#my beta reader called me sick for including that microphone in the execution but to be fair i think monokuma did that. for 'accessibility'

[dangans-ur-ronpas]

Chapter 19

(blowing a lil party horn and firing confetti poppers) YIPPEEEE

SEE HERE FOR GENERAL WARNINGS AND FIC SUMMARY

Some pre-chapter notes:

sorry to the ishimondo fans

this is the one with an execution!!!

@digitaldollsworld my bestie my lord my homie <333

Content warning tags: descriptions of injury and mild gore, character death, canon-typical violence, guns

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“NO!”

Owada’s shout is loud enough to startle Byakuya out of the slight torpor he had fallen into, too busy trying to fend off the migraine that was threatening to make him sick. He jerks, eyes blinking open to see Owada leaning in Ishimaru’s direction, his entire frame tense and trembling with restraint.

“It’s okay, Taka, you don’t have to say it,” He’s babbling, talking in a rush. His complexion is blanched, with fear or desperation, maybe both. “It’s okay, okay? I’ll tell them. It’s fine.”

“You really should let him-” Kirigiri starts to say, but Owada shakes his head vigorously, his hair bounces side-to-side.

“No, I’m not gonna make him cover for me any longer. I’m not gonna make him- make him lie for me.” He cuts Kirigiri off, before drawing himself up tall. “I did it. Okay? I killed him. I killed Chihiro.”

“Mondo-” Makoto starts to say, but Owada barrels through him like a steam train. His voice has the same, strained quality of a whisper, but it feels shockingly loud at the same time, the only thing audible in the entire room.

“It was - I know I was calm. Earlier. When Chihiro told me everything. And - I really was supportive. I was happy for him, so happy for him, you saw me Makoto, that was all real. But-” He pauses to take a sharp breath, and Byakuya wonders if he looks as insane as he sounds, leaning over the edge of the railing, like a seasick man over the edge of a rocking ship. Spewing words like he’s trying to empty his stomach of them. “I was thinking about it after, and I just. I just got so fucking mad, I mean - we all have secrets, and mine is - I know it’s probably not the worst one here, but it’s something I’ve been holding on to for so long, and he was just. Flaunting it around? Like it was something to be proud of?” He snorts a laugh, ugly and demeaning. “If it was that easy, then what the hell have I been doing all this time?”

His voice breaks, and for a moment his shoulders slump. But he regains his composure just as quickly, drawing himself back up with a shuddering breath. “I.. on the way back to the trophy room, I couldn’t stop feeling angry. It was like I couldn’t see anything else but red, I wasn’t paying attention to anything else. And when I got back I saw - I saw Taka, injured, and Chihiro standing over him -” He swallows. “It’s not an excuse. I know Chihiro would’ve never hurt him, never hurt anyone - but I was so angry and he was there, and there was a trophy on the floor, with blood on the corner, so I just…”

No one says a word. The implication of what he had done hangs over them all, like a fog - like a body, Byakuya thinks. Fukawa hadn’t been able to pin Chihiro as high up as Syo, but it feels like the boy was watching over them. A ghost listening silently from the rafters.

“...Then, tell us. If you did kill Chihiro, how did you do it?” Kirigiri asks at last, and Owada makes a sound crossed between a sob and a groan.

“I - I just sort of blanked out, when it happened. When I came to, he was there, and - I didn’t know what to do.” He lifts his face, and Byakuya can make out the shine of tears, the gray pallor of his skin. “So I took Taka to the nurse’s room first. And bandaged him up. And then I grabbed supplies to clean up the scene - that’s where I got a sheet to wrap Chihiro up in, and the gauze pads to soak up the blood.” He’s slowed down now. The words come tiredly, laboriously. “And then I…I was just thinking about cleaning up the room at first. That was all I could do, so I just did it. I wasn’t thinking about my survival or anything, or the fact that I might end up getting killed by this fucking bear - I just. I was planning on confessing to it all, but I didn’t want the place where he died to be so…so messed up.”

“Oh, Mondo…” Hagakure breathes quietly, grievingly. Owada’s head twitches, but he presses on.

“I went to check up on Taka, and when I came back, the body - Chihiro - he was gone. Sheet and all.” He laughs again, another twisted sound. “I thought, maybe it was all a dream? Maybe I was going crazy and Chihiro wasn’t dead, and all that blood was from Taka’s injury? I didn’t know what to think. I didn’t want to think. But I went back to what I was doing, and then a little later, the announcement went off. And you all know what happened after that.”

