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Catherine of Aragon

The winter was bitter and cold like her husband.

He was lying in his majestic bed, his once beautiful hair was now lank and damp, his soft lips, at once harsh and gentle, gaped silently; his eyes, that once stared down upon the Kings and Emperors of the World, gazed absently at nothing, the intelligence that burned kingdoms now reduced to the weakest flicker.

This was her husband, the King of England, facing death.

If her knees cried out in pain, she gave no heed for her eyes were only on him.

They were no longer passionate during the last few years, her life now reduced to clockwork of prayers, masses and their children and him on the wars of Spain and France. She had forgotten what he had felt like, how his kisses burned for hers and how they would lie next to each other, whispering about the concerns of the world as though they were but idle gossip.

A part of her, the young and foolish, prayed bitterly to return to those years before the wars, before the rebellion and before the illness that had struck. That part yearned to banish the counsellors and noblemen from the room and throw herself over her husband, wishing that her protestations of love would miraculously bring him back to health.

She wondered if this was what Juana had thought when Philip laid in the agonies of fever or how her own father had felt when her mother returned to the side of God during the dark years of their marriage, when the uncertainties and their fathers threatened to tear them asunder.

"Your Majesty," whispered the cardinal, so youthful and strange among the elderly men in the room, "Forgive me," he spoke gravely, "but it is time."

NO, she wanted to shout, what you just spoke is treason! How can you even HINT of the King's death? Can you not see that he needs air, a walk, some more medicine or tonic, prayers andand…!

Instead, Catherine moved closer to her husband and clasped his hands - cold, lifeless and unreal - into hers.

Suddenly, his fingers grasped hers tightly and his eyes came to life as they looked up and found hers.

"…Ca…therine…" he gasped, sounding desperate.

She fought back the urge to scream and beg him to get up and fight, for England, for their children, for her, especially for her, and pleasepleaseplease Jesusdonottakemyhusband!

"Yes, Arthur?" she answered, her voice thick and comforting.

"…you…are…" he spoke, his eyes bore into hers, like all those times when he wanted to reassure her of things, "…you…will…" his lips opened and closed as though the words were difficult to form.

"Yes, my beloved?"

"…you are Queen!" he cried out, "…always!"

Catherine did not flinch as his fingers bore into her flesh and she felt fresh new tears pouring down her face, "…always, Arthur," she replied and she lifted his fingers to her lips.

As sudden as it came, Arthur, King of England, slumped back into the mattress and closed his eyes, his breathing shallow but at peace.

Catherine was aware of being led out of the room as the clergy remained to do Arthur's Last Rites.

It was not tradition for Queens to remain in the same room when the King dies and as Arthur had said, Catherine was Queen, now and always.

Notes: Some bits of history may have been bent to suit the story. This story is mostly a collection of oneshots AUs. Constructive criticisms are welcomed.