AN: This is onesided William Carey/Mary Boleyn set to "The Rose", written by Amanda McBroom and made famous by Bette Midler. Assuming Catherine Carey was a royal bastard, but Henry tired of Mary in mid-1525, I've set this in 1525, just after Henry tired of her.

Some say love, it is a river
that drowns the tender reed.
Some say love, it is a razor
that leaves your soul to bleed.
Some say love, it is a hunger,
an endless aching need.

William Carey sat in his study, pen and ink before him. He was supposed to be writing a letter to his sister Mary, who was expecting a child soon, but the news, though he was happy for her, had caused him to start musing on Love itself.

It was strange, he thought, how one simple emotion could mean so many different things to different people. If you asked his new sister in law, Jane Parker, for example, she'd say love meant craving someone's presence, even when that person didn't want you around. His sister Anne, on the other hand, said love was like a river. An endless river with a tugging current that swept you off your feet and changed you forever. And, though his own wife, Mary, stayed resolutely silent on the subject, William knew what her feelings were.

To her, and indeed to any Boleyn, love was dangerous. It left you open, vulnerable. To them, love was like a sword; a blade intended to cut, not your physical body, but your heart, your mind and your soul.

I say love; it is a flower,
and you its only seed.

William wasn't sure he agreed with them. To him, love wasn't dangerous. It was more likely to be the victim of circumstances. To him, love was more like a delicate flower that really needed nurturing if it was to survive.

And, as there was a knocking on the door and Mary, his beautiful wife Mary, looked in, he realised what that flower looked like. Or at least, what it looked like in human form. It looked like her. Its petals were the texture of her creamy skin and the same shade of honeyed gold as her long silky hair. Its roots were her slender limbs and waist; so slender that William could encircle them with both hands and was always afraid he might break them. They were tougher than they looked though. He knew that. Roots always were.

Her gaze and voice, which reached him now, were like sweet nectar; a bee's favoured substance.

"William? Are you coming to bed, husband? It's late."

"Not yet, Mary. I have to finish my letter for my sister first."

It's the heart afraid of breaking
that never learns to dance.
It's the dream afraid of waking
that never takes a chance.

Mary nodded, understanding. "Send her my regards."

With that, she withdrew. William watched her go, pain stabbing his heart like a thorn. Though Mary was perfectly calm and polite, she wasn't the girl he'd married. She wasn't the girl he had, despite himself, fallen in love with. That girl was gone, swept away by the flood of her passion for the King. The King who no longer wanted her. The King who had destroyed her and left William to pick up the pieces. Left him to try to salvage his marriage; his marriage to a girl who'd built a wall around herself because she didn't want to get hurt again; didn't want to take any more chances.

Damn Thomas Boleyn and his ambitions! Damn His Majesty for taking a shine to Mary! Damn Mary for reciprocating his feelings! Damn him for not stopping her! For not stopping them all!

It's the one who won't be taken,
who cannot seem to give,
It's the soul afraid of dyin'
that never learns to live.

William buried his face in his hands, letter all but forgotten. If only there was something he could do for her. If only he could help her; help his milk and honey Maid Marian.

A memory flashed before his eyes unbidden. Himself, standing in Mary's bedchamber the day she moved into her new apartments. "When you are sent back to me, perhaps a month from now, perhaps a year, I will try to remember this day. I will try to remember that, today at least, you were more a girl than a Boleyn."

Hadn't he promised her that? More, hadn't he promised, before God, to love her and cherish her, to have her and to hold her, for better or for worse, until death parted them?

Of course he had. They were the words of the wedding Mass.

Then shouldn't he live up to them? Shouldn't he show her that he still loved her, despite everything? Shouldn't he treat her little girl, Catherine, like his own? Shouldn't he try to teach her that the past was the past, that they could live together now, as though the last three years had never been, as though they were still just man and wife, man and wife and nothing else.

Of course he should. It was his duty. But it was more than that. It was that, if he didn't, no one would. No one would help her and Mary, his beautiful Mary, who had once been radiant with King Henry's favour, would stay a shrinking wallflower. Would remain, all her life, the discarded whore, the broken woman, the soul who, try as she might, couldn't learn to live with herself and what she had done.

When the night has been too lonely
and the road has been too long,
and you think that love is only
for the lucky and the strong,

Just remember in the winter
far beneath the bitter snows
lies the seed that with the sun's love
in the spring becomes the rose.

All of a sudden determined, William thrust aside his letter. Anne and her new child could wait. Mary could not.

Climbing the stairs, he heard the unmistakeable sound of muffled sobbing coming from his bedchamber. He almost turned tail and ran, but, firm in his new resolution, he merely changed into his nightshirt in the outer chamber and then lifted the latch.

"Mary?" He asked tentatively. He got no answer, but then, he hadn't expected one. Instead, he merely slid under the covers and held his wife as she sobbed.

"William?" Her voice was thin, almost shy.

"Yes. It's all right. I won't hurt you."

"I know."

They lay like that, in silence, for a few minutes, Mary's slim body periodically heaving with sobs. All of a sudden, she choked out. "I'm sorry, William! I didn't mean…any of it…I just…"

"I know, I know." Despite himself, he stroked her hair, forcing himself to forget the fact that another man's hands had done exactly the same. He rocked her in his arms like a child until she quietened. Until her breathing evened out and she was definitely asleep.

Then he rose above her on one elbow to watch her pale face. It was almost impassive, her inborn Boleyn nature forcing her to keep her emotionless Howard mask in place, even while she slept, but there was a definite, though uncertain, hint of a smile playing around her rosy lips.

William sighed. It was a start.