Darkness shrouded Greenwich Palace like a funeral veil. Not even the faintest glimmer of starlight penetrated the dense cloud cover that hung low over London. The air felt heavy, pregnant with the weight of impending transition as guards stood solemn vigil along the corridors leading to the Queen's chamber.
Inside, the royal bedchamber reeked of sickness and burning incense. Candles flickered in strategic placement around the ornate four-poster bed where Mary Tudor lay, her once-robust frame now diminished beneath heavy brocade coverlets. Her skin had taken on the waxy pallor of approaching death, stretched taut across prominent cheekbones. Only her eyes retained their characteristic intensity—dark, fevered, and utterly aware.
Archbishop Cranmer stood at the bedside, his aged hands trembling slightly as he administered the last rites. The council members maintained respectful silence, witnessing this final sacrament with expressions ranging from genuine sorrow to barely concealed calculation.
William Cecil's shrewd gaze missed nothing from his position near the chamber door. Elizabeth stood closest to Mary, her copper hair partially concealed beneath a modest black hood, her face a mask of appropriate grief. Jane Grey remained slightly behind her, eyes downcast in apparent prayer.
Bobby Kestrel observed the proceedings from near the window, his tall frame silhouetted against the darkness outside. His appearance at court after months at Whitehaven had generated considerable speculation. The council members studiously avoided looking in his direction, though the weight of his presence altered the atmosphere perceptibly.
When Cranmer finished his Latin incantations, Mary's feeble hand gestured toward Elizabeth.
"Sister," the Queen whispered, voice cracked and desiccated. "Come closer."
Elizabeth approached with measured steps, kneeling gracefully beside the bed. "Your Majesty."
Mary's lips twisted in a pained approximation of a smile. "No need for such formality now, Elizabeth. We both know you'll wear that title before sunrise."
A ripple of tension passed through the assembled witnesses. Mary's explicit acknowledgment of Elizabeth's succession carried political weight even from her deathbed.
"I pray for your recovery, sister," Elizabeth replied carefully.
Mary's laugh dissolved into a rattling cough. When she recovered, she reached weakly for Elizabeth's hand. "Always the diplomat. You'll need that skill." Her fingers tightened with surprising strength. "You'll face challenges I never imagined. Spain watches. France waits. The Pope refuses to recognize our father's church."
Elizabeth nodded, her expression revealing nothing of her thoughts.
"I failed to restore England to Rome," Mary continued, each word clearly costing her effort. "Perhaps that task wasn't meant for me." Her gaze shifted momentarily toward Bobby before returning to Elizabeth. "Our blood carries heavy obligation, sister. The Tudor legacy..."
"I will honor our father's memory," Elizabeth assured her, carefully avoiding any specific commitments regarding religious policy.
Mary studied her with painful clarity. "You were always cleverer than they gave you credit for. Cleverer than I acknowledged." She paused, gathering strength. "I regret the years lost between us. We might have been true sisters, not merely rivals."
Elizabeth's composure flickered briefly. "I held no ill will toward you, Mary. Our circumstances placed us in opposition, not our hearts."
Something like peace softened Mary's features momentarily. "Perhaps that's the kindest fiction we can offer each other now." Her gaze swept the chamber, taking in the council members who would soon transfer their allegiance to Elizabeth. "I would speak with Lord Kestrel alone."
Cecil stepped forward, concern evident. "Your Majesty, in your condition—"
"In my condition, William Cecil, I remain Queen of England until death claims me," Mary snapped with a flash of her former authority. "And I wish to speak with Lord Kestrel privately. The rest of you may wait in the antechamber."
The council members exchanged uneasy glances but ultimately bowed to royal command. Elizabeth rose gracefully, touching her sister's hand once more before withdrawing. Jane Grey followed, her dark copper hair catching the candlelight as she cast one unreadable look toward Bobby before exiting.
When the heavy door closed behind the last councilman, Mary's facade of strength collapsed. Her head fell back against the pillows, her breathing labored.
"Finally decided to acknowledge my summons," she rasped, fixing Bobby with an accusing stare. "Pity it required my imminent death to secure your attendance."
Bobby moved from the window to stand beside her bed. "I've been occupied with matters requiring my personal attention."
