oh hay first post!
Here's my first work of fanfiction for this journal. :3
Title: I'm Never in My Waking Life
Fandom: The Tudors
Characters/Pairings: Anne Boleyn, a touch of Henry/Anne
Rating: PG-13 for dark-ish themes.
Author's Note: I wrote this in a hurry, so maybe it's not my best work. It's completely un-betaed too, so forgive me for grammar errors, lol. I wanted to write something for halfamoon, and I decided to do a sort of character study of Anne Boleyn, because I love her, as both a character on The Tudors and as a real historical figure. I hope you enjoy it! :3
Some nights, Anne would lie awake, alone. She knew where Henry had gone--off to sleep with a mistress, or perhaps with just a girl he had found at court.
At these times, she'd hug herself, shaking with her desire not to cry. She'd try very hard not to move, hoping that somehow, she could fall asleep if she stayed still and just listened to the stillness of the night. But again and again, she'd wake the next day after only an hour's worth of useless sleep. These mornings, she'd be irritable and bleary-eyed, unable to concentrate.
Other nights, she lay beside Henry, smiling with the aftermath of their love-making. She'd relive how he felt, smelled, tasted, looked. Those nights she slept well, and she could breathe in the morning air easily, reassured by his presence that all was well.
When she was arrested, Anne clung to the vain hope that it was all a dream, that she'd wake up from the nightmare and see Henry next to her, sleeping with a quiet intensity, a calmer version of his daytime self.
In the Tower, she'd choke on her sobs, trying desperately to breathe normally. She couldn't reach him ever again; she knew that. Still, she wanted so badly to go back to those nights, either kind. She didn't even care if he slept with all the women in the world, just as long as he was hers again.
The morning of her execution, she awoke feeling more alive than she'd ever felt before. She looked at her hands, staring at each finger as if it were a foreign object. She inhaled, shaking slightly. When she stood, she felt more powerful than she'd felt in a very long time.
When she walked to the scaffold, she felt so tired, so exhausted that she thought she might faint.
As she spoke her last words, she kept her eyes wide open, as if she could consume the whole world with them.
She breathed in and out, in and out. Still unblinking, still unmoving.
Finally, she could sleep well.
Title: I'm Never in My Waking Life
Fandom: The Tudors
Characters/Pairings: Anne Boleyn, a touch of Henry/Anne
Rating: PG-13 for dark-ish themes.
Author's Note: I wrote this in a hurry, so maybe it's not my best work. It's completely un-betaed too, so forgive me for grammar errors, lol. I wanted to write something for halfamoon, and I decided to do a sort of character study of Anne Boleyn, because I love her, as both a character on The Tudors and as a real historical figure. I hope you enjoy it! :3
Some nights, Anne would lie awake, alone. She knew where Henry had gone--off to sleep with a mistress, or perhaps with just a girl he had found at court.
At these times, she'd hug herself, shaking with her desire not to cry. She'd try very hard not to move, hoping that somehow, she could fall asleep if she stayed still and just listened to the stillness of the night. But again and again, she'd wake the next day after only an hour's worth of useless sleep. These mornings, she'd be irritable and bleary-eyed, unable to concentrate.
Other nights, she lay beside Henry, smiling with the aftermath of their love-making. She'd relive how he felt, smelled, tasted, looked. Those nights she slept well, and she could breathe in the morning air easily, reassured by his presence that all was well.
When she was arrested, Anne clung to the vain hope that it was all a dream, that she'd wake up from the nightmare and see Henry next to her, sleeping with a quiet intensity, a calmer version of his daytime self.
In the Tower, she'd choke on her sobs, trying desperately to breathe normally. She couldn't reach him ever again; she knew that. Still, she wanted so badly to go back to those nights, either kind. She didn't even care if he slept with all the women in the world, just as long as he was hers again.
The morning of her execution, she awoke feeling more alive than she'd ever felt before. She looked at her hands, staring at each finger as if it were a foreign object. She inhaled, shaking slightly. When she stood, she felt more powerful than she'd felt in a very long time.
When she walked to the scaffold, she felt so tired, so exhausted that she thought she might faint.
As she spoke her last words, she kept her eyes wide open, as if she could consume the whole world with them.
She breathed in and out, in and out. Still unblinking, still unmoving.
Finally, she could sleep well.