Rated: T

Genres: Family, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Tragedy

Characters: Elizabeth I of England; Anne Boleyn (mentioned); John Dee (mentioned); Henry VIII of England (mentioned); Mary I of England (mentioned); Edward VI of England (mentioned); Jane Seymour (mentioned); Catherine Parr (mentioned)

Pairings: N/A

 ~*~

ELIZABETH supposed that she should be tired after a long and weary day doing nothing but sitting in her office, handling paperwork, and meeting with her advisors. But for some strange reason, she felt no desire to head to bed yet after having a bath being attended to by her maids, so she requested the five young women to leave her in peace for the moment and they obediently complied, scurrying out of their mistress’s bedroom like mice and more than likely glad to be relieved of their duties, even if it was just for that night.

As soon as the last attendant exited, Elizabeth stood up from her bed and crossed over to one of the many airy windows in the room, but this one in particular faced the moon on this cloudless, breezy night.

She pulled back the silk curtains and sat on the chair beside the window. Gazing out at the unusually bright stars hanging in the heavens, Elizabeth’s mind wandered to an old superstition her consultant, John Dee, had taught some years ago, while the English queen was having her weekly astrology/astronomy lessons with the learned man. Burned in her memories forever with its mark made on her heart, the redheaded queen could still clearly remember the doctor’s exact words in his gravelly voice: “Some elders believe that each time a person close to our heart dies, a new star appears in the sky in their place.” But as these words had eloquently rolled off his tongue, Dee sounded so nostalgic and so wistful, as if he were trapped in some dream of the past. But Elizabeth also caught a hint of sorrow and regret in his voice and sensed lingering bitterness — and it seemed to pain him so that Elizabeth wondered what thing in the good doctor’s mysterious past could have cut such immense wounds and reopened them painfully after all this time. Was it his deceased first wife? Or mayhaps his parents? Elizabeth was beginning to ask but thought better of it, for truly some questions were better left unasked and thus unanswered.

After a moment or two of brooding silence between them, Dee added, “But of course, that’s mere superstition and there’s little evidence for that. For if such a belief was true, then every night should be filled with more stars than the last — but they are not, and on some particular evenings, there are none at all to be seen.” And on that note, the topic of their conversation abruptly veered back to what fortune the stars held in store for the Queen of England and afterwards they never discussed that rare display of vulnerability nor did it ever cross Elizabeth’s mind again. Until now…

Elizabeth idly drummed her fingers on the window pane and for a second of childlike hope, the red-haired woman pondered if Anne Boleyn was now a star, shining in the heavens and far above the people who had stripped her of life like she was always meant to be, and if she was looking down at Elizabeth, smiling gently…

Unconsciously, like some unexplainable instinct, the middle-aged queen reached up for the necklace that hung about her neck and took it off. She undid the clasp that held its locket in place, opened it, and then beheld the face painted in its miniature portrait.

Everyone who had been around during the early part of Elizabeth’s father’s reign in England decades ago could still recall vividly the vivacious, alluring second wife of King Henry VIII. Once scorned and the subject of many a rumour, Anne was now seen as an attractive and wonderful lady, praised by Elizabeth’s subjects and courtiers for her beauty, wit, and intelligence. But this was mere show to please their queen, Elizabeth knew that; for many, in their heart of hearts, still despised the woman for usurping the place of Henry’s first wife Catherine of Aragon as queen consort and for what she represented in their society — a clever, engaging lady who had no place in the traditional woman’s life as opposed to a sweet, dutiful, and pious housewife and mother who depended on her husband for her every need.

But Anne was so much more than a pretty face, an unpopular queen, and later a betrayed wife to Elizabeth: she was also her mother — and no amount of rumours and whispers (after all, they were never really proven, were they? Elizabeth wanted to desperately shout at all those who’d tried to slander Anne and were still trying, long after her death) could change that fact. Elizabeth may not remember her mother, may not remember what she looked like and what she smiled like and what she was like, but she was her mother nonetheless and her death early on in Elizabeth’s life had not lessened her daughter’s desire to know Anne better. But fate (and Father too, he was equally guilty) had robbed her of that chance and Elizabeth had been left without a mother to shelter her from life’s unforgiving storms, left an orphan and slave to her father’s power.

Had Anne been a good mother? Elizabeth had never known the affection of a mother, the occasional loving words and embraces from her deceased stepmothers Jane Seymour and Catherine Parr aside, but she liked to think that she was, playing and laughing with her daughter at court, and would still have been had she lived to see her daughter grow into what she was now.

