Elizabeth never spoke of her mother, it is said.

But she wore a ring, which carried her portrait. For all the glory she gives to him, King Henry knows his daughter's feelings towards him. It has been 500 years at least and he is inclined to agree, now.

He hears her spoken of as the greatest monarch England has ever had. Glorianna. The Golden Age. The protector and defender of England, the Queen who defeated the Armada, in whose streets there was peace and plays. The Virgin Queen.

Henry hears himself spoken of as a monster and it tastes bitter. He has lost all he thought to hold and this, this is his penance - to wander the earth a ghost until many ages have past.

His wives have forgiven each other long ago. His children, oh his children forgave each other in a heartbeat. He can still hear Elizabeth and Mary, laughing and smiling. They loved each other and he helped to tear it apart so Mary could only see in Elizabeth all that she had lost. Mary, who could not sign her sisters death warrant.

They offered to forgive him. But he threw it back in their faces. Prideful to the last, oh mighty lion.

There are times he thinks, but do they not see? Do they not know I wished nothing but the security of my realm, do they not see my cause was just, that I was misled and misused? And why should Cromwell be forgiven, when I am not?

Because you are the king. You are the one who would command. You are the one who willed it to be done, around whom all others would dance. You are the killer, the murderer of wives.

He loved them. He loves...he loves them still. Anne, Catherine and Jane. Anne perhaps, perhaps Anne most of all. But he loves them, all three. He watches the newest play of their lives (he has learned it is called a television) and falls all over again.