King Henry VII is a man who knows how easily a kingship can be toppled, and has the determination to prevent it like England has never seen before. He is-, he cannot deny, he is enamored with the man. Henry is ruthless, and efficient, and the strongest king England has had in a long, long time. And England feels stronger for it. He has not grown in awhile, a long while, but under Henry he feels himself stretch just a little taller. Feels the reediness go out of his limbs, muscle definition where previously there was little. The weight of court and crown and human affairs feels a little less heavy, and feels a little more like it's doing what it's supposed to. Making him stronger.
The only issue he has with Henry, really, is his preoccupation with appeasing the Welsh and their silly notions of supremacy.
There seems to be a prevalent belief among the people of Wales that King Henry will make good on his Welsh roots, and that he is Cymry's Mab Darogan, the hero prophesized to claim the entire isle for the Welsh. England does not think Wales his brother is foolish enough to hold any stock in the words, but plenty of Welsh people seem to see Henry's ascension to the throne as fulfillment of the prophecy. That through him, the Welsh have gained control over the kingdom, over the English, and have taken the title of the true rulers of Britain. It would be laughable, if it didn't irritate England so.
Because they invoke his name, his Once and Future King Arthur, numerous times in their assertions. They claim that King Arthur is their king, a Welsh king, and that England is the power that he will drive out when he returns. Which is just one of the many reasons England can't stand to be around Wales, and is as dismissive of him as possible. It doesn't help that King Henry continues to cater to these Welsh delusions. He's already won the crown- he doesn't need to pander to them for support anymore.
England has no qualms with his King naming his first son and heir Arthur, but it sours it, knowing that he named him thus to gratify his Welsh followers. To feed their hopes of King Arthur ascending to the throne as a Welsh king, overlord of the English. England's sour feeling only worsens when the Prince Arthur does his very best to reverse some of the oppressive laws keeping the Welsh in check, pushing his powers as Prince of Wales as far as he can bend them. Everything about him, everything he does, rubs England the wrong way.
He feels a perverse kind of relief when the Prince dies before he can be crowned. He also feels, somewhat illogically, that he has once again won a victory over Cymry. There will be no 'Welsh' King Arthur ascending the throne of England after all.
That small blip nonewithstanding, England enjoys King Henry VII's kingship, as he hasn't enjoyed a kingship in a long while. He mourns him genuinely when he dies, and hopes that Henry his son, who has only been heir a short while, is up to the task.
Henry quickly proves himself to be ruthless, like his father before him, and swift in his rooting out of any potential roots of weakness to his kingship. He rises even higher in England's esteem by invading France.
Desperately, France pulls up that cursed, thrice-damned, blasted Auld Alliance, and convinces the king of Scotland to invade England while Henry is away. But Scotland is no match for England, not anymore, no matter what he might think, and the King of Scotland is killed in battle. The Scottish invasion is short, and barely notable.
Regrettably, the invasion of France is also short-lived. A new Pope comes to power, and insists on peace between the Christian nations. France is all too happy to concede. England sulks.
It really is irritating, England thinks, how one's every move must be approved and stamped by a fat old codger in Italy, because of the God they all swear to serve. England has known many gods in his time alive, and the Christian one seems the most demanding, by virtue of negatively affecting England's ability to kick France in the balls. It's maddening.
The peace goes through, or makes spirited attempts to, and King Henry and King Francis meet near Calais for diplomacy and a fortnight of festivities. With a backdrop of ornate, dazzling tents, and the sounds of 'friendly' jousting competition echoing in the background, England and France meet face to face for the first time since the burning of that girl. Between them sits a bottle of wine and a distance of centuries.
"France," England says, as amiably as he can manage, which is not very.
"England," says France, in a tone quite an impressive number of levels above murderous. He's managed to slap a perfectly lovely smile on his face, dripping with polite welcome. It's full of teeth, which reminds England of their old days. The ones that involved a lot of teeth embedded in forearms. England misses those days.
"You have quite," France's words are bitten out, face still stretched in a smile, "The fiery little Welshman leading you, do you not? I'm certain you're very pleased with this Tudor family, and all they've accomplished. It's nice to see you've made up with your brother well enough to let him pick you up by the bootstraps and give you a proper monarchy at last."
The barest bit of cordial smile that England had forced onto his lips drops away entirely. There's a moment, a long moment, where his mind goes blank, where rage strips away all thought of retort or response. His stomach twists so violently that bile fills his mouth, and his next moments are spent swallowing thickly, while trying to stop his entire body from trembling with anger.
France always did have a talent for hitting England's weak points with an assassin like precision.
It takes far too long for England to gather himself for a reply, and he knows it, and France knows it, smirking like a bloody cat. But he sets his jaw and lifts his chin anyways.
"I assure you," England snarls, completely failing to inject false pleasantry into his voice, "The Tudors are quite English. Their success is a reflection of my own power, and no one else's. And don't concern yourself with Wales. It's bad enough you insist on sticking a hand up Scotland's skirt every bloody chance you get."
"It's a kilt, not a skirt, you'd know that if you stopped trying to kill him long enough to have a conversation," France sniffs, "Or made an attempt to show him any kind of respect."
