The story behind this fanfic is quite a strange one; I was watching old episodes of The Tudors and saw Jane's birth scene. It inspired me to write a fanfic, and half way through writing it dawned on me that I had missed the anniversary of Jane Seymour's death, and with my love for both Tudor history and the show, I decided to upload this as a belated dedication to Jane Seymour. Rest in peace, Jane.
Please review with your thoughts :)
Title: Bittersweet Remembrance
Summary: October twenty forth is the day that brings Henry VIII to a standstill, for a moment of bittersweet remembrance.
Rating: T
October twenty forth.
A day like no other, one would recall, for Henry VIII, King of England, Ireland and France. It was on this day, in the year of 1537, where he had lost one of his most valued possessions.
Henry VIII was not a man to show emotion often. Excepting days like October twenty forth. The days of sadness, of remembrance, that bought him and his life to a standstill. Those twenty four hours, on the twenty forth of October, brought back the memories he often fought to keep at bay, for the sake of his sanity, for the sake of his kingdom. No, emotion, sadness, he decided was for the weak, and he was a King in his own right; and King's did not have emotion, they had strength.
Most days, he managed to fight back the memories of her sweet lips against his; but karma retaliated in the month of October and the memories of her lips, her hair, and her scent were most vivid. At such a time, it was hard to fend of the memories of the childbirth, the desperate screams that echoed through the palace walls; the horrifying wails that made him feel useless and helpless, as though he was a little boy again that was being treated as though he was simple, as though he did not comprehend.
He didn't want him near him on the day.
No; it was too much to bear. The similarities between them were too astounding, too real. The colour of the hair, the exact same shade and the eyes. For the love of God, the eyes. The same eyes haunting him, lingering on his, making him feel so uneven and on edge.
No, he found it hard to be near him at all that day. Henry always blamed the little soul on that one day in October, for costing him such a precious thing. Though, he knew that he could not blame the child forever, that he was only a boy and it was not his fault; the fate that had reached his mother was not his fault; he was only a boy, that couldn't understand. A boy deprived of his mother because of the selfishness of fate.
Or perhaps, Henry thought grudgingly, his selfishness.
Yes, it was his fault. It was his selfishness that drove his darling to the pain, to her grave. It was his karma for what he had done in his reign; for what he had put people through, for the torment he had put his daughter through; for the blood spilt in order to reform his kingdom.
Indeed, he decided, it was his fault. It was his comeuppance for his selfish and cruel deeds. And now, he was paying for it; it had cost him. And here he was, yet again, only thinking of himself on such a day; he disgusted himself.
Outside the palace walls, it was darkening. Night had fallen, and tomorrow would be another day; October twenty forth would be over and would return to plague him twelve months later. Aided only by the soft hazy candlelight, he reached into his desk draw and did the one thing he hated to do.
Bringing out the small velvet covered canvas; his hands trembled ever so slightly. Then, he forced himself to draw back the covers, revealing the portrait.
There she was, the picture perfect and intact, capturing her likeness in the most haunting way. He looked it over several times; admiringly studying the straw coloured hair visible from under the hood; the red damask gown that had been one of the first she had custom made, he recalled; and the rings that adorned her slender fingers. And then, he looked, at last, at her face; taking in the shape, the perfect pale white skin tone, and those eyes; staring up at him from the canvas.
Reaching for the velvet cover once more, to hide the picture until October twenty forth returned again, he stopped only to read the writing engraved in cursive at the bottom of the gilded frame.
Jane Seymour, Queen of England.