FIC: Silence is Golden (Cromwell/Cranmer)
May. 23rd, 2010 10:15 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
linndechirTitle: Silence Is Golden
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
linndechir
Fandom: history/The Tudors (works for both, but look-wise I had the actors from The Tudors in mind)
Pairing: Thomas Cromwell/Thomas Cranmer
Rating: PG-13
Words: 918
Summary: They never talked about it, because words could only condemn them.
Author’s Note: I’ve been wanting to write about these two for ages, but even after some research Cranmer remains rather mysterious, and I still don't really dare to write a longer fic about them. So, first attempt to write them; all sorts of feedback and criticism are more than welcome.
There was something unusually subdued about these meetings: no welcoming words, no heartfelt smiles, no firm handshakes, no long hours spent in animated discussions, no exchange of private thoughts. The gentle, natural familiarity they usually felt was missing on these particular nights, when everything was quiet and hushed, when eyes did not dare to meet, hands seemed afraid even to brush, cheeks were flushed in heat and shame.
No word was spoken when the heavy door opened just enough to let the secret visitor in, a split second of eye contact before they both looked away. They never talked about this, no hidden sign or agreement indicated that this should be any different from their more appropriately shared evenings, and yet somehow they always knew which evenings were meant for talking, and which ones for this other thing that neither dared to name.
Their steps were painfully loud on the way to the bedroom, lit only by two candles. They were too ashamed to do this in bright light, and yet complete darkness would only serve to remind them even more of how despicable this was.
Shy eyes watched as trembling fingers started to remove their wearer’s clothes, and only when the first inches of pale skin gleamed in the candlelight, only when both Archbishop and Secretary were cast aside with their heavy robes did the two men dare to come closer, hesitating once more, as if they had not done this dozens of times before, as if it shouldn’t become easier over time. Only the protesting words of their first nights were missing, they had both long realised that they couldn’t bring themselves to stop. But the guilt was still there, the shame, the desperation that touches could only delay, never heal.
A deep intake of breath, parted lips venturing the first shy smile when Cranmer finally looked at Cromwell, eyes asking for permission that was given in an almost invisible nod, an invitation, a pre-emptive gesture of forgiveness for an act that could not, should not be forgiven. Cranmer leant in ever so slowly, every night as awkward as the first, but only until that sinful, blissful moment when their lips met and left no room for doubts.
Hands slid under wide, white shirts, exploring and so soon remembering where to touch, where to caress and where to tweak to make a pulse quicken under soft skin, to coax the first moans from one mouth into another. They fumbled with too many buttons and ties of clothes that suddenly seemed needlessly complicated. Cromwell laughed a little, the smile breaking through the usual composure of his face, a bitter laugh as if he marvelled at how worldly and mean this felt, this almost childish struggle against mere fabric, but the smile turned into one of relief when the last piece of cloth touched the floor, when nothing was left between their chests and their groins as they embraced, lips meeting again, more securely this time, knowingly, pleadingly.
Cranmer’s blue eyes were wide with a joy that was almost boyish in its brightness, and still he would not look at Cromwell, but he smiled as his face was covered with reverent kisses, he smiled as gentle, firm hands guided him down on the bed, as that warm, familiar body covered his. They still would have blushed had they ever paused for a moment, but shame was a meagre opponent for the sight of a desired body sweating in the candlelight, of a beloved face bestowing kisses on sensitised skin. The pleasure was so overwhelming it seemed anything but real and worldly and mean, a pleasure so ecstatic that, God forgive them, it had to be heavenly, for surely such bliss could never have been meant for this realm.
As they lay entangled in each other and in the sheets, fingertips drawing lines and forbidden words on tainted skin, lips refusing to part, loosely resting on each other even as they gasped for air - as they lay there, all was well for the shortest of moments. They looked at each other, eyes and hands whispering all these things that their lips could not, not even now. I love you, Thomas, and it couldn’t, shouldn’t feel so good just to think it, knowing that it was not the love between two friends, and not the love between man and wife, knowing that it was so much more, that it was everything, that it was too much for this world of flesh and sin and guilt.
