1587; Edinburgh, Scotland
-
France's next visit to his country is both unanticipated and unannounced, and Scotland is first alerted to it in the old way by the stentorious alarm calls of his fae and the dizzying eddies of magic he stirs with his passing, washing across the land.
The progress of his small retinue is both stately and slow which should grant Scotland ample time to prepare for their meeting, but it does not.
His days are filled with doubts, his nights so disturbed by questions that he cannot snatch more than a few scattered hours of sleep from them, and thus his temper is far from phlegmatic when he does greet France's eventual arrival.
France's dress is sombre, his demeanour uncharacteristically subdued, and if he notices the tired stumble of Scotland's voice when he welcomes him, then Scotland sees no sign of it, as his expression remains unvaryingly grave throughout.
Afterwards, France begs pardon for his intrusion then asks if he might be permitted to speak to Scotland in private.
So Scotland leads him up to his own chambers, where they sit beside the hearth and drink wine for a half hour or more without a single word being exchanged between them.
"I wanted to offer you my condolences," France says suddenly, without preamble and without looking up from his cup.
Scotland frowns at him, puzzled. "You already did," he says. "And I thank you for them."
A very pretty letter it had been, too; elegantly phrased platitudes written in a fine and steady hand. A full page taken to say nothing of substance, but Scotland had read it four times through, regardless, before carefully storing it away. Over all the many years of their acquaintance, France had written to him personally on only a handful of occasions, so the letter was a precious thing for all that it was as dry and unfeeling as any correspondence France had penned instead for the eyes of Scotland's king.
"Écosse..." France frowns as well, and then rubs at brow as if it pains him. "I wanted to offer them in person."
An even prettier sentiment, and Scotland can think of no better response to it besides another, "Thank you."
France makes no further comment for a while, and his silence gives Scotland time to reflect and then decide that this visit had not been paid for his benefit, but out of respect for his departed queen. She had been a great favourite at the French court, and had loved France dearly, which Scotland can hardly fault her for. Likely France had loved her, too, in his turn.
"You will miss her," France says, his voice thinning and strained. His free hand tightens in his lap, briefly forming a fist before flattening out again.
"Aye," Scotland says because there's nothing else to say. He has mourned all of his rulers when they passed, and remembers them still – the good and the ill – but no more than is proper or fitting. He has a new king now, who he must perforce give all of his heart, or at least be seen to have done.
He thinks France will miss her in a different way, however; as a friend and not as a kingdom. As someone who was fortunate enough to watch her grow from a child into womanhood.
France's eyes are damp, tears hanging trapped and glistening in his lower lashes.
"She wanted to be buried in France," Scotland says, hoping that it might be of some small comfort to the other nation.
"And I would have accepted her gladly," France says with a watery smile. "But I suppose she will be buried here?"
"England's queen refuses to release her to us. She'll be laid to rest down there somewhere, I shouldn't wonder."
France's response is both shockingly swift and so unexpected that Scotland has neither the presence of mind nor the opportunity to protest before his hand is caught up and a kiss pressed to his knuckles as has not happened since they were children together, and France was play-acting at chivalry.
"Écosse..." France says again, and his breath is even warmer than his lips had been, raising a prickling sweat to Scotland's skin as it gusts over it.
But if he had any comfort of his own to share, it is not forthcoming. He merely repeats the name for a third time, and then loosens his grip on Scotland's hand, letting it drop.
He rises to his feet stiffly, gives a tight bow, and then makes his farewells in a distant tone that has not a solitary speck of its former compassion or ardour remaining to it.
He is gone before Scotland has chance to speak his own fare-thee-well in return.
-
-
1696; Edinburgh, Scotland
-
When Scotland opens the door to his chambers at his brother's knock, England greets him with the opinion that: "You look like you should be in the ground already."
Scotland bows mockingly deep. "As ever, your concern for my well-being touches me more than I could ever say, Sasainn."