"I didn't realize we'd come here to discuss the rebellious barbarians infesting my island," England spits, "Just get to the groveling, so we can go back to our kings and report that we discussed peace, as promised."
"As usual, your definition of 'peace' is slightly flawed," France replies haughtily, "It reeks suspiciously of unreasonable concessions and English brutality. I'm sure you're pleased your new dynasty is so fond of red; you needn't worry so much about getting out the bloodstains."
"Just because you enjoy milksops as monarchs does not mean I need to consign myself to the same," England sneers. "It's disgusting, how you hide behind the Pope to avoid war."
"Christian nations shouldn't fight," France says, in a nearly singsong voice, "That pagan blood certainly runs deep within you, doesn't it? If you don't like it, I don't see why you don't just clear out of the domain of Christ altogether. Go on, say what you think of the Pope to his face. See how your proud 'English' king fairs against a united Christian Europe."
"'A united Christian Europe', England repeats, a little smile quirking his lips. "That's not what I'm hearing. I'm hearing some portly upstart is causing quite a bit of problems for our dearest Holy Rome. Christian unity is not quite what it used to be, hm?"
France scowls. England preens. They've each won a round, this meeting.
As a rule, England is neither here nor there with religion. His people feel it strongly, their love and affection for Christ, and his God. But he has known many Gods, his mother's Gods, his father's Gods, the Gods of the Viking invaders, the Gods of the Saxons, and the Gods of the most downtrodden and unrecognized of his people, Gods tied up and nearly indistinguishable from the Fair Folk.
And he is aware, of course, that he himself. He, as a Nation, and all those like him, are akin to Gods in many, many ways. He does not disbelieve in the God of the Christians, but he has too much of a medley within him to be comfortable with being utterly beholden to him. Especially if his chosen representative on earth is really an Italian man with more money and alcohol than anyone preaching against the sins of possession and vice ought to have. Having the church on your side helps, frequently, in justifying conquest, but the institution and its leaders can make themselves an unbelievable nuisance in the blink of an eye. England is happy to have them at a distance.
He is amused then, by the absolute chaos that is rapidly seeding itself in the belly of the continent. A religious Reformation, starting in the bowels of that young Empire, the Holy Rome himself, and rippling outwards with a speed that is both alarming, and amusing. Christianity splintering into Catholic and Protestant, and then splintering even more, tearing the Nations of Europe apart. England is grateful, again, for his channel, and the way in which it is so much harder for continental violence to seep into his island.
And in any case, he is preoccupied with his own feelings of unease, deep within himself. Something is going to happen, in his own Nation, within his own borders, and it's going to change things. He can feel it.
It is only when King Henry starts writing frantic letters to the Pope, utterly consumed with the idea of divorce, that England begins to suspect that the change he has been sensing might come in on the tide of the religious Reformation, and that he may not be so far removed from the problems of the continent as he once thought.
But the problem seems self-contained, initially. King Henry VII wants to divorce his wife due to her failure to produce a son, and needs Papal permission to do so.
Queen Catherine is not an unpleasant woman, England has no quarrel with her, personally, but he is discomfited, as his king is, by the lack of a male heir. It is less to do with England's belief in the inherent weakness of woman, and more to do with his absolute hatred of succession quarrels and civil war. A strong male heir is the best thing to avert such disputes. A female heir will have rumblings, pretenders, men with dubious familial relations to the royal family crawling out of the woodwork in order to lay claim in the place of a woman. And, heaven forbid, most of these upstarts will probably come from Wales, distant Tewdwrs.
And so, while England has nothing against her personally, having proven herself to be absolutely incapable of giving male children, he stands with Henry's decision to entreat the Pope to divorce her.
Additionally, he likes the new object of Henry's affections: Anne Boleyn. He likes her a lot. He likes her far more than he liked her sister, Henry's mistress, who was so blindly in love with him that it was pathetic to watch. Anne is clever, and certain of herself in all the ways that are important. She is confident, but knows the limitations of her own position, has carefully watched the mistakes of her sister and refuses to let herself submit to the King. She will not be a mistress. She will only be a Queen.
The Pope's refusal to allow Henry to divorce Catherine so that he may marry Anne just seems to prove England's hangups about being so beholden to one man, a continent away, in the name of religion. He understands Henry's frustration, his anger. He understands it, even as it makes that same anxiety bubble hotly in his stomach. He feels it, and feels it, until the feeling breaks, like a blister full of coals, popping and scattering the heat across his skin.
King Henry VIII breaks with the Catholic Church, spectacularly so. He declares England a Protestant nation, plunging them into the hellscape of the Reformation that's swallowed continental Europe.
For England, it feels suspiciously like a civil war, and yet nothing like it. Unease rolls across his skin in waves, nausea constant. His head pounds with hundreds of thousands of dissident voices of protest and acceptance. His chest aches with it. His skin ripples and itches. Such a sudden and rapid change can be nothing but uncomfortable, painful, and he is frequently hunched and throbbing in his efforts to endure it.