So they merely gazed at each other in silence, smiling until the last ounce of pleasure washed out of their tired bodies and left them empty and cold, not sure whether to cling to each other or to flee this damnable embrace. Cranmer bit his bottom lip, flushed and swollen already from more welcome bites, but when he moved to sit up Cromwell’s arms held him down, pulled him close again.
“Don’t leave tonight,” Cromwell whispered hoarsely - the first words either of them spoke that were more than the incoherent pleas of lust-riddled minds. Cranmer paused, for why would he return to his own cold bed? As if it would change anything to sneak out now, as if it would mean anything except having to bear the guilt alone without the comfort. So he settled back into welcoming arms and closed his eyes, and just for one night, like so often before, he refused to believe that sin could make a man so happy.
Author:
linndechir Fandom: history/The Tudors (works for both, but look-wise I had the actors from The Tudors in mind)
Pairing: Thomas Cromwell/Thomas Cranmer
Rating: PG-13
Words: 918
Summary: They never talked about it, because words could only condemn them.
Author’s Note: I’ve been wanting to write about these two for ages, but even after some research Cranmer remains rather mysterious, and I still don't really dare to write a longer fic about them. So, first attempt to write them; all sorts of feedback and criticism are more than welcome.
There was something unusually subdued about these meetings: no welcoming words, no heartfelt smiles, no firm handshakes, no long hours spent in animated discussions, no exchange of private thoughts. The gentle, natural familiarity they usually felt was missing on these particular nights, when everything was quiet and hushed, when eyes did not dare to meet, hands seemed afraid even to brush, cheeks were flushed in heat and shame.
No word was spoken when the heavy door opened just enough to let the secret visitor in, a split second of eye contact before they both looked away. They never talked about this, no hidden sign or agreement indicated that this should be any different from their more appropriately shared evenings, and yet somehow they always knew which evenings were meant for talking, and which ones for this other thing that neither dared to name.
Their steps were painfully loud on the way to the bedroom, lit only by two candles. They were too ashamed to do this in bright light, and yet complete darkness would only serve to remind them even more of how despicable this was.
Shy eyes watched as trembling fingers started to remove their wearer’s clothes, and only when the first inches of pale skin gleamed in the candlelight, only when both Archbishop and Secretary were cast aside with their heavy robes did the two men dare to come closer, hesitating once more, as if they had not done this dozens of times before, as if it shouldn’t become easier over time. Only the protesting words of their first nights were missing, they had both long realised that they couldn’t bring themselves to stop. But the guilt was still there, the shame, the desperation that touches could only delay, never heal.
A deep intake of breath, parted lips venturing the first shy smile when Cranmer finally looked at Cromwell, eyes asking for permission that was given in an almost invisible nod, an invitation, a pre-emptive gesture of forgiveness for an act that could not, should not be forgiven. Cranmer leant in ever so slowly, every night as awkward as the first, but only until that sinful, blissful moment when their lips met and left no room for doubts.
Hands slid under wide, white shirts, exploring and so soon remembering where to touch, where to caress and where to tweak to make a pulse quicken under soft skin, to coax the first moans from one mouth into another. They fumbled with too many buttons and ties of clothes that suddenly seemed needlessly complicated. Cromwell laughed a little, the smile breaking through the usual composure of his face, a bitter laugh as if he marvelled at how worldly and mean this felt, this almost childish struggle against mere fabric, but the smile turned into one of relief when the last piece of cloth touched the floor, when nothing was left between their chests and their groins as they embraced, lips meeting again, more securely this time, knowingly, pleadingly.
