A/N: A one-shot about the last days of Thomas Cromwell, imprisoned in the Tower and visited by the ghost of the Queen who died before him. Inspired by the poem 'Strange Meeting' by Wilfred Owen, wherein a soldier dies and falls into hell, where he meets the man whom he had killed the day before.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the contents of my own imagination. Excerpts from Cromwell's letters, and Strange Meeting are in the public domain in the UK and US.

It seemed that out of battle I escaped

Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped

Through granites which titanic wars had groined.

Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,

Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred.

Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared

With piteous recognition in fixed eyes

29 June 1540

Most Gracious Prince, I cry for Mercy, Mercy, Mercy.

His eyes gritty with tiredness, he sits back from the table and reviews the last words that he has written; words that are required of him, but also words that are a last, desperate plea for his life. Eight pages of sentences, crossings out, rewritten sentiments that shall give a man the excuse he needs to divest himself of an inoffensive woman who has had the misfortune to be despised upon sight.

"It shan't work, you know."

She's there again. Sitting at the end of the bed, watching him with those quizzical eyes that were once so full of vivacity and life. Until his machinations blotted them out. Every night she comes to him as he attempts to rest in the very rooms where she did likewise, a mere four years ago.

"You have lost his love. As I did."

Should he reply? Would she care? He has tried of course - many times - but he never knows what to say, and somehow the discussion never follows his intended course. They were friends once, travelling together on the same course despite her youth and his age - but that path diverged, and so they no longer stood side by side, but instead opposites - Black Knight takes White Queen.

The act of attainder has passed, and so he is condemned to die at the King's pleasure. All his arguments, all of his attempts to seek aid from those who were still brave enough to offer it wasted. The irony of it all - one of the most infamous of lawyers in England condemned to die without a trial.

He closes his eyes, grateful that he no longer leans over the rough paper, for the tears that fall from his eyes land upon the serge of his upper hose rather than the ink that scrawls across the pages, and thus do not betray him to the King that shall receive it. The terror is less now, of course. Time brings acceptance of all things in the end. But this…

He has been here for a mere nineteen days - a shorter time than some, of course; and he has been housed in relative comfort. It has done little to quell his fear, his grief at all that has been lost to him…his distress for the safety and wellbeing of his son…

No. Gregory is not reduced to nothing - he hold lands and titles in his own right; and those, the King cannot touch.

But who is speaking for him? Who is acting upon his behalf to secure his release? Not his son; not if Gregory has any sense, for the risk to his own family is too great. But Ralph…oh, yes, Ralph is both connected enough, and brave enough, to do it. But would it even be enough - particularly now that the final condemnation has been made?

"Without the King's love, nothing shall save you, my Lord." She says, blandly, "No more than any could have saved me. His Majesty was intent upon our destruction, and nothing can gainsay that."

"Be quiet." He snaps, "I am not you."

"Indeed you are not." She sniffs, boredly, "You are a common cloth trader. Even had I not been Queen, I would still have been of higher state than you."

He cannot answer that. In a world where one's fate is rigidly defined by the state of one's birth, to escape from the toils of class is nigh-on impossible. That he succeeded is as much an indictment of those who clamour to destroy him as it is a signal that such a feat can be achieved. He overturned the natural order of things - and thus they conspired to bring him down. And, in the end, they won.

"I am sorry," she says, after a while, "That was cruel of me."

"But hardly undeserved." He answers, smiling a little, "I had forgotten the sharp sting of your temper. Time has done nothing to dull it, I note."

"As though it would."

"I am glad that you are here." He admits, "Even if you are but a figment of my imagination, it is good not to be alone."

She was more fortunate than he - for he has not been granted any attendant other than the jailers who bring his meals. Thank God he is not obliged to use a chamber pot. That would be a humiliation more than he could endure. It has been a long time since he has lived without access to a stool closet.

"The smallest things are of great comfort." She says, with a light smile. "I am glad that I am as comforting to you as the presence of a privy."

He sinks into his chair again, the pain almost more than he can bear. There is no escape for him. No hope of life - for that has been snatched away. It is this letter - and the words therein - that is his last throw of the dice. If this fails him, then all is lost.