"Matters more pressing than your Queen's direct command?" Mary's eyes narrowed. "Any other subject would face execution for such blatant disregard."
"Fortunately, I'm not any other subject," Bobby replied with maddening calm as he took the seat beside her bed.
"No," Mary agreed bitterly. "You exist outside normal constraints. Beyond crown authority. Perhaps beyond God Himself, though I pray that's not true for your sake."
Bobby inclined his head slightly, neither confirming nor denying her assessment. "You look terrible, Mary."
A startled laugh escaped her. "Trust you to speak plainly when everyone else tiptoes around with platitudes." She shifted painfully against the pillows. "The physicians claim it's a tumor in my stomach. Spreading everywhere now. They can't even bleed me properly anymore—my veins collapse."
"I could have helped you," Bobby said quietly.
"Could you?" Mary's gaze sharpened. "Or is this all your doing? Have you orchestrated my death as cleverly as you orchestrated my rise?"
Bobby's expression remained unreadable. "I did not cause this, Mary. You would face this end regardless of my presence or absence. Had Northumberland's plans succeeded, you would have faced the executioner's axe rather than this illness."
"Northumberland?" Mary frowned in confusion. "But he's been..."
"In this timeline, yes," Bobby agreed. "In another potential future, one I glimpsed through visions not unlike your sister's prophetic dreams, you died on the scaffold as a traitor to England."
Mary stared at him, trying to determine if he spoke truth or convenient fiction. "You claim to see visions like Elizabeth? That's convenient."
"Many truths prove inconvenient upon examination," Bobby replied. "Your death tonight being among them."
Mary studied him intently through pain-glazed eyes. "What other visions have you seen, Lord Kestrel? What futures await England after I'm gone?"
Bobby hesitated, then leaned closer. "I've seen England return to Rome's embrace. Catholic worship restored across the land with you as its rightful architect."
A bitter smile twisted Mary's lips. "You lie very convincingly."
"It's not a lie," Bobby countered. "Merely a potential that exists among infinite possibilities. The multiverse encompasses all conceivable outcomes, including those you've fought to achieve."
Mary's hand shook as she reached for the goblet beside her bed. Bobby lifted it to her lips, supporting her head as she drank. Water dribbled down her chin despite her effort to maintain dignity.
"I'm scared, Robert," she whispered, using his given name for perhaps the first time in a while.
The admission clearly cost her dearly.
"Not of death," she clarified, her voice strengthening through sheer force of will. "I've made my peace with mortality. But meeting my Maker..." Her fingers clutched convulsively at the crucifix lying on her chest. "Facing judgment for my failures. England remains in Protestant hands. I couldn't fulfill my sacred obligation to restore true faith."
Bobby set the goblet aside. "You haven't failed, Mary. Catholicism thrives throughout England alongside Protestant worship. The freedom to practice both faiths represents greater achievement than forced conversion either direction."
"Such practical compromise hardly fulfills divine mandate," Mary objected, though her tone suggested she wished to be convinced.
"Perhaps meeting God represents beginning rather than culmination," Bobby suggested. "The start of understanding beyond earthly perspective, not final judgment on limited human comprehension."
Mary's eyes searched his face. "You speak as though you know."
"I speak as one who has witnessed much," Bobby replied carefully.
Sweat beaded on Mary's forehead as pain visibly surged through her. She bit back a cry, her fingers digging into the bedsheets.
"I could ease your suffering," Bobby offered quietly. "Help you live longer, or at minimum, relieve this pain."
Mary shook her head despite clear agony. "Without pain, I would have only fear. At least suffering gives purpose to these final hours." She drew a shuddering breath. "Besides, what would Elizabeth think if you saved me after promising her the throne?"
Bobby's expression revealed nothing. "You knew about that?"
"I guessed," Mary admitted. "The way she watches you. The way you've positioned everything for her ascension." Another spasm twisted her features. "You've been planning her coronation since the beginning, haven't you?"
"I made a promise," Bobby said simply.
Mary laughed weakly. "And yet you helped me claim my rightful inheritance first. Always playing multiple sides, Lord Kestrel." Her expression grew serious. "Will you grant me one final request?"
"If within my power," Bobby agreed cautiously.
