[FICATHON] Rock Me Asleep
Aug. 26th, 2010 09:25 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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thisenglandTitle: Rock me asleep
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
the_alchemist
Play: Henry VIII
Recipient:cherith
Characters/Pairings: Anne Bullen, Henry, Elizabeth
Rating: 12
Warnings: It's rather melancholy. And there's some stuff about sex.
Summary: Anne remembers.
Length: 1040 words
Notes: Thanks toborusa, who beta read it.
He still came to my chamber in the final month of my pregnancy. We dismissed my ladies, and he undressed me himself, slipping off my loose gown and unlacing my kirtle with his own fingers. I adored his hands: strong yet gentle, big yet surprisingly deft at little things like that.
I lay down on the red silk coverlet, he lifted my smock and put his head lightly against my belly. "How is he doing?" He asked.
"Well, my Lord. He kept me awake all last night with his kicking and squirming. I think he is restless to be born."
"He will be a warrior."
"Yes, my Lord."
"And you do know? It is a boy? You have no doubt?"
Sometimes Henry was like a little child: I had told him many times that I did not know, that there was no way of knowing, but he would never hear anything he didn't want to hear. "Only God knows that, my Lord, but your whole kingdom is praying it may be so."
He grunted, and sat up, displeased. "But what is it you told me? That he rests high in your belly? Or was it low? And that signifies a son."
"Such is the midwives' superstition, my Lord. I give little credit to such things. But I am still young. Even if it is a daughter..."
"Silence," he said. "I will not hear you say such..."
He was building up for one of his rants, so I knelt up beside him and stopped his mouth with a kiss. "I'm sorry," I said. He stroked my hair and kissed me on the cheek, almost chastely.
"There's my love, my Anne," he said. "No-one with your spirit could produce a paltry girl."
I smiled back as prettily as I could, despite my fearful heart. "Thank you, my Lord." He held me in his arms until I pretended to go to sleep.
***
I thought I loved him, then. I was young. Still young enough to confuse desire with love. I had been led to believe that the marital act was a painful chore for women, to be endured rather than enjoyed. Henry showed me the pleasure in it, more pleasure than I had ever imagined.
His power exhilarated me, and so did my own power to subdue his, to make him shake and moan with desire, and fall down spent upon my pillow, while I teased him, begging for more.
And better still than the thrilling entanglements of our bodies was when we waged our little wars of wit, joking and flirting and teasing, sometimes in three or four languages. I loved those days, but I didn't love him.
***
I remember the moment I first knew love, and it was love of a very different kind.
"There!"
"Well done! Rest now. It's finished."
"Oh."
"Oh, my lady, I'm so sorry."
I tried to raise myself from my bed, hands grasping at the sodden, sticky linen, but I was too weak. "What?" I murmured. "What happened?"
"It's not the end of the world, plenty of time."
"You're still young."
And as they lifted her onto my chest, my Elizabeth, my daughter, that's when I understood what love is. And I'm glad I didn't have much strength left, because (God forgive me) if I had I would have risen from my bed and scratched their eyes out for slandering my perfect baby.
***
I remember the rhythm of the cradle as I rocked it back and forth, singing a little song my own nurse had taught me:
Sweet babe, rock thee asleep
And fall to quiet rest
Let pass each fretful, doleful thought
Out of thy little breast.
Sing on, thou nightingale
Shine out, thou moon so pale
Let nothing this child ail.
Dusk darkens the sky,
Sleep doth draw nigh.
***
I remember the little sheets I sewed from handkerchief linen and adorned with Italian lace. My ladies chided me for wasting such good stuff on a little girl who knew no better than to puke and dribble all over it, but I never heeded them. She deserves the best, my Elizabeth, and I have done all I may to see she will have it.
I gave her my own milk. Was she the first child to suck from the breasts of a Queen of England? I don't know. I wish I had learned more history. It breaks my heart that there is such a world of knowledge out there, and I shall never have time to learn anything more.
***
The sun is rising. It is strange to watch stars fade, and know I shall never see them return. With each hour it grows harder to remember the good things: Henry's hands, my daughter's little smile.
My bed here feels hard, though it is the same I slept in the night before my coronation, and then it was like sinking into clouds. The sheets have not been changed in a fortnight - they smell of my fear, so different from the honest sweat of a wife in the arms of her husband, or labouring to bring forth their child.
***
The last words I heard Elizabeth speak were these: "it's not fair."
No, my sweet, it is not fair. It is not fair that I, a faithful wife and subject, should die as an adulteress and traitor; it is not fair that you, the truest and loveliest princess in Christendom, should be sullied with the name of "bastard". It is not fair that tyrants and their flatterers prosper, while the good are ground underfoot.
I wish with all my heart that I could bequeath you a fair world, but the best I can do is this: to bequeath you tutors who will show you how to prosper in this unfair one and yet still keep your soul with God; to die with flattery on my lips, that you may live and have to flatter no-one.
O death, rock me asleep,
Bring me to quiet rest,
Let pass my weary guiltless ghost
Out of my careful breast.
Toll on, thou passing bell;
Ring out my doleful knell;
Let thy sound my death tell.
Death doth draw nigh;
There is no remedy.
Amen. Lord have mercy.