Cranmer’s blue eyes were wide with a joy that was almost boyish in its brightness, and still he would not look at Cromwell, but he smiled as his face was covered with reverent kisses, he smiled as gentle, firm hands guided him down on the bed, as that warm, familiar body covered his. They still would have blushed had they ever paused for a moment, but shame was a meagre opponent for the sight of a desired body sweating in the candlelight, of a beloved face bestowing kisses on sensitised skin. The pleasure was so overwhelming it seemed anything but real and worldly and mean, a pleasure so ecstatic that, God forgive them, it had to be heavenly, for surely such bliss could never have been meant for this realm.
As they lay entangled in each other and in the sheets, fingertips drawing lines and forbidden words on tainted skin, lips refusing to part, loosely resting on each other even as they gasped for air - as they lay there, all was well for the shortest of moments. They looked at each other, eyes and hands whispering all these things that their lips could not, not even now. I love you, Thomas, and it couldn’t, shouldn’t feel so good just to think it, knowing that it was not the love between two friends, and not the love between man and wife, knowing that it was so much more, that it was everything, that it was too much for this world of flesh and sin and guilt.
So they merely gazed at each other in silence, smiling until the last ounce of pleasure washed out of their tired bodies and left them empty and cold, not sure whether to cling to each other or to flee this damnable embrace. Cranmer bit his bottom lip, flushed and swollen already from more welcome bites, but when he moved to sit up Cromwell’s arms held him down, pulled him close again.
“Don’t leave tonight,” Cromwell whispered hoarsely - the first words either of them spoke that were more than the incoherent pleas of lust-riddled minds. Cranmer paused, for why would he return to his own cold bed? As if it would change anything to sneak out now, as if it would mean anything except having to bear the guilt alone without the comfort. So he settled back into welcoming arms and closed his eyes, and just for one night, like so often before, he refused to believe that sin could make a man so happy.
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ignore the anon version of this
Date: 2010-05-25 06:41 pm (UTC)Following the progression of Cranmer's addresses to Cromwell is also interesting. It goes from "Master Secretary" to "My dear master secretary" to "my dear friend" etc. etc.
When I get home I can look up my essay and notes for it and see what I can find for their addresses to each other.
I remember one from 1532/33 - the year of Anne's fall - where Cranmer is writing to Crum and begins with no address. Just goes right into the letter and is requesting help for a friend or something equally mundane and then BAM he begins grilling Crum about the rumors concerning Anne. It's a rather queer letter when compared to the rest of their usual correspondence.
Look up "Miscellaneous writings and letters of Thomas Cranmer" on google books. The 1846 edition is the one I used. Cranmer refers to Cromwell as both "Cromwell" and "Crumwell" and of course as "Master Secretary" and the like.
Henry almost immediately regretted offing Crum. Like it hit him pretty quick that Crum was one of his best advisers. He rued the day he executed him for the rest of his life. Serves him right, of course.
Being Secretary to Henry VIII was like being a pope in the 300/400's - you're almost guaranteed to die on the job earlier than usual.
The heresy inquiry is my favorite story.
Henry: You're a fair judge, you judge it master Cranmer.
Cranmer: ...but it's an inquiry against myself!
Henry: Yep.
Cranmer: That's not impartial judgment!
Henry: This is Tudor England, man! Impartial judgment doesn't exist!
Yeah for season 4 they've just had Brandon and the Seymour brothers fill in the job. Though for the interrogation of Kitty Howard they had Gardiner do it! I was annoyed that they had him take Cranmer's roll. They were opposites!
See it made sense for him not to be there in season 3 - Cran was laying low then anyway due to the 6 articles and such. But season 4! Come on! Cranmer was taking full advantage of Henry's bipolarness concerning religion to push through protestant legislation.
I agree, they should have had someone else come in. It would have been nice to have had him.
Lol. Surprise!Latimer or a Surprise!Fox. Essentially Surprise!Reformer.
Re: ignore the anon version of this
Date: 2010-05-26 03:58 pm (UTC)I won't even comment on that. It just makes me very happy. :D
I'd love to see the stuff you wrote about them, it all sounds very interesting. :D
Aaaah, that's great. I've also seen that one of our libraries actually has said 1846 edition, if I ever want to stick my nose into the real book, but a pdf is rather practical as well. :) Even if most of his letters are business-related, the mere fact that he trusted Crum so much in this regard is reason enough to have a look.
