The following story contains (historically-loose) characters that are not my own. I do not own The Tudors, nor do I claim to, although sometimes I very much wish that I did. But that is beside the point.

Any reviews, critiques, or comments are welcomed and highly appreciated.

Also, as I mentioned previously, if any interest is shown, I have intentions to write a much longer story concerning the affair between Thomas Tallis and Sir William Compton. As it would work to benefit the story, if I do write it, the time between the onset of the affair and Thomas's departure for Paris will be increased, to effectively develop their relationship. It will also eventually be rated 'M', for explicit sexual situations, language, and violence, if I can somehow hopefully work that into the plot as well.

This was not the way it was meant to be.

Silent contemplation was his only means of consolation anymore; that, and his music. But even he was starting to question its sanctity, the purity of his arrangements and cadence patterns. The notes on the parchment did not seem to resonate with their former glory. Even he was tiring of the true magnificence of a choir.

And now, what did he have left? A common-law wife who yes, he had come to love in a certain manner, but could never fill the empty space that haunted his every moment, but especially when his fingers so romantically caressed the delicate organ keys, and while he was silently thinking to himself. But the compositions were lacking, the inspirations not nearly as important as they had been when he was still alive. His thoughts contained nothing but that of former happiness. Thomas had once experienced sorrow, and from that day forth he had never lived without it.

"I love you."

"But what about your wife?" Thomas inquired, an impish expression pulling all of his features into a curious smile.

How he had longed to hear those words grace the nobleman's lips, despite the consequences they brought. With those three words brought the most powerful form of emotional attachment, something that the young Thomas was not yet accustomed to in the very least. He was but a quiet, reserved musician and composer, by trade and by nature. But now, he was also the lover of a most prominent courtier of the King's court, seduced in no more than what seemed an hour of emotional contact with the beautiful Sir Compton. He had been so strong-willed to deny the lord at first, but after that kiss, he found he could not restrain the passion that he had initially denied himself to feel.

But he could grow accustomed to this new experience. And he could love in return.

And accustomed he grew, and love that he eventually felt, despite how intially difficult it was for him to come to terms with this. It became the soul of his music, it encompassed the entirety of his thoughts and of his emotions. The timid musician knew not how to control or to react to love, without the help of its merciful creator, William Compton. Over time, however, it had grown stronger and well within the realm of his control and understanding, just as the grandiose of his music paralleled. Sir William Compton eventually became more to the commoner Thomas Tallis than a welcomed distraction. This 'most powerful form of emotional attachment' had planted itself within his being, and had ripped him to shreds the days after his return from Paris.

He couldn't wait to once again see Sir Compton, to once again be held in the arms of the one person he continually desired. His composition for William was nearly completed; he only needed to write six more measures to complete the piece, and he planned to officially draw the composition to a close after going to bed with Sir Compton after they were reunited. 'Take me,' he would whisper, 'so that I may finally draw a close to the song that has so long drained all but my morale for writing it. It is all for you, Sir William Compton. Now have me so that you may have everything that I have to offer.' Then he would smile. These were the thoughts that made the walk from the Royal Court to the Compton Wynates very much worth all of the trouble.

The beautiful estate came into view, and Thomas could not help but smile. It was here where they first consummated their love affair; it was the location that so deeply enchanted the musician. It was infintely peaceful, infinitely perfect for simply lying in the whispering grasses and listening. As he trekked the dirt road leading to the Compton Wynates, a carriage full of various furnitures and chests soon passed him. With a confused expression, Thomas watched as the loaded carriage quickly made it's way down the road, as if trying to escape from something. 'No matter,' he thought. 'They are probably just cleaning, or making a generous donation to the monastery...?' But so much of it was placed onto the carriage that Thomas couldn't help but worry that something terrible had happened.

At the door, Thomas was greeted by a shaken Anna Hastings. She looked fatigued in the utmost, and that frightened him. He could feel his heart began to pulse with surprising force, a chill running it's course up and down his spine. "My lady," he robotically uttered to her, bowing in the typical way that men of the court bowed to women. "Is Sir Compton here?"

"Thomas Tallis...William...he, he's dead," Anna choked, as if those words were the hardest she'd ever had to say in her entire life. And why wouldn't they be? They were the harshest sounds that Thomas had ever heard. His cerulean eyes widened as he looked upon her delicate face, a single tear defying how dilgently she had worked to prevent it from gracing their presence. And he would now have to do the same.

Somehow, the two wound up in the very room that his lover had passed in. The essence of him was completely gone, the room void of anything but loneliness. The entire bed had been burned, obviously, nothing left but the frame.

"William is...buried, in the churchyard," she eventually continued. Thomas's eyes shut close, and his head fell, his neck no longer able to support a weight that seemed unbearably heavy. He sighed gently. More words from the weeping girl's mouth, something about other servants who had contracted the sweat. Thomas could not help but completely disregard the others, God bless their poor souls. But the man who had secretly held complete reign over his entire life was gone. And, initially like the love he felt, Thomas did not know how to react to this.

But this time, he had no one to help him to understand.

Thomas recalled his visit to Sir William's grave in the churchyard, among the many other contemplations and recollections now pulsating through his thoughts. The tears he had cried for that poor man, for himself; for the loss of a dear friend, a passionate lover. The tears that he still cried for all that had brought his life to be the lackluster sham of an existence it was now, in comparison to the happiness that he once genuinely felt.

He was not supposed to be delicately contemplating a lover's death; not William's, not now. Not anytime soon. They were supposed to remain as one, dear friends and companions. Class distinctions and the traditional boundries of doctrine had meant nothing to the both of them.

"You're so beautiful, Tom..."

Those words had never left him. Yet somehow, he felt as though they were not worth remembering now. This was simply not the way it was meant to be. William was supposed to still be his, and he was still to be William's.

"What are you thinking about?"

"I wasn't thinking. I was listening."

A gentle, indirect exchange of discreet smiles between the two. William inhaled deeply. Thomas's eyes fluttered close for but a moment, in perfect contentment as one of his favorite sounds to listen to graced his ears.

Now, Thomas could not listen as he once could. All he could do now was think.