A/N: So now that school has been cancelled because of the Corona Virus, I have more free time on my hands. I'll write as much as I can using that time, but when I get my muse, I get my muse. No promises on an update schedule yet. And yes- this is the rewrite of 'Thorns'

On February 18, 1516, Henry, King of England prays fervently before a cross, his favorite, Charles Brandon, beside him. He begs God to give him and his wife a living child, better yet a boy, an heir to continue his legacy. He kneels there, with his forehead pressed against the tile floor, until his knees grow numb and he can't feel his face. The cold is bitter, even inside the chapel, and his fists clench.

Seven years. That's how long it's been since he and Catherine were wed. That's how long he's gone without a living child. The image of his little Prince Hal slips into his mind and his throat tightens. His perfect boy, his heir. Gone. And only more miscarriages and still births after that.

Catherine is still capable, he reminds himself. Thirty is not so old. And he is only five- and- twenty; there is time for more children. Please, he thinks, please. A living child. That is all I need.

Perhaps God hears him in this moment, perhaps it is simply coincidence. All Henry knows it that as soon as the thought flashes across his conscience, a page bursts through the doors. Henry stands, and Charles lifts his head. The page kneels before the king, gasping for air.

"Well, man, what is it?" Henry demands.

"Her Grace has delivered two healthy girls, sire."

The new father stares for a moment, befuddled. Then he gets excited. Girls are not boys, not sons, but two healthy children and twins at that prove his and Catherine's fertility. "Good man," he laughs and slaps him across the back. Then Henry's racing to his wife's apartments, Charles hot on his heels.

"Your Grace," a midwife argues feebly once he gets there, "The queen is in confinement. You should not enter."

Henry scowls at her, annoyed, and she shrinks against the wall. Charles laughs. "Move, woman, before I make you," the king demands, and then he leaves her and his best friend and heads inside. He freezes at the sight that greets him. His lovely wife, the mother of his children- twins, he relishes again- is resting on her bed. Multiple pillows support her, and she cradles one tiny creature in her arms while another rests in the bassinet beside her. She looks up when she hears the door swing open.

Catherine's strawberry-blonde hair is strewn all across her shoulders and forehead. Her skin is pale, and there are bags and stress lines around her eyes, but to Henry, this is the most beautiful she's ever been (he ignores the way she looked after she delivered their precious, short- lived son).

"Your Grace," she murmurs, "Here are your daughters."

His children. It's still almost unreal to Henry. They're alive and well and healthy, daughters of his body, daughters of his house. He walks over to her bedside and lifts the girl in the bassinet up into his own arms.

"That's the elder one," Catherine says, and he can hear the smile in her voice. "I figured Your Grace would want to pick her up yourself."

Henry observes the tuft of auburn hair upon her head- his hair- and stares into the light blue eyes- his eyes- peering back at him and smiles. "She is perfect," he says, and the baby gurgles happily.

"What do you want to name them?" Catherine inquires, and he frowns. Shifting closer to her, he sets his eyes upon his other daughter and considers both of the infants.

"Mary for the younger one," he decides, "After the Virgin herself." Catherine gives a murmur of approval. "Margaret for the elder." His wife's head snaps up and her eyes are wide when they meet his own.

"My love?" she says hesitantly, and Henry knows why. Margaret is his damnable sister's name- that bitch who betrayed England to the Scots. He scowls at the very reminder of her.

"For my grandmother," he insists strongly. "For the woman who placed my lord father on the throne and helped to found the Tudor dynasty. May our daughter have her strength and determination." The 'and hopefully nothing else' goes unsaid. Henry's wife considers him for a moment. Then her eyes flick back to their children. He can see the wheels turning in her mind. Her lips thin and her head cocks to the side ever so slightly. Then she exhales slowly and a warm smile works its way onto her face.

"Margaret and Mary," she laughs, "I like the sound of that."

Everything is silent for a brief moment, and then Margaret Tudor, eldest child of Henry of England, Eighth of his name, and Catherine of Aragon, youngest daughter of the Catholic Monarchs, begins to scream.