A/N: I finished this really quickly, but it's been sitting on my computer forever. I'm not sure I'm happy with the ending - I may rewrite it. Basically, this is the prelude to "Arms of an Angel". Tell me what you think. =] R&R, please!

Disclaimer: I wish I owned JRM, but Showtime does.

So you're with her, and not with me.
I hope she's sweet, and so pretty.
A little angel beside you.

Oh how lovely with your homecoming queen.
Oh how lovely it must be.

Does it bother you now, the mess I've made?
Does it bother you now, all the angry games we played?
Does it bother you now when I'm not there?

When you see her sweet smile, baby, don't think of me…
When she lays in your warm arms, don't think of me.

And it's too late, it's too bad –
Don't think of me.

- Don't Think of Me, Dido

19 May, 1536
Whitehall Palace, London

The day had been a remarkably successful one. Henry had seen Jane and made their betrothal official, at long last, now that he was free. Free of that whore who had held him under her spell for years, he was finally happy. The people would love their new Queen just as he did. This time, he was sure. Henry had thought that he could make them love the last Queen, but they had not been blinded by her ambition and her supposed love as he had. They had not succumbed to her wickedness. And now, she was dead. The whore would haunt him no longer. He had killed his friend Thomas More for her, and countless more of his subjects – subjects who had seen the truth. Martyrs had laid down their lives to try and show their king that he had been wrong to marry her in the first place. Henry had sacrificed his people to win the heart of a heartless witch.

He had parted happily from Jane that afternoon at the Seymour estate, and was determined to put Anne out of his mind once and for all. She had died that morning, and the old, ugly past – their marriage, those three torturous years – had died with her. As long as the Lady Mary would consent to accept Jane as Queen and sign the act of Succession (surely she would; Mary was a sensible girl, and now she, too, had been freed of the whore) he would welcome her back with open arms. Part of him longed to see his daughter again…his elder daughter.

Not his younger daughter. Not Elizabeth. Never Elizabeth. Her mother had betrayed him, bewitched him, lied to him – Elizabeth should have been a boy. If she had been, perhaps none of this would have happened. In a way, he should be grateful to the two-year-old child, because the disappointment following her birth had eventually exposed Anne's deceitfulness. She had not been a virgin when he'd taken her to his bed, and had known other men since. So perhaps Elizabeth was not his child at all – Anne had told bigger lies than that. All the more reason to send her daughter away. The child might be contaminated with her mother's wickedness.

The night that settled over Whitehall was still and clear. Henry dined alone and promptly ordered the gentlemen of his chamber to leave him. He wanted solitude. He wanted to be able think of his beautiful Jane in peace. But Henry was not solitary by nature. Soon after he'd settled into his chair, staring intently into the fire, he fell asleep. A subtle smile graced his handsome face, for he dreamed sweetly of his lady love.

Not until he sank into his dream, however, did Henry realize that it was not Jane filling that dream. Jane did not dance through the halls of his slumbering mind. No – the woman was turned away, but he knew her. Henry's heart swelled in pleasure and of its own accord. Her thick, shimmering black hair cascaded down her back like a wave of silk. Her graceful steps caused the voluminous skirt of her fashionable French gown to sway slightly. His breath caught, despite himself. The woman turned to face him. Her blue eyes blazed hot with accusation.

Though he but dreamed her, though he knew…knew that she was no longer amongst the living, Henry inhaled sharply in panic, the gasp causing him to awaken abruptly. Her image burned in his memory.

The chamber around him stood empty and silent, save for the crackling of the dying hearth. Only a dream, he comforted himself, it was nothing more than a dream.

Damn her! Henry balled his hands into tight fists. His heart still ached – with love, with despair, with grief and guilt and all the things he should not be feeling for the woman who had so misused him. "You are dead, witch!" he hissed into the warm air of his bedchamber. "And burning in hell for your sinful deeds!"

He suddenly stood, seized the goblet of wine left by his manservant, and hurled it with all his might against the wall. "Dead!" he roared again. Both his voice and the clanging of the cup, now rolling across the floor by the hearth, echoed in the room.

"Henry."