At some point Henry should have realised that it's stupid to KILL people right away. It would be so much more sensible just to put them away if they annoy you, and get them back out when you need them again. But either way, that just means that an AU with Crum surviving wouldn't be all that absurd. ^^
Bwahaha, I always love your dialogue snippets. I can just about see Cranmer's completely dumbfounded expression. Make that everyone's dumbfounded expression when they hear about it. Pity Henry didn't also ask Crum to lead the enquiry against himself. I just wonder how this episode continued. Did Henry just forget about it, or did he actually expect Cranmer to lead some sort of pseudo-enquiry and tell him about it?
I think I've spent all of season 4 so far grumbling, "stupid Gardiner". It doesn't help that show!Gardiner is utterly uninteresting and boring as a character.
Yeah, but even if he was keeping his head down they could at least have given him occasional guest appearances, if only to remind people that he didn't suddenly die, like so many other people at the time. And, yes, especially in season 4 they should at least have hinted at the fact that he was still there and actually doing something. Since they already gave a younger Cranmer a beard, they could have just stuck a grey beard on the new actor and pretend that he's just older now and therefore looking different or something. ;) I still would whine about Hans Matheson disappearing, but at least in the show it would all make more sense.
Surprise!Reformer, yep. See, those evil, devious reformers just pop out of nothing when you least expect them.
Re: ignore the anon version of this
Date: 2010-05-26 05:00 pm (UTC)I think Henry did expect that. I mean...one can assume he did. I've never heard the rest of the story, actually. I'll have to go get my hands on the Diarmaid Maccullugh (sp?) bio - he'll have have the ending of that fiasco. xD
Norfolk: So I say we charge him for heresy!
Henry: Excellent, and you'll have an inquiry?
Gardiner: But of course.
Henry: Good, good. I've got someone to head it for you. And specialist in the field of Lutheran heresies.
Norfolk: Oh, your majesty?
Henry: Thomas Cranmer, have you heard of him? He's fairly well known...
Norfolk: ... er ...-_-
Gardiner: o.O;
Cranmer: ...hi?
Henry: ^.^
Yeah, they didn't do very well with Gardiner. Though, he was a bit of a stick in the mud so there really isn't much you can do with him. It's just much more fun if Cranmer's there since then they can argue about theology and Cranmer will invite him over for supper to make it up to him since he'll feel bad about their argument and Gardiner will feel obliged to say yes because that's common courtesy and it will be a mess.
A large, evangelical, catholic, oh shit is there a real presence in the Eucharist, iconoclasm! iconoclasm!, mess.
Yeah, at the very least they ought to have mentioned him. Hell, Wolsey still gets the odd mention and he died way back at season 1. xD
no subject
Date: 2010-05-26 05:10 pm (UTC)It's the kind of anecdotes that's so amusing in the beginning that everyone just forgets about the rest. But, again, I love your version. show!Cranmer makes me imagine Henry ruffling Cran's hair. No, but seriously, sometimes I wonder if Henry didn't just enjoy making fun of everything every once in a while. It's like he's walking around with a 16th century equivalent of LULZ written all over his face. ;) I just can't for my life imagine Cranmer leading an enquiry against himself. I mean, how would that even work? He could interrogate himself in a schizophrenic Gollum-way or something.
I suppose they didn't want too detailed arguments about theology in the show, assuming the audience is stupid. Still, maybe I'm mistaken, but as far as I remember there was a bit more theology and politics in the first seasons. Lately it's really just about Henry wanting to do this or that woman without any added background.
Ah, Wolsey. You know, when I watched the show I was rather sad to see Wolsey go, I rather liked him, but that was before Cromwell took over in season 2 and was even more fun (which surprised me, because a friend who had watched the show before me went on ranting about how she hated show!Crum, for whatever reasons).