Being King was never going to be a small feat, now I am torn between my honour and duty to my country and to my heart. Which should take priority now that I have slipped too deep into her. I crave her, I can taste her even though it has been hours since she took leave of my chambers. I can feel her fingers running over my chest. Rummaging through my thoughts and finding no relief from the sirens call I forced my legs to move and swing off of the side of the bed I lay in. Standing up and scanning the night sky it was late that much I could tell the moon highest in the sky. Stretching out my arms I went to pull on my robe and froze. A smile curling my lips. My Dearest Anne Sighing as she yet again flooded my mind. Her dark curls, her bright radiant eyes and smile. My mind and heart threatened to wage war against one another. Knowing that if my heart won I would go to her. As the man she loves, and not as her king. If my mind won I would be the king, I would stand dutifully by my Spanish Bride, and grit my teeth. All of my life I have been selfless. Reporting to war when my country called I returned it with the fiercest of spirits. When my father demanded a marriage and joining to Spain, I allowed it. I foolishly believed that I could grow to love the woman I know am duty bound to serve as a king and husband. I foolishly believed that I could bed her when the time called for it but she has grown bitter, and old. Would it not be a dishonour to my country if I allowed a baron woman to remain as the Queen when, in Anne, my dear Anne, I could give them a Queen deserving of the throne. Articulate, beautiful, young, and confident. From the moment I set my eyes on her I knew, I knew that one day I would dream of her. Yearn for her, ache for her in every way possible to a man. I knew that I would forget the duties of a king when I am around her and sure enough. After too long of a wait I proclaimed my love to this delicate English Rose and watched her become the fiery spirited woman I could see in her. Now I will have her sat beside me but as my mistress, how could that be true to her? I knew I had to rid myself of the constant torture of the Queen.
"Henry?" her voice filled my ears, Anne, my only desire. Turning to her she was a picture as if in a dream in her dreamy light yellow and white damask and silk dress. The sleeves cutting down to the ground in her French style she most preferred to the old Spanish style that once ruled over the ladies in my court. Her hair unbound and flowing down across her bare shoulders and down her back. A wave of darkness that frames her beauty before me. " Henry what is it?" she crossed the room to me and it was only then that I realised I had once again fallen into a slumber. Her movements slow and graceful, a dangerous predator moving in on the pray she weakened with every passing hour of thoughts that belong body and soul to her. Her smile shone from her face, drawing me in calling me quickly to my feet and then she turned. She begun to run in front of me. Avoiding my longing grasps, only ever letting my fingers grace the edges of her dress. To feel the damask, one I gave her as a gift, under my fingers and the warmth of her skin, the roughness of the golden and silver thread that intricately lines her dress. I chase, running faster and faster, the warmth and wetness of sweat appearing on my brow as she never falters. A swan avoiding her hunter and lover. My hands finally grasp her. How can a mortal man grasp such a beauty?