Mary's gaze softened into unexpected vulnerability. "Hold me, Robert. Until the end."
Bobby's eyebrows rose slightly.
"You've taken so much from me," Mary continued. "My Spanish marriage alliance. My full royal authority. Months of potential Catholic restoration." Her lips trembled. "The least you can do is provide me the comfort you denied me through those political maneuvers."
Without further comment, Bobby carefully moved onto the bed, gathering Mary's diminished form against his chest. She felt impossibly fragile, her once-sturdy frame now barely more substantial than parchment.
"You would have made a formidable husband," Mary murmured against his shoulder. "In another life where circumstances permitted such possibility."
"We each play the roles assigned by circumstance," Bobby replied, his hand stroking her hair with surprising gentleness.
Mary's breathing gradually steadied against him. "Tell me something true, Robert. Not political calculation or diplomatic maneuvering. Something honest between us in these final moments."
Bobby considered this request carefully. "You possess extraordinary courage, Mary Tudor. Few would face death with such clarity and acceptance. Fewer still would maintain their fundamental principles despite overwhelming opposition." He adjusted his position slightly, cradling her more comfortably. "For all your supposed failures, you've shaped England's future more significantly than you realize."
She scoffed weakly. "Pretty words to comfort a dying woman."
"Truth requires no embellishment," Bobby countered. "Your reign established parameters that will guide Elizabeth's decisions. Your council reforms—reluctantly accepted though they were—created governance structures that will serve England for generations. Your religious moderation despite personal preference prevented civil war that would have devastated the country."
Mary relaxed incrementally against him as he continued speaking, detailing specific policies and decisions that demonstrated wisdom rather than failure. He spoke of her compassion toward those who had opposed her, her intelligence in navigating complex diplomatic challenges, her fundamental dignity despite personal disappointments.
As the hours passed, Mary drifted between consciousness and something deeper. Occasionally she would surface with a question or comment, her voice growing progressively weaker. Bobby answered each with unexpected patience, maintaining his physical support without complaint despite the uncomfortable position.
"I would have executed you eventually, you know," Mary murmured during one lucid moment, her voice barely audible. "Once I'd secured sufficient power independently."
"I know," Bobby replied without rancor. "It's why I constructed the council framework as I did."
A ghost of a smile touched Mary's lips. "Always three steps ahead." Her fingers weakly squeezed his. "Will England prosper under Elizabeth?"
"Beyond anything you could imagine," Bobby confirmed. "A golden age approaches, Mary. Your sister will build upon foundations you established, creating something extraordinary."
"Protestant foundations," Mary noted with resignation.
"English foundations," Bobby corrected. "With room for faith of multiple varieties."
Mary's breathing grew increasingly labored, rattling ominously in her chest. "Promise me something, Robert."
"If I can."
"Watch over her," Mary whispered. "Elizabeth possesses brilliance, but lacks experience. She'll need guidance during these early years."
"I will remain as long as circumstances permit," Bobby promised carefully.
Mary nodded, apparently satisfied with this qualified assurance. "I'm tired, Robert."
"Then rest," he suggested, his voice gentler than anyone at court would have believed possible. "I'll remain until the end."
Mary's eyes drifted closed. "Tell me a story," she murmured, suddenly sounding younger than her thirty-seven years. "Something beautiful to accompany me on this journey."
Bobby began speaking softly, weaving a narrative that transformed Mary's life into something approaching legend. He spoke of her courage during childhood separation from her mother, her intelligence in mastering multiple languages despite disrupted education, her fundamental loyalty to family despite their mistreatment. In his telling, her struggle to maintain Catholic faith against overwhelming pressure became heroic rather than merely stubborn.
As the night deepened toward dawn, Mary's breathing grew increasingly erratic. Bobby continued his story nonetheless, now describing imagined scenes from a potential future where Mary's diplomatic marriage to a European prince had produced brilliant children who combined Tudor intelligence with Spanish nobility. He painted word-pictures of grandchildren playing in palace gardens while Mary instructed them in Latin and theology.
"I would have liked children," Mary whispered during her final moments of lucidity. "Strange how that seems clearest now at the end."
"Some journeys emphasize quality rather than duration," Bobby replied. "Your impact will echo through generations regardless."
