England does not say a word throughout the coronation of James I.
He does not speak to either Scotland or Wales, who are both there, and sitting next to one another. He does not speak to King James himself, or to any of the Scottish family he brings with him. He does not speak to any members of the court, and sensing his mood, none of them attempt to speak to him either.
The moment the proceedings are finished, England retires from court altogether. He left it rarely throughout all of the Tudor reigns, but he leaves it now, to head for one of the homes established for him, and him alone.
He bounces back and forth between Devonshire and York, for some time. But Devon is too close to Cornwall, whose people are far too much like the Welsh. And York is too close to Scotland entirely. He settles in Oxford, which has always been one of his favourite cities. It is a place of learning and discussions. Great debates and great writings. While here, it is easy to become engrossed in a new field of research, or find oneself engaged in conversations that last hours if not days. Oxford is a place made for busy work, and a perfect place for avoiding getting lost in one's own thoughts.
And more than anything else, England cannot be alone with his own thoughts right now.
He will not think of the words of Wales, or the smugness of Scotland. It is safe to think of Ireland, but only as an outlet for future violence. He does not, at the moment, feel like sailing across the Irish Sea to chase down his last brother and attempt to once again bludgeon him into submission, but it is always an option that is on the table.
Instead, he thinks a little of the New World. The place across the ocean. A place of wealth and riches. Of bloodthirsty, godless pagans. A place where salvation and ruin tread hand in hand. England has heard much of the land there, of its vastness, of its untapped potential. But to him, a Nation, it sounds like a place best suited for hungry men eager for glory. Nations conquer Nations, not swathes of land. Empty territory with the occasional bands of barbarian hostiles is for his men to tame, not he himself.
But the idea of a place free of quarreling European Nations becomes more and more appealing, as time passes. The establishment of a colony there, Jamestown in Virginia, peaks England's interest. A place free of Europe and its bloodshed and quarrels and painful, painful history. A new world, ripe for exploration, and new beginnings. A place to clear his mind, away from his own court and king and bitter brothers.
And so, when a new fleet of pilgrims sets forth, England joins them. Across the sea to the New World. To New England. And to whatever that Nationless land may bring.
But the land is not Nationless.
Not only is it full of other European Nations, investigating with eyes as hungry as his own, but it also has a woman. A representation of the Old part of the New World, dark-skinned like the wild people that infest the land. Tall and painted, armed and aggressive, but weak and sick and failing as more and more European ships land on her shores.
But the New World does not just have her.
The New World also has children.
Nation-children.
Altogether, England has to commend Spain for keeping such a tight hold on these secrets. The secret that there are Nations in the New World, but that the adults are dying and the children are being caught and kept as quickly as the arriving European nations can find them. Portugal is here as well. The Netherlands has made a claim. Even Finland is around. And France has been here before, and will be here again. England wonders if France has found a Nation-child of his own. The idea of France having something England himself does not irks him more than he's willing to admit.
He is delighted then, when he finds one.
In the long grass of an unmarked territory in an unmarked land. A child, with hair the colour of wheat and eyes a brighter, bluer colour than the ocean, a darker colour than the sunlit sky. A child, alone and unguarded. Where is his mother? Does he not have one? Some Nations, England knows, are not born from another, but merely spring forth as themselves, like the Netherlands and his siblings. Some Nations are born, and live parts of their lives with their mothers, like France, and like England's brothers. And some Nations, like England himself, kill their mothers by existing, and taking their place.
Perhaps that ill, dark-skinned woman-Nation is dead now. Perhaps she has been slowly splintering and disappearing into this passel of Nation-children, and this boy is the last, the final marker on her grave.
The child doesn't know of any of this, of course. He is alone, far away from any of the other children, any of the others who have already been grabbed by Spanish or Portuguese or French hands. He has never met another Nation, has only played with the wild animals about his land, and mingled and interacted wide-eyed with his humans, knowing nothing further than the sky above him and the fields around him. His eyes reflect a little of that sky, something like storm in their center, of rain and thunderclouds. Something powerful, something not made to be contained.
