Hello again! Thank you for commenting ^.^ it really made my day. I'll try to update often, at least once a week. But here's the next chapter! Enjoy!
Love lost...Great Britain: April 28, 1603
The funeral procession made it's way slowly to Westminster Abbey. In front was a hearse pulled by veiled horses. It was followed by a large mass of English men, women and children.
Walking besides the hearse was a blonde man, with emerald eyes and bushy eyebrows. His armor shining dully in the predictably muddy english weather.
Around him, the people of England were crying. From windows, homes and from those in the street and eternal howl of pain echoed through England.
No one knew how their cries tore at the blond knight. His emeralds had lost their luster, even he knew that. It hurt, terribly. He wanted nothing more than to crumple to the ground, like he had that morning, and cry with his people.
But he kept his feet moving. He'd promised that he'd be strong. And as much as it hurt, he didn't want to show that broken side. That vulnerable part of his heart.
He tried to keep his thoughts on the funeral, on them putting her in the unforgiving cold ground. But his mind wondered to what had ultimately brought him there. To that morning.
Richmond palace: March 24, 1603 2-3 a.m.
Britain woke with a start. His chest ached and his heart rapidly beat against his chest. His thoughts quickly turned to the woman on the other side of the castle. The word 'no' repeating in his head.
He sat up in bed only to fall painfully back into the pillows. His head pounded and his limbs felt like they were burning. Every twitch sent resounding complaints to the English men's body.
But he couldn't let her die alone.
He yelped in pain as he forced himself out of the bed and stumbled into the hallway. Trailing one hand against the wall for support and the other clutching at his side as it protested movement.
Britain stumbled to where a flight of stairs mocked him. "Blast it all." he gasped. He held the banister but only got three steps down before he doubled over in complete agony. He tumbled to the bottom of the flight of stairs and curled up.
Tears stained the carpet as the Brit cursed loudly. Keeping one hand at his side he pushed himself up and started crawling up the second flight of stairs. The only arm supporting him threatened to give the entire way and his legs sent painful shocks with every kick.
At long last he made it to her door, smiling in skull splitting victory, England reached up for the door knob.
She have him by her side.
His heart dropped. An ache unknown by any other filled his whole being. His body slumped to the ground and let the pain have him. He howled in despair at his disbelief.
The door was locked.
She'd be alone...
Crumpled and broken on the ground, Britain's tears cascaded down his face. his head pounded, his limbs were on fire with agony, his heart felt as if it was going to burst, his eyes wanted to close, close and never open again.
England laid on his bed, eyes boring into the ceiling. His heart still ached with his people, but he'd known for a while that she was going to leave. He just wasn't as ready for it as he thought.
On the table next to him there were two pieces of paper, a quill and some ink. One paper was only half completed, addressed to France. The other looked to be a formal introduction from his new boss, James IV of Scotland. The last line expressed his desire to be as good as his predecessor.
That particular line still brought a faint smile to England's lips. That was a pointless goal. He'd never be as good as her.
No one could be as good as Elizabeth.