And in the center of it all sits his King, pleased and anxious and conflicted, all at once. Born and raised Catholic, but determined to marry his Queen, and willing to upturn his nation to do it. And so it is done. They are Protestant, now.
Queen Anne is beautiful and elegant as she is crowned. Henry is proud and fierce, as he must be to defend his actions and positions. The clergy rattle and rage in England's bones, the monks moan and claw as their lands are seized, pain shooting through his veins. England sits, and endures it. In his land, though there are protests, and violence, there is not war, not really, and that's all he can ever ask for.
And besides, he likes the idea of a Church of England, run by the English king, his Nation no longer beholden to a portly man in Rome. He likes the idea of that quite a bit. And so he sits, and endures. The discomfort of religious change is nothing compared to the pain of war. Of civil war. And hopefully, with Henry's young new queen, such a war will be avoided.
England develops a keen and close friendship with Queen Anne, sitting with her frequently, and conversing with her often. She is bright, and intelligent, and both pleased and nervous to be pregnant. She is assured of her right, her capability, to rule as Queen. But she knows, and is rightfully afraid of, the way in which the gender of her unborn child could make or break her fate. England can offer her no assurances either way, but walks with her through the gardens, offering her his arm and comfort.
She gives birth to a girl.
A beautiful girl, with clear open eyes and hair that reminds England of his own mother. Her name is Elizabeth.
It's a blip, but not a sentence of doom. Or so he tells Anne, whose face has been drawn and wane, of late. Henry has no grounds to divorce Anne as he did with Catherine, England tells her. And Anne is not past childbearing age, as Catherine was approaching, England tells her. She is safe. Queen Anne is safe. She is young, and beautiful, and intelligent, and English. She is England's queen, the one Henry chose with his heart. The one he defied Rome for. The one he recreated his nation's religion for.
and
he
has
her
Beheaded.
It has been a long, long time since England has visibly and vocally opposed a King on anything, but he is as adamantly against the trial and condemnation of Anne Boleyn as he is ever been against anything. They say the word of a Nation has weight, that in order to properly ensure the will of the people is exercised, a Nation must always stay close to their ruler, in order to sway them properly. But England's word means nothing. Henry is blinded by rage, disappointment, fear that he's ruined his nation and his chance for salvation to marry a woman who has failed to bring him a male heir. Who has failed his expectations, and his hopes, and all attempts to soothe his failing confidence in himself. A woman who is headstrong and independent and refuses to give up the fiery spirit and demeanor that he initially fell in love with, and has now grown to loathe.
Henry has Anne accused of adultery with a slew of men, including her own brother. Witchcraft is also on the absolutely exhaustive list of unreasonable accusations, and in the end, on the Tower green, she is beheaded.
A king's duty is to serve his Nation, above all else. And Henry has done that. Like his father, he has made England strong, and amassed wealth, and broken them away from the oppressive hand of the Pope. And the beheading of Anne should not change how England feels towards the man.
But it does.
He cannot stand to be around Jane Seymour, Henry's new wife. He is disgusted by Henry, becoming engaged to her the day after Anne's death, and marrying her 10 days later. And he is disgusted by Jane herself. She had been one of Anne's ladies in waiting, and England feels the betrayal on her behalf.
As a Nation, he cannot help the satisfied feeling in the pit of his stomach when Jane gives birth to a healthy male heir. But as himself, he continues to despise her. He misses Anne, and he is too busy still mourning her to bother mourning Jane when she passes from complications from the birth before the month closes.
Henry marries three more women, divorcing one and beheading the other for adultery, the court becomes a mess of conspiracy and executions, and England thinks, sullenly, about France's comment about the Tudor preference for the colour red.
Red seems to colour everything. It hovers constantly at the edges of his vision, reflects in the low light of the candles and fire. The palace stones seem hued with it, the walls and floor and ceiling. The smell of blood lingers, in his nostrils and the air. Caked under his fingernails and in the cracks of his skin. By the time Henry announces his intention to invade Scotland and properly unite their crowns, that inescapable red has become almost comforting.
Henry had fully incorporated Wales into the kingdom nearly ten years prior, but that had been all legality, the imposition of the law of England and the annexation of some of the Welsh Marcher lordships. There had been no battle, no bloodshed, just Wales coming to sit sullenly and silently in the castle, to recognize the union. The battle-led invasion of Scotland is something much more familiar, to England. Blood and battle and his brother. Nothing like the confusion of court, of personal favour and the duties he needs as a Nation. Missing Anne's smile and not being able to look Prince Edward in the eye. War, war on Scotland, is much simpler.
England marches into battle, as does his brother. Scotland dies on his sword, blood frothing up from between his lips. The Scots lose, the king dies, and the regent promises to marry his daughter, Mary, to Prince Edward. Blood still stinging his Nation's eyes, Henry turns to France, and invades there. England marches into battle, and France meets him, blood staining his teeth. The English army is repulsed, and France follows, invading England for a turn, before he too is stopped. They fight, they run out of money, they sign a treaty and fuck behind a hedge.