England looks at him and his heart aches.
England's Nation-child, his little Alfred, named after another man he knew with eyes like storm, a man he knows to be his own, reminds him far too much of himself as a child. Isolated from the realities of Nationhood, a childhood of nature and wild, a painful wide-eyed innocence. The similarities between Alfred and the child England once was checks and tempers the way that England interacts with him. Because England knows that he is here, in the New World, partially to find new places for his people to live, and partially to use the land here to make money and profit to send back home. He is here, when it comes down to it, to expand his empire, just as all the other European Nations are here to do. As Spain has been doing for decades. And England also knows, as everyone does, that Spain has been treating his Nation-children in accordance to those kinds of goals. Mercilessly.
But England cannot treat Alfred so. He cannot treat him as- as merely a colony. The way Spain treats his children, the way England himself has been treating Ireland for years. But America is not Ireland. It is a new land, that needn't adhere to the old rules. A chance for a new start, a new way, a better way.
It is possible to be a brother without being a right bastard about it. Everything in England's experience tells him that this is not true. That family bonds between Nations are always bloody and full of death. That sharing a past means nothing of the future, and being raised by someone does not mean they won't turn on you, or desert you, or be killed by you. This is what it means to be a Nation. Understanding and embracing it is the only way to grow.
Against all odds, England wants to protect Alfred from that.
Does England wish someone had protected him from all of that? The Fae did, for a time, in their own way. As much as they could, anyways. But that had made him weak, hadn't it? He'd only grown strong, grown capable, when he was forced to confront the realities of being a Nation head on. The war and chaos and pain and death.
If England shields Alfred from that, he'll never be strong. Nations need battle to grow. They need blood to grow.
But perhaps…England can take it on himself.
New England- America, is a part of the British Empire, and so responsibility for it falls on England and his soldiers. He can defend it, and protect it, and build towns and help it expand as Rome did for him, and America can grow without having to fall head first into a world of carnage, bloodshed and treachery as England himself had done. England will not let anyone tie this child up in a sack and drown him. England will not let anyone shove this boy over the edge of a cliff and dash his brains out on the rocks below. That's not what England wants for America. That's not how he wants him to grow. He shouldn't grow like that. Not here, not in this place. America is-
America is-
America is a breath of fresh air. A land where the scent of corpses and war hasn't sunk into the very foundations. A place where the past doesn't choke out hopes for the future. Where something new and vibrant can take root and grow. Can grow watered by potential and hope, and not by blood.
America is-
America is bright and curious and intelligent and full of energy. He isn't cruel and he isn't callous and he has never met another Nation besides England and his brief encounters with the Netherlands and France. He does not know of how they live. He has only his own experiences to fall back on, and his own short memories to inform how to behave. He does not know of how Nations are meant to interact with one another. How they are supposed to live.
America does not know, and so, England does not have to act.
It feels like rediscovering a self long-forgotten. A self buried by time and pain. A self he'd thought had disappeared centuries ago, when he had learned what it meant to be what he is. But England feels aspects of that self returning; not just in the way he behaves, but in the way he sees the world. For so long, he has seen everything in terms of conquest, defending against it and inflicting it on others. In treasure and money, stealing and protecting. Of war and succession, of territory and battle. And there is a little of that in America, but there is much, much more of everything else.
To be able to see the world again, through a child's eyes. To see the wonder in the rivers, in the trees and sky. To play a game of tag in a grassy meadow. To pick flowers for their beauty, to lie amongst them for their scent and simplicity. To think not of Kings and court, separated from them by an ocean. To think not of brothers and lies and thievery. To think not of war. They all still exist, they are all still a problem, but they are so far away, and they seem insignificant and small compared to the wideness of Alfred's eyes.
England could lie back and listen to his boy laugh for hours on end. It reminds him of rolling in a pile of hay, grinning wide and senselessly happy, with his boyhood companion, his one day to be King Arthur, laughing at his side.
