FRAGMENTS OF A DYNASTY
Summary: based on the actual Tudors series now. Princess Margret has always been known to be passionate. It is perhaps the best word to describe her.
Pairings: Margret/Charles
"She is only passionate," her mother once said.
"Passionate," her grandmother said in a disdainful voice matched with an irritated sniff, "is another way of saying temperamental. She will need to learn how to hold her tongue or her husband will send her back to us."
She had always been termed temperamental, spoilt, beautiful, intelligent, graceful, a princess of royal blood, but her favourite had always been her mother's defence for her bad behaviour. She is only passionate.
Being the youngest Margret was somewhat spoiled there was no point in denying that. the royal nursery staff adored her, her mother was constantly tender towards her, her father always seemed to soften just a little bit when she was in the room, and her grandmother wasn't as harsh on her as she was to the boys and her almost forgotten older sister.
She was passionate in her grief for the loss of her parents and grandmother. She wore black for many months and barely ate or slept knowing that Henry was king and he was not much older than her and she still felt like a child.
She was passionate in her anger when Henry decided to marry her off to an elderly man. She threw things and hissed vile curses and swore she would stab herself before letting a man older than her own father touch her.
She was passionate in her hatred against Charles Brandon. The little boy who had stolen her doll and threw it in the pond. The arrogant young man who thought he could ask a princess to dance and treat her like a common country maid. The handsome man who had been invested as a duke just because Henry did not want to deal with her temper tantrums. He was arrogant, he was smug, he was insufferable, and he was the most handsome man she had ever known.
She was so passionate in her hatred for him that she had begun to rip his clothes off during an argument as he was kissing her with such a furious passionate lust. It was her first time and she ignored the pain in favour of all this passion.
She was passionate in her disgust for her first husband. He was so old that he creaked with every movement and he did the job so badly that she felt like someone stuck a slug in there and moved it about for a little while. She was so passionate in her disgust for him, so passionate for her Charles, so passionate in her desperation for mild English air instead of this stifling heat of Portugal, that she grabbed a cushion and passionately smothered her husband with it.
She was passionately in love with her husband but she was also passionate about being centre of the attention at Court. She was a princess and yet because of her love she is banished away to the country and her beloved husband has now taken an interest in one of the maids.
She was so passionate in her jealousy that she would rail against him and try to hurt him as he hurt her.
She was so passionate in her hatred against that whore Anne Boleyn who was a nobody and yet expected Margret, a true English princess, to bow down to her, that she was banished and forbidden to ever return to Court.
It was then she began to feel ill.
It was then when the coughing and the pains started.
It was then when she realised she would soon die.
She was so very passionate about it. She died passionately in a pool of her own blood. Blood...the colour of lust and love and anger and everything that was passionate...
She was the passionate princess.
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