There is nothing but battle and blood in the air. The Tudor red is an all-encompassing thing, a monolithic beast that swallows and consumes and devours. It feels, it feels fever bright and heady, alcoholic in the way it drowns England's senses and makes everything taste of iron and salt. It makes him feel alive, like a proper Nation, to war and war and war again. A court stained with death. The singing of his sword through the air. To war and war and war again.
Scotland, duplicitous bastard he is, repudiates the treaty that they had signed, and Henry sends army after army to try and subdue him. Scotland is there each time, but England never again gets close enough to kill him personally. And when it becomes obvious that nothing will come of these endeavors but stalemates, England stops accompanying the campaigns. His King has disappointed him not just in court, but in war as well.
England well and truly cannot stand to be around Henry VIII anymore. His failures are tied to his nightmare of a temperament, and the foul stink of rot constantly hanging around him. For the last of Henry's days, England keeps his face turned from his King, the stench around him too foul, and his contempt of the man too strong.
When Henry VIII dies, his son by Seymour succeeds him. Edward VI is nine years old, and Arthur's teeth are grit as he's crowned. But the boy does not do terribly, for his age. He, and his Lord Protector are both more Protestant than Henry ever was, and do their damned best to thoroughly convert the realm. It is not painless, the country rolls and rumbles, but England is thoroughly enjoying the break from Catholicism, and as time passes, he is able to look at Edward without poorly concealed disdain. Under him, war with Scotland continues to rage, as brutal as the English can make it, and the haze of red of the Tudor dynasty continues to hang low and seething over England's eyes.
Then Edward dies of an infection in his lungs, at age 15.
A sick, uneasy feeling spreads through England, then. Henry's daughter Mary is next in line for the succession, but she is Catholic, and more than a little Spanish, and on his deathbed Edward tried to denounce her.
But it is to no avail, and within nine days Queen Mary has assumed the throne of England.
The people are not unhappy at first, are not adamantly against a female monarch, are pleased with a smooth and seamless succession, and England allows their general pleasure to soothe his own unease.
Rebellion occurs only when Mary announces her intent to marry a Spaniard, a Catholic, and a member of the monolithic Hapsburg House that controls nearly all of continental Europe. Prince Philip of Spain. A man who, if given the key to the English crown, would pull the island nation into the mess of Nation-states that make up the sprawling mass of the Holy Roman Empire and its satellites. Austria, Spain, and all the rest. The fear of that is almost enough to have England side with the rebels, against all his inclination to always side with his monarch.
But the rebellion is squashed, quickly and decisively. It leaves the last Tudor heir, Elizabeth, imprisoned first in the Tower, and then placed under indefinite house arrest, and clears the way for Mary to marry Philip, the ruler of Spain, who is now to be joint ruler of England for as long as Mary is alive.
Spain spends the entire marriage ceremony grinning like an absolute buffoon. Little Romano is with him, as Prince Philip has been given the crown of Naples, and so Mary becomes Queen of that too. But England knows, as Spain knows, as the Holy Roman Empire knows, that her Queenship is puppetry, and that the marriage has all but placed England under the thumb of the Holy Roman Emperor and his damnable Hapsburg House.
Spain offers England a hearty handshake of congratulation, a 'welcome to the family' that is far too tight to be amicable. His young Italian charge kicks England in the shin, and then runs to hide beneath Spain's cloak. England grabs the strongest liquor he can find and retires to his rooms.
To start, Mary is well aware of the tenuous opinion of her. Of how deep the roots of Protestantism now run within England, and how wary of Catholicism, Spain, and the Hapsburgs, her people are. And so she is at first careful in how she broaches her desire for religious reforms, and appeasing to the highly Protestant parliament.
Her compromising demeanour does not last long.
The fears of the people, of England, are realized swiftly and brutally. Queen Mary does her damndest to erase everything done by her father and brother, to shove the country back into Catholicism as forcefully as possible. Anti-Catholic practices and sentiment become punishable by death, public burnings of Protestants become commonplace, and the country is plunged into an era of blood, of burning, of death and fear.
"We will have you fixed, rightly enough," Mary says, her English carrying just the slightest hint of a Spanish accent, "We will have you back in God's graces, my dearest Nation."
England turns his cheek. His skin is flushed and burning.
Queen 'Bloody' Mary dies early of illness, and leaves only a murderous legacy, and an even deeper fear of Catholicism within her subjects. She has no heir, and so Philip's, and Spain's, and the Hapsburg's claim to England is lost. For England, it's like a weight has been lifted from his chest. The kingdom breathes a sigh of relief, and turns to the next heir with nothing but expectation and desperate hope.
Elizabeth Tudor ascends to the throne.
/
When Elizabeth was under house arrest, implicated in the rebellion against Mary, England had visited her, once. She had been pale, reclusive in her rooms. Her hair had been left loose, and with the red curls tumbled onto her pale shoulders, face un-made up and clothes unadorned, she had looked very, very young. The uncertainty of her fate, when no one could say whether or not Mary would have her executed, had hung between them, weighting the mood. And still, she'd spoken to him with firmness of tone, and stubborn pride squaring her shoulders. England remembers the conversation well.
"Did you visit my mother," Elizabeth asks, face turned from him, "The eve before her execution?"
