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Winter of 1069; Yorkshire, Kingdom of England
The sword which cleaved England's brow had bitten deep, near riven his head in twain, and blood pours from the wound, running in swift rivulets down the stark hollows of his sunken cheeks and dripping from the point of his chin.
It has been three weeks since that blow landed, and the wound shows no signs of healing.
"Will it ever stop?" he asks.
Gwynedd's armour creaks and rattles as he resettles himself on the ground beside England, his breath whistles swift and shrill through his broken nose, but he does not answer. Likely, he considers it a kindness.
England does not.
"Will it stop?" he asks again. He demands, hand searching blindly for Gwynedd's. He finds it resting against his brother's knee, fingers curled lax towards his palm, and seizes hold of it, squeezing until Gwynedd's knuckles grind together.
"Yes," Gwynedd says, voice thinned with pain and hesitant with regret. He would spare England this if he could. "It will stop when you…"
"When I am dead," England says when it becomes clear Gwynedd cannot continue. "When the Bastard has destroyed me."
"You are his now," Gwynedd says, "and he does not want to destroy you. He wants you to stop resisting. He wants you to obey."
"I will never bend the knee to him!"
"You may have no choice, brawd."
Gwynedd is right, damn him. Perhaps if he could have met the Norman forces on the field again, he might have prevailed, but this is not a battle he can fight with a sword in hand. The Bastard has bribed the Northmen to desert him, massacred his people, set fire to their villages and food stores, and slaughtered their livestock. England is nothing without his people, and those people – those survivors – are starving.
Now, he doubts he has the strength remaining to raise his weapon in their defence again, and his allies are no better. Mercia and Northumbria are but wispy shadows of their former selves - fading, prematurely old men with brittle bones and rheumy eyes. Though Gwynedd is stout and plump, as hale and hearty as he has ever been, he is just one man – one youth – and would not be able to overcome Normandy alone.
Still, he is strong enough that England cannot hope to keep him at bay when he reaches for him, intent on coddling him like an infant or an invalid, half-dead already.
He dabs at England's eyes with a damp cloth until the clotted blood that had been gumming them shut is all scoured away and he can see once more, and then rolls up the sleeves of England's tunic so he can sigh and frown over the pus-filled blisters that pepper his arms from wrists to elbows.
"Take off your armour," he says gruffly. "I want to check the rest of you for injuries."
"There aren't any; I'm fine," England tells him, even though at least three of his ribs are broken and his stomach is torn, the flesh there tattered as though some great beast has rent it with sharp claws.
He does not want his brother to see how thin he has become, every bone in his body pressing keenly against bruised skin. He would only worry himself, and fret volubly and tiresomely to no end, because there's naught he could do to heal any of it.
Gwynedd looks unconvinced, but he does subside, releasing England from his uncomfortably close clasp. They sit side by side in silence for a spell, staring out over scorched grass towards the ruddy glow of a fire pinking the sky on the far horizon. The North still burns, and England wonders what will survive of it – of him – afterwards.
"Once he's brought me to heel, he'll go after you next," England says, and he takes an ugly sort of pleasure in it. It eases his heart somewhat to think that he is not alone in this.
Gwynedd hangs his head, sorrowed. "I know, Lloegr," he says. "And I fear I may fare no better than you."
By the time Normandy finds him, curled up alone in the burnt-out remains of a farmhouse which had been the best chance of shelter he'd been able to find, England is too tired to run.
"There you are," Normandy says, soft and crooning. "I've been looking for you!"
He sounds delighted, as though he and England were merely lads playing at some puerile game of hide-and-go-seek in which he is now the victor.
"Aye," England says, fumbling for the sword sheathed at his hip, "you've found me, but you won't take me!"
Normandy laughs at his efforts, and then even harder when England tries to struggle to his feet but overbalances and pitches forward, landing facedown in the dirt.
"Oh, I don't think you have any choice in the matter, my dear," he says, brushing the tips of his fingers lightly across the back of England's neck. It feels like a cobweb trailing over his skin, and England cringes away from the contact. "Our king wishes to have an audience with you."
He hauls England upright again as effortlessly as if he weighed nothing more than a sack stuffed with feathers and enfolds him in an embrace, holding him close and tight. England batters his clenched fists against Normandy's chest until he splits his knuckles against the hard metal scales covering his hauberk, but to no avail.
Normandy is far taller than England and much, much too strong. He remains unmoved.
Once England has slumped exhausted in his arms, soaked through with sweat and gasping for air, he plucks him off his feet and slings him, undignified, over his shoulder.
"Come on," he says, chiding. "He is waiting in York for you to bend your knee to him."
He sets off walking with long, loose, easy strides, as though he is completely unburdened.
The Bastard had called for his crown and other regalia to be brought to York from Winchester so he could celebrate Christmas with all the pomp and regal ceremony he believes is his due.
That morning, he heard Mass in the ransacked husk of the cathedral, and there he waits still to greet England, all clothed in his stolen finery.
Normandy carries England from his horse to his king, where he drops him suddenly, like a cat depositing a mouse at its master's feet. Miraculously, England lands on his feet, and for a moment – an all too brief moment – he remains standing, meets the Bastard's eyes square and proud.
But he's weak, starving, and his body betrays him, vision blurring as his legs begin to shake. He doesn't want to give the Bastard the satisfaction, but he falls to his knees regardless, brought low in a parody of obeisance.
Normandy and his king make satisfied noises at the sight, but England cannot hear the exact words they speak over the sound of his own pulse, pounding in his ears. His head feels unbearably heavy, bowing low as if in defeat.
Blood seeps from the cut on his brow, drip, drip, drips to the flagged floor, puddling around his braced hands and staining his fingers crimson.
If any of his own people are left in the cathedral now, he must look to them as though he is genuflecting to the Bastard. It must look as though he has surrendered.
And they would have the right of it. Normandy stands sentry at his back, the Bastard stands over him, and their soldiers throng the charred streets outside. There will be no escaping from this. The North is lost.
After the Bastard has finished gloating, he turns and walks away; Normandy remains, crowding close.
"You're crushed," he crows. "Your little rebellion is no more. I told you I'd get you on your knees, didn't I? And here you are."
There's a bitter taste at the back of England's throat, soot and ashes rising from his blackened lungs, and he spits it out into Normandy's face when he crouches down in front of him.
Normandy laughs, his broad smile shining as brightly as his gold-spun hair, and he hooks his hands up under England's armpits, drags him to his feet and into a kiss.
It's hard, unforgiving, truthfully closer to a punch to the mouth than any kind of tenderness. His tongue pokes insistently at England's lips, but England clenches his jaw, grinds his teeth down hard together, and refuses to part them for him.
Normandy's patience soon runs out and he tires of the futile exercise, shifting his hands to England's shoulders and holding him at arm's-length. "I will take good care of you," he says.
England's mother had promised Scotland would do the same when she passed him off into his care. England suspects Normandy's protection will prove to be even more worthless than his brother's ever was, as he doesn't even have the scant obligation of familial duty to fulfil. He is the victor, and England is…
England is conquered. He expects no compassion from his conquerors and will not be foolish enough to hold out any hope for it.
"I doubt that," he says.
"Ah, come now," Normandy says, pouting. "Don't be so gloomy. I'm sure we will be the very best of friends."