Chapter Text
retrouvaille
‘the joy of being reunited with someone again after a long time apart.’
Anne Boleyn was dead. In every sense of the word, she was dead. Her body was split from her head for a crime she hadn’t committed, but Anne decided she deserved it anyway— this mess had gotten innocent people killed, like her brother, and like a certain queen clad in yellow (the color usually connected to happiness, but it was the color of mourning in Spain, and Anne thought that there was no better way to describe her thoughts on Aragon other than mournful, in more ways that Anne could even begin to explain, so she didn’t).
Anne was laid on the executioner’s block, the crowd screaming in excitement, calling for her head, and she realized her final words had not struck a single sympathetic chord with anyone in the audience. Anne forced a smile on her face and faced the audience as the curtain on this horrible show closed— in her last moments, she decided she wouldn’t have it any other way. To die like this, after everything she had done? What a poetic end.
Anne Boleyn had lived putting on a show, and she would die putting on a show, curtsying to the audience as they called for the end, just as tired of this shameful charade as she was.
Her eyes caught on a terrified expression, a blonde girl with her hands covering her mouth, eyes wide, standing at Henry’s side like this wasn’t a gift, a present to her from Henry so they could have a neat and celebrated marriage, when he stuck Anne with the legacy of the harlot who split his devotion from the Pope and couldn’t give him a s—
Anne Boleyn was dead.
In every single definition that could be given, she was dead.
That didn’t seem to stop her from waking up, a throbbing headache, surrounded by five other women.
Anne blinked slowly— once, and then again, and then one more time just for old time’s sake— before she pushed herself up, trembling a bit. “Merde—” She bit out, her knees buckling as she rubbing at her eyes. Her entire body was sore and tingly, like every limb had fallen asleep, like she lost blood circulation everywhere.
Oh. How fucking hilarious. “This must be Hell,” She mumbled aloud, looking down at herself— she was wearing different clothing. A green long sleeved crop top and some baggy jeans, Her brain supplied, and she had no idea how she knew what any of that was.
“This can’t be Hell,” Another voice spoke, and it sent shivers down Anne’s spine, “I was more devoted to the lord than anyone else, why would I go to Hell?” She sounded more curious than upset.
Anne turned slowly and her eyes widened as they settled on a dark skinned woman with curly hair and bleached ends. Her eyes seemed to shine gold, swirling around in a mix of dark brown, almost like the light was just hitting them right and causing some illusion, but Anne knew somehow, in her heart, that was just her eyes appeared to her— to them, to everyone in this room.
And she knew, in her heart, who the woman in front of her was.
“Anne Boleyn,” Those gold eyes narrowed, filled with pure loathing, and Anne would’ve flinched if the slightest movement didn’t make the pounding in her head worse.
“Uh, does anyone know what this place is?” Anne forced herself to turn to the other woman in the room with them— she had short textured hair, dark skin, and mostly red attire, with the same weird glinty red eyes. Anne wondered if her eyes had something like that, a color. Green? Her shirt was green.
Anne groaned slightly and shook her head at the memory of a certain poem, “Of course, it’s green, of course that was my dictated color. How fucking wonderful.”
“Did she say you were Anne Boleyn?” A tall and meek looking girl was talking to her now. She had a choker with a ‘K’, and she reminded Anne of a deer, both in demeanor and physical traits. She was pink. Seems everyone here was getting a color.
“Yeah,” Anne looked at the other two, “Uh, who is— who’s everyone else?”
“Kath- Katherine Howard, I’m— I’m your cousin?” The pink— no, Katherine— offered with a slight shrug.
“Oh,” Anne rubbed at her eyes again, “Okay. Uh, cool..? Wait, you died?” Anne was pretty sure she was alive when she died.
“When did everyone die?” A girl with blue attire asked— she had dark skin and curly bleached hair, dark roots poking out of the top, and her hair was mostly tucked to one side, and she was constantly moving it out of her eye.
“1557, I think,” The red clad girl shook her head, “I’m Anne of Cleves— well, I prefer Anna.”
“1536,” Anne supplied, ignoring the look from Catherine. “Anne Boleyn, green sleeves, all that shit.”
“I died in 1536, too,” Catherine narrowed her eyes and looked away from Anne, “Catherine of Aragon.” There was a small gasp from Anna, who received a sharp glare from the blue girl.
“Catherine Parr, I died in… 1548,” The blue clad girl sighed.
“1543, Ka-Katherine Howard,” Katherine repeated her name with a slight wince, “Oh, God, three Katherine’s?”
