Hello guys!
English, it is not my motherly language, I'm French so I apologize if there are some mistakes. Don't hesitate to tell me where they are so that I can improve.
I hope my little story will please you..
Sincerely
Marina Ka-Fai
Author's note:I wrote this one-shot a year ago, while waiting for a teacher at university. For some reason, I never felt like typing it and posting it, firstly because I thought it was not good enough and after, I forgot about it. Until recently, my piece of paper was gently waiting for me with some other stuff. But I'm in The Tudors mood again. It was my sound background while cross stitching what is destined to become a pillow, for my brother's Christmas. I truly hope to make you have a good read.
The Seasons of Love
No matter what people thought throughout Europe, King Henry VIII had loved all of his wives.
He had loved them sincerely.
They were all a part of him, an illustration of the seasons of his own life, of what he was, what he desired.
Catherine of Aragon.
The first, sweet, tender love, fresh like a spring's breeze. Mary was born from this love. But spring does not last. So did this love. Age faded it. So did his obsessive need for a son and heir.
Anne Boleyn.
The passionate love. The warmth of summer. Their daughter Elizabeth was born during the summer of the year 1533, she was a true summer child, fiery and fierce. The temperature was too high though. Their love burnt like Icarus' wings under the bright sun of summer.
Jane Seymour.
The reasonable love. Stil in summer, but when the days were not too hot nor too cold. The peaceful tranquility of a reunited family. Edward came as a much desired and lovely addition. But the fever took Jane away.
Anna von Cleves.
Autumn. A political union. A failure. A king dissapointed and feeling betrayed. A stressed, foreign bride. Henry had not found a wife but he loved Anna nonetheless. A brotherly affection that made both of them happy.
Katherine Howard.
The indian summer. A fake one, playing with hot days. The last passion of an old, fat and sickly king. Katherine was an elixir of life for Henry. But Henry disgusted Katherine. She craved for a brighter sun. Just like her cousin Anne, like Icarus, she burnt her wings.
Catherine Parr.
The final love. The spiritual love. The fight against loneliness, against the coldness of winter. She was like the warm fire burning in a fireplace, easing the life of a tired worker.
Yes, Henry had loved them all.
With different kinds of love.
The End