A/N: I actually like this one…bunches. :) But if I could change something, it would definitely be the way each section ends. I wanted to create a pattern that lead to the very last line – which wasn't going anywhere because I liked it – and I guess I kind of failed at that. Anyhow, I tried to show how Mary was belittled throughout the story, but had victory at the end. ^^ I think I accomplished that. I basically called her a foolish whore in every section…
Night and Day
Anne's long, dark ringlets that always fall perfectly and don't grease easily and always are complimented by the light. So unlike Mary's messy gold locks that, to a stranger, the concept that they are sisters might seem foreign. They do not appear to be of the same nationality - let alone the same bloodline.
But, as has been said before, Anne is dark-haired and sultry and mysterious and French, and Mary is fair-haired and naïve and sweet and English.
Perhaps the hair, then, is telltale.
Anne's very eyes - black, almond-shaped and beautiful - reveal that she knows far too much for her own good and should hardly be gossiping with petty women when she could be talking law with important men. Framed by long black lashes and pale eyelids, they can send the most hateful of glares or the most seductive of glances.
They are simply another reason why Mary and Anne Boleyn are polar opposites. Mary, whose own eyes are grey and light and usually carefree - but in a single moment can become tear-filled and stormy.
How can they be sisters - one whose irises can show lust and love and envy all at once and another whose eyes reflect the very image of innocence? Then perhaps it is the eyes that give everything away.
Like a songbird in the morning – Anne Boleyn's voice can pull you out of once trance and straight into another. It is as if she sings every word; it is like very syllable that rolls off of her tongue in a seductive purr is a separate note on a sheet of music.
Mary is quiet and polite. She is reserved and never speaks too loudly or quickly – perhaps because she never has anything worthwhile to say.
This surely must be it.
Musical and dark all wrapped in one, Anne's laugh is usually out of spite but is occasionally quite the opposite. Since Mary's is bell-like and cheery, the question should certainly have been solved here – how much more different can two people be?
There has only ever been one man that she actually loved – truly yearned for with ever fiber of her being and felt sorrow growing in her gut, nurtured by the anxiety she felt whenever someone uttered his name…Henry Percy. The sound of his name alone sent shivers down her spine – not of the elated sort, but rather similar to the unwelcome tingling brought along by a winter's chilled breeze. For love is not light and happy to Anne Boleyn. It is lustful and shameful and a mere game. Anne is too old for games.
Mary's heart is a free bird, willing to nest in the hands of any man so long as he brings her happiness and affection. Perhaps that is why her heart has been crushed as if it were a fragile autumn leaf so many times. Her love went gradually to William Carey, quickly to His Majesty, and disobediently to William Stafford. If only her brain were as big as her heart.
They must be identified by their different hearts.
Surrounding herself by only the most thoughtful minds and pristine scholars, Anne has immersed herself in a world filled with treason and rebellion. It is wonderful and intriguing but at the same time the danger of it all lurks in wait of its next victim. Anne's only defense is her God-given tact and flexibility.
Quite the opposite is Mary's world – or at least her perfect world. The mischief of her family leaks into her should-be quiet life and spreads like poison. When, she thinks, will that supposedly brilliant head of her sister's think up an escape route?
Their lives – though intertwined in a lethal way – display just how thoroughly the two sisters differ. But do we remember their lives when we think their names – or something far worse?
Anne takes a last shaky breath. She does not close her eyes, though she never wished for the last thing she saw to be a group of nasty people anticipating the moment her head rolls into the straw. She cannot see the sword, but she prefers it this way anyway. Lord Jesus, forgive me, she thinks. Lord Jesus, forgive me. Lord Jesus, for-
And then darkness.
Years later, Mary is warm in her bed, but has fallen ill. She is pale and wrinkled and she reeks of mucus and vomit – but she dies a natural death, whereas her sister Anne suffered a nasty fate on the scaffold. Anne perished for her meddling, and here is Mary, dying softly and peacefully. Here she is. The last one. The last Boleyn.
Oh yes – it is their deaths that set them apart.