The shadow of the words of Wales sours the memory, and England shuts it away, before his mood can blacken. When he is in America, Europe must stay in Europe, or he will never be able to appreciate the land for what it is.
The simplicity of farming, of tending to the land personally, rather than through exploiting the peasantry. Teaching Alfred which food is safe to eat, and how to hunt, to take care of himself. Teaching him how to read- Languages come to the boy easily, without study, as is the way with Nations, but reading him stories, teaching him literature, is something else entirely. And Alfred is always alight with it, bright smiles whenever he's sat beside England, listening to him weave a rich story. Sometimes it's Shakespeare, sometimes it's the older stories, the ones not written down. The boy's attention span does not always permit him to sit still for the duration of the tale, but while his attention is held, he is wide-eyed and captivated, and England soaks in the undivided adoration.
He tries to teach Alfred something of his own childhood, of the Fair folk, but the magical creatures of America do not come out for the boy. They do not flock to him as the Fae of England's land do for him. It is possible that as his Fae were terrified of Rome, so to are the one's in America terrified of England.
America does now know this, however. He cannot see them at all. It is a keen difference between them. England wishes- it is such an important part of him, the magic woven into his being, and he wishes he could share it with Alfred.
But then again, the boy is terrible at holding his tongue, or keeping secrets at all, and the last thing England would want is to have Alfred experience his first death by being hung as a witch. So, perhaps, it is best that the boy seems to be lacking in magical affiliation entirely.
America grows quickly, and that's both awe-inspiring and validating. It is not that the land is devoid of war and quarrel- the interactions with the old inhabitants are frequently brutal and bloody. But it is not a war of Nations, and there are no Nations for Alfred to war with. Only two siblings now, and one caged in by France and the other shackled by Spain.
And yet, he grows.
He grows bright-eyed and happy and eager, never having felt death, never experiencing a single blow on his own skin. And here, here is proof that Nations themselves do not need violence to grow. They can flourish without bathing in blood. They do not need to have the sun and sky shattered from their gaze to become powerful. America has a youth untouched by the kind of violence, death, and carnage that marred England's own. So different. So new.
Knowledge that a land, a Nation, like this exists makes it so, so much harder to return to Europe.
As much as he loves America, the land and his boy, staying away from his own territory for too long fills England with such profound discomfort that he can never remain for as long as he wishes to. It doesn't help that Alfred clings to him, begs him to stay, doesn't understand why he can't come as well. It doesn't help that every time England returns, Alfred is a little taller.
It soon becomes unnerving, how fast the boy grows. England was a child for near a thousand years, and America's cheeks are already losing their infant roundness by the time James I's son comes to the throne. Already approaching late childhood when the seeds of civil war begin to sift and agitate beneath England's skin a score of years later.
And then, England must leave again. To return to his nation, where war is brewing once more. He must leave before it begins to show, before the discord erupts into something he can't hide from America. Something he can't shield him from.
Before he goes, England collects Alfred into his arms, ignoring his squirming and feeble protests. He sits with his chin resting on top of the boy's head, quieting the twisting fear and worry inside his chest with America's warmth and vibrancy. Has their ever been a Nation born and raised like this? In peace? Without fear? Without ever knowing the sensation of death stealing the breath from their lungs, the blood from their veins, the beat from their chest? Who has always had everything, and never lacked for anything?
"England, are you crying?" Alfred asks, head tilted back as he looks up, blinking. "Why?"
Is he? England hadn't noticed. He passes the back of his hand across his eyes and smiles downwards thinly. "I do not wish to leave you, pet. And yet, I must."
Alfred makes a whining sound, a keening in the back of his throat, and reaches up with both hands to press his palms to either side of England's face.
"Noooo," he complains, bottom lip wobbling, "Don't go! You're always gone for ages."
"I'm sorry, Alfred," England says, and he has never been so sincere about an apology in his life. "I must go. There are problems to attend to at home."
"Why can't this be your home?" Alfred whines, insistent.
England smiles down at him, sad and wistful, and presses a kiss to his forehead.
"In many ways, my dear boy, it is."
"But you still can't stay?"