England swallows. The lingering of a quelled rebellion simmers his blood. Mary's anger makes his head pound, and the uncertainty of Elizabeth's fate turns his stomach. He is tired, and the memory of Anne Boleyn hangs heavy.
"I did not," he says. "Your father would not allow me."
Elizabeth turns her gaze towards him. Her eyes are clear like her mother's, but not as challenging. They hold something of her father's once inscrutable nature.
"There is something I have always wondered upon," she says, her voice carrying only the slightest waver, "I pray you take no offence."
England hesitates, and then nods once. "Ask."
"You cared for my mother," she says, "You alone have spoken well of her to me, when all others are afraid or unwilling to do so. You have made claims to her as your favoured of my father's queens."
"It is so."
Elizabeth lifts her chin, eyes stubborn, even as her mouth trembles. "Did you lie with her? If all the other allegations of adultery were false, was there truth to be found in one unstated? In a man no one speaks of? Were you, my Nation, the reason my father made the charges? The one who made them true?"
The question, the sheer brutal honesty of it, takes England completely by surprise, and he is speechless for a damnable number of seconds. In that time, Elizabeth's expression crumples, and then hardens, before she begins to turn away from him.
"No," England gasps out, finding his voice at last. "Never. I cared for her, Elizabeth. Yes, she was my queen, but not my queen as a she was your father's queen. Never that. I am a Nation, not a man, Elizabeth. My words and actions cannot always be taken in the way you would take another's."
Elizabeth turns back towards him, her expression still hooded and uncertain. A silence stretches between them, until finally, slowly, something in her face settles a little.
"You have never had relations with a ruler?" She asks, brazen as always.
A memory springs to England's mind unbidden. A chaste kiss when he was no taller than Elizabeth's waist, if that. When he was not yet England. A thousand and some years ago. But that is not what she means, and he knows it.
"No," England replies, "Never."
"Did you love none of them?"
"Love?"
"You say you cared for my mother."
"I did, very much."
"But love?"
He stifles a sigh, barely held exasperation. "I wish you wouldn't attempt to assess me as you would a man. It will only upset and disappoint you in the long run."
"Is that your way of saying you have loved none of your queens, none of your monarchs, in all your life?"
"My dear, I have barely liked the vast majority of my monarchs."
"Does that include my sister?"
England's face must do something distinct, because Elizabeth lets out an unintended huff of laughter. His indignation evaporates instantly. He is glad to see her laugh. He is glad to see her smile, if only for a moment.
"So you lie with and love none of your rulers," she says, when her brief levity has faded, "And it is only they who know you for what you are. Are you not lonely?"
Her eyes are curious, but also sympathetic, and the pity infuriates England for half a second, before he remembers her age, and remembers the differences between them.
"Elizabeth," he says, a little chastising, "Remember my words. Think not of me as a man. I am a Nation. I am beyond it."
Elizabeth does not look very chastised.
"Beyond loneliness?" she asks.
England sighs.
"Beyond love."
He stiffens.
"Beyond lust?"
He looks back at her sharply. "Elizabeth-,"
"I've spoken out of turn, I apologize." She says quickly. "It is merely that there are many things I have wondered, for a long time, and I fear I will never again have the opportunity to ask them."
The reality, the uncertainty of her position inserts itself once more into the room, choking it. England's expression shutters, and then softens.
"I can make no promises," he says, honest, "I can assure you nothing. But your sister would be foolish to kill you, and her councilors are all doing their best to make her see that. And that is more than your mother had."
Elizabeth's eyes are unreadable, and for a long moment she looks startlingly like her father, as he was in his prime. The image shatters as she turns her head, a stubborn set to her mouth and sullen blink of her eyelashes that is all her mother.
"I suppose then," she says, voice toneless, "All we can do now is pray."
England remembers that conversation clearly as he watches Elizabeth be crowned. The court is glowing, riding a tide of hope at Mary's death and the freedom from Spain and Catholicism and persecution. Watching her beautiful younger sister crowned, holding herself with grace, power, and independence. England feels his breath go out of his chest, replaced with elation. He watches her ascend, and his entire self swells with a joy he cannot articulate.
Later, when he remembers Elizabeth, it will be a layered picture, each and every of her many selves, one on top of the other, painting a complex and multifaceted image of the girl, woman, Queen, he loved more than anything.
The girl, guarded and dutiful. Haunted by the mother everyone else was under orders to forget. Burdened by sharing her features, cursed with her father's hair and blood but not welcome to his crown. Navigating a sea of half-siblings and succession plots. Protestant reforms and Catholic attempts to undo them. Clever and canny and strong, above all else. She had to be.
The woman, still guarded and cautious. Clever and sharptongued but more inclined to hide it than allow others to be privy to her wit. She could entertain England for hours when they were both away from court. Away from the politics and duplicity that ruled both their lives. The tumults within their nation had been a weight on both of them. The legitimacy of her royal blood always in question. The extent to which she was a threat or an asset to the throne always in flux. England could do little to comfort or reassure her, other than be by her side, in the same way she could do little to calm the upheavals surging beneath his skin, only sit by him as he weathered them.