“And you?” Anna turned to the last girl, and Anne stiffened when she caught her gaze.
Her eyes caught on a terrified expression, a blonde girl with her hands covering her mouth—
“Oh, fuck, no,” Anne hissed out, her eyes narrowing into slits, “Jane Seymour.”
Jane looked like Anne was about to chop her head off. “I died in 1537…”
Anne snorted, “Oh, he chop your head off, too?”
“I died after giving birth,” Jane looked down, lips trembling like she was going to cry, and Anne wanted to punch her in the face. “To— to a son.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Anne looked away and crossed her arms. Jane gave him a son, huh? “I bet he sung your praises high.”
“Don’t use the lord’s name in vain,” Catherine chastised, and Anne wanted to punch her, too.
“L-let’s all share how we died, huh?” Anna moved between them with a nervous grin, “Maybe a fun fact? I died from what I now somehow realize was cancer, I drank a lot, and I went hunting! That’s cool, huh?”
“I died in childbirth, like Jane,” Parr added, blanching a bit, “It wasn’t Henry’s kid. I outlived him.” Lucky bastard.
“So did I,” Anna informed with a grin. Lord, I have seen what you have done for others, Anne glared upwards for a moment.
“We all know that Henry chopped my head off cause he was mad he couldn’t get it up,” Anne shot a glare at Catherine when she noticed the look she was giving her, “You wanna share with the class?”
“He executed you,” Anne couldn’t read Catherine’s gaze, so she just shrugged.
“I was also executed,” Katherine raised her hand for a moment, like she was in class, “Guess that’s why we both have chokers?” Anne’s hand moved to her neck, and her fingers hit a cold shape. “You have a ‘B.’”
“Boleyn,” Anne mumbled, and she suddenly felt sick when she realized her body had to be stitched and held together, her head quite literally being lost, sliced off, and atoms tore apart and fused back together just so she could be here, with two people she never wanted to be anywhere near ever again.
“I also died from cancer, more specifically a tumor related to it,” Catherine explained further, looking around, “Do we all.. know things we didn’t before?” Everyone gave an affirmative gesture, and Catherine hummed, looking around, “Curious.”
“Is that… a note?” Jane moved forward and grabbed a piece of paper on the table before going pale, “Uh— can someone else read this? I have… a headache.”
“I can,” Parr took the paper and cleared her throat. “Uhh… ‘I’m sure you’re all confused. All of you were once Henry’s wife, and you all died in the sixteenth century. You’ve been brought back to the twenty first century. There’s a small guidebook on the counter in the kitchen, but your bodies should be adapting to living here, including basic knowledge. Don’t worry about jobs yet, you’ll have a basis of a thousand dollars a month for necessities. You can pick up jobs later when you feel ready and want extra cash. Good luck.’”
Anne felt sick. “He married six fucking girls? And killed two of us?!” She demanded, looking around, “My cousin? That’s crazy. Cousin is crazy.”
Catherine just glared at her before walking right past, mumbling something about the guidebook. Anne tensed and looked away. “I’m gonna go find the rooms,” Anne somehow knew they were upstairs.
She moved up the stairs, ending up in the hallway. “There’s only three bedrooms,” Katherine spoke, and Anne jumped slightly, not realizing the girl had been following her.
“Guess we’re bunking in two’s?” Anne suggested, peeking into the first bedroom. “Whoa. They’re color coded.”
“Yeah?” Katherine moved past and glanced at them all. “Pink and green, gray and yellow, red and blue. You and me, Jane and Aragon, Parr and Anna.”
“You and me, then, Kath… we gotta come up with nicknames for you and the other two,” Anne decided she didn’t wanna call her new cousin the name of her rival and maybe more.
“You can call me Kat,” Katherine offered with a smile.
“Cool, Kat,” Anne grinned at her and they stepped into their room. There was a curtain in the middle of the room, and identical set ups on each side. “Our closets are all stocked up for us, too.” A variety of color coded clothing was in closets in their little set ups.