England curls his top lip in a snarl, and doesn't wait for an invitation to enter before barging past Scotland and into his rooms. He takes a swift turn around them, casting a censorious eye over Scotland's few possessions, and then comes to a halt by the mullioned window.
There situated, he arranges himself with what seems to be deliberate artifice so that the last light of the dying day catches on the rich embroidery decorating his long coat, making it shimmer. It highlights the downy hair on his cheeks too, when he turns his head to look over his shoulder at Scotland, burnishing his face with a golden patina.
"When did you eat last?" he asks.
Scotland honestly cannot recall. He does not need to, and when his will is strong enough, he can persuade himself that he does not want to, either. That has become ever harder of late, as the habit of hunger claws at his belly just as surely his people's gnaws away at his strength. Last years harvest had been particularly poor, food prices have soared and so many are starving or fleeing his shores in search of better living that he is, he's certain, fast becoming but a shadow of his former self.
He refuses to let England make him feel ashamed of his gaunt cheeks and ashen complexion, however, and he stands up as straight and tall as the ache in his joints will allow, and meets his brother's gaze with a steady eye.
"Why does it matter?"
"I know you find it hard to believe, but I do care what becomes of you. Which is more than can be said of some."
"And what, exactly, do you mean by that?" Scotland asks, even though he thinks the small smile playing about England's lips is probably answer enough on its own.
England's smile grows, sharp and spiteful. "I told you that the frog couldn't be relied upon, didn't I? All those years of you throwing yourself on other people's swords for him, and where is he now, when your need is at its greatest?"
Between the war and France's turn towards protectionism, there is precious little aid finding its way to Scotland's country now from the continent. Scotland has never thought to blame the kingdom himself for any of it, however.
"It's all politicking at the end of the day, isn't it?" Scotland says, shrugging. "And he has his own problems to worry about, besides."
"Of course," England purrs in a conciliatory tone. "Of course he would be bringing help to your poor, beleaguered people with his own hands if they weren't so tied. I've no doubt he tells you as much with a great deal of conviction, at least."
Scotland has not heard a single word from France for many years. He shifts his weight uneasily.
"So what if he has?" he asks, neither wanting to confirm England's speculations or, especially, deny them, as they are far more charitable than the truth, no matter how unkindly they were spoken. "What would you have him do instead, England? He can no more go against the wishes of his king than we could defy ours."
"And I wouldn't expect him to. It simply saddens me, my dear brother, that you cannot call on the succour of that grand alliance of yours in this time of need."
His doleful expression is unconvincing, and Scotland wants to punch it straight off his face. He restrains himself, though, because he fears that he has grown weak enough that he could not fell his brother in one blow as he used to, or long withstand his inevitable retaliation thereafter.
"The alliance no longer stands, as well you know."
"It slipped my mind but for a moment. My apologies." England taps at his temple, as though scolding himself for his forgetfulness. "But you do have other friends still. And some are much closer to hand."
His smile turns beatific, and Scotland snorts roughly. "Are you trying to tell me you're one of them?"
"I could be the best of them," England says, rushing forward to clasp at Scotland's shoulders. His eyes are shining with a zealot's light. "I could give you all the help you need, Scotland."
The union again, no doubt. Scotland shakes his head.
"I don't want your kind of help, England."
"Maybe not now," England says, his grip tightening slightly, "but I wouldn't be surprised if you're singing a different tune before long."
-
-
Notes:
-
1587: Mary, Queen of Scots died this year, executed in England after being implicated in a plot to assassinate Elizabeth I. Mary was sent to France at the age of five, after marriage was arranged between her and the French king's three year old son. She spent thirteen years at the French court, where she was a great favourite.
-
1696: One of the Seven Ill Years, a national famine in Scotland. It was caused, in part, by a shift towards protectionism in France, causing a slump in trade, and four years of failed harvests. This famine was one of the factors leading to the eventual union of Scotland with England in 1707.