The Queen.
An entire lifetime of concealing and reinventing her nature, of reflecting what others wanted her to be in order to protect herself, left Elizabeth with an impeccable ability to perform a persona. And England could see it clearly, as she assumed the crown. She was regal, but warm. She was proud, but humble, stating clearly her intent to govern with the close aid of counselors. Sorrowful of her Catholic sister's passing, but having a coronation rich with Protestant elements. She straddled the line between the strong monarch people wanted, and the deferential woman-creature that people preferred to see. Too strong a personality would make the men uncomfortable; too weak would have her deposed.
To say she was a false person would be untrue, and hypocritical. Elizabeth, England thinks, was very like a Nation in the way she reflected her people, and what they wanted, and what she needed to be to keep the country stable and strong. She was moderate in religion, except when she needed to be firm. She was defensive in foreign affairs, except when she needed to be aggressive. She was demure to Spain, except when she had fleets of ships harass them. She was indecisive and needy around her counselors, except when she was stubborn and unyielding.
She was, above all else, pragmatic and adaptable, and when he remembers her, it is with all of her personas blurred into one, radiant picture. A woman of many sides and many things. A strong monarch, a Queen, the last Tudor rose.
The Tudor in her was strong, blood-red and deadly-thorned. Her father's daughter, and the crimson of his ruthless lineage showed again and again. Against Spain in the Netherlands, in Ireland, whose howls of outrage and pain echo across the Irish Sea, and against Spain again, across the many seas of the globe. The ships of Elizabeth's privateers leaden with stolen treasure, staining the waves with Spanish blood.
"I tire of fearing Spain," Queen Elizabeth tells him, her hand in his, "I tire of fearing the Germans, I tire of fearing the Ottomans. I would have you be an empire, to rival them all."
She kisses England's knuckles, and then lowers his hand. From within a folded handkerchief, she presents him with a simple gold ring.
"Reforged from Spanish gold," she says, and the candlelight reflects in her eyes, red flame dancing high, "Captured on the way back from the New World. We have planted our own feet there now. In time we will have a colony to rival the Spaniards'. An empire to rival theirs."
She touches his cheek gently, and England allows himself to lean into the touch, eyes locked with hers. Just now, he is struck by how different her eyes look to any other human's. How nation-like they are. That light of conquest and blood and the core of battlesteel that never wavers, however much the world around changes. Were King Arthur's eyes like this, as well? He can't remember.
"An empire," she repeats, her voice like a serrated blade. "I will not let Ireland wrest itself away, I will not tolerate Scottish insurrection, I will not let Spain cow us. You will be an empire, the greatest the world has seen. I will lead you there, as your Queen. I have no king, will never have a king, and my devotion is solely to you, my Nation."
"You are determined then," England's voice is hoarse, and he can't explain why, "To never marry."
Elizabeth lifts her chin. A familiar gesture, a proud gesture, a gesture he loves. "I am joined under God by my crown to England, and only to England will I remain true."
Her words hang between them, and England stares at her for a long moment.
Then he takes the gold band from her palm, and slides it onto the ring finger of his left hand. He lifts his chin, matches his gaze to hers, and inhales, smelling her perfume as she leans in.
Loving her as a girl, a woman, a Queen, is different then loving her as a lover. She is girlish again, giggling with her hair loose. She is wry and furtive and cautious, until he takes her hand and guides her, and until she takes his hands and pins him. She is powerful and changeable and fun and passionate and sweet in his arms. Her hair falls like a curtain around them as they kiss. It's enough to create an illusion of being completely alone, secluded, a world where it is just the two of them. As if England was not in himself, hundreds and thousands of others. But like this, the two of them intertwined and shielded in each other's embraces, he can pretend, a little. He can pretend he is something less than that, or something more.
They are lovers, he and Elizabeth. England never takes the ring off, and she holds to her promise of never marrying, proclaiming to anyone who protests that she is married to her nation, to her people, and to England.
When she dies, the mourning is widespread, and deep. She reigned long, and strong. She was a Virgin Queen to the public, a War Goddess to the masses, near infallible to large parts of the population.
To England, she was his dear, dear Bess. And when she dies, he feels it. A deep ache inside his chest. A pounding in his head, and tears that drip unbidden, rolling down his cheeks and off the tip of his nose. She was the last of the Tudors, the last of that rose-red family, and still, he feels her death personally more than he feels it as a Nation at the end of a dynasty, about to be subject to the merciless winds of change.
The succession of course, is a jolt of reality that is cannot be ignored. Elizabeth left no heirs. The most suitable candidate for the English crown already sits on the throne of Scotland. And that, that is nearly intolerable, the idea of being ruled by a Scottish King. He is a descendant of Henry VII, yes, but he has been born and raised Scottish. James is a Scottish man, a Scottish king, and the idea of going from Bess to him is sickening.
And yet, it must be done. There is no one else.
It is not an official union of Scotland and England, thank God, just a personal union of rule under King James, but England knows he will have to treat with his brother peacefully because of it. And he knows Scotland will be insufferable for it. He already has Wales crowding around and living with him more often than not; he doesn't know if he can handle knocking elbows with Scotland in a semi-civilized way on top of that.