She watches him awhile, her eyes sad as he weeps. "That is the worst of it: the hope." She says, softly, "When all is so utterly lost, hope is the cruellest of enemies, for it torments you, and you cannot set it aside. I know it well - for I could not."

He does not answer, but he regains control and sits back in the chair. Nineteen days within these walls - and her presence each and every night. Is he glad that she is making this journey at his side? He is not sure. Not sure at all.

With a thousand fears that vision's face was grained;

Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground,

And no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan.

"Strange friend," I said, "here is no cause to mourn."

"None," said that other, "save the undone years,

The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours,

Was my life also; I went hunting wild

After the wildest beauty in the world,

Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair,

But mocks the steady running of the hour,

And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here.

10 June 1540

The rooms are dusty, shabby and untouched. None have occupied them since she left them to go to the scaffold. Now they are his accommodation - a place he thought never to be his resting place. The words of those who scorned and abused him at the council table still ring in his ears. In a single moment, all that he is, all that he was, taken and thrown down to be trampled into the dust.

Despite the crumbing opulence of his surroundings, the door remains locked, and none come when he knocks upon it and calls out. They call this place the Queen's House. A House for a Queen that is dead.

His eyes flick back and forth in his terror, seeing all in a detail that is vivid and powerful - the colours brighter, the light starker. Flight or fight…but he cannot flee, so he must fight…but how? He has brought others to this pass - he knows what shall follow. Soon they shall come to question him - to do all that they can to secure condemnation from his own mouth. He must battle against men who have the upper hand, and must speak for his very life.

The remainder of the afternoon fades to night as he paces back and forth like the pitiful creatures in the menagerie with which he shares this grim fortress. The moves are painful, for his age tells against him now; but still he does so. What else can he do with nothing but fear and helplessness for company? The game shall play out, as it has for others who came here through his actions - More…Fisher…Boleyn…too many…too many…

"Welcome."

The voice pierces his whirling thoughts, and he turns to see her, seated at the end of the bed. Her eyes pierce his, her expression impassive.

"Welcome to my home." She continues, "My last home. The rooms that held me before I emerged to gain a crown upon my head, and that held me before I emerged to have that head removed."

He says nothing. For she is not there. Not really. But he had forgotten, in those years that passed between that day and this, how beautiful she truly could be when she walked the corridors of palaces. More than a decade his junior, an air of mystique generated by her years in the French court - she had none of the attributes that were considered beautiful - and a magnificent intelligence that made her a prize worth gaining amongst the men of the Court.

So much turned about and shattered by that intelligence and mystique.

Oh, he did not want her - not as men wanted her. He loved her mind, not her face - for her heart was not his to claim. That was poor Henry Percy, until he was pressed upon another; not that he ever forgot her - fainting dead away when she was condemned. She never forgave Wolsey for that - in a single act, the Cardinal won her enmity, and was the loser in her first true fight to the death.

"I never thought to see you here." She says, watching him in apparent fascination, "Your power seemed unassailable - for even I could not stand against it. Not even with the love of the King - until it was taken from me."

He shakes his head, "No, it was not taken from you. Your own actions destroyed it."

"My actions?" she asks, with a flash of that once famous temper, "Do you truly believe the lies that you extracted to use against me?"

"Not that." He answers, "That was incidental. You were all that he could ever have wanted in a mistress - but naught that he would have wanted in a wife. Piquancy is pleasant in small doses - but not to season every meal."

"I would not be less than I am." She agrees, "But I loved him, my Lord. Truly loved him. Is that treachery? I was a living, breathing woman once - alive and eager to grasp all that life could grant me. Why is that wrong? Why should I be constrained by more than my stays? You and I - we could have created an England where learning was honoured and granted to all, where the poor could be granted succour. But instead we enlarged one man's coffers." She pauses, and looks at him with narrowed eyes, "No - two."

"And with those words you betray how little you understood the King. I do not doubt that you loved him, my Lady. Not for a moment. But you thought you could command him…"

"None could do that." She reminds him, "You and I - between us we showed him his strength, and thus he was beyond the control of any man. But there was persuasion - and that was my tool to use."

