The Queen’s Angel

Is it done? Her chocolate hair flowed amongst fluffy clouds, the anxiety took off on a gentle breeze, and the warm sun dulled the shock of a cold blade.

What is left of me? She lifted her slender white fingers to trace her delicate collarbone. Shocked at the presence of herself in whole, she threw her head back, laughing. The intricate “B” hanging at her neck dazzled in the light of the sun, and she twirled amid the world of white. Her feet could not feel the ground; she was weightless in her triumph. How many can say they fooled death, tricked fate, and were spared? The immortal Queen forever!

Something is not right. Where are my servants? My courtiers? Where is my traitorous husband? All that had to be done, was a glance below. Just one glance at the feet, and there could be seen a hole in the sky which revealed a horrid sight. The woman with the flowing brown hair and inviting black eyes took in a scaffold, and a butchered Queen. She clasped at her neck again. How could that be? It was still intact, as it had been when she awoke that morning to the gray stones and the solemn silence. Men and women were rising, rising from their knees and pacing backwards, daring not to look away from this heinous murder. The shock that this woman was in was indescribable, because she could not feel it. She could feel nothing.

Am I dead? Her tangible figure was real enough to her own touch, but around her there was nothing but white. If emotions were at her disposal, fear would have gripped her throat, but all that this woman was capable of was confusion. However, there was one thing left of her empty being that could not, could never be, taken away with her life. She found that deep within her immortal soul, a love still thrived, and she saw it now, through the cloud floor window: a small girl with ruby curls and an innocent smile. A beam took over the face of the Queen’s angel upon recognizing her daughter, playing in the garden of Hampton.

What is there to die for? As she propped herself on a wall of moist air, she concluded that it certainly was not ambition. Ambition provided her with objects that could not make her happy, and a husband whose obsession turned deadly. She could not die for him. She could not die for her family, either, for they had signed her death warrant by putting her in front of that almighty King, her husband. Although she loved him to her last day on Earth, dying for him was not, in the least, something that warmed her everlasting soul. One cannot love eternally what is not returned. But that girl, her girl, the one with the impish face framed by fire, was the one thing in the mortal world that Anne Boleyn, Queen of England, could die for.

By Jamie Speirs

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