The room is silent for a long moment. No one says a word, and Byakuya can only just make out the sound of breathing, the only indication of life. And, a slight, quiet rattling; Ishimaru was trembling slightly, but still not uttering a sound.

In the silence, all Byakuya can feel is a storming, pitch-dark rage; rage for Chihiro, killed over something so pointless and without warning, rage at Fukawa for framing him, and rage at Owada for hiding it all. For losing control of himself in the first place. “So afterwards, Fukawa went downstairs and found the body. If we consider the sheet around Chihiro’s corpse and the scene cleaned of blood, that also helps explain how she was able to hold off Syo for so long.” He says, disgustedly. “But, the bloodied gauze in the library. I’m assuming that you were the one who put it there? Whatever happened to confessing?”

“I was! …I was, planning to confess to all of it. But then I saw Chihiro’s body, and - and as everyone was talking about Syo, I saw you holding the file and the blood, and I thought… I thought I had a chance. I mean, you were right there, and…I knew that Makoto wouldn’t have been able to back you up. I stuffed the gauze through the gap between the library door hinges while everyone was investigating.” Owada looks up for the first time, and Byakuya can’t see what look he’s wearing. And he feels glad for that; he doesn’t want to see whatever simpering face Owada has, pleading for forgiveness, miserable and sullen. “I know it was wrong, but all the pieces just seemed to fit together so perfectly, and the more time that went on, the more believable it seemed, and- I’m sorry. I really am.”

And Byakuya wants to scream.

What use is your worthless apology, he wants to rage. It wouldn’t resolve anything - in the end, he had still been accused, and humiliated, and now utterly disgraced. He was still blind and disabled. Chihiro was still dead. “All this, because you couldn’t decide if you wanted to live or die? Did you never consider if you deserved to?” He hisses, and Owada actually flinches back.

“I know I don’t. I’m sorry.” He repeats quietly, and he sounds so hollow and drained that Byakuya finds it hard to maintain his anger, all the heat and passion dissipating in an instant like smoke. It leaves him feeling empty, bewildered, and so, so tired.

“...Well. It seems that it’s time to vote, no?” Celeste claps her hands lightly, a smile in her voice. “Monokuma, won’t you please?”

“Since you asked so politely…I was still enjoying this dee-light-ful soap drama, but for my precious student, I will oblige!” Monokuma bounces up to its feet, one arm raised high in preparation to call the vote. “Everyone-”

“Wait.” Kirigiri interrupts. She hasn’t looked away from Owada once, her pale face turned towards him this entire time like a hawk. “Something’s not right.”

“Wha- what do you mean?” Hagakure asks. “It’s pretty cut and clear by now, right?”

“It’s suspicious. Why put in so much effort trying to pin the crime on Byakuya, and then confess so suddenly now?” Kirigiri rebuts. “And we still haven’t heard Taka’s testimony.”

“Man…come on, Kiri. Just look at him. I don’t think he’s in any shape to talk.” Hagakure shakes his head. “And - I think we shouldn’t push this on any longer than it needs to be.”

“Our lives are on the line. I don’t want to move on until we’re entirely sure.”

“He’s already confessed, though…isn’t this enough?” Yamada lets out a long-suffering sigh. “And, I can’t see any indication of anyone else who might’ve done it.”

“No, but Kyoko has a point,” Asahina interjects. “We almost got tricked once already into thinking it was Byakuya, right? We should be careful.”

“Yes. We should err on the side of caution,” Ogami agrees. “I can’t see the harm in having Taka speak, and…I cannot trust Mondo’s confession entirely. No matter how logical it seems.”

“He can’t,” Owada cuts in, that desperate tinge on his voice again. “I keep telling you guys- can’t you just leave him alone? Please?” He hangs his head low. “I know - I’ve done bad by you guys, I’m not exactly the easiest to get along with, but please, just…he’s been through a lot. Can’t you cut him a break?”

“Erm…Can you kids make up your mind?” Monokuma is still standing, balanced precariously on the tips of its toes with one arm still straining upwards. “My stitches are ‘bout to pop, you know!!”

During this whole time, Makoto was silent. Thinking again, Byakuya recognized, as he usually does with his chin tucked under a curled finger, his foot tapping a quiet rhythm against the floor.