Shortly after the decision is made, finalized, Wales and England dine together. Under Henry VIII, they had been made to do so more and more. All of the Welsh lords speak English now, behave in the English manner. There are no high positions for people who speak Welsh in Wales, not any longer. The Welsh people have been made to adhere to English law and custom, and clinging to old practices leave them with nothing but discrimination. Wales has not been conquered by England as Ireland has. Wales has become part of England, swallowed by England's language and law. A better outcome than his brother could have hoped for, England thinks.
As irritating as his sullen presence can be, not being at each other's throats does give England to complain to, even if it is Wales's predisposition to reply only with monosyllabic answers.
"I don't think it's too much to ask," England grumbles, stabbing viciously at his dinner, "For an Englishman to assume the English throne and rule England. To think there was really no one else but a Scot?"
Wales makes a noncommittal grunt, as usual.
"I understand, I know why Elizabeth has no heir," England's voice breaks only a little on her name, "But if only she had a surviving brother, even a closer male cousin. Anyone with the Tudor name. Anyone in England."
Wales looks up at him briefly, then looks away with a muffled sigh.
"There is just no reason," England continues, because he really is very bothered, "To have a Scottish king brought over here. There is just no reason not to have anything other than an Englishman on the English throne."
"Or," Wales says, speaking for the first time, "Welsh."
England looks at him sharply, brows furrowed. "What?"
"On the throne," Wales says, turning towards his younger brother with dark eyes, "Englishman, or Welshman."
"Oh, ha," England relaxes and smirks, sitting back in his chair with humour, "Well that would be a sight to see, wouldn't it? Scotland, at the very least, actually has a monarchy to speak of. You haven't been able to say that for quite some time. Interesting thought, but best to put such ideas to rest, I'd say."
Wales keeps staring at him. England doesn't like the way he's being looked at, and he stiffens a little, straightening out of his relaxed posture.
"You're doing it again," Wales says, gaze unbroken, "You're forgetting."
England's eyes narrow. "What?"
"You're doing it again," Wales's tone is angry now, his brows set low above his eyes, "You're never content with just our land, are you? You have to take everything else as well. Anything and everything for yourself, to fit the image you want. You brat, still a thief who lives in a world of delusions-,"
The rush of angry words from Wales is so unexpected that England is stunned, allowing the tirade to wash over him, before he rises to his feet in a swift, violent movement.
"Hold your tongue," England snarls, slamming his hands on the table, "Who do you think you're talking to? Where do you think you are? You can't speak to me like that, you worthless rabble, you can't speak to me like that anymore-,"
"Because you rule me? You and your Scottish king?" sneers Wales, not rising from his chair, "So terrible, so unbelievable to be ruled by a Scottish king, when you only just finished with a Welsh dynasty."
The words strike like a thunderclap, and England recoils a moment, cold washing over him. "I-, What?"
"The Tudors were Welsh you insufferable, blind, delusional whelp." Wales's voice is low, his anger as cool and jagged as the mountain-tops of Snowdonia. "They were Welsh when they were crowned, and their name remains Welsh. You haven't had an 'English' monarch in years, but you blocked that, forgot it, pretended it to not be the case, as you always do."
England balks a little, despite himself. Yes, yes that's…right. The Tudors came from Wales. He hadn't, he hadn't forgotten, but…But they had been in England so long that it hardly mattered. Three generations was plenty to consider them properly English, so Wales, really, had no leg to stand on with his impetuous criticism and England is going to tell him that, he's going to tell his brother to shut up and-
"And the worst part is," Wales continues, a rumble in his tone, and then a crack, "This isn't the first time. You've done this before, you thieving little liar."
"Stop it," England commands, finding his voice again. "You can't speak to me like that, you're not allowed to. If you don't hold your tongue-,"
"Like a child," continues Wales, contempt and hatred dripping from voice and eyes, "With your hands pressed over your ears, pretending you can't hear. Well I'm tired of it. Would you like to hear another forgotten truth about another of your beloved monarchs, you foul runt?"
"No," England replies sharply, and then, remembering himself, "I mean, I've told you to hold your tongue. Don't forget whom you're beholden to, you backwards upstart. Don't forget who rules you now. And if you don't remember your place-,"
"King of the Britons," Wales continues, savagely, "Don't you remember who they were? The Britons? They were the last of Mother's people. The vestiges that only just survived the Roman conquest. Until Germania's men came and all but stamped them out."
"I," England is finding it hard to breathe, "am aware-,"
"You Roman bastard," Wales is leaning forward, his voice a poisonous growl, "Rome made you but Germania shaped you. You are English, an Angle, of the Anglo-Saxons. Don't you understand what that means? How the story really goes?"
"Shut," England is breathless, "Up."
"The Britons are my people, the last of Mother's left, the true remains of Albion," Wales shouts, rising to his feet at last, "Arthur was my king, and your people are the ones he tried to drive away!"
The words are like a physical blow, and England staggers back. The ground rocks under his feet and he feels, dangerously, like he's about to faint, and it's only by clutching the table edge that he maintains his balance.
