Author's note: I don't own the Tudors, and I don't speak French.
In sickness, there are dreams. In dreams, there is madness. And in that madness, there lies clarity.
Anne saw herself back in the court of France, in the grand hall of the king's favorite residence. Candles lit the room, casting shadows along the wall. Someone played a volta, and everyone cleared as King Francis and her sister Mary danced. It was as though they would make love to each other right then and there, instead of waiting until later that night. Mary had spared her no detail of that king, or this one.
Francis spun her sister around, the skirt of her dress swirling around them like a white cloud. Mary grinned and danced around him. He picked her up, then gently brought her to earth.
People whispered at Mary's audacity to wear white, to wear her hair down like a virgin, unwed though she be. Anne knew her sister sought her own pleasure, her own happiness. And these men wanted a bit of the happiness.
There was a tap on her shoulder. Thomas Wyatt was before her, holding out a hand.
"What are you doing in France?"
"Je suis venu pour voir la reine." He bowed, low, too low, over her hand and kissed it. He smiled up at her. "Voulez-vous danser?"
Without another word, he hoisted her up by the waist and she spun around, her own red dress swirling around her own legs. The hall blurring into air. She was flying.
She was flying now, flying over trees and hills and fields. Strangely dressed peasants spoke Italian as they tended crops. Then there was a mountain, a huge mountain. No, a volcano. Anne was at the edge of the volcano, but she didn't feel the heat. The suddenly she was falling.
Falling,
Falling . . .
There was a cathedral. A priest spoke Latin as-Oh Dear God-the pope stepped forward to the front. She was in Rome, the Vatican. Anne crossed herself along with the rest of the congregation. Next to her, a young man, a bishop, smiled at her. He was beautiful, too beautiful to be a priest. He brushed a strand out hair out of her face. Anne blushed, and was about to say something when she noticed the strand of hair was blonde. Outside the window, she could hear see people gathering in a square, piling wood. Against her will she stood, and walked through the glass.
She was outside, in some village square. It looked like England. Anne was looked down at her dress; she was dressed as a serving girl. A woman was tied to the stake, screaming out as the flames stung her flesh. The smoke made it hard to see.
Anne stood in the crowd, unable to flee for the bodies pressing around her. She turned to the old woman next to her. "Why are they burning her?"
"Orders of Queen Mary." The light of the flame was reflected in the dame's tears.
"Mary?" Suddenly there was a loud scream. Anne turned and saw herself being burned alive.
The necklace. She remembered the necklace. Her father had given it to her when he left her in France. They were in his apartments. The old, worn furniture and mended curtains looked humble compared to Austria.
"You are a Boleyn," he had said, holding up the pearls. "That may not seem like much, but one day the Boleyns will be known throughout England, mark my words. Be proud, my daughter." She pulled her braid out of the way as he bent down and fastened it around her neck.
"Lift your head up high, Anne."
Westminster Abbey. A lady walked down the aisle, with bright red hair flowing behind her, wearing a black dress edged in gold. She somewhat resembled the Princess Mary. Anne watched as this woman was anointed in oil by an unfamiliar bishop. All of the people in the church looked unfamiliar.
"It's a sad day in England when the queen is the daughter of a witch," someone muttered. The man next to him nodded. Someone in front of them turned back to glare at them. Anne frowned. Who was this woman?
Then suddenly, it was she headed toward the throne. She who was anointed with oil, she who was made sacred. Anne looked around her at the people before her. A boy in the front row, short of stature and unpleasant in expression, scowled at her.
Anne looked at the boy, right in his dark eyes, and felt a sense of dread.
She knew why this woman looked so familiar.
"I present to you Elizabeth, Queen of England."
Richard of York, and the rest of the church, stood up in respect. Anne stood, facing them, not letting anyone see her rapid heartbeat, her quick breathe. The crown was placed on her head.
She was not born to be a queen, but by God she would hold the throne. She stood, tall and proud, as the people chanted her name.
Elizabeth
Anne
Catherine
Woodville
Boleyn
Tudor
York
Howard
Lancaster
Suddenly the room was spinning, the people out of focus. A bedroom. She was in a bedroom. There was a maid, Eleanor. She rushed out of the room, screaming that the lady is awake. George rushed in, then Father.
"You've wakened from the dead," he told her, going on about the king. George held her hand, words failing him for once.
Anne smiled. There was still time. Her father's dream could still come true.
The question was, would hers?