“Okay, then. Taka doesn’t have to talk.” He says slowly. “But in that case - Taka, can you please take off your bandage? So we can see the wound?”

“The wound-?” Owada sputters, taken aback by the sudden request. “Wha- Makoto, what are you…?”

“Something about the whole story has been bothering me. Mondo, I know that you, uh…sometimes, you react kinda strongly, I guess, to stuff that makes you mad, but you’re also really caring. I find it hard to believe that you’d twist up on Chihiro like that so fast.” Makoto drops his hand to a fist at his side, clenched tight. “If the trophy really did hit Taka as bad as you said - where he got hit by the edge of it - then the wound should also be really bad, right?” He turns back to Ishimaru. “Taka, please. You don’t need to say anything, but- please, just show us.”

“No way, he doesn’t need to-” But Owada stops suddenly, slack-jawed as he stares.

Watching as Ishimaru slowly unwinds the stained, white strips wrapped around his head with shaky hands.

—

“As I thought,” Kyoko says, as the last bandage falls away. “There’s nothing there to constitute that amount of blood on that bandage, is there?”

And it’s true. The pile of linen that now litter the floor around Taka’s feet is stained and spotted through with blood, but there’s no sign of an injury anywhere on his head. There’s not even a bump, or a bruise.

Makoto swallows thickly, before he continues. “Taka, you never hit your head at all, did you?” And Taka flinches, face somehow blanching paler. “You’re the one that killed Chihiro.”

“No, he didn’t, it was me-!” Mondo throws out an arm in Taka’s direction, as if trying to shield him from the accusations. “I keep telling you - I was the one who did it, I killed Chihiro-”

“No you didn’t. You were covering for him.” This was the worst. Mondo - he was violent at the worst of times, but ultimately kind, and extremely loyal - and right now, Makoto was going to kill his best friend.

“Are you stupid or something? Makoto, hey-” There’s a strange grin twitching on the corner of Mondo’s mouth, like this was some joke he could laugh off. “I’m telling you - how many times do I have to tell you? It was me.”

“It wasn’t-”

“It was!”

It goes on like this for a while. Everyone else is silent - or, it feels like they’re silent. Makoto can’t really hear them, not over the rush in his own head, or Mondo’s desperate, hysteric words, denying the accusation, insulting Makoto and everyone else, cursing, pleading, screaming. It’s the same as when Leon was condemned, when all he could do at the end of it was wail, ‘stupid, stupid, stupid!’ until Makoto pointed out the toolkit, the undeniable proof that it had to be him. Or, when it was Byakuya-

And he stumbles a bit, his rebuttal stuttering as he falters. He remembers the look on Byakuya’s face as he asked about his handbook, with the knowledge that he couldn’t bring it out himself. Not without revealing it to Monokuma. And therefore forcing him to admit it by his own words, the one thing he wanted to conceal from everyone else in the room. The betrayal, the hatred - just thinking about him made Makoto want to disappear.

But there’d been no other choice. Kyoko told him as much when they were investigating; ‘There’s a likelihood that you will have to reveal his secret during the trial,’ she had said, as they inspected the still-damp floorboards of the trophy room. ‘It may be the only way to clear his name.’

He’ll hate me for it, Makoto had protested, and she had just shrugged and turned back to inspecting the trophies, one of which had small dots of blood at the corner of its marble base.

‘Would you rather live being hated or die knowing you could have prevented it? He’ll get over it if he wants to survive.’ 

Easy for her to say, he thinks, as Mondo screams something at him, an barb so ugly it made him feel equal parts furious and sick with guilt, because Mondo would probably never say such a thing otherwise if it weren’t for this. She’s never had to do this before.

“Dammit, show me the proof! If he did do it, what’s the proof!” Mondo shouts, accompanied by a loud bang as he slams his hands against the railing. “You don’t have any goddamn proof, you little shit! So don’t just stand there and say shit you don’t know!”

“That’s enough.”

For a moment, it’s hard to place who said that. The words were spoken so quietly, after all, and so raspy it was hard to discern whose voice it was. But Byakuya cocks his head, and turns to look in Taka’s direction with a frown.

Taka is still as still as ever, but one hand rests on the bannister, and he’s leaning forward. “That’s enough, Mondo,” He says again, louder, before coughing into his elbow, clearing his throat. “Please…just stop.”