"I still can't stay. It is not my land, you see. My home perhaps, but not my land."
Alfred blinks up at him. "It's my land."
"Yes, it is."
"But I thought I was yours?"
"You are pet, you are. But…we have rules, we Nations. We can…we can have ownership- we can have control over each other's territory, but unless…" he struggles for words that are soft, kind. That don't illuminate the brutality of their existence. "…Unless certain conditions are met, we cannot be the land we've taken…the land we control. That will always belong to that land's Nation." It is the reason he still cannot spend any length of time in Wales, or Ireland. It is still not his land, and never will be unless his brothers die.
"Oh," says Alfred, deflated. And then: "I don't get it!"
England laughs a little, some of the heavy atmosphere dissipating.
"Of course you don't," England he says fondly, running a hand through the tumble of golden hair on Alfred's head, soft and healthy with the glow of a successful, growing colony. How could a Nation like this, who knows nothing of death or conquest or true war, understand? His dear America. His innocent, untouched New World. Of course he doesn't understand.
Alfred kicks his feet in the grass, toes wiggling. Then he bursts from England's hold, breaking the cage of his arms easily, and spins with his limbs flailing.
"Play with me all day today!" Alfred commands, manners tossed to the winds, as always. "And let me sleep in your bed! Otherwise you're not allowed to leave! I'll hold my breath and turn blue and float up into the sky and away away away!"
"Don't demand things, Alfred," England tries to be admonishing, but his tone is too soft, fond. He is altogether too soft, and too fond. All his edges and deadly-sharp ends are sanded away, when he is with America.
He lets the boy pull him upwards by the hands; lets Alfred lead him through the field. The day is bright, and sunny. Alfred's smile is like the sun and sky itself, and England holds onto it, cherishes it.
But all the while, his skin continues to crawl and ache with pains from across the ocean. Alfred's love and adoration, as blinding and warm as they are, cannot stop the rolling waves of war that are about to break over England's kingdom.
And so, the next morning, England departs, leaving Alfred staring after him from the doorway of their mansion in Virginia, one hand clutching the frame. The sight haunts him as vividly as the spectre of war.
England makes it home just as King Charles raises his royal standard at Nottingham, calling all men to aid him in his war against Parliament, who are firmly entrenched in London.
If anyone had suggested such a war to him half a century ago, the King versus the Parliament, England would have laughed at them. The Parliament, and not even the House of Lords, but primarily the House of Commons. The lesser gentry. They are the ones rallying the people against God's anointed King. It is absurd, laughable.
But laughter dies in his throat, as he feels the tight, iron grip that Parliament has on London. They hold his capital, and even as he stands by King Charles in Oxford, the monarch's chosen opposing capital, the beat of his heart skips and wavers.
The grievances that Parliament hold against King Charles are not entirely unfounded, but so to are the issues that the King holds against Parliament. They are both wrong, and they are both right. The key difference between them, England thinks, lies in the way they lead.
Charles is uncompromising. He is King- and so he should be obeyed. It is his right, and history supports this view. The brazen affronts Parliament has dealt him, for the duration of his reign, would have resulted in dozens of executions had they occurred in the reigns of his predecessors. The streets of London would have ran red, if parliament attempted to treat Henry VIII as they treat Charles now.
Parliament- Parliament leads through discussion, through collaboration. It's boring and it's tedious and it relies far too much on asking people what they want instead of telling people what to do.
But.
But it is towards this that the people of England seem to be swaying.
The gentry- they prefer this leadership, in which they have a voice. The peasants- they prefer this world in which they cannot be arbitrarily punished, but must be fairly tried. His country- his nation-, they are turning away from the divine right of kings.
England- he stands beside King Charles, and his eyes are distant.
He, himself, prefers kings to Parliament. Things get done so much quicker with one man in charge. War is easier, with one man leading. Hadn't Parliament spent the past twenty years choking Charles's ability to make war? Refusing him the money needed to attack France, to join the war on the continent, to punish Scotland's impertinence?