Henry whirled around in terror. That voice – he knew that voice. It was like something out of a dream…or a nightmare. There was no one in the chamber, save for him. He was quite tired. The excitement of the day – betrothing himself at long last to Jane – must have worn down heavily on his nerves. He thought sharply that he ought to sleep…and yet he feared dreaming, again, of her. She was supposed to be dead – to him and to the world. Would she haunt him forever? Must he, the king of England, fear a dead woman? A dead whore?

"Henry…"

Anxiously, the king ran a hand through his dark hair. He tugged at the short strands and shut his eyes tightly. Though he tried desperately to conjure an image of Jane in his mind, he could see only Anne Boleyn and Anne's flashing, seductive blue eyes. She mocked him, laughing at his torment and accusing him of murder. Henry felt it was rather like the night she'd danced in the arms of those other men shortly after she'd come to court. She'd curtsied and smiled at him, taunting him. She'd made him wish to seize her and kiss her and drag her back to his bedchamber. He'd wanted to lay her down and take her then and there – whether or not she would consent. Perhaps all their lives would have been better that way. He could have pawned Anne off to some willing courtier. He'd done the same with her sister Mary. Yes, he would not have had a son by Catherine…but something could have been done. He ought to have found a better solution than moving heaven and earth for a traitorous whore.

"No…I won't listen to this devilry!" Henry all but shouted again. He was keenly aware that he may well have been shouting at himself. "She is dead, and she well-deserved her death!"

They had both deserved what they'd gotten – Catherine for defying him, Anne for bewitching him. At least he had rid himself of Anne before she could make Catherine's mistake. Catherine had sinned against him as grievously as Anne by turning Mary against him. She'd created in their daughter – who should have been obedient to him, not the Pope – a rebellious soul, a girl he could never trust to sit on the throne of England. He was Mary's father and her king. She should respect him and obey his every command. And when she did not, Mary wondered why he would neither accept nor acknowledge her!

Despite his misgivings about Elizabeth's paternity, Henry was certain, at least, that this child would yield to him. Her young mind – and, surely, he thought in a moment of overwhelming pride, no other man could have fathered such a brilliant little girl, brighter than any other child of two could hope to be – would not be poisoned by Anne's words. Elizabeth would accept Jane as her mother and Queen with humility, the way Mary had never accepted Anne. And most importantly, Elizabeth would never suffer from the delusions of grandeur, of inheriting something to which she had no right: his crown.

Slowly, Henry began to relax and overcome his uneasiness. Breathing a heavy sigh of relief, he began to undress; he could have called his manservant, of course, but instead shed his formal, celebratory attire without complaint. He moved towards the bed, which now looked inviting and warm. Someday soon he would share a bed like it with Jane, where they would conceive the most handsome, noble prince England had ever beheld.

"Jane…" he breathed, laying down and closing his eyes again. This time, only her sweet, demure smile and beautiful blue eyes clouded his sight. His vision was so real! He felt as though Jane was there beside him. He might reach out and hold her in his arms. The king sighed again, this time in pleasure. As if to make sure that his dream was not reality, that his Jane was not, in fact, beside him, Henry opened his eyes slightly. And then those blue eyes widened in horror, and Henry opened his mouth to yell in horror.

Pale, slender fingertips deftly covered his lips, stifling the sound effortlessly. Henry was suddenly paralyzed with fear. He could not move…he could barely breathe. This cannot be happening to me. Lord God, I implore you, drive Satan from my bed!

Anne herself knelt before him, her smile no longer mocking, no longer mischievous…only extraordinarily sad. Henry thought, after his panic had subsided slightly, that he had never seen such sadness. "Don't scream, Henry…I am no demon." She moved her hand away from his mouth. Her voice reminded him of the poignant melodies of Mark Smeaton's violin. This was an Anne had had never truly heard before – she had always been many things: tender, angry, demanding, distant, regal, apologetic, frightened… Now she was none of those things. She was simply quite sad. He also sensed a strange element of pity in her expression as well as in her voice. It angered him, to some degree. She was the one who ought to be pitied now. She was a foolish woman who had betrayed her king and her country, and who would rot in hell for eternity…

When he found his voice, he stammered, "You – you are dead. I know. The guns at the Tower…"

Still smiling her odd smile, Anne moved away from the bed. She stepped gingerly onto the floor and yet almost hovered above it. As he spoke, she touched her willowy neck, unblemished lightly. "Yes…yes, I am dead. And I haven't much time here, Henry. I must see our daughter as well. It is Elizabeth who I came to speak of. You have already bastardized her, Henry. That I cannot help. But I beg you not to forget her."