Mondo looks like he was slapped across the face, mouth agape in shock. “Wh-what are you saying?” He tries to laugh, but it sounds more like a sob than anything. “Taka - bro, it’s okay, you fell and hit your head-”

“Mondo. That’s enough,” He repeats. His eyes are hollow; Makoto finds it hard to look him in the face. “I killed Chihiro.”

Kyoko is the only one who speaks up to ask: “How?”

Taka talks slowly, haltingly, as if trying to dredge the memories up. “It - it was after Mondo left with Chihiro and Makoto. To the cafeteria. I was still cleaning, alone - when I’m alone, I think. About things, my family outside the school, if they’re alive, my secret, my grandfather - and then Chihiro came back. Alone.” He sways slightly, steadied only by his hand, white-knuckled against the wood. “And - as he was talking - I was still thinking - and -”

He pauses, taking slow, deep breaths. No one says a word. Makoto’s not sure if he’s even breathing.

“It just - it wasn’t fair. Him, confessing it - it was so easy, for him. He was so happy about it. My grandfather - if you knew, you would hate me. That’s how it’s always been, everyone who’s ever known about it, hated me. But he was so happy, and he -” He takes another deep, shuddering breath. “It was an accident. I - I just pushed him, I didn’t think I pushed him hard, but he hit the shelf. And, the trophy…”

It’s not hard to figure out what happened afterward. Makoto can practically imagine it, though he doesn’t want to; Chihiro going up to Taka, and Taka, too caught up in his own trauma, backing away, combatting his own fury and dread. And Chihiro, walking up closer to check on him, only to get shoved bodily backwards, into the trophy shelf, and then-

Mondo is shaking his head, tears falling silently down his face - muttering ‘no’ under his breath, over and over, like a mantra. Taka turns to him, a sad sort of smile tugging at his mouth.

“Thank you, Mondo. For trying,” And he sounds so genuine and so incredibly sad. “But - I can’t let my family be disgraced anymore. I can’t let anyone die for my sake.”

“No, no, no,” Mondo repeats, and despite his size, he shakes like a leaf. “No, don’t, don’t, Taka,” And his voice breaks. “Don’t- Please don’t, I won’t be able to take it, I can’t take it, Taka- not again-”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, don’t you dare fucking apologize-! Just-” He breaks down fully now, and turns away, one hand raised to his eyes.

“Forgive me,” Celeste interrupts, still wearing her indecipherable smile, unnatural red eyes narrowed slightly as she addresses Taka. “But I recall you were the first to suggest sharing secrets the night Monokuma revealed the motive, no?”

Taka recoils slightly at that, bowing his head. “I…I was. I thought - I could be prepared. If it’s the right thing to do, I could do it. But-” he turns away, his brows twisted into a scowl. “I…”

“Enough.” Kyoko sighs. “There’s no point in making pointless allegations. We have our explanation. There’s nothing left to say.”

And she casts Makoto a look, which Makoto interprets immediately, and he sighs.

—

As Makoto explains, it started when he and Chihiro were walking around the first floor, planning to find and talk to everyone Chihiro had yet to disclose his secret to.

After they had spoken to Owada, Chihiro went to talk with Ishimaru alone - Ishimaru, who was so rule-abiding and careful that no one would assume him to be of any danger - and that was how he died. Suddenly, and unexpectedly, and completely by accident.

Owada was the one who found the body, and to protect his friend, who was reeling from shock, he concocted a story as he wrapped the corpse in a cloth and mopped up the blood. To claim that he killed Chihiro, that Taka was merely injured, and therefore protect his friend from harm.

It was during this time that Fukawa was in the library, making her own confession, before Byakuya’s swift rejection sent her fleeing. As she went down the first floor, she saw the body, and with the cord that was tangled around her ankle, she strung it up outside the library door in a poor likeness of Syo’s handiwork. In some twisted display of vengeance, or a demand for attention, or something; and when it was done, overwhelmed by the blood and exhausted by her own perseverance, she took the sheet to the bathroom with her and collapsed, where Kirigiri found her moments later.

Byakuya listens to him explain it through a fog, feeling distant from it all. As if he was merely observing it from behind a broken, filthy screen, the sounds tinny and the visuals shot. He watches as Owada clings to Ishimaru, screaming for mercy at Monokuma’s feet. He watches as Ishimaru is dragged ruthlessly away anyway, behind the steel doors of the execution chamber.

