desire, Katherine also brought with her the possibility of a second heir, she was after all, young and healthy; but unfortunately, she did not fulfill that obligation either. She could easily be compared with her far away cousin; the two of them failed their obligations, committed the same crimes and had the same deserved ends. Finishing his thoughts on Katherine, he went to his sixth and last wife.
Katherine Parr had represented to him a companion in his last days. She was a good stepmother and a good nurse to an old husband. She would be responsible for the education and safety of his three children, when he had left the world, and he could not have left such a task to a better person. Free of any remorse on that marriage, it was time for him to think of his progeny.
He began with Mary; she was such a good and educated princess. Resembling so much her mother, he smiled as he realized that this comparison would be pleasing to the princess' ears. He regretted the many years he neglected her; but she was excessively stubborn, just like her mother, blinded in her faith. He was pleased, however, to die in peace with his eldest daughter.
He, then, remembered his son, his long desired heir, Edward. It was strange how he also resembled his mother, sweet and innocent, young and shy. 'Hopefully, he will grow out to be a great King,' Henry prayed to the heavens.
He allowed himself some last thoughts on his friends. Charles, the best of all, who had been by his side since his youth; Thomas Moore, who, unfortunately, had an unfortunate end, given his blind faith in the decadent Catholic Church; The Seymours, who remained important in his life even after Jane's death; and many others who had passed through his life with no more than fond memories. When he had rejoiced in those happy times he prepared himself to the more painful ones. These hurtful thoughts, however, came inexplicably easily, as if they had always been in the back of his mind, he chose the easiest one to start.
He thought of his dear daughter Elizabeth, and how she, also, resembled her mother. How could it be that his children reminded him so much of his three first wives? They were constant reminders of those three women's spirits, and how they passed through his life. Elizabeth, however, was always the most painful one to remember, and the reason was just that, her mother. His redheaded daughter was a strong and brilliant girl; she was so well educated and fierce. She was truly a Tudor; not only externally, with those bright blue eyes and fiery red hair, but also in her spirit. Smiling painfully to himself, for finally been able to admire Elizabeth completely, the king took a deep breath in that cold, sealed chamber and thought of her name.
Anne.
How many thoughts and memories he had of her, it was as if his life revolved around her; and in a way it was true, for ten years she was his only thought and desire, and for the years following her death, his only wish was to forget and get over her. This mission, however, was a complete and utter failure.
Despite his Herculean effort to leave her behind, he allowed himself, in those last minutes, to remember her face and features. Oh, how he had loved her unique characteristics, her shiny black hair, which fell straight past her waist; her flawless white skin, which was soft as silk; her pretty and insolent mouth, and her long and elegant neck. Even though he adored all of her traits, there was none he treasured as much as her onyx-black eyes. Those eyes that tore a kingdom apart, those eyes that bewitched him at first sight, those eyes that expressed each one of her feelings perfectly.
Although Anne was stunning, her looks did not made her queen, and they did not proclaimed her the sole emperor of his heart; it was her wit, her charm, her humor, her thoughts and ideas. It was because she was not only his partner on bed, but also on life. They shared the same views on politics, religion, art, music, literature, in everything. She was his friend and lover, partner and companion, wife and queen.
He had spent his lifetime proclaiming her faults; her ambition, her meddling, her temper, her jealousy; but now, as death approached him merciless, he saw that they were not flaws at all, they made her who she was.
Only happy memories flooded his mind, and so he wondered for the thousandth time how could Anne have betrayed him. Had every word she ever pronounced been a lie? He thought he knew those eyes better than his own… He thought he knew her inside and out. He realized now, her betrayal broke his heart. She had killed him, and yet he loved her. He loved her then, and he loved her now. Everything he did since she left was to be further and yet closer to her. He married Jane, Anne's complete opposite, and even then, looked for her traits. He married Anne of Cleves for the delight that name brought him. He married Katherine, for the possibility of that passion returning. And he married Katherine Parr for the long lost companionship.
Henry coughed once more, and his ribs burned with a striking pain. He knew it was almost over. As he gave up, he made a prayer to God, to forgive every sin, he ever committed to anyone that did not deserve. He prayed for Katherine's forgiveness for his treatment of her, for Thomas' forgiveness for his acts, for Katherine Parr's good care of his three children… But most of all, he prayed for Anne's forgiveness, as he himself forgave her for her infidelity. He closed his eyes for the last time and saw her captivating ones; his last prayer was that wherever he went he could be with her. He woke up no more.