Summary: Oneshot. It's the morning of Anne Boleyn's execution. What exactly is going through her mind?
This is only my second Tudor story but I think it's pretty good. This doesn't necessarily have to be connected with the show but, in my mind it's kinda the same thing and picturing the story Natalie Dormer is Anne so, I guess it's for the show, but it could also be just a general Tudor fic. And it's based around the poem Anne Boleyn wrote (or possibly wrote), O Death Rock Me Asleep. Enjoy!
O Death Rock Me Asleep
O Death, rock me asleep
Bring me to quiet rest
Let pass my weary guiltless ghost
Out of my careful breast
Toll on, thou passing bell
Ring out my doleful knell
Let thy sound my death tell
Death doth draw nigh
There is no remedy
My eyes fluttered open, taking in the lovely feeling of the early morning, as though today were a day like any other. But it was anything but. And as my mind came to, I was strangely surreal. At peace. I slipped out of my bed. My ladies rushed over to serve me, but I waved them away with a smile. I walked to the window and stepped onto the chair so I might look out unto the world I was soon to leave. It was misty and gray. Very silent as well. Quite fitting. For the birds even seemed to be in mourning. Not a single one was flying around, singing its cheerful song as it always did. No, wait. There is one bird. It's soaring above the tower, circling it. A crow. Of course, the bird of death. Again, quite fitting.
My pains, who can express?
Alas they are so strong
My dolour will not suffer strength
My life for to prolong
Toll on, thou passing bell
Ring out my doleful knell
Let thy sound my death tell
Death doth draw nigh
There is no remedy
My Elizabeth. This woeful, fateful morning my mind and heart wander to the sweet child of mine. Her fiery locks, with wonder and wit forever etched on her delicate face. Passion in her eyes, always reminding me of my own. She is the recreation of the child I once was. O, how my heart longs for her! O, how my heart shall miss her! In my times of dread, she be my sole solace. How is it possible to have this much love for another? For my Elizabeth is not in my heart, she is my heart. What will she think of me when I am long gone and she has grown into a fine young maiden? Will she believe her mother's innocence, and love her as she does now? Or will the atrocious legacy I have left overcome her thoughts and shall she too think me a witch? A demon? I pray thee God; please don't let it be so. My daughter to hate me? Despise the very thought of me? I pray thee God; if I shall be granted no other mercy, grant me this. And grant my daughter a fine life, love from her father. Don't let her mother's mistakes hurt her! Tears are falling from my dark eyes now. Tears for my daughter and what is to come. O, God have mercy!
Alone in my prison strong
I wait my destiny
Woe worth this cruel hap that I
Should taste this misery
Toll on, thou passing bell
Ring out my doleful knell
Let thy sound my death tell
Death doth draw nigh
There is no remedy
And what of Henry? His Majesty? Was this all really worth it? He moved heaven and earth and nearly tore England apart, simply to be with me. Does that not seem like true love? Someday he will miss me. Someday he will see the mistake he made and will regret it. I know he will. He is simply blinded by anger and easily influenced by the enemies of mine. The Seymour girl is simply a passing fancy. She won't last long. She is too kind and gentle. It takes much more than that to be in a position like this. That poor naive girl cannot imagine the cruel, bloodthirsty world of royalty she is stepping into. Even Catherine had courage and fortitude. Yet, a part of me still loves Henry. I cannot say why, for I do not know the reason myself. They say I'm a witch, but if I did not know better, I would think Henry was the spell casting one. For he casts spells over women. Spells to make them love him despite all the bad he does. He could be unfaithful to them. Banish them to a life of wretched misery and deprive them of their child, even behead them, yet us women still find him irresistible. Why does this happen?
Farwell, my pleasures past
Welcome my present pain
I feel my torments so increase
That life cannot remain
Cease now, thou passing bell
Rung is my doleful knell
For the sound my death doth tell
Death doth draw nigh
There is no remedy
As I walk through the hallow halls, those hallow halls in which so many have been prepared to face their fate, I am but already a ghost. I am an empty shell. I am a spirit come fourth to die. As I walk through the crowd of people, I hear noise, though I cannot comprehend. They are shouting. Whether they were shouting in joy that this whore is finally meeting her doom or whether they are shouting in anger; how dare this innocent queen be put to death- I do not know. As I stepped onto the scaffold, I composed myself. I looked 'as gay as if I were not going to die'. And the truth was I was, to an extent, relieved that my suffering would soon come to an end. But though I wore a mask of bravery, inside, I was still somewhat weak and scared, which could be expected for any person in my position.
"I am come hither to die. For according to the law, and by the law, I am judged to die. I am come hither to accuse no man, nor to speak anything of that, whereof I am accused and condemned to die. But I pray God save the king and send him long reign over you, for a gentler nor a more merciful prince was there never. And to me he was always a good, a gentle, and sovereign lord. And if any person should meddle in my cause, I require them to judge the best. And thus I take my leave of the world, and of you, and I heartily desire you all to pray for me. O Lord have mercy on me, to God I commend my soul."
I speak noble and valiant words. I speak highly of my Lord the King, though only if to save Elizabeth from further devastation, for if I believe these kind words of him I do not know. The executioner is very good to me. And as I kneel, in the regal position of the French, I am uneasy. I continuously look at him, waiting for the deathly blow of his sword. Then he calls out 'Boy, fetch my sword!' and I settle myself, conscious that I have a few more moments to live. I turn my head and on top of the tower, I see crows flying away. The bird of death came to see me, to guide me.
Okay, so I'm a huge Anne Boleyn fan, and I really wanted to do something for her in honor of the anniversary of her execution. When she said that she 'looked as gay if she were not going to die', I did that because it was something one of the witnesses of her execution had said. I'm not exactly sure who said it; I think it may have been Anthony Kingston, the Constable of the Tower, but I wouldn't bet the farm on it. But anyway, I hoped you liked it and please review!
RIP Anne Boleyn!
150?- 19 May1536