But humans grow weary of war. It is a truth that he knows. He can understand it- at a distance. He is not human- he is a Nation, and he enjoys the game of war. He knows the game of courts, of kingly diplomacy, and appreciates the way it leads to war- and he knows parliament is a different creature entirely. At least, it is in this decade.
The way time changes things- it leaves him in a bewildered kind of wonder, thinking about how impossible such a war- a war of Parliament against king, would have been under the Tudors. It just would never have happened. The people- the people wouldn't have allowed it. Wouldn't have wanted it.
But now…
More Englishmen flock to Parliament's army then the King's. The bulk of the King's forces come from Wales. The Welsh fear what will happen to them under the hyper-English Nationalism of the Parliament. Fear what the Puritans will do to their conservative, High Anglican religion. When it looks like Parliament will win the war, just on the basis of who has an actual army raised to fight, it is the Welsh who put a sword in King Charles's hand.
At Oxford, Wales stays blessedly out of England's way. In an unexpected stroke of decency, or perhaps out of some measure of self-preservation, he has chosen not to needle or poke England about the matter of his King's Welsh troops. Or even mocked him for the civil war at all. Wales has much ammunition to use, at this point. Scotland has shamed Charles, refuting his attempt at imposing his will upon them, and Ireland is rebelling, bloodily and brutally, massacring English settlers in droves. The only brother England has any measure of control over at the moment is Wales, and all things considered, that leaves a terribly sour taste in his mouth.
The complexities of everything…of his kingdom, of the social and religious politics that make people side with either King or Parliament, of the constant strife and discord between him and his brothers…it makes his chest ache with longing for America. For the simple fields, untorn by war. For his boy, small still, with eyes wide and smile as unconditional as his affection.
As a child, all England ever wanted was to be loved, and now he is, and leaving Alfred is torturous, every time. Moreso when all that welcomes him in his own land is war and death, par for course.
The hope had been that the discord between King and Parliament would be decided in one decisive battle, and whoever won would take the dominant role in government forevermore. But the first battle ends in a stalemate, and after that there is no hope for anything but a protracted, bloody war. With Parliament securely walled into London, and the King constantly drawing in new support, there's no chance for anything else.
And so war drags on for years. The King almost takes all of England, then Parliament pushes and takes territory back, and so on and so forth, until England aches nearly too much to stand, and spits out blood constantly, while the King's court, crowded in close quarters in Oxford, watch on pityingly.
Another reason he hates Civil War- too often, the physical pain makes it impossible for England to stand beside his chosen side in battle. King Charles rides in the field with his men, and England yearns to ride alongside him, but his body refuses.
Or…
No.
It is not his body, but his mind. Or, more aptly, his heart. London is in the hands of Parliament. Parliament- who are meant to represent the English people.
England's heartbeat skips, and wavers. It is out of step with his actions. Who in this war is right, and who is wrong? Who deserves to rule his nation, the divine monarch, or the representatives of the people?
The monarch, England tries to say, I will always stand by the King. But the words turn to ash in his mouth. A fire rips through Oxford, then a pestilence, then the plague itself, and it appears more and more that the Christian God of his people may be trying to tell him something.
It occurs to him, that if his body wasn't incapable of standing, he may have found himself appropriating a horse and riding to London, pulled by the forces, by the sentiment, that he can no longer ignore, no matter what tradition may dictate.
In any case, it doesn't matter, in the end.
The Royalist armies are destroyed, one after another. Wales can provide the King with no more troops, while Parliament has convinced treacherous Scotland to join them and send army after army.
And so, Parliament triumphs over King.
King Charles surrenders to the Scottish, the country where he was born, the country of his father James, thinking that if he must surrender, the Scottish will treat him more fairly than the vicious anti-royalist Parliament will.
But the Scots make no secret of the fact that they will not harbor him. He will be given to Parliament, once they can settle on an appropriate price. Reparations for their involvement in the war. England cannot guess whether his brother is deriving pleasure from this or not. England's king is at his mercy, but before he was England's king, he was Scotland's prince. Charles was born before James was King of England. Scotland would have been there for his birth.
