FRAGMENTS OF A DYNASTY
Based on the TV Show "Tudors"

Summary: Elizabeth reaches the end of her life. Sort of inspired by the BBC Virgin Queen's last scene.

Pairings: mentions of Elizabeth/Robert, Elizabeth/Tom Seymour, Elizabeth/England, and a tiny bit of Edward/Jane Grey.

The most painful thing she had ever suffered had not been losing her many mothers or suffering sexual abuse from Thomas Seymour or being locked in the Tower by her own sister or giving up her only love or even the small pox.

None of those even paled in comparison of the most excoriating pain she was feeling now as she watches in horror as they cut her ring off.

Her beautiful ring.

The ring to prove her sovereignty over England.

Her wedding ring.

Her marriage!

Her once beautiful fine fingers have swollen up like fat sausages that she often compared to Aunt Anne's fingers in her old age. It had become so painful to wear the ring, the gold squeezing her finger mercilessly to the point it was turning royal purple. Her doctors had to saw it off.

It was as if they pulled her heart out.

It would have hurt her less if they did pull her heart out.

Every little hack into the gold band was knife cutting into her heart.

Soon afterwards she found it impossible to stand up. Her legs – her fine, slim, graceful, strong legs – wobbled weakly and she fell back into her throne causing the Courtiers to whisper maliciously. Her bones creaked and ached and she finally felt herself die just a little bit more.

She refused to sit down after that.

She walked slowly, pacing across the room, she would stand by the window and gaze out to her beautiful London but she would never sit down.

The Courtiers grumble about how tired they are of standing but she ignores them. They have little to complain about after all they are young and able.

She can barely get to the chamber pot on time. It is highly embarrassing.

Soon she begins to see things.

She is not insane or mad or anything! She just forgets herself. She spots her sweet Robin from the corner of her eye and when she turns round only to see a handsome stranger flirting with one of her ladies. She thought she heard Mary call out her name only for it to be one of her older Lady In Waiting's. She once thought she saw her Father marching up towards her in a fury and almost had a panic attack.

Then she began to imagine things.

Possibilities.

Each day she falls into a new dream. How it would be like if her mother was never beheaded. There would be no dear Edward and poor Mary would have never sat on the throne but my god Elizabeth could just imagine the proud smile on her mother's face (just like hers) and the warm loving arms of her embrace and she could almost just smell the perfume. The next day she wondered how lovely it would be if Edward never died. How she was the honoured sister to the King, a loving aunt to many Tudor heirs. All golden and beautiful like their father and mother (for some reason it was always undoubtedly Jane Grey, perhaps it was because they were both so serious) and she spoiled them all with sweets and little presents. Another day she dreamt of her own daughter with Robert Dudley, her beautiful heir Anne Tudor who would be the splitting image of Anne Boleyn, oh how Henry VIII and his eldest daughter would roll in their graves.

Then finally one day she just gives up.

Her legs give out under her little weight (she finds food tasteless these days) and she is suddenly in the arms of one her few last trusted friends. She cannot remember his name right now but she has a fond little nickname for him and his father, another very trusted friend, and died not too long before her. This man, her dear friend, has been befriending her Scottish cousin James and she has wilfully turned a blind eye to it because he knew just as much as she did that James was to be King of England and he will need one of her own trusted advisors to help him keep the throne.

She is laid out on her rich bed but it feels so very cold. The sheets and its fine velvet duvet did nothing to warm her.

They are questioning her now. Begging to know the answer to the very important question.

Who is to be your successor?

She cannot answers all she sees is black spots before her eyes blocking all those stupid men out.

Well she cannot be mad about that, who needs men?

She struggles to speak and she hopes to god she had said 'My cousin, the Scottish King, to be successor' and she prays dearly it would be enough to make amends for killing his mother.

But as the blissful comforting darkness overcomes her and she falls into ignorance she cannot help but think;

Does it really matter anymore?

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