Disclaimer: I don't own the show or the characters…and nobody owns history!

A/N: I thought the first chapter was alright, so I just scanned it and revised a little bit. The ending is different, thought! Also, I'm still looking around for a Beta. If you're interested, please let me know - and please vote in the poll on my profile page! Make sure to R&R. Thanks!

I stare down at the infant in my arms; the moment is surreal. All the pain has gone. My head has ceased to ache. My cheeks are now dry. My throat no longer aches from my screams and my sobs. This baby's blessed weight in my arms is all I can feel: a part of me, a part of my love… The thought brings a well of tears to my eyes. All those long months have yielded a heady reward, one that has made my breath catch in my throat. As my little angel's cries quiet, I can hear naught but those words in my mind: "A boy, Your Majesty. A prince. A prince for England."

Her voice had barely been a whisper, and yet now it is ringing within my ears as though she had shouted it. A tuft of dark hair on his head, and his eyes are identical to his father's: big and pure, bright blue. A boy. A boy. My triumph and my duty as queen…

The doors are suddenly thrown open – the surrealism fades a bit, because there is another voice invading the solace of the birthing chamber. My daughter's. She is just now old enough to walk steadily, and now she is running. Running and scrambling to my side, trying to climb onto the bed. I want to tell her not to wake the baby, not to dirty her gown, because the bed is surely filthy from my ordeal. The words die in my throat.

A boy.

"Mama, Mama!" Elizabeth is squealing. "Is that my baby brother?"

I rip my gaze from the perfection of my little boy's face to study her for a brief moment. She is lovely, but her eyes are mine: darker blue than her new brother's, alive, mischievous, and now…full of childish excitement. And I feel like weeping, for though I love my Elizabeth desperately, more than anything in the world, how can I tell her this moment exceeds by far that of her birth? The ardor I had found for her had been similar, but marred by horror and desperation. Elizabeth was my failure.

"Let me see him. Let me see the prince!"

"Your Majesty – you have given birth to a beautiful, healthy daughter."

How I had wept – and no doubt the same could have been said for my husband. He already had a daughter, and no matter how healthy and beautiful and precious this princess was, had no need for another.

"Sweetheart, do not torment your poor mother!" Henry's jovial voice practically sings. I lift my eyes from my small child at the edge of my bed to my beloved, towering above her, laughter and tenderness in his eyes. He kneels down and hoists Elizabeth into his arms. He tickles her; she giggles madly and when he sets her down again, she scampers to the side of her governess, Lady Bryan, who leads her out of the chamber. I am grateful. Time shared alone is very little when you are the sovereigns of a nation. His voice has softened when he speaks to me. "Tormenting, she has received that from you, Anne."

Someone has told him. His entire manner makes it clear. Either that, or he is confident I have not disappointed him a second time, that I have made all of our efforts worthwhile. He sits beside me, reaches out and touches my damp brow. Smiles.

Then: "May I hold him?"

A flash of protectiveness overwhelms me; I hold my baby tightly against my breast for a moment until common sense prevails, and I hand him reluctantly to his father. Henry takes him as though he was made of glass and he might break. My heart swells with the love I feel for my husband, and then the new love I have for this tiny miracle in his arms. It is almost too much…I should sleep, but I find I am forcing myself to keep awake, to witness this long-awaited scene. This long-awaited child for whom we have weathered so much is finally here, and I still can scarcely believe it.

Suddenly I realize Henry is crying, kissing our newborn's silky cheeks – weeping with his joy. And it is my child in his arms, half of me and no other woman. Half of the woman England seems to hate so passionately, not of their sainted Catherine. Yet those thoughts fade quickly and do not seem to matter so much. This is not a political pawn, but my child, my own darling child.

When Henry speaks to me again, his voice is low and rough but affectionately so, almost as if he will begin to weep all over again. "Oh, Anne…you cannot know how happy you have made me. The happiest of men, sweetheart, the happiest." He pauses, trying to make sure his regal composure does not slip, though it so often has in the past, especially around me. "Have you considered…what shall we name him?"

