Exile
Trigger Warning: Themes of depression, self-loathing and regret. Mentions of sexual content, although not detailed or graphic.
'You're not my homeland anymore
So what am I defending now?'
Exile by Taylor Swift, Folklore
He watched her, gunmetal blue eyes taking in her shaking form as she braced herself against the stone wall of her chamber, her clammy forehead pressed against the leaded glass panels of the large latticed window. He counted the heavy uneven breaths she took, his gaze focusing on the way her chest hollowed with each inhale, as though it was difficult to breathe. Her slender fingers curled into the slight cracks of the stone, as the tears dripped down her cheeks.
He felt nervous…awkward almost, hiding behind the polished oak door that led to her private chambers. He had come to inform her of his Majesty's displeasure, eager to see the pain on her face as he relayed his King's message. The deeply buried wrath twisted in his stomach, filling his chest with a fierce burn. Why on earth is she so upset, he asked himself bitterly, irritated that he had not had a chance to punish her himself. She had everything she wanted even though she had hurt many in her pursuit of the throne. She had stripped the rightful queen of her position, caused the deaths of Wolsey and More, cruelling taunted a scared girl who was desperate for her father's love… He turned to her with a snarl, preparing to push himself forwards and inform her that the King would no longer be visiting her bedchamber, forsaking her for a new mistress.
But then, he stopped himself as he remembered. She was sad, and not the kind of sad that was going to get better. She was damaged…broken. Not physically of course, but emotionally. He knew she had lost another pregnancy only two months ago, and that miscarriage had sealed her fate as far as Henry was concerned. No doubt the cause of her tears was either her miscarried child or her easily changeable and unfaithful husband. Despite her gloating that he had promised her so much, she had found out that Henry's promises tended to be empty, words used to grasp at what he wanted without earning it.
Well, they do say the things you love destroy you, Charles thought humourlessly. He was empty too, unable to connect to anyone without destroying them. His late wife's words swirled round in his head, "you love someone for a week. For a day. For an hour". He had never meant to hurt Mary, but how could he had devoted himself to her when his heart was lying with someone else. He had thrown himself into other women's arms when he had discovered Mary was not the cure for his heartache. He was a black hole, sucking the light from everything and leaving nothing but darkness…nothing but emptiness. He could never allow anyone into his life because of 'her'.
He had his children; rebellious Annie, intelligent Mary, stubborn Frances, kind Eleanor and sweet baby Hal. He knew that despite his many failings, they would continue to adore and idolise him. He had the friendship of the King; Henry would always forgive him. And he had his wife, young witty Catherine, with her bright smiles and zealous ideas about the Reformation. He had married Catherine purely because she reminded him of the woman in front of him, but despite that, and her bearing Hal, he could not bring himself to love her.
His gaze followed her as she staggered to the four-poster bed, dropping to the mattress in sheer exhaustion. She fumbled with the necklace around her neck, opening the silver locket. He knew what resided in that locket, a portrait of her young child. At the thought of Elizabeth, his throat constricted painfully, and he felt a familiar sting in his eyes. God, he thought he had finished with the tears that had followed the little Princess' birth. The reminder of Elizabeth held only sadness for him. There had been a time where he had imagined Anne heavy with his child. He had admired her rosy cheeks and glowing skin, the curve of her stomach as it expanded slowly, the fullness of her face…he had been so certain that Elizabeth was his. Even now, he could picture that night together. Anne's hot unsteady breath against him, her fluttering pulse as he kissed the hollow of her throat, the milky white skin of her slender thighs and how the scratches she made down his back felt like she had injected her very self into his bloodstream.
And then, she had birthed Elizabeth, a tiny premature infant. He could still taste the bitterness he had felt when Anne had so lovingly smiled at Henry and introduced him to the bundle of pink squirming limbs in her arms. God, Henry had been so proud, lifting the baby straight from her mother's arms, showcasing the child to the court, so everyone could see the infant, free of all imperfections. Charles had hoped to see dark hair, one that could so easily be blamed on her mother, and not him, but instead he saw the brilliant flash of Tudor red. That had been the start of his hate for her, he wished he could say it had started with his moral conscience as she displaced Queen Catherine, or as she stood by and allowed Henry to separate Princess Lady Mary from her mother or as her family called for Wolsey's blood. But no, it had been the birth of her only child.