"Until you lost his love." He reminds her in turn, "I saw the letter Chapuys wrote after you lost your third child - The Queen is miscarried of her saviour."

She does not answer, and he sees her head has lowered, for he has reminded her of her cruellest loss. Immediately, he is contrite, "Forgive me, my Lady…"

"It is nothing." She says, softly, sadly, "What's done is done."

He turns away, cursing himself for his false step. When he turns back, however, she is gone. And he is alone in the darkness again.

For by my glee might many men have laughed,

And of my weeping something had been left,

Which must die now. I mean the truth untold,

The pity of war, the pity war distilled.

Now men will go content with what we spoiled.

12 June 1540

Sir, I do acknowledge myself to have been a most miserable and wretched sinner, and that I have not towards God and your Highness behaved myself as I ought and should have done. For the which mine offences to God while I live I shall continually call for his mercy, and for mine offences to your Grace which God knoweth were never malicious nor wilful, and that I never thought reason to your Highness, your Realm or posterity so god help me either in word or deed. Nevertheless, prostrate at your Majesty's feet in that thing soever I have offended, I appeal to your Highness for mercy, grace and pardon.

Your most sorrowful subject and most humble servant and prisoner this Saturday at your Tower of London,

Thomas Cromwell.

Four pages of refutation against accusations of which he knows nothing, Our Lord, if it be his will can do with me as he did with Susan who was falsely accused. God, yes, falsely accused. For other hope than in God and your Majesty I have not.

He has been here a mere two days, of course - far too soon to be sure of how matters shall play out. All that he has are rumours, fleeting suggestions of crimes that he can - if granted the opportunity - refute without difficulty. But there's the rub. How can he refute crimes if he knows neither what they are, nor who accuses him?

Norfolk, of course. Norfolk is as implacable an enemy as any man had. But who else? How many? None can prosper in the toxic pool of the Court without making enemies - he knows that from experience. Sighing, he takes a spill and uses it to transfer a flame from the small fire to a candle, as the light is dying once more.

"Norfolk." She says, seated once more upon the end of his bed, "I thought I could escape his plotting - as did you - but he had what each of us did not, my Lord. In my case, it was that he was a man. In your case, it was that he was a Duke."

"You and he were allies, my Lady." He reminds her, sitting alongside her upon the end of the bed.

"Allies?" she turns to look at him, a light laugh upon her lips that he remembers for its musical tones - and the joy it once expressed, "I was no ally to him, my Lord. No more than my father. We were useful to one another, until we were no longer useful to one another."

"As were we." He agrees. "Have we made the Court what it is, or has it made us what we are?"

"Perhaps something of both." She says, "Collectively, we turned a Palace of Courtly Love into a cesspool of plotting and machinations - and now men are content to wade within it, heedless of the stains upon their garments."

They sit in silence awhile - a companionable silence. Somehow, without asking, she knows the fear that has now settled upon him like a carrion eater that awaits the last breath of the corpse at its feet. But then, she felt it as he did. Brought to a low imprisonment on the basis of charges that were gleaned from rumour and innuendo.

"I wish it had not happened." He says, as the silence becomes unbearable, and he must break it.

"As do I. For then I would not have been foreshortened by a head." There it is again - that vivacious humour that punctuated her character, a shining wit that spoke to his and piqued his love of her intellect. Not her…no, not her. Just her mind…

He thinks back to those times when they looked upon a world that they could mould to their design - a world where the poor would find the means to better themselves, where trade could flourish, and men would not be buried under the weight of tradition and expectation. He was the King's first Minister - she was the Queen. Together, they could create an England that would be at the forefront of the great Reformation and Renaissance…

And then it had all faltered and died in the face of a King who had desires of his own. Desires that did not match theirs. Theirs was a partnership that looked forward, beyond that feudal realm that constrained all within it. But it was under the heel of a man who had attained the highest pinnacle, and would relinquish none of it to any other.