It's not true, he knows his memories, he knows who he is, and he won't stand here and let Wales do this to him. He will not be pushed around by his brothers anymore. He will not let them hurt him anymore.
"I'll kill you," England snarls, reaching for the sword at the side of his chair, "Again. If you don't-,"
"The 'Britons' are the Welsh. They've always been the Welsh," Wales is walking around the table, unafraid, approaching England with dragonfire brimstone in his eyes. "Your foul kings took the term because they liked the idea of being kings of the entire isle, as Arthur was. But he was not an English king. He was never an English king. He was a British king, when British still meant the Britons, and the last of the Britons are my people, the Welsh. We are the true heirs of Albion. Britain is the entire island, as it should be, under the Britons. Under us. We are the last of their people. Not you, never you."
Wales stops so that he is standing directly in front of England, their noses almost touching. England's hand hovers over the hilt of his sword, shaking.
"Arthur was my king," Wales says, voice quiet, but vicious, "And you took him from me and made him yours. And you changed the stories and the songs to make him yours. And you mocked me and my people when we claimed he would return and make the isle ours, because you'd convinced yourself he would return only to make the isle yours. But he was never your king, England. You didn't just take his name. You took everything true about him, and changed it to justify your own delusions. I am the red dragon of the Britons, and you are the white dragon of the Angles. Our enemy, our invader, and everything Arthur fought against. So tell me again how you can't abide by anything but an English king. You are false, you are a thief, you are not mother's heir but her murderer. You've given Scotland no peace and brutalized Ireland and stolen everything from me. My name, my king, my language and laws. And if I'm to die, if I'm to fade away because you've taken everything that makes me a Nation, then I will die with you knowing the truth. That there has never been a Nation as false as you, and that all your beloved monarchs, King Arthur, and Queen Elizabeth, were of me. So protest Scotland's king as you will, but know that it has always been the monarchs of your brothers that you looked to for greatness, and never your own. Thief."
It's the last word Wales says before England wrests his sword out of its sheath and runs him through, right through the heart.
Blood bubbles through his bared teeth, and he falls, eyes still open and defiant, their mother's eyes. Red spreads across his clothes as he collapses onto the floor, that bright red, that red of the Welsh Tewdrs.
His last word echoes around the empty hall.
Thief.
Throughout his childhood, England's only fear was never having something to call his own.
Thief.
Of having his mother's things and his father's things but never anything of his own.
Thief.
Of being smothered by his brothers until there was nothing left that was his own.
Thief.
All he has ever wanted is something to call his own.
Thief.
No, that's not true. He's also wanted to be loved. To love and feel loved. He's wanted that for longer than anything. And he thought he had had it. Twice, he thought he had it. His Once and Future King. His Good Queen Bess. A love and a lover of his own.
Thief.
His sword is still sticking grotesquely out of Wales's chest, even as he begins to slowly shudder back to life. England watches as his brother's Nation-body sluggishly tries to heal, to bring itself back. But Wales is weak, his language and culture being swallowed, his people accepted only if they become Anglicized. Wales is disappearing into England, and one of these days, he's going to fall and not get back up.
England, blankly, steps forward and pulls the weapon out in a single motion. He watches as life twitches back through his brother's limbs just a little faster, and numbly considers drawing his sword across Wales's throat, again and again. Cut out all his words for good, make him into nothing.
Instead he stands silently, waiting. He waits until, finally, his brother sits up, blood down his chin and a sullen question in his eyes. Wales is waiting, probably, for England to stab him again.
Like this, kneeling on the floor with his clothes stained with blood and his eyes dark with grim resignation, with the knowledge that he's beaten and that at the end of the day he is nothing, is how England has always wanted his brothers to look. From the moment Rome sat him down and told him that if he grew and trained, then one day he could do this to them, could break them down to nothing, he's wanted to look and see them like this, at his feet.
Looking at Wales now, all England can think of is how much he looks like their mother.
We are the true heirs of Albion.
England closes his eyes.
He throws down his sword and walks away.
/
In simplest terms, the British isle was inhabited by the Britons. Then the Romans came, and sometimes they killed the Britons, and sometimes the cultures coexisted, and sometimes the cultures integrated, and so this period is called Romano-British. Then the Anglo-Saxons came. They were Germanic tribes. Over a period of time, they worked upwards and took over essentially all of what is now England. The word England comes from 'Anglo'. The first King that all of England was united under was an Anglo-Saxon King (Alfred the Great). What was left of the Britons were either Anglicized or driven away. And where they were driven was basically Wales (and a place in England called Cornwall).
In Arthurian legend, Arthur was the King of Britain, uniting the entire isle, and defending the Britons against Anglo-Saxon invasion. The most familiar iteration of his tale comes from Geoffrey of Monmouth, who was Welsh, but an Anglicized Welsh. It's generally assumed the story was meant to be a keystone of Welsh pride, tied up with an idea of uniting the British isle into one unit again, but it was later taken by English Kings, and used as justification for them uniting the British isle under the English crown. Make sense? cool.