He watches the execution, from behind a glass window. Ishimaru standing in a gleaming white car, the sunroof pulled down, driving through a street lined with the black-and-white shapes of more Monokumas, cheering indistinctly as confetti rains around him. The Monokuma in the seat next to him is holding a sign, lifting his arm to make him wave, poking his cheek to make him smile.

There’s a loud crack, and Ishimaru seems to stumble, a bloom of blood on the shoulder of his white uniform. But he doesn’t fall; he must be held up by some kind of mechanism or another, because a moment later he’s upright again, still being forced to wave, to smile, even as the cheering turns to jeers and he starts being pelted with what looks like rotten fruit, the dark red shapes of tomatoes smashing against his head. Another gunshot, and this time it’s his leg, a large, dark spot in his thigh. Another, in his stomach, and he seems to cough a little, blood trickling from his mouth.

There must be a microphone or something pinned to Ishimaru’s collar, because Byakuya can hear his breathing, harsh and labored, pitched with fear. The whimpering he can’t quite suppress, the jumps in his throat as he tries to swallow. And, the quiet whisper, barely audible behind the shouting, the gunshots, the noise of it all -

‘I’m sorry-

The final shot is a thunderous noise accompanied by a sudden, gaping pit between his eyes. He slumps, and the scene stills at last; the crowd stops yelling, the car freezes in its tracks. The lights go off, plunging Ishimaru’s lonely form into darkness.

And through it all, Owada never stopped screaming once.

Byakuya tears his eyes away, holding onto the railing of the stand to keep from falling as he steps down. It’s a similar scene as the aftermath of the last trial, everyone either comforting each other or wallowing in their own grief, and Monokuma giggling over them.

“Oh, oh, oh! That was good! Not even ol’ John could’ve done it better!” It sings, dancing between them. “I got a little antsy earlier when you called for the vote the first time, but you all pulled through with fly-ing colors!! Amazing performance! Especially that last confession, I was so moved!” It cackles, twirling and landing right next to Owada, who was on his knees, hands plastered against the window as if praying. “Such a lovely display of friendship at the end there, or was it really friendship? Whatever the case, the bond between men sure is something! I don’t think I’ve ever seen - whoops!”

Owada had grabbed him, and now rises with the bear dangling between his hands. His arms are trembling like Monokuma’s the heaviest thing he’s ever held.

“You,” He hisses, and his voice is wet and choked through. “If it wasn’t for you- if it wasn’t for you-!”

“Puhu, do you ree-ally want to do this, Mister Owada? Didn’t you learn your lesson on the first day of school?” Monokuma swings its feet in the air. “I’d hate to punish you after that amazing show-”

“I don’t care.” He spits. As Byakuya draws closer, he can hear the quiet splat of fat tears, striking the floor. “I don’t care, you killed him- I should tear you to pieces right now-”

And he stops, as Byakuya places a hand on his elbow. “Put it down.”

He’s sure that the face Owada is giving him is positively murderous. “Why should I,” he snarls, and his words are still thick with grief. “The fucker-”

“Even if you break this one, another one will take his place. And there’s probably countless replacements.” Byakuya sighs. What was he doing? He wasn’t sure himself. “What are you planning to accomplish? Other than a very messy suicide?”

“You bastard-” He drops Monokuma, who lands with a squeak, and grabs Byakuya instead, hoisting him by the collar. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? What does it matter to you if I die?” His last words sound less like a threat and more like a genuine question.

Instead of immediately replying, Byakuya casts a glance over his shoulder. Only a few people were watching them, the rest too preoccupied by their own misery. “...Take a look. There’s only so many of us left.” Byakuya looks back to Mondo, and even through the haze, he can see his face is pinched into a look of anguish. ”Did you hear what his last words were? Because I did.”

The grip on his shirt slackens, and his feet meet stable ground again. He pushes Owada’s limp hands away. “I don’t care if you want to die. But take responsibility at least.” He glares at him, his kneeling form. “We can’t leave until everyone’s on the elevator, so stand up and walk.”

There’s a part of him that wants to berate Owada - to tell him that Ishimaru likely never wanted his help in the first place, that all he accomplished was unnecessary strife - but such a thing doesn’t sit right with him. That would be the actions of someone petty and sore, a pathetic loser who couldn’t let it go; and right now, all Byakuya wants to do is sleep.