Mary's fingers clutched weakly at his sleeve. "Will you pray with me, Robert? One last Catholic prayer before everything changes?"
Though something flickered in Bobby's eyes suggesting complexity beyond simple religious sentiment, he nodded. Together they recited the Lord's Prayer in Latin, Mary's failing voice supported by Bobby's steady tone.
When the final "Amen" faded, Mary's eyes fluttered open one last time. "Thank you," she whispered, "for this kindness at the end."
"Rest now," Bobby told her softly. "Your struggle is complete."
Mary's head settled against his shoulder. For several minutes, only the sound of her increasingly labored breathing disturbed the chamber's silence. Then, with a soft exhalation that might have been either resignation or relief, Mary Tudor released her final breath.
Bobby continued holding her for several minutes after her heart stopped beating. Finally, he leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead.
"Death gives meaning to life," he murmured, carefully arranging her body into a dignified position against the pillows, folding her hands over the crucifix on her chest. "You're blessed in ways I cannot be, Mary Tudor. My existence lacks death's definitive boundary."
He stepped back, studying her still features which appeared unexpectedly peaceful in death's repose. Something like genuine respect showed in his expression as he made the sign of the cross over her body.
"May whatever awaits beyond mortality's threshold prove kinder than much of what preceded it," he said quietly.
With one final adjustment to her position to ensure maximum dignity, Bobby turned toward the chamber door. His expression shifted seamlessly from private contemplation to appropriate public solemnity as he opened it to face the waiting council members.
"The Queen is dead," he announced, his voice carrying the perfect note of respectful finality. "God rest her soul."
The council members' reactions varied according to their religious and political alignments. Archbishop Cranmer immediately began prayers for Mary's soul while several Catholic councilors crossed themselves with evident emotion. William Cecil's expression revealed nothing beyond appropriate gravity, though his eyes immediately sought Elizabeth's position.
Elizabeth herself maintained remarkable composure, her features arranged into a mask of dignified grief that revealed nothing of the complex emotions surely churning beneath. After allowing a respectful moment for the news to register, she inclined her head toward the chamber where her sister's body lay.
"We shall honor Queen Mary's memory with appropriate ceremony," she stated, her use of royal title without claiming it herself representing perfect protocol. "The council will assemble at dawn to address matters of succession according to established procedure."
With this perfectly calibrated statement, she managed to acknowledge Mary's legitimate reign, demonstrate appropriate respect, and simultaneously remind everyone present of her own position as rightful heir—all without explicitly claiming authority prematurely.
As the councilors dispersed to make necessary preparations, Bobby discreetly withdrew from the gathering. While the political machinery of succession engaged, he made his way through Greenwich Palace's labyrinthine corridors toward a seldom-used guest chamber in the eastern wing.
Elizabeth was waiting when he arrived, her public mask of composed grief replaced by evident distress. She had removed her formal headdress, revealing the full glory of her copper hair cascading across her shoulders. The moment the door closed behind Bobby, she advanced toward him with uncharacteristic emotional openness.
"Have I done the right thing?" she demanded, dispensing with formalities. "Allowing my sister to die when you could have saved her?"
Bobby sighed, removing his formal outer garment and draping it across a nearby chair. "Mary's death was inevitable, Elizabeth. My intervention would merely have prolonged her suffering while delaying your rightful succession."
"But you could have saved her," Elizabeth pressed, her composure fracturing further. "As you saved me in that church. As you've saved others."
"I could have," Bobby acknowledged, his voice remaining steady while he watched emotions play across Elizabeth's face. "Technically, yes. I could have given her many more years."
Elizabeth's hands clenched into fists at her sides. "Then why didn't you? Was her Catholic faith so offensive to you? Was her opposition to your plans for me too inconvenient?"
Bobby moved to the window, looking out at the pre-dawn darkness over London. His reflection stared back at him, eternally thirty-five while the universe around him aged and died.
"I didn't save her for the same reason I didn't save Edward," he stated flatly. "Some deaths must happen, Elizabeth. Some points in time cannot be altered without consequences far beyond what you can imagine."
"Consequences?" Elizabeth repeated, her voice rising. "What consequences could possibly justify letting my sister die in agony?"