Henry scowled. "She is a bastard! The daughter of – of a whore!" His voice broke on the word. They had already been over this. Now he was losing is mind, and he still could find no peace!

Her gentle smile vanished. Anne shook her head. "No, you did not heed Catherine's request, either, to be a good father to Mary. There is so little compassion in you, Henry – none for your wives, little for your daughters. I hope poor Lady Jane knows what she is getting herself into. Tell me, Henry, what woman marries a man who sends his wife to the block, so he might be with her?" In life – or rather, while she and Henry shared a life – Anne had openly loathed Catherine of Aragon and her impudent daughter. Now, if she had had the opportunity, she thought she might have had more consideration for them both. Elizabeth would suffer as Mary had. It made Anne consider how badly Catherine must have wished Mary to be happy and loved by her father.

Where was the Anne he'd known? Who was this…this apparition before him, condemning him for the way he'd treated Catherine and Mary? "It was you who bade me abandon Catherine!" he shot back, narrowing his eyes. "It was you who celebrated Catherine's death and forced Mary into servitude of your bastard child!"

Anne's eyes flashed dangerously. "Yes, and I was such a fool to never have stopped to consider that you might cast Elizabeth and me off the way you did them!" Then she paused. For a moment, she smiled at Henry sardonically, but the expression quickly faded. That immeasurable sadness replaced it. "I was a fool," she repeated. "I thought you loved me." She took a quavering breath and then began to laugh. The sound cut through Henry's heart. Tears sparkled in her familiar eyes. He wished he could pull his eyes away, but he feared – and almost hoped – that she'd vanish, should he look away.

"I –" Henry didn't know what to say. His disgust with Anne had boiled over months ago. How could he admit to this tiny ember of remorse seeing her had inspired? "You bewitched me," he said instead. "You promised me what you could not give."

She stepped – or maybe glided, he thought – closer until she stood directly over him. Her fingers brushed against his cheeks and lips until they came to rest beneath his chin. "Your desire for a son has blinded you, Henry. Who knew me better than you? Who would have known if I'd been using witchcraft? I never touched any other man. I am not a simpering idiot like poor Lady Jane. I pity her. She does not understand you, Henry. If you will change for her, as you could never do for me…

"But I am out of time, Henry. I must attend to our daughter." Anne withdrew her hand.

Henry's mind swirled with both anger and pain. She is a tool of Satan. Let her go. Let her work her devilry elsewhere before she returns to Hell, part of him insisted. And yet the other part did not want Anne to leave. Some small part he'd thought he had destroyed fanned the embers. They erupted into a hot, heavy feeling of remorse. "Anne. No." His voice was choked. "Please, Anne. I – I love you. I have always loved you! I'm sorry!" He tried to shout, but the words barely escaped his throat. "Anne…"

The elegant image of Anne turned slowly; her impossibly beautiful face and its unchanged expression – that knowing, pitying sadness – tortured him. "I know. And you will always remember that." A smile flickered across the lips he'd kissed so often. "Good-bye, Henry. Good-bye, my love."

She turned and exited through the door. Henry lunged from the bed, running to the corridor, breathless. Empty. No one. Nothing. He could have been going mad. But…Anne had been so…so real…

Henry touched where her fingers had been gingerly. The king angrily blinked away tears. But when he returned to bed, he no longer dreaded dreaming of Anne. He rather hoped to dream of her now. Yet if he was going to dream of Anne – of when they were happy – I would have to be his secret. His insides writhed painfully, and he soothed himself by thinking that, perhaps, he would wake up in the morning and realize that Anne had not died at all. Perhaps she was not, in fact, a whore…perhaps he would wake to find them happy in the morning… With a content, fanciful smile lighting Henry's handsome face, he fell deeply asleep.