He steps onto the elevator. Celeste is already there, poised as ever, as is Yamada, who is mumbling unhappily to himself. Kirigiri and Makoto join them shortly after.

Makoto balks slightly when he sees Byakuya, tripping at the threshold with a yelp. But he straightens up quickly, glances around, and slowly, hesitantly, walks to Byakuya’s side. “Um…”

“Be silent.” He snaps. Makoto recoils instantly. “Do not speak to me. The deal is null.”

“Byakuya-”

He turns away, focusing on the metal grates of the elevator walls. The wires are bent into some kind of honeycomb pattern, though it’s not like Byakuya could make out exactly what.

He half-expects Makoto to say something more, but the elevator ride up is silent and still.

< previous - from start - next >

[sixqueendom]

One-Shot: All My Love, Catherine

This one-shot was inspired by this drawing by the talented Zara (@you-need-a-jello-shot). It depicts a sleeping Anne and Kitty in front of a laptop in bed, however before I read the caption the drawing automatically made me think of Cathy and Kitty, so I decided to roll with it! Side-note: I know from doing research that Thomas had apparently asked for Elizabeth's hand in marriage within a month of Henry's death, before being rejected and going on to marry Catherine. I decided to overlook this fact for the sake of this fanfic, wanting to keep focus on Cathy's feelings for him (it's not clear whether she ever knew about Thomas's proposal to Elizabeth). A huge thank you to Blue (@pen-and-a-microphone) for being my dedicated Beta-reader for this fic and for all your help and support throughout! She deserves full credit for Cathy's love letter, which she helped me write in a mix of modern/Tudor script, through looking into Catherine Parr's actual letters. As always, the link to read on AO3 is included below if you’d prefer to read on there.

AO3

Fanfic Masterpost

-------------------------------

Cathy had known it would be a bad idea.

 And yet, here she was, wide awake at 3am, engrossed in an online article. Realising she wasn’t getting much writing done, she’d had every intention of going to sleep, resigning from her desk to the warmth of her bed. That was, until she’d let her mind drift momentarily to the past once more and flipped open her laptop, spurred on by a silent yearning to see their name, to read those familiar words and remember. As if those words would be enough to satiate her grief, to bring her some comfort. Oh, how she regretted her decision now, as a solitary tear trailed down her cheek; that ever familiar ache, that hollow emptiness, forming in her chest.

 It was then that she heard a hesitant knock at the door, as the youngest of the Queens tentatively poked her head in. Kitty knew that she could always rely on Cathy to be awake at this ungodly hour of the morning, and occasionally sought out the writer for solace when she was struggling to fall asleep, not wanting to disturb Anne. 

 “Hey,” Cathy said softly, giving a weak smile as she quickly brushed away the tear, praying Kitty didn’t see. “Can’t sleep?”

 The younger girl shook her head as she approached the bed. 

 “I have never understood how you can sit up reading and writing at this hour…”

 Eyes wide, her heart skipping a beat, Cathy frantically closed the article she’d been reading. 

 But not quickly enough.

 She didn’t miss the flash of concern in Kitty’s eyes.

 “Cathy…”

 But already, even with her head bowed, Kitty could see the writer’s lip trembling, her hands clenched into fists as she struggled to fight the emotions threatening to overwhelm her. As she let out a sob, Kitty immediately slipped into bed beside her, wrapping her in a hug. 

 “I can’t help it. I just…”

 Cathy felt like a schoolgirl, caught in the act. What a disappointment she was. An immense sense of guilt suddenly weighed down on her shoulders and she squirmed slightly at Kitty’s touch, feeling disgusted with herself. 

 “It’s okay,” Kitty reassured, rubbing her arm. “You don’t need to justify anything to me. You have every right to miss him.”

Cathy had to admit she was surprised by Kitty’s mature reaction. Sure, the girl was an adult, but she’d only ever experienced men as predators. Cathy didn’t think Kitty would be able to comprehend how she felt, not about Thomas. But the reaction, though calming, did nothing to quell her disappointment in herself, her frustration.

 “Do I?” Cathy’s face twisted into a grimace. “After everything he did?”