God, he loved that. He loved her - that magnificent intelligence that had been nurtured, not stifled. He had never laid a hand upon her, for he knew that to do so would mean both their ends with none of their dreams achieved. And he had been right to do so - or had he? Does it even matter now? She is dead and, soon, so shall he be. Unless he can win back the regard of the King, even if the love he once enjoyed is lost forever.

"It shall never return, my Lord." She says, "His regrets emerge only after the opportunity to change the matter for the better is long lost."

He knows that well - for it happened to Wolsey. And to More. Both of them remembered with grief and regret. Long after it was impossible to bring them from their places of incarceration and restore them to favour.

And now it is his turn. Will the King regret losing him? But if he does - will he do it before or after the axe has fallen? Please God let it be the axe. He has lost his titles and is no more than the base-born commoner he was when he first entered the halls of the Palaces. That is his title now: Thomas Cromwell - Cloth Carder.

"He would not do it to you, my Lord." She says "Just has he could not with me. Not the fire; instead the axe. But he would not sully me with a butcher's blade - and so came the headsman from France."

That is the only hope left to him if he cannot save himself. To avoid that most humiliating of journeys to the gallows at Tyburn aboard a sheep hurdle. There to be hanged until near dead…and…

"It shall not be so, my Lord."

"You cannot know that."

"I know my husband." She answers, "He has withdrawn his love, but he shall not withdraw that degree of mercy. To have you slaughtered in such fashion suggests that he was weak minded in allowing a man of so little account to guide him. To be seen so would wound his pride beyond endurance. Why else do you think that you are within these walls instead of a rougher apartment in one of the Towers? Your state hardly befits it, after all."

There is scorn in her tone now. Regardless of her fate, she was born to a landed family, and he was not. He knows it - as does she, and he crosses to look out of the leads, to the precincts below. He does not need to turn to know that he is alone.

Courage was mine, and I had mystery;

Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery:

To miss the march of this retreating world

Into vain citadels that are not walled.

18 June 1540

They are gone. Norfolk and those with whom he has conspired. Hours upon hours of questioning, barbs and insults over his base-born status. In all of his terror, however, he has not faltered - and fought against them at every step. His knowledge of the workings of the Court, and of their own peccadilloes, have made him a dangerous adversary - and in their aim to prevent him turning all upon its head and showing that they not he are the treasonous ones, they have granted him not only knowledge of the charges against him, but also the names of his accusers. How many prisoners such as he have been granted such a gift?

Though some of the charges are ridiculous - and so blatantly false that even the King at his most credulous could not believe them. Marriage to the lady Mary? For God's sake - even he would not have aimed so high. But that is the core of their anger. He has presumed to rise above his natural state - and that is what they cannot abide.

Again his defiance has driven them from his door - and, at last, he can sink into a chair and allow that dreadful fear back to the surface again. None are here now to see him weep.

None but her.

Unable to endure her eyes, he stares at the floor, "I am afraid."

Her hand reaches to his, and holds it, though he feels nothing, "In our last days, we were against one another, my Lord." She says, "Now you are in the place to which you reduced me."

How did it come to this? He had been riding so high - and then all had come crashing down. First his fever - trapping him away from court at a time when he most needed to be there to keep all together. Then one thing after another coming together all at once, seemingly aiming to dismantle all that he had so carefully built. And then there was Anne. The other Anne.

She had done no wrong - that poor, unfortunate woman. Her only fault was to be repulsed by her suitor. In his pride, he could not accept such a slight - and thus he claimed that it was she who had repulsed him. Did he still truly believe it? That he was the lithe, handsome prince that had once charmed all of Europe with his intellect and beauty? Perhaps not - but in the mirror of the eyes of Anne of Cleves, he was forced to see all that he had become, and thus he could not stand to be in her presence.

And who had made it happen? Who but the man to whom he had turned for so many years to achieve his will…and thus his downfall was laid out before him. A downfall that he could not escape.

"As you laid out mine, my Lord." She reminds him, quietly.

"No. It was not so. Not like that!" He stands, and stalks to the far wall, stung by her accusation.

"I loved my King, my Lord. Loved him truly and faithfully. Did you not see that?"

