He did love her once.

Oh, how he loved her in those early days, when she was still more Arthur's than his. It was the thrill of the illicit. Of knowing that not only would the kingdom be his, Catherine would be his as well. Knowing that he'd won.

He tired of her after he got her. Like so many men, Henry yearned for the chase more than the catching. And there were so many ladies willing to be caught by him.

He sees her again on his deathbed, amongst the others who had predeceased him.

She pays them no mind. Only turns her head and lances him with those sharp blue eyes of hers. Seeing him. Seeing through him. She'd always been able to peel away the many gilded layers to see what lay inside.

She is once again the girl she'd been when he loved her, slim and rosy-cheeked and lovely. And sad. Always so sad.

Seeing her like this, limned in gold like the queen she always believed herself to be, is like being pierced by so many poison-tipped arrows.

Catherine comes to him, kneels at the side of his bed. Lifts his hand and kisses his ring. Her auburn hair falls over her shoulder, brushes against his fevered skin like red-gold silk. The touch of her lips on his hand burns.

He welcomes the agony.