“Um… Anne?” She turned to see Kat shuffling nervously, “Can I, uh… ask what happened between to and Aragon and Jane? I mean, you know, Jane is our distant cousin.” Anne didn’t register that second part. (Her mind filled with flashes of arguments and sneers and screaming and loathing and passion, and warm kisses lost in the night, wiped away by the glow of a sun that Anne would never truly feel, it’s warm reflecting off of her cold and undeserving skin, Aragon’s hands leaving her body and leaving her cold, cold, cold—)
“I fucked her husband and got her, like, banished,” Anne rolled her eyes as she sat on the bed, “Guess she holds a grudge 500 years later.” (Anne could never explain the depth of their relationship, like trying to find the bottom of a cold, cold ocean, the floor constantly caving in because Anne could not maintain a single good thing in her life, sinking deeper and deeper into her own horrible bed she made.) “And Jane? She did the same to me and got my head lobbed off. You think she’s our cousin?” Anne hummed a bit, “I guess that sounds like something I might’ve heard. My head is still pounding, shit’s kinda fuzzy.”
“Do you… think you’d be her friend?” Kat asked, tilting her heard slightly. Anne huffed and looked away.
“Well… I mean, damn, I’ll probably give in eventually,” Anne glanced at Kat and smiled a bit when the girl lit up, “Seems we’re all stuck together, I might as well try to get along with everyone.”
“Oh, good! I mean, it’d be fine if you didn’t want to, but I just don’t wanna be stuck together with everyone trying to tear each other apart,” Kat grinned and hopped onto her bed, “Roommates. That’s cool, huh? And we both got chokers!”
“Yeah, being beheaded is totally in this summer,” Anne stretched a bit, still feeling fuzzy, “My head is still pounding.” Kat didn’t point out she had said that five seconds prior.
“Yeah, I bet everyone’s feeling all weird ‘cause of… everything,” Kat leaned back, “I mean, we died. Like, actually died.” Anne just nodded.
“So… you think you’ll be going outside anytime soon?” Anne glanced at Kat.
“Oh, n- no, I didn’t even like going outside before, when I actually understood how the world worked!” Kat gave a nervous laugh and looked away, “I’m gonna stick inside for a month or so. Y- you?”
“Yeah, I’m not eager to get out of the house other than, like… the backyard or something,” Anne shrugged, leaned back against the headrest, “I’m sure someone will wanna run around outside, they can handle everything.”
“Yeah… Aragon seems responsible,” Kat hummed before wincing a bit, “Is that a sore subject?”
“I couldn’t care less, Kat,” Anne huffed a bit, “I won’t, like, start seeing red when I hear her name.” Kat giggled a bit, and Anne smiled.
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad living here, with everyone.
Anne would just have to… desperately avoid some people. Like Catherine. And Jane, probably. While being stuck inside a house.
Easy peasy for Anne Boleyn, huh?
Anne decided that whatever brought that back must’ve muted their memories at the beginning. The second the sun went down— and after a very confusing dinner attempt that ended with something called ‘frozen pizza’— everything started to seep in.
Anne laid in bed, Kat fast asleep across the room from her, and she stared at the ceiling. She refused to cry, simply closing her eyes when they started to burn.
Anne had a child, hadn’t she? A baby girl, that she would never see again, never hold again, never hear again. Anne would miss her, she would say she would miss her more than life itself, but Anne didn’t miss life very much.
Why did she even get brought back? Anne rolled onto her side and glared at the wall. Being back with Catherine, of all people? It was torture. It was mean, and cruel, and it wasn’t fair. With the way everything ended? God, with the way things went, how could they be brought back into the same house, stuck together?
Anne’s cheeks burned as her thoughts started to register. She hated Catherine for being so perfect. She hated her, her heart throbbing and breaking in her chest, because Catherine was just too good.
(Anne teased her feeling nothing, nothing but a sick satisfaction with having some sort of power, because she sure as Hell didn’t have any power over Henry, so she could settle for making Catherine lose her composure to snap at her, and then one day, Catherine didn’t snap, she leaned forward and kissed Anne, and that control shattered, leaving Anne in a free fall that made her feel sick in a way she didn’t really mind.)
Anne hated Catherine.
She hated her for being the only person that made it feel okay to not be in control, she hated Catherine for harboring so much trust in Anne that she didn’t mind giving herself to her. (Because Anne would jump off a cliff if Catherine asked her to, because she knew that Catherine was a good person, better than Anne would ever be, better than Anne could ever be.)
Because Catherine was a good person, when it came down to it. When you peel back the circumstances and power dynamics and every other shitty person and thing and day that Catherine dealt with, she was still a good person with a good heart.
Anne pressed her fingers to her neck and closed her eyes, hearing a heartbeat that seemed shallow and artificial, and she decided her heart must be empty, empty from years of shittiness it had to endure from being inside of Anne fucking Boleyn.
Yes, Catherine was a good person.
Anne Boleyn was not.
Anne hated her for that.