Okay so here is a little idea I had.

Hope its okay!

Let me know in a review :-P

Disclaimer: I do not own the Tudors.

He paced his chambers. Nearly time. It had been delayed for long enough, an extra day. An extra day for her to live. For her to breathe. For his life to stop, he couldn't move forward until this was done.

Until she was dead.

Her who had bewitched him to the point of insanity. Her who had become his obsession. She who was a witch. That's what they said, the witch who had charmed the kings heart away from his true wife, his faith. They had said it at the time, yet he could not listen, he heard nothing over her laugh and her false promises.

He glanced at the clock, nearly time. He put his head in his hands; her laugh rang through his mind. That laugh, it made his heart warm. Her smile like sunlight breaking the dawn, her eyes, deep orbs that captivated his own. Her skin, soft and smooth beneath his hands as he held hers. Presenting her to the world as his own heart, his Queen. Her sweet lips whose feel he would never tire of. The ones that ignited the flame in his heart, the blood in his veins burned for her. All for her.

Henry shook himself. What was this? Even as she was about to die she still held his mind in her hands. She still haunted him. His feelings were not real, he reminded himself. They were the workings of a witch. A harlot. A whore. A dead woman.

He closed his eyes, but he still saw her, dancing in front of him at the French court. Every move bewitching. She was so graceful, so beautiful. He ran his fingers through his hair, trying to remove her from his mind. He remembered how she used to do that. How she wold whisper softly in his ear of the sons she would bear him, of the heirs he would have. He had believed her completely, given everything away for her. Torn the country apart, thrown away his ever faithful wife, executed his best friend for not supporting them, and pushed out the pearl of his world, sending her away. She had lied and betrayed him in every way, to wear a crown, to sit in a throne, to share his bed. She was evil, she was scheming. Henry yelled out in anger. She had made him angry.

Yet…Why could he not tear his thoughts from her? Why did his heart beat so quickly at the thought of her?

He shook his head and stood in anger. No. The only reason he thought of her was because she had used him, he was upset, he was angry. He did not love her, those feelings were not real. He loved Jane.

Jane.

His sweet, sweet Jane. His light, his everything. He smiled, then stopped as a dark haired beauty crept into his mind. Her eyes shining, she was not sweet, no, she was the opposite. She was danger, she was fire, she was passion. She made his heart stir, even as a memory. She made his blood pound and he hated her for it. Or, he tried to. He tore his thoughts back to the blond, who still stood in his head smiling slightly, stood quietly, obediently…meekly.

His Jane, the sweet, sweet Jane Seymour. Too sweet, like honey, he was drowning in honey. The light of his world, too bright, she blinded him. It seemed unnecessary to need extra light in the presence of the sun. Seemed almost trivial. But she was obedient. That was good, that was supposed to be good. She had never been obedient; it had infuriated him, lead to bitter arguments and hateful words. But then…the arguments had been passionate, he missed that passion, she was still beautiful when she had argued, she was clever, he loved that. The arguments showed their differences, but when they made up, thy showed how they were the same. Compatible completely. Together. As one.

Obedience was boring.

He wanted his fire, his burning flame. The one that had led him for so long, the one that had changed everything. Given him control. The one that had warmed his heart as well as his bed.

The clock chimed as it struck the hour.

He stopped staring at it. It was done. He knew it.

He couldn't undo it know.

His fire was gone.

Burnt out.

Forever.

He shook himself firmly, he did not want her. It was merely the last stages of her witchcraft. He could not want her. After everything he could not love her. He shook himself firmly and went to find his sweet, sweet Jane.

The King of England could not have doubts.

Never.