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A Story by The Tudor Rose
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Something I wrote a few months ago before all the writing classes. This is just the forst part of the first chapter. ***Inspired by Natalie Dormer's Anne Boleyn on the season 2 finale of The Tudors***

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            With her chin up in a dignified manner, Aurora walked to the platform where her death awaited. People reached out to her from every angle, “blessing her soul” and all that. She had prepared herself for this. She kept breathing in and out smoothly through her nose, her lips in a tight line so they wouldn’t betray her by quivering with fear and dread. Her eyes, though, she never could control. She felt the tears welling up, but she’d be damned if she let them fall.
            She briefly recalled the events of that past four months.  When she’d lost her unborn son. The son that she was sure would guarantee her security and safety for the rest of her life. The first time her husband, Thomas had struck her because of said miscarriage. The brutal raping her husband had given her while drunk. The time she had walked in on her husband and a kitchen maid, then a chambermaid, then a seamstress. And heavens, even her sister!
            She knew in her heart, his deeds were wicked, but she had been taught many years ago to keep her mouth shut and her thoughts to herself. However, so much silence caused Thomas to think she had sold her soul or had dealings with the devil, which he blamed on witchcraft and accused her of a being a witch.
            There was also the fact that she had been caught staring a little too wistfully at Mattie, Agatha, and Hattie Rochester, all of whom were unmarried.  They were sisters who lived on the outskirts of town but were self-proclaimed witches.
            Death was easy. It was swift and if you were lucky, painless. She was only so fortunate that her husband had not wanted to keep with tradition with burning her at the stake, seeing as how the smell of burning flesh always managed to reach his household and he cared little for it. Instead he requested a beheading and the most skilled executioner in all of England. He was said to be a quick and painless killer. Of course, there was no one who could contradict him on his said skill.
            It was then that she looked up at her executioner. He was tall, taller than Thomas and certainly broader too.  Little clippings of straight black hair that touched his mid-neck came out from the bottom back of his mask. He turned as he slipped on his thick gloves.
God forbid her killer has her blood on his hands, she thought with a snort. Stop that! Tis not this man’s fault for your misfortunes.
And with that, she blinked back her tears one last time and started up the stairs to the platform. Her ladies, each whom she owed so much and loved dearly, waited at the bottom of the stairs not bothering to wipe their tears. She made the mistake of looking back at them and caught the eye of her favorite maid, Penelope. She was a plump woman in her mid forties who had been with Aurora ever since Thomas had begun courting her.  She fingered the cross she held in her right hand and wiped her tears with her apron with the other. She mouthed the words, Not fair.
Aurora’s heart sank but her face did not betray her by showing it. She shook her head and turned back toward the crowd just as her executioner grabbed her arm rather firmly toward the center of the stage. She met his gaze.
“Will you not speak to your audience before you ascend?” said a deep voice behind the mask. Well, she thought, he was very polite and optimistic for the nature of his profession, not that she’s met many in his line of work before.
But she couldn’t respond. She was close enough to him to see through the peep holes in the mask and see his eyes. His blue eyes. Thomas had blue eyes, except his were dark and muddy and full of chaos. This man’s eyes were enough to get a woman on her back.
She never understood that phrase but she had heard a kitchen maid say it while referring to a very handsome guest she and Thomas had entertained once.
“Lady?” he asked again as she continued to stare into those light blue whirlpools.
“Er, yes. I would…like a few words”
“Of course, milady. Please, take your time. There is no need to rush this misfortune.” He said, staring at her longer than necessary before stepping back to give her the stage.
Those eyes unnerved her, she realized. She’d met quite a few people in her 18 years who could lie so easily with their eyes. This man acted polite and then gave her that terrifying look with those icy blue eyes and yet still intended to cut her head off!
She didn’t want to be pitied when she died, she wanted accept her death with grace and show others how to accept death as well. Ever since she was young girl, she hated seeing people suffer. Her mother had died of the Plague when she was only 8. She hadn’t been allowed to stay with her, but towards the end, she felt a sense of…knowing...that her mother no longer joined them on this world and had moved on to Heaven.

© 2009 The Tudor Rose


Author's Note

The Tudor Rose
What do you think of the language? I was trying for medieval England around the 15th century. What about Aurora? Is she too perfect? Is she a pushover already?

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I really enjoyed this.

The language is definitely convincing and I felt as though I was standing there, watching the poor young woman march toward her fate. I do like Aurora, as well. She's not at all too perfect - I pride myself on a pretty good eye for Mary-Sues and I definitely don't think Aurora is one. She is, however, very captivating and I was totally on her side within the first few lines.
Also, women in the 1400s were all pretty much pushovers. There was very little in the way of feminism back then, so they didn't have a choice but to go along with whatever they were told. Aurora does seem a little weak-willed, but I think that adds to the realism of her and makes her even less of a clich�.

All in all, very well done :)

Posted 10 Years Ago



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Added on July 15, 2009

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The Tudor Rose
The Tudor Rose

Los Angeles, CA



About
er um...i like history, like centuries-ago-history (see my name). I started writing seriously in 3rd grade, if you can call Writer's Workshop serious, but I *did* take it more seriously than my classm.. more..

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