Disclaimer: Not mine.

A/N: I have no idea where this came from…

It didn't start out as anything. He came to her hoping to ease the marriage between her and his King. She knew that. But it was strange, really, what changed in her after their conversation. He was the only one who really seemed to care at all, and something in her responded to that. It wasn't her husband, that cruel and cold King, that she wanted. Instead, when she dreamed at night, she found that the man who came in her dreams was the dark-haired, soft-spoken man in black – shadows in his eyes to match his clothes, haunted by what she knew not –the man with the Lord Chancellor's chain around his neck.

He'd chosen her for the King. He'd chosen her in hopes that a new, Protestant wife would lead Henry back to reform. The Reformation needed the King of England to be an ally as he had once been. But something about her wide brown eyes and the way she seemed made of fine china – how was it she shared a bed with the madman they called King without shattering? – drew him in, caught his breath in his throat and made him want to claim her for himself.

She saw him watching, fear in his eyes. The King was angry with him, and it was her fault. She did not please the King, and for that he blamed the man who had chosen her. There was nothing she could do, she could only watch helplessly as everything burned to ash around her. All her hopes, all her dreams – but she didn't want to be Queen, she just wanted him – came to nothing when the brother of the late Queen came to her with ice in his eyes, to tell her that she was no longer Queen.

Ironic, really, to end in the Tower, after he had sent so many here himself. He was here for choosing the wrong woman for his King, here for the enemies he had made in his rise to power. But he had not committed treason, not followed through with the betrayal he had so yearned to make – he can't save her from him, can't even save himself in the end – and he wondered if this was his punishment. He had been key to destroying two former Queens; now he would face the fate of the second and she was to go the way of the first. Had he condemned them both?

She heard that his death was a nightmare. A drunken headsman, and five blows before it was over. She couldn't think about it, she couldn't imagine, she feared what she would do if she did. She was afraid she would scream, scream and not stop. She walked in the gardens of Hever Castle, the home of another lost wife of England's King – there are already ghosts here, but hers are of what never was, what can never be – and picked a rose. A thorn pricked her hand, the blood ran down and she thought of him, his blood spilled for her faults, and her breath caught in her throat, her eyes closed against the images as she tried to forget but knew she never would.

Kiss my eyes

And lay me to sleep - AFI, Prelude 12/21