Bobby turned from the window, his expression hardening. "If you wish to blame someone for Mary's death, blame me. Not yourself, not God, not fate. Me. I chose not to save her despite having the capability." He crossed the chamber, stopping directly before Elizabeth. "I made that choice deliberately so you wouldn't have to."
"What?" Elizabeth stepped back, confusion momentarily replacing anger.
"I saw it in your eyes when you learned of Mary's illness," Bobby explained. "That conflict between the part of you that loved your sister and the part that recognized opportunity. The Tudor in you calculating advantage while the human in you felt guilt for those calculations."
Elizabeth's face paled. "You have no right—"
"I can be the devil if needed," Bobby cut her off, his voice dropping to a dangerous register. "I can bear that burden for you, Elizabeth. I've borne far worse across time than you could possibly comprehend." A bitter smile twisted his lips. "And when the time comes for judgment—if such judgment exists—I'll welcome it. Death would be a merciful release from this endless existence."
Elizabeth stared at him, speechless. The truth of his words struck something deep within her. For months, she had endured the torment of her own ambition—the horrifying realization that part of her had welcomed each deterioration in Mary's condition. Every cough, every report of the Queen's declining health had sparked both genuine concern and calculated anticipation.
Something broke inside Elizabeth then. A dam that had held back years of accumulated fear, guilt, and pain suddenly ruptured. Her knees buckled as the first sob tore from her throat.
"I hate myself," she gasped between sobs, her body shaking violently. "I hate what I've become. This... this ambition. It's the only thing that kept me alive after my mother's execution. Without it, I would have perished long ago." Her voice dropped to a broken whisper. "But it's eating me alive from inside."
Bobby caught her before she hit the floor. His arms encircled her trembling form as he guided her to a chair near the hearth.
"There's nothing wrong with holding onto whatever makes you strive to live," he said, kneeling before her. "Nothing wrong with ambition that drives you toward greatness rather than mere survival."
Elizabeth's face contorted with self-loathing. "You don't understand. The weight of it... the sin of it..."
"If you wish to repent for these supposed sins," Bobby said, his voice softening, "then do so by becoming an even more exceptional ruler than your visions have shown. Save the soul of England. Build something lasting that benefits humanity beyond your short years."
She struggled to regain control, to rebuild the walls of royal composure that had protected her since childhood. Bobby reached out, gently brushing a tear from her cheek.
"It's okay to cry, Elizabeth," he said quietly. "There's no need to maintain the Tudor facade with me. You've lost your sister. You're about to assume the weight of a nation. You're in pain in more ways than I can count."
His simple permission shattered her remaining resistance. Elizabeth Tudor—who would soon be Queen of England, who had endured interrogation, imprisonment, and near-execution without breaking—collapsed forward into Bobby's arms and wept with the abandon of a child.
Bobby held her as the storm of grief broke. Her tears soaked through his doublet as she clung to him, her body shuddering with each sob. He stroked her hair, murmuring words of comfort that were less about their specific meaning and more about the simple human reassurance of sound and touch.
"To me, you are simply Elizabeth," he whispered against her hair. "Not princess, not queen, not Tudor. Just Elizabeth. And I will always hold affection for Elizabeth, regardless of how she conducts herself."
They remained that way for what might have been minutes or hours, time losing meaning as grief ran its course. Gradually, Elizabeth's sobs subsided, replaced by the deep, even breathing of exhaustion. She had fallen asleep against his chest, drained by the emotional release and the accumulation of sleepless nights as Mary's condition had worsened.
Bobby gathered her carefully in his arms. Rather than risk being seen carrying the heir to England's throne through Greenwich Palace's corridors, he simply teleported directly to her private chambers, materializing beside her bed without disturbing the guards outside her door.
With gentle precision, he laid her on the bed, arranging her limbs in a position of dignity despite her disheveled state. He removed her shoes and loosened the constricting bodice of her gown enough to allow comfortable breathing without compromising her modesty. After spreading a blanket over her sleeping form, he stepped back, preparing to leave her to her rest.
"Don't go."
Elizabeth's whisper halted him. Her eyes had opened, though they remained heavy-lidded with exhaustion.
"It wouldn't be appropriate for me to remain," he replied softly.
"Please." The single word carried the weight of command despite its hushed delivery. "I don't want to be alone tonight."