We could, I suppose, name our baby Henry, after his father. Or Thomas, after my father. As distastefully as I think of him, Father has won me nearly all of what I call mine today. His ambition surpasses even my own, and his success comes from how little he cares for his children. We might name him George, for my brother – dearest George! – or Arthur, after Henry's. I do not fancy naming him Arthur, simply because I would think it in bad taste. My poor, dead brother-in-law, Catherine's husband, was neither strong nor noble, nor at all long-lived.

On this train of thought, I muse briefly about naming him Lancelot. It brings a bemused smile to my face, at least. So I settle again on my father's name, for it sounds more regal, and though there are Thomases aplenty (ill-fated ones at that) among my lord's court, I like it very much. It has stuck.

"Might we name him after my father, my love?" I inquire.

Henry pauses, stroking the sleeping babe's cheek. "Thomas," he says, and I know immediately by his tone and expression and that brilliant gleam in his blue eyes that he too is taken with it, that it is a name befitting his first trueborn son. "Yes, sweetheart, I think it will be a fine name…for a fine lad!"

Softly, he laughs, and I join in. A fine lad he will be, if his parents and his sister are any indication, I tell myself, and why should I not believe it? For we have both worked long and hard for this little blessing. He has been in the world only a few short moments, yet the time before he was born already seems like a dark cave from which I have finally emerged. My place by Henry's side as queen and in his heart as his beloved, are secure.

A wave of relief sweeps over me, mingled with the exhaustion I have accumulated over the day. I can no longer fight to keep my eyes open. The last thing I see is my husband and our tiny son still in his arms. His voice is the last thing I hear, tremulous and thick with emotion: "Thank you, sweetheart. You are precious to me." Everything after that is black.

I woke, stunned, on a cold, hard mattress; it was not yet light outside. Surely I had not intended to sleep so long! I had truly slept the day away! Heedless to the bed itself, I pushed myself up, peering around in the darkness. Something about it felt oppressive and confining, inescapable…as if that darkness would consume me for more than a few moments. My eyes would not adjust. "Henry?" I whispered, knowing at once he was not there and wishing he was. No indeed, I had not intended to sleep for as long as I had! How long have I been dreaming? Where is my son? I must see my son!

When I swung my legs over the side of the bed, I heard a woman grunt and withdrew them quickly. Some assassin, seeking to murder me in childbed? Horror gripped my heart. Be gone, demon of the night! And at the same time, I made myself inhale deeply, for what childish fear was that? It was likely a vigilant lady of mine. And I did not feel as though I had just been in labor…

"Lady Anne! You are awake!" A soft, frightened voice squeaked through the shadows.

My anger built. Lady Anne? I was no common lady, I was her queen! That oppressiveness built as well, however; I said nothing in reprimand. The woman shuffled out and returned a moment afterward with a candle; I had to squint, but then I gasped. There was little, if anything, to see; a few chairs, a sparse bed frame, bare walls, tiny windows…

Henry! Henry, what jest is this? Oh, God! This last thought, on the coattails of realization… That happy weight in my arms I could still feel; the soft black down and sweet baby-smell…they were all still there, lingering with me. Had none of it been real? Oh God, oh Jesu! Where is my baby? Where is my son?

Any sons I had had by Henry were gone, miscarried, and I knew it…all the same, my desperation shortened my breath and soured my stomach. The need to cradle Prince Thomas, though he was not alive at all, in my arms overwhelmed me. I heard Henry praising me and thanking me. Was none of my vivid memory true? Could it be so vain a hope? Tears stung hot and sharp in my eyes. The waiting woman still stood there, watching me apprehensively.

Henry…

Henry, my accuser, my murderer. My husband. My beloved. My king. Was he to be all of these things? I trembled when I finally stood. No wonder it was still so dark. I am to die at dawn. So short a time…

My knees abandoned me, and I sunk to the unforgiving stone floor as suddenly as I had risen to my feet. I truly sobbed, my arms wrapped around myself, seeking comfort that could not come. George…my dearest brother George is dead, and now I am to die, and what shall then be my fate? MayhapHeaven, I hoped. Or something darker?

My brother faded from my mind in that instant, replaced by a far more bittersweet image: that of my two-year-old daughter, my darling Elizabeth. What was her fate? He had declared our marriage null and void – a charge I would never accept – and therefore lowered her to the status of a royal bastard. The beautiful child, the product of our love, a bastard! Base-born! No…Elizabeth would not fail me. She would be Queen.