"I did…" he sighs, "But he desired something more than you, my Lady. And you did not grant him that desire."

"Time," she says, "I just needed more time."

"Of which you had none."

"Had we stood together as we did at the outset, my Lord, perhaps that might have been different."

"Do you not understand? It was too late for that!" he shouts, then turns to find that she is gone.

Lifting distressful hands, as if to bless.

And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall,—

By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.

27 July 1540

The candlelight is weak in the encroaching darkness of his last night upon earth. His last letter to his King went unanswered, and with that silence went his last hope. Terror has been replaced by calm acceptance, and he showed none of the despair that Kingston has seen in so many when visiting them on their last night to advise them of their death upon the morrow.

"That was so with me, my Lord."

He is used to her now. She has come to him on most nights, and always they talk. Sometimes they argue. Sometimes they weep. Sometimes they reminisce.

"We were no better than Norfolk and my father." She says, quietly, "We used one another to achieve our own ends - and discarded one another when such a partnership was no longer tenable."

"I did not give you up willingly, my Lady."

She does not answer, though he expected her to call him a liar.

"His Majesty could not continue to accept your failure to grant him the son he desired above all things. That, and your refusal to submit to him as a meek wife, poisoned his love for you - and made him question all that he had done to gain your hand."

"But you knew me to be innocent." She says, very quietly.

He stares at the floor, "Yes."

"And thus the poison of the Court infected us both. Our friendship became…inconvenient."

"After all that he had done to win you, he could not put you aside. His pride would not permit it. There was but one means to end a marriage that had become abhorrent to him."

"And thus, I had to die." She looks up again, "As do all who become an obstacle to his desires, or a thorn in his side."

Again, they sit in silence, but eventually he turns to her, "When I say that I did not give you up willingly, I have not said why."

She turns to him, a little sceptical, "Do not tell me. I think I can guess. It was because you loved me."

Her half smile proclaims her belief that it is a mere jest.

"Yes, my Lady. I did."

Now it is her turn to stare at him, "Do not take me a for a fool, Enemy Mine. You were of no consequence to me in any matter other than that of the reformation." Her tone is hostile for the first time since she first came to him.

He struggles to articulate his intent, "Please, I beg you not to misunderstand me: I did not view you carnally, my Lady. Not merely because you were the King's wife, but also because I have never looked upon another woman in a carnal manner since my beloved wife was lost to me. I loved your intellect; your wit. I loved your desire to help those of lesser state than your own, for it was not merely pressed upon you by the requirements of your station, but instead inspired by a true intention to do so. It was only when any attempt to continue to support you threw all into danger that my fears spoke to me, and drove me to act against you. The loss of the King's love…"

"Turned me from an asset into a liability." She finishes.

He cannot bring himself to look at her.

"And thus we are both betrayed." She observes, "We gave all of ourselves to our King, and then - at the last - he discarded us, for we had caused his pride to be hurt, and thus he struck out at us."

"Even unto death."

She nods, "Even that."

"I prayed for you." He says, wondering why he is speaking such pointless nonsense. What does it matter now?

"Thank you." She turns to him, "I prayed also for you. For I knew that you were the guiding hand behind my fall, even though I could only guess as to why. Did my Lord the King think me guilty, or did you bring him to that belief?"

"I…" he pauses, for now he is not sure of his motives. Did he do what he did under the orders of the King? Not a single act throughout his career was in contravention of either the law of the land or the King's will. That was the foundation upon which he built his entire defence - though it served him little in the end when he was not permitted to speak at a trial. His enemies knew better than to allow that to happen. "I think he did not at first - but instead wanted to believe it so, for he had reached such a degree of antipathy towards you that he wished to be rid of you - and could not find a way. He wanted to repudiate you - and needed a means to do it. That was the outcome with which he tasked me."

"And you were always most capable of bringing about his will." She reminds him, tartly.

"Indeed I was." He sighs, "The evidence I presented to him convinced him, though he was ready and willing to be convinced, for it gave him the outcome he had demanded. Not that it bought him joy for long - for while he has the son he craved, there is but the one, and that is only the slightest security for the Kingdom. There must be another for all to be truly secure - and so I searched for a bride that would accept him, given that to do so would make them the fourth wife of a man who had discarded two."