This civil war has been a divisive, awful thing for everyone involved.
England is escorted to London, slumped over a horse. The aches are persistent, the gnawing hunger from all the besieged cities still not abating. The pillaging done by unpaid Royalist soldiers, still loose in the areas that the Parliamentary armies haven't completely stamped down their control.
There is a smattering of welcome for him as he's led to his residence in Westminster, under armed guard. Some of the MPs seem angry with him, others seem relieved, as if his presence has assured their victory, and their right to that victory. A few seem pitying, and a few more contemptuous. Some hold expressions he cannot quite read. Something like awe. Something like fear.
It is only after he has slept a long while, his body slowly healing from the war, that he realizes.
His existence is not common knowledge. The ones who know of him, of England, are the Royal family, and certain members among the Lordship. It is not knowledge that the House of Commons has ever been privy too. It has always been below their station. Beyond their right.
Every member of the House of Commons he met upon returning to London had addressed him as he was, England, our Nation.
What does this mean? The uneasy roll of change, crashing against his body, against the walls of his mind. The entirety of the Parliament being aware of his existence…it's inconceivable. Parliament changes with each new election, to have so many common people, their role in government insecure and changeable, aware of his existence…
But in a country without a king, what other option was there? Who to answer to, who to serve, who to be served by, if there was no monarch?
I chose the right side, the King's side, he thinks to himself, firmly, But in the end, it meant nothing.
The war is over, and everything is going to change.
But it is never that easy.
Charles escapes custody, and does his best to rally the country once more to his cause. England's body ripples, and seizes, as minor rebellions on the king's behalf break out in Wales, in Cornwall, across the country. Duplicitous as ever, Scotland agrees to invade from the North on the King's behalf. Perhaps falling prey to sentiment in the end, and standing by the man who used to be his prince. A second Civil War rolls itself across his country, and the nation bleeds once more.
"Do you see how the King cares more for his crown then for England?" his Parliamentary keepers say, whispering in his ear at his bedside. "He'd rather torture you, subject the people to more years of starvation and death, than submit himself to us and negotiation. Victory is all he cares for, and his kingdom can burn so that he may have it."
England stares at them, dead-eyed. His nose hasn't stopped bleeding in weeks.
He has lived through many civil wars, in his life. He has lived through the pain of it, the ache, the bloodshed echoing through his bones, the razed land and pillaged villages rattling his ribs, bruising his eyes and breaking his fingers, feet, cracks and fractures in his legs. This one, undoubtedly, has been the worst. London has survived nearly unscathed, and his heartbeat is steady, and breastbone whole, but every other part of him is ruined. He cannot stand on his own feet without assistance. His breath is wet and raspy, blood staining his lips. The Parliamentarians, these MPs who never before knew of their Nation, see him only as this hobbling husk, leaving trails of red wherever he goes. The armed guard is both necessary and not. Not, because there is no way he could escape in the condition he is in, even if he desired it. And necessary, because they are the ones who hold him upright whenever he needs to move.
And yet, it is not the physical that is the worst about this war. It is the lack of sureness. It is the uncertainty. It is the wavering, deep within him. Civil Wars, as he's known them, have largely been a lord's affair. Warring factions, warring dynasties. Never a war where the common people were so heavily involved. Made up so much of the armies. So much of the campaigning. War was an art of the nobles, and to have the nobility defeated by the commons is…
As a Nation, he spends his time with the nobility. It is how they do things. It is how he knows how to exist as himself. He remembers…he can remember that it was different, when he was younger. That when he began to interact with his people, it was in small towns, in villages. With Rome, it was the same. He treated with his commanders and captains, yes, but mingled just as easily with his common footmen.
But England had learned to do differently. He'd learned- he'd learned from the continent, where he learned everything about his own Nationhood. He'd learned that it was a Nation's duty to mingle with their nobles, their lords, their kings, and only them. To participate in court, in government, was the only way to have a say in their own future. A Nation should stand by his leader, always.
But now his leaders are those common people, who he long ago left behind.
