(AN: I just am not feeling too much about working with any of my other stories, so I've decided to start a new one. This is another 'wetting of the feet', in that I need to expose myself to doing The Tudors stuff for future stories [-wink wink-].)

(I had originally wanted to make this story about Anne Boleyn, but decided that I'm totally okay with Anne and thought that 'Bloody' Mary needed to be de-bloodied and redeemed. After all, they do that to the nth degree and then some in The Tudors, so why not?)

Falling Asleep

November 16th, 1558

It would all be over soon. But not soon enough for Mary Tudor, Queen of England. Bloody Mary, the Protestants called her, for the rampant executions of Protestants in her realm during her five year reign.

Tonight, Bloody Mary lay at death's door. Death was taking its time, and she wished it could all be over with. The great physical pain she endured was greater than any emotional pain she had suffered through in thirty-seven years of life. She thought, after being declared a bastard-child, re-owned, bastardized again, repossessed and then becoming little better than a fugitive, not to mention five years of court life, would have hardened her for anything.

But even now, sick, dying and looking like a bloated, pale frog, she wished it could all be over. She never showed her enemies, or her allies, any emotion: she was the daughter of Henry VIII, after all, she had a great reputation to life up to, one she could not honor by weeping, laughing or any other vain-glorious frivolity. Even now, weak and at death's door, she would not cry out, she would face death right on, ready for it with no regrets.

After all, she thought, what have I to regret? All that I have done is right and good. My mother was the one and only wife and queen of my father, and I made England see that. Those who threatened my throne with their lies were put to the stake: what union did the people of God, the holy Catholic church, have with heretics? It was done for you, mother, to repay them for the pain they put you through...the pain he put you through.

Her confessor had finished the last rites, and Mary knew that she was ready to meet St. Peter and all the angels of God.

Peace, at last, she thought. Earned it I have, in spades: God knows I have.

She couldn't really recall what happened at the very last. There was a moment where she was begged to sign something. She refused, but the pain continued. At last she scratched her name with the tip of the quill onto the parchment. God forgive me, that red-headed b*tch will have my throne.

Darkness settled in upon her. She couldn't feel the pain anymore. All was peaceful at last, and she hoped to see the faces of her mother and father in Paradise once all was over. Her eyes remained open, but she could not see anymore. At last she sighed.

It was like falling asleep.

Eyes blinked open into a world full of whiteness. Was this Heaven? She looked down and saw that she had no body, no hands, nothing. She tried to speak, not even knowing if she had a mouth to speak, but there was only silence. It was terrifying, to be trapped in emptiness, not even knowing if you are a body or not. All she could do was see, though whether or not she had eyes was another thing entirely.

Gradually, a being emerged from the light. It was tall and masculine, reminding her of her father with the large bearded face. Although this man was not as large as Henry, his arms, even hidden beneath his robe of white, looked in possession of great strength. His hair was white like snow, and his face shone like the sun. She noticed that the collar, sleeves and hem of his garment were blue.

"You have brought much suffering to your realm in only five short years." he said. Mary wanted to scream at him, shout, cry, anything, just tell him that it was all a mistake. The bishops told her that it was right, to exorcise the Protestant heretics from her land. She was only doing it for her mother, surely he would understand.

"In your pride," he continued. "You convinced yourself that what you did was right, but it was not so. Our LORD has said 'Thou shalt not kill.'"

She could not speak, it was horrifying. Here she was, at her judgment bar rather than the Gates of Paradise, and she could not even speak in her own defense.

"It was not for retribution or for family, that you did such deeds," the man continued. "But for yourself. You were hurt, and you chose to burn the world to heal your hurt. For that, you deserve nothing less than to be buried in the Lake of Fire up to your neck, as befits the punishment of the violent!"

If she even had a heart, it would be beating within the body that she did not have. Was she about to be sent to Hell just because she killed a few heretics? Did the lives of a few heretics mean the same to God as the lives of good Christians? Was she to be punished for their deaths, as deserved as she felt they should be, though the Pope, St. Peter's successor and supplant to God on Earth, said that their deaths were assurance into the blessedness of Paradise?

Suddenly there was a light, and the old man knelt down before it. The light seemed to hover between the man and her eyes, and under its glare she saw that every word the old man had said was right. The light did nothing, said nothing, but into her mind she understood the exact truth: she was tempted to ease her own suffering and, once queen, had the power to do that, and exact bloody vengeance upon those who had wronged her. Her only recourse was herself, and even in the end, she was trying to convince herself that what she had done, all the lives she had ordered ended, was just and right and good in the eyes of God.

She felt small, naked, ashamed. She wished to have a body that she might hide herself from that light, yet she knew that there would be no way to fully hide from it. The light had no voice, but she felt as though it had spoken her damnation: no eyes, yet she knew she was under its gaze.

It began to draw close to her, drowning out everything else. She wanted to hide, to make herself as small as possible and hide from this light, or even to put the light out all-together. Anything to ease the pain it was causing her: no, for there was no pain. She had no body, and the light had no form to cause pain to her. No pain at all. Even so, her mind, her conscious understanding - her soul - knew that what the light spoke was truth, and it made her sad, realizing the pain of the loss...

Of eternity.

The light was coming closer. There was no more pain, but she wished she could be rid of the light. It was all around her, though she could not tell for certain: her sight was incapable of movement, being deprived of a body. Even that was slowly fading, going to black. Overwhelming dread came over her: an eternity in darkness, loneliness, deprived of all sense and company, even of tormentors, was possibly worse than being in a lake of fire.

Sensation was coming back to her body. She was covered in cold sweat, every hair on her body standing on end. A loud thumping sound echoed from her chest. She was gasping, but it seemed like forever since she had breathed. Something soft and warm was holding her face, but the rest of her body was stiflingly hot.

Mary Tudor opened her eyes, after four hundred and fifty three years of non-being.

She was awake again.

(AN: Okay, we're done with the first chapter. And I had some fun being all other-worldly with my depiction of the afterlife, Ulver was used liberally. Now as I'm coming up with ideas for this and other stories, any suggestions? Please leave them in the review box, they'd be much appreciated.)