There is a distant look in her eyes now, "That is all that is of importance to him, is it not? Not you. Not I. We both tried to give him that which he wanted - and paid for our failure with our freedom, and our lives."

"I still live." He says, quietly. Even though hope has died in him now, he cannot quite relinquish it. Not while there are stars outside the windows.

"Yes, you do." She is kind enough not to add 'but not for much longer'.

I am the enemy you killed, my friend.

I knew you in the dark: for so you frowned

Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.

I parried; but my hands were loath and cold.

Let us sleep now…

28 July 1540

There are bells ringing. He can hear them through the leads of the windows that let in the light of early dawn. The last dawn that he shall ever see. He knows why they ring - for there shall be a new queen at the end of this day - to replace the one that he had found. God alone knows what happened to her. No one has told him.

She is still sitting on the end of his bed, watching him as he looks out at the emerging sunlight. The temperature is uncomfortably warm already, so at least when he stands upon the scaffold in his shirt, he shall not shiver with cold, and give people cause to think him cowardly and afraid.

"We were enemies once, were we not?" she says, "Just as we were also once friends."

He nods, his eyes feasting upon the soft colours of the dawn. He shall not see another - best to revel in this one while he can.

"And now?" he asks.

"Now?" She rises, and crosses soundlessly to join him, "Now, when all is to be brought to account, I am who I always was. I am Anne Boleyn. You are Thomas Cromwell. It is no longer convenient for us to be against one another, is it? I hated you once. But now I remember what we once shared, and I know that I hate you no longer. You are not my enemy - not any more."

"Then I ask you to forgive me for my sins against you." He says, sadly, "For I destroyed you, and you did not deserve it."

She rests her head upon his shoulder - or so it seems, for he does not feel the pressure of it - and sighs, "Yes. Of course I do. I made my last confession to a man whose defence of me was so half-hearted that it might as well have not occurred at all, and thus I was granted absolution. I am forgiven - and now, so are you."

"Thank you." He looks out at the sky, glowing blue now that the last of the dawn has faded. Not much longer now, then, "I am told that there shall be a thousand halberdiers to escort me from here to the scaffold, for fear that the common people shall rise against the King and rescue me."

"Is that so?"

"It shall not happen. I am not blind to my state. I had their interests at heart, and they know it - but they shall never overthrow their lawful King for one such as I." He pauses, "Shall you walk with me?"

She raises her head from his shoulder to look at him, "Would you like me to?"

"I think I would."

Her smile reminds him of better times. Happier times, "Were it possible, then I would do so. But it is not. I am here for I spent my last days here, as you have done. There was much to be settled between us, and now it is. I cannot emerge from this house, but instead shall return to the place from whence I came."

"And where is that?" he asks, almost hungrily. To know what lies beyond that moment of ending…

"That is for me to know, Enemy Mine." She smiles at him lightly, "And for you to find out."

Their eyes meet for a moment, and she kisses him on the cheek. There is no sensation of pressure, but nonetheless, he knows that it has occurred, and he smiles at her. Friends once, then enemies. But today both are equal in the face of death, and what is their enmity now?

"I am not afraid anymore." He says, quietly.

"Good." She smiles back at him, "Death is but a little thing, and soon past. Eternity is a long time - and longer still without one's accounts settled, don't you think?"

"Is Elizabeth there?" he asks, hopefully, "And Anne and Grace?"

"As I have already said," she answers, softly, "That is for me to know, and you to find out."

He turns back to the windows, and the day beyond. It shall not be much longer now - indeed there are footsteps in the corridor outside, for they are coming to escort him to the scaffold.

"Go safely, Enemy Mine." The shade of Anne says to him, "Soon all shall be done, and you, like we are, shall be truly free."

He closes his eyes for a moment, "Thank you, my Lady. Your Majesty." But when he opens them, she is gone.

The door opens. Squaring his shoulders, he turns to face the men who have arrived. He makes no protest as Kingston advises him that it is time to leave. There is no need - for he is ready.

Ready to die.