I felt absurdly like Catherine, swearing vengeance on my husband (but most of all, on Lady Jane Seymour) through my child…but my Elizabeth was no Mary. She would be England's greatest Queen, for how else could I bear to think of her? You, Elizabeth, are my baby, you and none other. You are my own heart. Never feel inferior because you were not your dreamt-of brother.

"My lady! My lady Anne!"

Panic overcame me utterly. "Please…please save me," I whispered, and then wrapped my arms around the frantic, kneeling woman, not caring who she was…if I even knew. "Do not let me die! I do not wish to die! I have…my daughter and my husband…the king…"

Oh, God…

She could not console me, did not try; instead, she hurriedly roused the other ladies, who in turn began scampering around, finding the gown I had already chosen to die in, seeking the pearls to fasten around my pale throat. At least, I echoed my own words in my head, I have a little neck! But the sentiment struck me as humorless this morning, as the light began to flood in from the tower's window. And who did I think of as they dressed me in my silk and pearls? Not Elizabeth or George, not Henry, not my sister Mary or even my parents. Lady Jane. The name left a foul taste in my mouth. Pallid, meek, invisible Lady Jane who was apparently not so invisible to my husband.

Was this how Catherine felt? I wondered.

Jane's long, plain features and dull blue eyes proved unable to hold my attention for too great a time, however. As the minutes ticked away, as I waited there in that cold, dank room – waiting to meet my maker, or more immediately, my executioner – I closed my eyes and thought of Henry.

"The happiest of men, sweetheart." My dream Henry was so real I could nearly touch him. "A fine lad..."

My head jerked up; footsteps resounded in the stairwell near my door. My ladies stiffened in horror-struck anticipation. I could feel my pulse speed up exponentially…would I faint? Would I force them to revive me, simply so I could wake, and then die? Or would they simply carry me to the scaffold and to the block? Perhaps I would not wake again, unless it was to find myself in a more lovely and just world. George would wait with open arms for me…

"No, no, not yet," I murmured, squeezed my eyes shut while the door opened. I could vaguely hear Master Kingston; I could picture the concern on his face. "Madam…madam, the time draws near…"

"Mama, Mama!"

I laugh and swing my Elizabeth into my arms. She is heavy now, going on five, beautiful as ever…beautiful as her father, with a full head of blonde hair – where she gets it, I cannot imagine! Her eyes are still as intense as mine, glowing with joy.

"Happy Christmas, Mama! Have we any presents? And the dancing – and the masques, Mama, I love the masques best of all!" My daughter lists off all her favorite things about the Christmas court with a flourish, and soon her cheeks glow as eagerly as her eyes.

"Yes, my darling. Masques with dancing –," I begin.

She gasps in delight, hooks her little arms around my neck tightly. "Mama, will you dance with Papa? You always dance so wonderfully! You must dance with Papa!"

Henry…

"We will dance as often as our old, tired feet will allow us, Elizabeth," I promise. I love this child who is so like and yet unlike myself. I love her more than I think I can bear. Elizabeth is the greatest gift I think Henry may ever give me – sweeter than my crown, dearer to me than any gems.

I hear laughter at this from the doorway and turn abruptly. Elizabeth squirms down from my arms to see…but we both know. There stands my handsome husband; he is tall and slender as ever, a neat little beard trimming his strong jaw, his black hair shining almost blue, which floods his eyes with color. I love him dearly, too; I love him so much it is difficult to breathe whenever I first see him. "Sweetheart, do not listen to your mother, for I shall never be old!" he proclaims, and I believe him.

Henry crosses the threshold, eyes only for Elizabeth. He is her Papa, she is his darling princess, and for a brief moment I feel envious of how he pulls her into a strong embrace. And then, in toddles my other heart's delight, who I love even more than Henry, more than Elizabeth. More than life itself. For he, as surely as the Lord Jesus, is my savior…at least my earthly one.

"Mama!" His nursemaid is hot on his heels. I care little for anyone else at this moment and am eager to hurry to his side, tossing him up in the air and catching him securely in my arms. I cover his face with kisses. He giggles contentedly, snuggling against me. Henry gazes now on the two of us, quite the pair with our flushed faces and bright eyes.