"Good God" whispered Charles, cursing her very existence, but he could not tear his eyes away from her, drinking her in as though she was a fine Scottish Whisky. He could remember how her raven curls would whip around her in the freezing winter wind as they took clandestine walks together, and how her thin lips would split into a tired smile as they debated long into the night in his chambers. He remembered her dark eyes gleaming as she proudly drew up her family tree to show him, and the way she had rubbed soft circles into his shoulders as he read aloud to her. He recalled how she felt pressed hard against him as the danced the volta together and how happy her eyes had been when he had first told her he loved her. He could even recollect their first night together; and how exquisite her ivory skin had looked in the moonlight that slivered through the gaps in the thick velvet curtains of his private chambers, and how her silver thread gown had rustled as it fell from her slender body. He could picture the first time they made love; the way the red spot of her innocence had blossomed on the white linen sheets, her soft breathy moans, the way her signature 'B' pearl necklace had adorned the space between her creamy, pert breasts. He remembered the soft declaration of her love in his ear as he had spilled into her.
Shaking himself from his memories, he surged forwards, entering her chambers with a sharp knock at the door. She was alone in her private chambers, her ladies oddly nowhere to be found. He approached the bed, frowning at her unmoving figure. Her ebony locks curled from her shoulders, as wild and as untameable as she was. The red gown she wore was loose, highlighting how thin she had become.
"Madam, his Majesty instructed me to find you and inform you that he will no longer be visiting your bedchamber".
"He wanted to inform me? He hasn't visited me in months", she sounded tired, as she rose from the bed.
Charles swallowed heavily, he had delivered the message to Henry's wife as instructed, well almost as instructed. He had omitted the fact that Henry had chosen to spend those nights with her rival, finding himself unwilling to hurt her further despite his anger. What Henry saw in meek and plain Jane Seymour; he did not know.
"You don't need to tell me, your Grace. I know he is with her".
The lone tear rolled down her pale cheek and he reached out to brush it away without thinking. His chest clenched as he looked at her fragility, what had court done to her? The urge to tell her to run, to take Elizabeth and leave overcame him, as he found with himself not to reveal Cromwell and the King's plans (that he guiltily had a hand in).
"Madam…Anne, I should not be telling you this but…"
"I already know. Charles, I…I know he wants rid of me".
Her eyes searched his, looking for the man she had once loved. The boy full of crooked smiles, careful hands and eyes the colour of dawn. She knew he hated her now, thinking her self-serving, spiteful and selfish. And she knew he was right. She had chosen the crown over him, in his mind, although in hers, she had been unable to refuse the King. Not that she regretted Henry, she had grown to love him in an unhealthy, possessive and all-consuming way. He had also given her Elizabeth, the one constant in her life.
"He won't change his mind, Anne".
"I know".
"I can't save you".
She smiled sadly at him, pressing a soft kiss to his chapped lips. He pulled her close, breathing in the scent of her. Peonies and honey. He knew this would be the last time he would hold her, and he tried to memorise the shape of her, the smell of her, desperate not to forget. God, he should not have allowed his jealousy to get the best of him. Five innocent men, chosen by Cromwell, would go to the scaffold with her, and not a single one of them were guilty. Yet, he wasn't to join them even though he was the only guilty man. This time he kissed her, his lips clashing against her, almost as if he wished he could merge with her, as though he wished they were one. The kiss deepened and then ended, far too suddenly for his liking.
"Charles…do you think we would've been happy together?".
The question was oh-so simple and yet Charles stuttered. His mind whirling with cherished memories and bittersweet pain. He could picture how their life would've been together. Her hand in his as they frolicked in the gardens of Westhorpe Hall, the smell of the forget-me-nots in her wedding bouquet, the pride on her face as she introduced Charles to his son and heir, the winter wind turning her cheeks red as she taught their children how to ice skate on the frozen lake at her family home. Longing surged in Charles' chest, he loved her still, and he would give anything to turn back time. He was hers, still, and he was sure his heart would always belong to her.
"Yes. I think we would've been the most happy".
XX
Notes:
Disclaimer: I do not own Showtime's The Tudors or British History. If I did, it would be far less sad and angsty.
This is a one-shot piece to gather information from readers to see if they would want to read a Charles Brandon and Anne Boleyn full-length fanfiction. As you can tell, I rather like my "Unusual Pairings".
Gods, I wish I was good at video editing as I wish I could made a video of Anne and Charles to Taylor Swift's 'Exile' to accompany this fanfiction.
Thank you to all my readers and for anyone who takes the time to review, please know I truly appreciate it.