It is a strange and poignant mental twisting, that a civil war has never before subjected him to.
But it is still a war, like all wars, and so it does end, eventually. The King, again, loses.
Negotiations resume between Charles and Parliament. But there is blood in the air, now. Thicker than ever. The Parliamentarians are angry at there being a second war. Angry at Charles. Angry at how dangerous one single man can be. One man in one position of power.
It starts as a whisper, grows to a murmur, crescendos into a vicious chant.
The King must be tried. The King has committed treason against his people and nation. The King must be put on trial for his life.
"Do you agree, my Lord Nation?" asks one of the Parliamentary leaders, the man called Cromwell. "Do you agree that King Charles has committed treason against you?"
England is well enough to sit up. Well enough to hold his head aloft, and look Cromwell in the eye. Well enough to remain silent out of stubbornness, and not from weakness.
But perhaps, refusing to speak, refusing to pick a side now, at the end of all things, is a form of weakness in itself. He cannot bring himself to say, No, the King is innocent of those crimes. He cannot bring himself to say, Yes, the King is guilty of treason against me and all I represent.
They ask him to attend the trial, a witness, a piece of evidence, and he declines.
They ask him to attend the trial, a witness, a piece of evidence, and he refuses.
They command him to attend the trail, a witness, a piece of evidence, and he spits at them and curses them seven ways.
They attempt to bodily drag him to the trial, which fills him with such indignity and rage that he throws them off of himself with brute force. His superior strength as a Nation overriding his injuries. He shoves past all the guards, smashes men against the wall, and stomps his way back to his rooms, cracked bones creaking and pain singing through his limbs.
He shuts the door and waits for someone to dare and open it. To drag him out again. He may very well kill them if they try. He will not let these Parliamentarians, these MPs, do to him what they did to Charles. Belittling him and neutering him and provoking him to violence. And then turning around and killing him for it, as if they hadn't backed him into a corner.
He is sympathetic to the King. This war was Parliament's fault. Charles may have started it but the MPs did everything in their power to leave him with no other choice.
But England cannot bring himself to leave the room to see his King. To see the man in his cell.
He cannot do it.
No one tries to drag him to trial again, and he hears a sound suspiciously like someone installing a deadbolt on his door, as if they've decided that he's a dangerous creature, to be locked away. When the time for judgment and sentencing comes, England is not sent for, and makes no effort to break down the door to attend.
He stares down at his fingers, crooked and bent, healing badly. Then rebreaking, and healing again. His ribs still ache, his legs support him only under extreme duress, but he is healing. The country is healing. The war is over.
King Charles is tried, convicted, and beheaded.
The people, the Commons, tried, convicted, and beheaded the King.
"You will be well now, my Lord Nation," says that man again, Cromwell, "The war is over, and your people have won."
The aftershocks ripple.
The House of Commons dismantles not only the monarchy, but the House of Lords, leaving England a kingdom without a king. A Nation ruled by the commons. A republic.
Ireland is still in turmoil. There are upheavals in Scotland as well- on the behalf of the deceased King, and his son, who has been crowned in hiding by those still vocally loyal to the monarchy. Sentiment, on Scotland's part? Guilt at betraying he who was once his prince? Or simple contrariness? England doesn't know.
It doesn't matter. Cromwell and his army defeat them all.
The mood in his kingdom is peculiar. A king is dead, executed on behalf of the people, which has never before occurred. But he was a tyrant king, and so removal of him was justified.
But a trial and execution is so different then death on a battlefield, or death by assassination. There's something inglorious, almost offensive about it. Something perverse about such a thing being done to a king, a monarch chosen by God. England has not left his own borders in a long while, but he swears he can feel the contempt and revulsion from the continent. Twisted and backwards Britain, he knows they must be saying, At it again.
The victories in Ireland and Scotland taste weirdly sour in England's mouth. But everything does. He thinks it's a product of being forced to spend so much time with Cromwell. The man has a way of souring the air around him simply by way of his presence. The entire country has taken to smelling of off-milk, curdled, and just a few days away from pungent.