"How fare thee, Tommy?" My son is my triumph, to be sure, in more ways than only his gender. He is all any woman – or man – ever hoped for in a child...he outshines even his brilliant sister.

Thomas is distracted before he can answer; his sister is sniggering. He sees her and delights, and I am not strong enough to still him, so I let him down. Likewise with my husband. "Lisbeth!" he cries. My heart might break with the tenderness of this moment.

I lift my head to observe if Henry feels the same, yet Henry has gone from the place where he stood. I wonder for a moment where he could be, until I feel his strong arms close round my waist. He is always the romantic, my husband…and always using his irresistible charm to his best advantage. I smile. That same tenderness between Elizabeth – who holds her little brother in a sweet, loving embrace – and Thomas – who looks at her with his father's wide blue eyes as though she were Mary the mother of God – I find is present in this embrace, Henry's brow against mine. We watch these children of ours, Princess Bessy and Prince Tom, and wonder at our fight for their existence.

"Never," Henry announces, "was one man thus blessed."

"…did ever offend the King's Grace, surely with my death, I do now atone…"

The crowd gazed back at me with cold, unfeeling, jeering faces…faces of the curious – some had come to see the Queen (no, Queen no more, I thought bitterly, but only "the Lady Anne") die at the block. Faces of the enemies, those who came to laugh at my spilled life's blood. Faces, few faces, of my friends. Thomas Cranmer, one…and my family? Father and my sister Mary?

Henry? My tortured mind asked, and my eyes blurred with tears, though my voice did not falter.

Will he watch me die, or is he far away, celebrating my downfall? Henry, my darling – where are you? Think you of me, this cursed day?

"…pray for the life of the King, my sovereign lord and yours, who is one of the best princes on the face of the earth, who has always treated me so well that better could not be…"

I closed my eyes as the speech ended, as my ladies stepped forward. They removed my fur-trimmed cloak, but I forced my trembling hands to slip off my pearls, lamenting their loss, and unfasten my earrings. Oh, please, God… They covered my hair for the final time with a simple white cap, and I sank to my knees, more terrified than I had ever been in my life. Yet my face, I knew, held no emotion at all – I could feel it. What would men say of me in the future, that I died with the dignity and grace of a Queen? If they would pay me that much respect, if they would at least leave that much untarnished for my little daughter, I would be grateful.

Though I now gazed once more on the crowd, some of them jeering openly, my mind was carried away again. Was it my body's way of protecting me, I wondered, from the horror of knowing my fate? If so, I hoped to die that way, with this handsome little Prince in my view, though he would never now become a reality.

I see the love burning behind those eyes, clear and blue and so sincere. The passion and lust and respect all mingled into one…into the very soul of the man I find myself the wife of, and so luckily that! "You do me too much credit, my lord. How can you look upon me as the blessing, when it is so obvious to me that I am blessed to have won your love…although I fear now, I could not relinquish it to another, not even if God's angels proclaimed it His will."

He laughs heartily at this, spins me around. His rough fingers tilt my chin up, pleasantly scoring the ivory skin beneath. "You flatter me, sweetheart." And now he kisses me.

My heart flutters in my breast as it always does…for once, I cannot close my eyes and lose sight of him. My husband is far too dear. Somewhere, I fear this perfection might crash down around me and what would I do then? "Flattery is often lying, Henry…I would never presume so far!" We laugh together…

"The King! Make way for the King!"

I jerked my head up, away from the glinting gold straw spread across the hastily-built wooden scaffold to sop up my scarlet blood. What trickery is this? Surely Henry would not be so cruel as to come and gloat, to joyously watch my death perhaps with that mouse Jane Seymour on his arm! And yet everything, every noise, ceased, and the swordsman from Calais appeared stunned and silent as anyone. All dropped to their knees then, commoner and noble alike, as my husband strode onto Tower Green, magnificent as ever. How he did lord over all others! And it did not go unnoticed by me that Henry paid none of them any mind, his beautiful face stern, walking towards – towards the scaffold!

My breath caught, and I held it, fearing the worst. Henry will take up the sword and kill me himself…

TBC