𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓦𝓸𝓻𝓭𝓼 𝓞𝓯 𝓘𝓷𝓷𝓸𝓬𝓮𝓷𝓬𝓮

ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴇꜱᴛᴀᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴏʀᴀʟɪᴛʏ

"....It is a fine Day in England for beheading, that whore pay for all of her treachery. The king will find a better half that will provide him with the heir to England's Great throne..." ---Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk.

  •۞•  

Dawn.

May 19th, 1536,

Tower of London.

I've been stirred from slumber, my senses awakening to a profound reality. Standing still, I witnessed the sunrise, marking the ultimate moment—the final dawn crafted by God. Reflecting on my tumultuous journey, I find an unexpected calm. Fear has abandoned me for the first time in my existence. In the kingdom of my heart, I am a sovereign Queen. However, the King, my former husband, has decreed my demise. A tragic fate, declared null and void by his authority to elevate or diminish anyone at his whim.

Unfounded allegations echo, and though I've purged my soul, I stand defenseless. The King, a wielder of power, dissolved our marriage. I beseech those who judge my case to do so with compassion, hopeful that God will heed my prayers. In the tangled web of envy, rage, and misguided notions, I find myself accused of insulting the King, meddling in affairs not my own, and failing to provide him with a son. I admit my faults, but also lay blame on him for stealing kisses from my maid, Seymour, Jane.

Assuming the role of Catherine of Aragon, the late Queen, I'm taunted by her laughter from beyond. She foresaw his waning interest, and I deluded myself into perpetual love and devotion. The English people, scornful and relentless, have branded me with countless derogatory names—whore, witch, and more. Words fail me as I confront the oppressive list. If allowed, they'll revel in my demise, dancing on my grave.

Rumors abound that Jane Seymour will ascend to both the throne and the King's bed, becoming the third in line, perpetuating a cycle of royal succession.

Queen of the third generation, I confess my transgressions and question whether God will forgive the atrocities I've committed. The command to love my neighbor was lost on me, as I succumbed to conceit and self-centeredness upon ascending to the throne of England. The absence of a son to secure my legacy as Queen weighs heavily on me. I implore the King for a chance to redeem myself, to showcase my worthiness.

The world shivers in its coldness, and I acknowledge the significance of a mother's greatest asset—a son, the living embodiment of his father. This, I failed to accomplish, letting down both England and the powerful yet malevolent King. Females who approach me are mere spies of the King, and I await the arrival of Mr. Kingston, who will bear the message of my impending death. Anticipating the end, I yearn for the solace of death, envisioning my flesh rotting and bones turning to ash.

In my despair, I seek strength from the Holy Father, praying for guidance through the looming night. The gates of heaven jolt me awake, presenting a celestial vision and the promise of peace. Trembling, I face judgment, thoughts of my daughter Elizabeth consuming me. I hope the King will treat her kindly and not speak ill of me, desiring her happiness and a life free of pain.

Regret pierces me as I acknowledge that I won't witness England's Golden Age or see my daughter grow, marry, and possibly be crowned. My ambition for her well-being is expressed in a heartfelt plea to God. As rats scratch at the walls, I confront Beelzebub's henchmen attempting to seduce my soul. Unafraid, I welcome whatever fate awaits, knowing that being Queen was never meant for me.

Reflecting on my thousand days as Queen, once adored by a monarch, I rise from bed with the desire to pray. The flickering candles cast shadows, their flames dying out, and I observe my silhouette—a final vision before my hands clasp together in prayer.