Author:
the_alchemistPlay: Henry VIII
Recipient:
cherithCharacters/Pairings: Anne Bullen, Henry, Elizabeth
Rating: 12
Warnings: It's rather melancholy. And there's some stuff about sex.
Summary: Anne remembers.
Length: 1040 words
Notes: Thanks to
borusa, who beta read it. He still came to my chamber in the final month of my pregnancy. We dismissed my ladies, and he undressed me himself, slipping off my loose gown and unlacing my kirtle with his own fingers. I adored his hands: strong yet gentle, big yet surprisingly deft at little things like that.
I lay down on the red silk coverlet, he lifted my smock and put his head lightly against my belly. "How is he doing?" He asked.
"Well, my Lord. He kept me awake all last night with his kicking and squirming. I think he is restless to be born."
"He will be a warrior."
"Yes, my Lord."
"And you do know? It is a boy? You have no doubt?"
Sometimes Henry was like a little child: I had told him many times that I did not know, that there was no way of knowing, but he would never hear anything he didn't want to hear. "Only God knows that, my Lord, but your whole kingdom is praying it may be so."
He grunted, and sat up, displeased. "But what is it you told me? That he rests high in your belly? Or was it low? And that signifies a son."
"Such is the midwives' superstition, my Lord. I give little credit to such things. But I am still young. Even if it is a daughter..."
"Silence," he said. "I will not hear you say such..."
He was building up for one of his rants, so I knelt up beside him and stopped his mouth with a kiss. "I'm sorry," I said. He stroked my hair and kissed me on the cheek, almost chastely.
"There's my love, my Anne," he said. "No-one with your spirit could produce a paltry girl."
I smiled back as prettily as I could, despite my fearful heart. "Thank you, my Lord." He held me in his arms until I pretended to go to sleep.
I thought I loved him, then. I was young. Still young enough to confuse desire with love. I had been led to believe that the marital act was a painful chore for women, to be endured rather than enjoyed. Henry showed me the pleasure in it, more pleasure than I had ever imagined.
His power exhilarated me, and so did my own power to subdue his, to make him shake and moan with desire, and fall down spent upon my pillow, while I teased him, begging for more.
And better still than the thrilling entanglements of our bodies was when we waged our little wars of wit, joking and flirting and teasing, sometimes in three or four languages. I loved those days, but I didn't love him.
I remember the moment I first knew love, and it was love of a very different kind.
"There!"
"Well done! Rest now. It's finished."
"Oh."
"Oh, my lady, I'm so sorry."
I tried to raise myself from my bed, hands grasping at the sodden, sticky linen, but I was too weak. "What?" I murmured. "What happened?"
"It's not the end of the world, plenty of time."
"You're still young."
And as they lifted her onto my chest, my Elizabeth, my daughter, that's when I understood what love is. And I'm glad I didn't have much strength left, because (God forgive me) if I had I would have risen from my bed and scratched their eyes out for slandering my perfect baby.
I remember the rhythm of the cradle as I rocked it back and forth, singing a little song my own nurse had taught me:
Sweet babe, rock thee asleep
And fall to quiet rest
Let pass each fretful, doleful thought
Out of thy little breast.
Sing on, thou nightingale
Shine out, thou moon so pale
Let nothing this child ail.
Dusk darkens the sky,
Sleep doth draw nigh.
I remember the little sheets I sewed from handkerchief linen and adorned with Italian lace. My ladies chided me for wasting such good stuff on a little girl who knew no better than to puke and dribble all over it, but I never heeded them. She deserves the best, my Elizabeth, and I have done all I may to see she will have it.
I gave her my own milk. Was she the first child to suck from the breasts of a Queen of England? I don't know. I wish I had learned more history. It breaks my heart that there is such a world of knowledge out there, and I shall never have time to learn anything more.
The sun is rising. It is strange to watch stars fade, and know I shall never see them return. With each hour it grows harder to remember the good things: Henry's hands, my daughter's little smile.
My bed here feels hard, though it is the same I slept in the night before my coronation, and then it was like sinking into clouds. The sheets have not been changed in a fortnight - they smell of my fear, so different from the honest sweat of a wife in the arms of her husband, or labouring to bring forth their child.
The last words I heard Elizabeth speak were these: "it's not fair."
No, my sweet, it is not fair. It is not fair that I, a faithful wife and subject, should die as an adulteress and traitor; it is not fair that you, the truest and loveliest princess in Christendom, should be sullied with the name of "bastard". It is not fair that tyrants and their flatterers prosper, while the good are ground underfoot.
I wish with all my heart that I could bequeath you a fair world, but the best I can do is this: to bequeath you tutors who will show you how to prosper in this unfair one and yet still keep your soul with God; to die with flattery on my lips, that you may live and have to flatter no-one.
O death, rock me asleep,
Bring me to quiet rest,
Let pass my weary guiltless ghost
Out of my careful breast.
Toll on, thou passing bell;
Ring out my doleful knell;
Let thy sound my death tell.
Death doth draw nigh;
There is no remedy.
Amen. Lord have mercy.
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Date: 2010-08-27 02:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-27 04:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-27 01:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-03 11:22 pm (UTC)I especially loved: The last words I heard Elizabeth speak were these: "it's not fair."
That was just absolutely perfect.