Work Text:
He heard the news before anyone else; that Margaret was dead. His informants had witnessed Alice More, her mother, fainting in the hallways of her estate, and he was told she now lay bedbound, wailing to God and her house servants. Extra payment, and he was told that she did not eat, and refused a doctor. His informants also reported that Thomas More spoke, but only in Latin, and only during mass, diligently kneeling before Christ, as always, his back to onlookers and gossips as he recited practiced hymns. He did his duty at church, then vanished, losing Thomas's men, who then wandered about the chapel like lost sheep. Thomas did not need extra payment to know that More would also starve himself.
His room had become dark and sour. Late evening brought silence, save for the scratching of Thomas's ever itchy pen onto paper. Meek crackles popped from the dying fireplace. He had hoped, deep in his heart, that all the night would bring him were the wails of foxes and the shuffling of branches against his windows, that it would be still and he would be left alone in that muggy stillness. That he would stay at home, where he belonged at this dire time, that he remained where he was needed most. He did not want to hear the lonely knock that suddenly ghosted his door, muted and pitiful, did not want to feel disbelief rise like bile in his throat as part of him concedes in abjection that yes, this would still happen, that in spite of everything, he still came.
His candle wavered, the floorboards creaked. It did not feel real when he opened the door. The visage of Thomas More, hunched in the doorway, shrunken into his furs, eyes puffy and red under the shadow of his cap, made Thomas's heart creak joylessly in pathetic admission as a sigh puffed out his nose, and he parted wordlessly to let the cloaked shape enter the room. ‘Why have you come to me?’ he wanted to say, ‘For your wife has lost a child, not I.’
Their affair was still wordless, as always, even as More sniffled through the dark. They did not undress on the made bed, but they did lay together, More's hat lost somewhere on the floorboards. He was curled in on himself like a dying animal in Thomas's lap, bony fingers clinging to Thomas's jerkin with such intensity, that it made him think it was more precious an article than it actually was. More choked on sputtered sobs, head buried in imported furs, muffling out half phrasings that Thomas wished he could understand like he could Latin. After a short time, he lost composure and wailed, his body convulsing wretchedly under layers of black.
He remembers the tidal wave of misery that washed over his soul when Grace died in his arms. Her face, pale as sugar and embalmed in sweat. He remembers little fingers curling around his own, so gentle and well practiced, even at the precipice of death. He will never forget the choked release of noiseless air that was Grace's final breath to the world, before her eyes glossed over, and she looked through his aged face into eternal Heaven. He wondered, briefly, if More saw his daughter die, if he saw her cheeks relax and mouth still and chest sink, then hoped to God he hadn't, for he wouldn't wish that haunting memory upon anybody.
No one was there to see him through the emptiness, bring him true comfort or consolement. Liz was with their children in the ground, the easy caresses of Johanne always felt too far away, too diluted with some other craving, and he was so preoccupied that Wolsey didn't suffer in his exile that he could never ask to be held by that man's gracious and forgiving warmth, not even once. He wanted to so badly, wanted to be held by him, and felt the eb of melancholy flow in his chest as he hugged More closer.
The branches scratched the windows as the wind picked up outside. The fireplace, barely aglow, released the occasional spit of popping charcoal. More remained curled in his lap, miserable, heavy sobs spasming in his chest and wracking fits through his feeble body. Thomas enveloped a great sleeve over the folds of More's black wool coat to stroke slow circles into his back, and nestled lips against grey hair where he whispered hushed shushes, but did not speak. Underneath his chin, he felt More move to readjust himself, and a lone hand came up to grasp at the embroidery of his shirt collar, the tips of cold fingers brushing his warm throat. The hand clutching his jerkin skirted lower to drape itself around his waist.
You insist we are strangers, Thomas thought, you swear by it in court. Yet you will not deny yourself this closeness? A closeness you reserve only for Cromwell, one you would not give to anyone else, even to your own mourning wife.
The room grows darker still, and night seeps into the room, shrouded in a cold chill. There is an incompleteness to More as Thomas raises them up before looking for the fallen cap. Strings of hair matt More's wet face, and Thomas gently strokes them away before placing it back on his head. More will not look at him, head tilted downward, eyes gazing at something unclearly, the whites of them streaked in red and puffy underneath. He hesitates to move, as if he wants to stay there and cry some more, breathing labourdly with arms hanging limply at his sides, yet Thomas goads him to the door anyway, for it is late and he does not want More's house asking questions. The wind groans outside, rattles a window pane. Before the world opens to them again, More shifts to lift Thomas's hand up with quivering bones, where he puts thin lips to the joints of calloused fingers, and kisses them with a closed mouth. Thomas does not know what he means to say. Then, like wafting candle smoke, More releases the hand, bows his head, and floats down the hallway and back into the gloom.
It is only then, once Thomas has locked himself back inside, when he is alone again amongst shuffling trees and animal calls, papers left unfinished about his desk, does he allow himself to sink under the weight of his own personal sorrow, and balls a fist up to his mouth, now opened in a silent cry.
At his bedside, kept warm with the ghosts of their bodies, Thomas prays. He hopes God will hear him through the tears, that he will spare Thomas More any further misery, for a man like that, despite all his cruelties, despite his crimes, does not deserve to be needlessly drowned under an endless ocean of grief.
That night, while he sleeps, every now and then, Thomas is awoken, and chokes on air.