 It was somewhat of an emotional tug-of-war for Cathy, something she found herself constantly fighting with. Of course, undoubtedly she missed him, her true love. Nothing could ever dispel the love she had for him. Yet, that love was something she’d always felt guilty about. It felt wrong, disrespectful even, to yearn for him. Despite showing such care and compassion for her, he’d also committed some admittedly wicked deeds, earning him an egregious reputation with her fellow five Queens, all of whom despised him to varying degrees. If they knew what she was doing, they would be appalled. How could she possibly still harbour feelings for a man who was so cruel, particularly to one specific girl in his care? 

 Yet, despite all that, here was sweet Kitty, being so understanding and impartial. True, she had never had any involvement with him, but surely she felt some discomfort on the subject, given it had concerned Anne’s beloved daughter? Everyone knew she would come to her cousin’s defence. 

 Realising how selfish she was being, Cathy made a feeble attempt to compose herself, exhaling shakily. After all, it had been Kitty who was seeking her comfort.

 “I’m sorry,” she sniffed, wiping away the tears that stained her cheeks.

 The younger girl only nuzzled in closer, resting her head on the writer’s shoulder.

 “Don’t be silly. Your feelings are valid, Cathy. You’re allowed to miss him just as much as you do Mae. You’re allowed to grieve. Just like Jane is about Edward, or Catherine about Mary.”

 Cathy noted how she’d carefully missed out Anne and Elizabeth in a bid to be sensitive.

 “But they were innocent.” Cathy gripped her bed cover, balling her hands into fists once more, gravel in her voice.

 Even soft, kind words couldn’t douse the burning resentment in her chest.

 Kitty took a moment to contemplate. She couldn’t forget that, despite the events that had transpired later, Cathy had been devoted to Thomas well before Henry appeared on the scene. She had fallen head over heels in love with him, yet, upon Kitty’s execution, Henry had found himself requiring another Queen. And that honour - if you could ever call it that - fell to Cathy. She’d had no choice in the matter, unless she wanted a swift exit via the executioner’s axe, in which case, there’d have been no hope of reuniting with Thomas later on whatsoever.

 She’d married Henry to survive. 

 After the King’s death, Cathy had finally been reunited with her love and her life seemed so much brighter, filled with so much promise. They’d started making plans for their future together. But fate had other ideas. Just days after delivering their beautiful daughter, Cathy would succumb to what would later be known as childbed fever, the very same fate that took Jane. Once again, Cathy had been ripped away from Thomas. Only this time, it had been permanent.  

 It was just never meant to be. Life could be so cruel and twisted like that.

 Despite all of this, Cathy hated herself for missing him and their potential future together, all the “what could have beens”. So, she locked herself away in her bedroom, where she searched tirelessly for any information on her little girl, and, like tonight, anything to remind her of Thomas.

 Kitty rested a gentle hand on hers.

 “He may have done some bad things in the past, but it’s not like you condone his actions. Besides, you can’t keep dwelling on what happened; it’s done now and there’s nothing that you can do about it. It was almost five hundred years ago! This is meant to be our fresh start.”

 When the Queens had initially been reincarnated, relations with Anne had been stiff and difficult. Cathy had tried to avoid contact with her as much as possible, distancing herself and trying not to initiate unnecessary conversations, fully understanding her bitter resentment. From the corner of her eye, she’d often caught Anne casting a sharp glare at her, and she’d always thought she deserved it. Eventually, Anne had confronted her, throwing all of her feelings about Cathy and Thomas out into the open, tearing open old wounds. Cathy had acknowledged all the terrible things that Thomas, and she, though unintentionally, had done. Much to her relief, they had called a truce and decided to put their differences aside. Now they had a rather amiable friendship, although deep down Cathy knew Anne would never be able to fully trust her. Not that anyone could blame her. How could she expect her to after what had happened to Elizabeth? What Cathy had allowed to happen?

 That autumn day still haunted her; she could still see Thomas struggling with Elizabeth as they fought over one of her dresses. It hadn’t taken long for him to overpower her, snatching the dress from her grasp and cruelly shredding it into pieces, all whilst the girl sobbed. It made her feel sick now, having stood and witnessed it all, restraining Elizabeth as her husband ruined her favourite gown. She could still hear the girl’s distraught cries echoing in her ears. 

 She’d never forgiven herself.

