23rd April, 2011; London, England
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"Do you remember our mother?"
From the corner of his eye, he can see Scotland raise one eyebrow questioningly. "What's made you think of that?"
Today is not England's true birthday – if he even has one – but he finds that his mind always wanders down old roads upon it, nevertheless. Still, he had not been aware of the question forming until it spilt from his lips.
"Sometimes, I think I do," Wales says from England's other side, his voice soft and blurred by too much brandy. The bottle is stood on the ground between him and England, sinking gently into the damp grass beneath it. It had been a gift, and the first England can remember receiving on this day for many years. "But I really can't be sure."
Scotland, who insists at times that his memory is a clear line which continues unbroken from the moment he first drew breath to the present, nods. "That far back, everything's just a fog."
That fog is completely impenetrable to England. The fae insist that before England, before even Albion or the one-of-many he began life as, he was something more insubstantial; a force and movement and vague awareness born from his land's dreaming, but he does not remember that, either. He remembers nothing until human minds gave him human form, and that human form impressed human thoughts – hunger and want and memory – and even those came slowly.
"But she did exist?" England asks.
"Aye." Scotland draws one finger through the air, ascribing complex sigils which flare blazing crimson momentarily before dissolving into a puff of grey smoke and a lingering smell of sulphur. They're charms for remembrance and the clearing of heads, England recognises, but they do not lift the frown that has settled darkly on Scotland's face. "I'm sure of that."
England is the child of many fathers, but they all came after. After the fog and confusion, and whatever catastrophe befell the one who bore him which left him to the tender mercies of Scotland's inexpert care. He was so young, England often forgets that in the haze of resentment and animosity that clouds every early recollection of his brother, and ill-equipped to raise children and himself at the same time. Despite that understanding, that particular wound is so old, cutting so deeply through the very core of him, that he doubts it will ever heal. It festers still with the poison introduced by the flight from Rome, which his child's understanding perceived as a betrayal.
"I'll have to take your word it," Wales says, stretching out his legs, toes pointing in towards each other and then away as he rolls his heels across the grass. "What are we doing out here anyway, Lloegr? Not that I'm complaining," he adds hastily. "It's your sort-of-birthday, and you can do what you want, I guess."
England shrugs, shakes his head. This might not be the anniversary of his birth, but still it marks the passing of another year, and he cannot stop his thoughts spooling back to their very beginning. It's a dizzying process – and he can't help but wonder if this is what it's like for humans; to feel the passage of time so keenly – and he needs the direct connection to his land to steady him. It's not much, just a small patch of lawn which makes up less than half of his already miniscule back garden, but it's enough. He presses his palms down against the turf, and feels the comforting energy, as familiar in rhythm as his own heartbeat, ebb and flow against and through his skin.
Scotland leans around England's back and picks up the brandy. "Here, drink some more of that," he says, passing it to Wales. "Give your mouth something else to do."
It's an uncharacteristically thoughtful gesture, though Scotland does not acknowledge it in any way when England turns to look at him. His head is tipped back, eyes fixed on the rapidly darkening sky to watch the fae as they wheel overhead, filling the air with streaks of their bright light until it looks like the Perseids come three months early. It seems strange that they have congregated in the open when they usually avoid his brothers so assiduously, and stranger still to see Scotland acknowledge their presence.
A lot has changed in a year, more than England has grown used to of late and he supposes that's why his thoughts have journeyed back even further than is usual, trying to make sense of it. He still hasn't finished processing what those changes mean for him, for them, but he can't bring himself to talk about it with his brothers, and it seems more sensible not to try, anyway. They've always got along better in the quiet places without words to complicate matters.
The glass of the brandy bottle holds a ghost of his brother's warmth long after Wales presses it into England's hand, and the spirit inside is even warmer – thick, golden, and incredibly rich – heating him through to the very tips of his chill-numbed fingers as he drinks a private toast to the formless memory of his long-lost mother.