Bobby studied her for a moment, noting the vulnerability beneath the imperious request. "Very well," he conceded. "I'll remain until dawn. But I won't take advantage of your current emotional vulnerability."
A blush colored Elizabeth's pale cheeks. "I wasn't thinking about that."
Bobby raised an eyebrow, his expression skeptical.
"Well, perhaps a little," she admitted, the ghost of a smile flickering across her tear-stained face. "But that's not why I asked you to stay." She shifted slightly, making space beside her on the massive Tudor bed. "I had another vision, you know. About tonight."
"Did you?" Bobby lowered himself carefully onto the edge of the bed, maintaining a respectful distance.
Elizabeth nodded, her copper hair spreading across the pillow. "I saw exactly what happened in that chamber with you and Mary. It was... beautiful, in its way. The comfort you gave her." She swallowed hard. "I don't want to follow in my sister's footsteps by dying alone someday."
"Your visions are becoming remarkably specific," Bobby observed, frowning slightly. "Prying into rather private matters."
"I can't control them," Elizabeth protested.
"Perhaps you should learn to," Bobby suggested, but knowing it was likely impossible given her uniqueness to many prophets or oracles. "They've served their purpose in bringing us together. Now they may become more hindrance than help—a crutch rather than a gift. They could affect your ability to rule independently."
Elizabeth's expression grew troubled. "You could... stop them?"
"I could sever the quantum sensitivity that's currently manifesting as prophetic dreams," Bobby confirmed. "It would free you to make decisions based on present reality rather than possible futures."
"But they helped me find you," Elizabeth whispered. "They're how I knew to call your name that day in the church." Her fingers plucked nervously at the blanket. "Without them, I might never have met the most important person in my life."
Bobby's expression softened at this admission. "Sometimes we must learn when to let go, Elizabeth. Everyone eventually faces that choice—releasing what once served us to embrace something new."
Elizabeth studied him in the dimly lit chamber, understanding passing between them without words. Finally, she nodded. "Do it," she whispered. "Free me from these visions."
Bobby reached forward, his fingertips gently touching her temples. "This won't hurt," he promised. "But you'll likely fall unconscious briefly."
Elizabeth's eyes locked with his. "I trust you."
Energy flickered briefly between Bobby's fingers—invisible to normal human perception but vibrating with power as he reached into Elizabeth's mind. With precise psionic manipulation, he located the quantum entanglement that had connected her consciousness to potential futures. Rather than destroying this gift, he carefully isolated it, placing it under her own control rather than leaving it as an unpredictable force disrupting her sleep and influencing her decisions.
Elizabeth's eyes widened momentarily, then rolled back as consciousness fled. Her body went limp against the pillows, breathing deep and regular as though in normal sleep.
Bobby adjusted her position carefully, ensuring she would wake without discomfort. He fixed the blankets around her, treating the future Queen of England with the same gentle attention he might have shown a beloved child.
Settling into a chair near the bed, Bobby prepared to maintain his vigil until dawn. Tomorrow would bring Elizabeth's formal recognition as Queen. The council would proclaim her. Bells would ring throughout London. The machinery of state would transfer seamlessly from one Tudor monarch to the next.
But tonight, in this quiet chamber, there was only Elizabeth—not a queen, not a political symbol, but simply a young woman who had lost her sister and now faced the crushing weight of a kingdom's expectations. Bobby would guard her sleep, providing the security few in her position ever experienced.
Hours passed in contemplative silence. When the first gray light of dawn began filtering through the chamber windows, Bobby rose from his chair. Elizabeth still slept deeply, her features peaceful in repose. He allowed himself one final look at this private version of Elizabeth Tudor that so few would ever see—vulnerable, unburdened by performance or calculation.
"The Queen is dead," he whispered, echoing his announcement from hours earlier. "Long live the Queen."
With that quiet acknowledgment of the transition about to unfold, Bobby Kestrel stepped back and vanished from the chamber, leaving no trace of his presence beyond the lingering sense of security that followed Elizabeth into her dreams.
In those final private moments before dawn transformed Elizabeth Tudor from heir to monarch, she slept more peacefully than she had in years, free from prophetic visions and momentarily unburdened by the crown that would soon rest upon her head.