Still, that had not stopped many rumours from growing over the years about Queen Anne — Was she the virgin she had claimed to be when she’d consummated her relationship with the King? Was she committing incest with her brother George? Was her daughter, Elizabeth, a product of adultery? So many tales, so much gossip — all lies, Elizabeth told herself, for her mother would never have done such abominable deeds; her sweet, innocent mother deceived by her father and soon executed on his orders; the dear Anne Boleyn, a commoner raised to the title of Queen Consort — no, she would not believe the gossip spread about her, her mother was just a victim, no, no, no—

Elizabeth had been too young to understand life’s very much harsh realities when they shoved it in her face, in the form of her mother losing her head on false charges more than likely made up by her husband to easily get rid of Anne and replace her in her role as his wife with his mistress Jane Seymour. And now, she felt like she was still too young to grasp them and withstand their strong winds that were trying to push her to her breaking point. No matter that her looks indicated otherwise, at this moment the Queen felt like the lost, vulnerable child that she had been a long, long time ago with no one to turn to — not a mother, not a father, not a sister, not a brother; they’d all left her too early and now she was alone in this world with none who could help her.

She turned her gaze back to the portrait, which showed a vibrant young woman with long brown locks, rosy cheeks, fair skin, and wearing a blue dress, holding up the red rose of the Tudors in her hands. Anne just seemed so blissful, so seemingly full of boundless life in that painting that Elizabeth almost found it hard to believe that she had ever suffered great tragedies in her life.

Elizabeth turned over the locket and found herself staring at the words engraved into its back:

QUEEN ANNE BOLEYN

(1501-1536)

“THE MOST HAPPY”

The most happy. It was so ironic that Elizabeth almost laughed at the sheer absurdity of it all. Oh, if only her mother had known — and she might not have chosen such deceiving words as her motto, might have chosen less conflicting words that did not evoke great pain and remorse in Elizabeth.

Yes, her mother may have been happy for a time, and truly, for mayhaps she had thought it true love when she fell for Henry VIII. But she had not been happy, later on, and that was what hurt the most. She did not deserve this fate, to be cruelly thrown away like a doll by Father after he was done playing with her and to have her promising life taken from her in a matter of minutes, perhaps even seconds. She — she deserved to live out her motto at all times, to always be the most happy, and woe on those who claim to possess more joy than her. Oh, but she did not, and — and it was all MY FAULT!

There. What had once been unthinkable for a number of years had thoughtlessly come to mind again. And it worsened the pain, worsened it so. If I had only been born a boy, like everyone thought I was before my birth, Elizabeth tearfully thought, my father might have never given a second thought to Jane Seymour and my mother would still have lived and my parents would be happy together. It would have had a fairytale ending, like it was always supposed to end. But fate was cruel — they were wrong, oh-so-terribly wrong.

Life does not always turn out the way one plans it to be. And the queen had learned that lesson in one of the hardest ways possible. She had lost everything early on — but somehow regained them, though in a different form and one that would never satisfy her as it would have had in her imagination. For she had come this far after all, hadn’t she? She was Queen of England now (no matter if Henry VIII was rolling in his grave with distress at such a revelation — she did not care; you were my father, yes, and I loved you in my own way, but you were a bad one and you did not provide Mary, Edward, and I the affection and love we needed in order to lead good lives). Her subjects loved her. Everything appeared peaceful and many, in fact, were calling her reign the Golden Age of England, the era of the country’s second queen regnant — and Elizabeth hoped that it would remain so in the coming years, for goodness knows how badly her kingdom needed a break from all the bloodshed and wars it had been experiencing in the past centuries or so.

In the end, though it wasn’t in a manner anyone would have expected, Mother got her fairytale ending in this world — for I, her daughter, became Queen. Are you happy now? I hope you are. You deserve to be happy, the most happy.

 A single, silent tear rolled down Elizabeth’s cheek and for the first time in a long time, she allowed her tears to fall; allowed herself to be a child once more, yearning for a mother’s arms wrapped around her. She looked out and up at the stars once more and she smiled through her sorrow. Good night, Mother.

And with that, Elizabeth wiped away her tears and closed her locket.

~*~

A/N: Sorry if it was a bit too angsty for your taste, but I felt like there really had to be a chapter dedicated to Elizabeth and how she felt about her mother.