England is not certain whether he's bothered by the hypocrisy of the situation or not. Why yes, these Parliamentarians who wanted nothing more than to shake off tyranny have set themselves up a military dictatorship, it's true, but nominally they are still held in place by the people, technically.
Technically.
And if the absolutely ridiculous impositions and restrictions Cromwell is placing on the people seem…well ridiculous, it is only because England still cannot abide by being restricted by religion. Whether it's Roman Catholicism or Cromwell and his hardline Puritanism is inconsequential.
The focus on this purity, on this minimalism, on this dampening of joy and anything seen as ungodly, leaves England feeling…sour. No wonder the taste can't leave his mouth.
Is he upset? He can't tell. He's afraid if he shows so much as a twitch of emotion Cromwell will cane him in front of the Commons. As literal a metaphorical representation of what he's doing to the nation itself as possible. England would leave London altogether, perhaps retire to a house in Oxford if not to a fairy glen, but the last time he took a trip out of London Cromwell banned celebrating Christmas.
So, no, England's going to stay put, for now. Even if it means feeling as if his soul's been pulled out and replaced with a bowl of sour milk.
Of course, that means he's still away from Alfred. Dear, sweet Alfred. His boy in America. The war touched there a little, he knows. The influx of Puritans who fled there under the last years of Charles's rule, the English colonists choosing sides, then the remaining Cavaliers, men loyal to the king, escaping there when the war was lost.
Alfred is still little, but he must know that England has gone through a brutal war. That will not have been concealed from him, and it pains England to know how the lad must worry. He's never known a true war, he'll have nothing to compare it to. No point of reference to try and understand what must be happening to his beloved caretaker across the sea.
England misses Alfred, terribly. He misses his smile, and the empty expanse of his land, and the simpleness of his affection. He wishes he could get away to visit him, but he's afraid of what will occur in his absence if he does.
Additionally, England has no idea if Cromwell, and the Commons, know about Alfred. King Charles did, England had made mention of the boy around him, and his monarch had delighted in the idea of having the boy visit London one day. But the situation in England had been too turbulent at the time for England to even consider it. His fear now is that Cromwell will demand he fetch Alfred to London, perhaps as a show of the unity between England and their colonies across the sea. The idea twists England's stomach. If he is to show Alfred himself, bring him to England, his kingdom, he wants it at its height, glorious and strong. Not stewing in melancholy and choking under oppression.
It ends, eventually. Because men are mortal, and no monarchy means no dynasties. Cromwell dies, his son cannot maintain the power, and the protectorate, or the commonwealth, or whatever the hell they're calling it these days, comes to an end.
The English people, it seems, are as tired of the taste of sour milk as England himself is. They call back the Stuarts, and Charles's son Charles II is declared king. The monarchy is restored.
The streets are filled with rejoicing, with happiness, from the Commons to the laity and everything above and in between. England feels it, swelling in his chest, bubbling in the crown of his head. A feeling of relief, of everything finally being put right. Of a nightmare, over at last.
But the feeling is off, somehow. False. The Parliament has agreed to reset everything back to what it was in 1633, before they started crippling the monarchy's power. But is that the right decision? The right way? So many men fought and died to give Parliament power, to show that the people were no longer content with the absolute rule of kings, and to return to that with a sweep of a pen…
England is happy to have Charles II on the throne, make no mistake. But he is also uneasy.
He should stay in London for a bit longer. Get to know, or re-know, his royal family. Oversee the return of the monarchy, and ensure that restrictions are placed on the MPs who now know of his existence. He does not want it to remain common practice for the House of Commons to know about him. The current seats must be the last. And he must pay closer attention to the way Parliament and King interact. Whatever else, the events of Charles I's reign must not be repeated.
England has all this to do and more. And yet…and yet…all he can think about, the single point his thoughts keep returning to is that…Finally, finally, he can return to Alfred. The war is over, the country is settling, and there's nothing but his own anxiety keeping him moored. He can go. He can go.
England has been twenty years away, and finally he can return to America.