But it didn’t stop her from missing him. How, when she had served in Princess Mary’s household, they’d exchanged love letters; how’d she’d look forward to receiving them, her heart fluttering as she carefully opened each one, reading his sweet words, over and over. The letters inevitably stopped once she married Henry. Thomas was consequently removed from court and sent away to war. She had desperately wanted to write to him, but it was just too risky. Any hint to suggest promiscuity and she’d be next in line to be executed; she’d learnt that lesson from Kitty’s unfortunate demise. Yet, Thomas had still waited for her. He waited four years for King Henry’s death, to be reunited with her.

 Despite Kitty’s reassurances, Cathy found it impossible to forget, to put what happened aside and focus on her, in the here and now. It was true: they had clearly been reincarnated to have a second chance at life, since each of their previous lives had been corrupted by Henry and his abuse. But with a new life came old memories. They had never faded. Everything remained vivid, as clear as if they’d only happened recently. And Cathy clung to them dearly; she didn’t want to forget. She never wanted to forget the beautiful daughter she’d brought into the world, but never got the chance to see grow up. She never wanted to forget Thomas, his kindly face and sweet letters. She didn’t want to forget the blissful life they had started to create together, before her untimely passing. How could she, when it all made her who she was today? Thomas had shown her what it was to be a true wife, to be loved unconditionally. Mae, her sweet little girl, ultimately made her a mother, albeit for the shortest of time, but also drove her motivation to write and research. With Thomas, she had finally been able to breathe. For too long, she had been silenced by Henry, stifled. Unable to be herself. But Thomas had loved her for who she was.

 Exhausted, Cathy released a weary sigh.

 “I just wish it wasn’t so hard,”

 After a moment, she wriggled free from Kitty’s comforting touch, delving underneath her bed. She lifted up a loose floorboard, revealing a stash of neatly folded papers. Letters.

 As Cathy clutched one in her hand, slumping back on her bed beside Kitty, the girl recoiled a little. She’d already guessed what they were, who they were to and how personal they would be. But to her surprise, Cathy offered her one.

 “I sometimes write to him or Mae when I can’t sleep,” she admitted, her lip twitching. 

 When Kitty didn’t move, Cathy gave a reassuring smile.

 “It’s okay. You can read it.”

 Kitty tentatively took the letter and unfolded it carefully. As she began to read Cathy’s elegant writing, she felt a lump form in her throat.

My Dearest Thomas,

 As Lord Tennyson once wrote: “‘Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all”. I make likeness with him when it comes to my feelings for you, for I regret not one moment we were together. I was truly blessed by the time we had, though it may not have been as long as we desired. Though, I do ask myself, would forever have been long enough? I don’t think so. I am, therefore, eternally grateful for the time we had, to have been blessed with your love and kindness for so long. 

 Every day I awake to birdsong, and I think of you. How I would rise eagerly as early as the sun, waiting for your letters. Your words, written not only in ink but most truly impressed on the heart, were treasured by me.

 Now, I wake and realise, with most wondrous sadness, that you are no longer with me.

Some comfort I may take through these letters, as they impress upon me a sense of calm, a grounding force amongst a chaotic world. The 21st century is breathtaking and frightening, somehow all together. How fast, loud, and massive the world has become cannot be written, nor relayed in terms you might understand. Yet, the sun still rises and falls, and the stars still shine. I only wish you hither, in my arms, to share in these beauties. 

 I can only pray we are reunited again. This time, I hope it is for eternity.

 All my love, Catherine

 As she read the last sentence, Kitty sniffed loudly, moved to tears. Cathy’s words were so eloquent and beautiful, resonating deeply with her. Quite frankly, it broke her heart. Was this true love?

 She finally got the courage to glance up at Cathy, who was still staring, glassy eyed and longingly, at the letter in her hand. As if she thought reading her words would make them become real. Kitty solemnly rested her head on Cathy’s shoulder.

 “You’ll see him again, someday,” she murmured. “I know you will.”

 At that, she closed her eyes, drifting off to sleep. 

 In the darkness, Cathy nodded, nuzzling close as she finally found peace. 

 She found herself running through sunflower fields, the sun streaming down upon her, the warm heat of summer on her skin, a little girl’s squeal of laughter in the air. Every so often, she caught a flash of a white dress billowing in the breeze; black curly hair in pigtails. 

 “Can’t catch me!” the girl cried with a giggle. 

 As she reached the edge of the field, Cathy stopped in her tracks, holding her breath. Only now, in the stillness, could she hear the birdsong. And there, in front of her, their little girl atop his shoulders, was Thomas.

  Her family.

Finally, she was home.