Work Text:
March 1603
The room was dark, heavy curtains blocking out the gentle rays of the spring sun. England could barely make out Elizabeth's face. His beloved was tired, and not just from the relentless passage of time. Her life had been difficult since her earliest days, and in those long seventy years she never knew true peace. A burden that now weighed heavily on her frail shoulders - and one he feared he could no longer help her bear.
She had summoned him, and upon his arrival dismissed her entourage. But now that they are alone Elizabeth remained silent, turning over in her hands a small ring - the one containing her mother’s portrait, one of the few relics that survived after her father had ordered Anne Boleyn's memory erased1. It was a gift from England himself that had taken months of work with a court painter to recreate the descriptions the nation had provided of the old queen.
“Arthur,” she said, using his name - a privilege only she had, only she could - reaching out a hand that England hastened to grasp and kiss, kneeling before her.
Throughout his history, many sovereigns had come and gone — some more beloved than others — but this was the first time England truly understood how the flow of time could affect a mortal. Elizabeth's hands, once slender, soft, and ivory, were now thin and frail, like the branches of an ancient tree. Her youthful beauty had long faded, concealed beneath heavy white creams; her health had grown fragile, winters now striking fear into the court each year. The last one had been particularly harsh. But more than the seasons, it was the losses of recent months that had shattered her spirit: Lord Burghley, Lady Knollys, and the Countess Carey2, their passing plunged Elizabeth into a grief no theater or performance could lift.
England’s heart clenched as the hand he kissed tenderly brushed his cheek, dread creeping into his soul as he met his queen’s gaze.
“How are you, Arthur?” she asked, her voice hoarse and drained of vitality.
“Your Majesty, I could not be better,” he reassured her, striving not to dwell on Robert Cecil's plans—the serpent awaiting her departure with barely concealed delight, as did much of the court. God curse them all!3
Elizabeth nodded, offering a faint smile. “You have not changed since I was a girl. Always the same face.”
“I… I cannot age, Your Majesty. You know this,” he said, stroking her hand gently with his thumb. It wasn’t improbable that Elizabeth envied his immortality. The relentless signs of aging had distressed her deeply, even leading her to reject his love out of shame for her wrinkles and sagging skin. But England had never cared: nothing could dim the love he held for her.
“Arthur, will you be all right when I am gone?” she asked, thoughtful.
He hesitated before answering: “If your successor proves to be a good sovereign, then yes.”
“A sovereign,” Elizabeth echoed, her gaze distant, before breaking into a rare, heartfelt laugh: “Yes, James will be a good sovereign.”
England stiffened. “Your Majesty-”
“You think I was unaware of Lord Cecil's plans?” she interrupted, amused by his shock, “It’s ironic, isn’t it? In the end, Mary’s blood will sit upon this throne, despite all I did to stop it.”
“You acted justly, Your Majesty. You have nothing to reproach yourself for,” he replied firmly.
Elizabeth - his beloved Elizabeth - shook her head and gestured for him to rise, “James will be a good king; he’s a dear boy. He’ll bring you the peace I could never provide.”
“Elizabeth,” he murmured her name, momentarily forgetting decorum and the respect owed to a queen. But she didn’t scold him; instead, she drew him close and he kissed her hands with devotion.
“There will never be another like you, king or queen,” he said. Elizabeth smiled and pulled him close, pressing a kiss to his lips. England realized with horror that it would be their last.
Elizabeth Tudor smiled at him one final time, then took a deep breath, straightened her back, and rose from the throne.
“Arthur, summon a priest,” she commanded solemnly, standing tall in the dim room, “I have decided that I must die.”
May 1707
France had already expected that his greatest rival would skip the Union festivities4 and drown himself in alcohol at some dingy tavern. What surprised him, however, was that apparently England had been troubled for days. Not by the Union — or at least, it shouldn’t have been the cause. Scotland had mentioned that during the negotiations England had expressed nothing but satisfaction, occasionally taking jabs at his brother over the fact that the one to represent what would soon become the Kingdom of Great Britain would be him. No, this seemed to be a recent matter, something that began last week. While they had been having tea England had suddenly dropped his cup, spilling hot liquid on himself. Rather than letting the servants assist him, he had apologized and fled the room, returning late at night utterly drunk.
Since then he had frequented pubs every evening. And it was in one of these that France found him, slumped over the bar, surrounded by empty glasses. The bartender gave France a look of barely concealed hope, silently begging him to remove the man who was drinking through nearly all his stock. France smirked, placing a pouch of coins on the counter before addressing the Englishman.
“Well, mon ami, I’d like to say I’m surprised, but believe me, I’m not,” he said, giving him a gentle shake. England mumbled something incoherent but seemed not to register his presence at all.
France sighed and asked the bartender for a jug of water. When it was brought to him he unceremoniously poured it over the other nation’s head. England jerked upright, nearly falling backward in the process.
“W-What?” he stammered, looking around. His bleary eyes took a moment to recognize France, but when they did they filled with anger.
“You!”
“C’est moi,” France replied, cheerful, dodging a clumsy punch aimed at his nose.
“Damn frog, of course, it had to be you,” England slurred, trying again to strike him. France caught his wrist and twisted it behind his back, holding him firmly with an arm around his waist.
“You’re needed at court,” France said, dragging him toward the exit with little effort - alcohol had left him far too uncoordinated.
The streets of London were deserted, and thankfully they encountered no trouble on the way to Kensington Palace, despite England’s constant grumbling and insults which likely woke half the neighborhood. The night guards didn’t even blink at their arrival, simply opening the doors for them. From where they stood the music from the ballroom was muffled, but France decided it wasn’t wise to bring England to the party.
“Where are your quarters?” he asked, but England muttered something incomprehensible and wrenched himself free, staggering a few steps away to glare at him with such intense hatred that it caught France off guard.
“You’re the last person I want to see today,” England slurred, glancing around to orient himself before heading in the opposite direction of the festivities. France sighed, cursed his own soft heart and followed at a distance.
“Stop following me, you damn frog!” England snapped, nearly colliding with a statue. A pity he didn’t.
“I’m ensuring you find the right room, mon ami , God forbid you stumble into the chambers of some sweet virgin maiden,” France teased, though his grin faded when England suddenly burst into harsh, humorless laughter.
“Virgin?” England repeated, then cradled his head as if in pain; he collapsed to his knees. Startled, France rushed to his side.
"You definitely need to get some rest, Angleterre," he said, disturbed by what he was witnessing. He was used to England's alcohol-fueled eccentricities, but he sensed there's something deeper going on.
"Let me go," England slurred again, shoving him roughly aside and stumbling onward. France sighed and resumed following him, the sound of the party's music growing ever more distant.
They reached an ornately decorated door; it took England a while to find the keys, rummaging through the pockets of his trousers and jacket before finally locating them around his neck - a miracle no one had stolen them.
"I'm here, stupid frog, now fuck off," he ordered, struggling to fit the keys into the lock and cursing the heavens by his fourth failed attempt. France couldn't help but chuckle under his breath and, feeling magnanimous, stepped in to assist him.
"You're welcome," he quipped, watching with amusement as England stumbled into the room, lit only by the moonlight. On the floor something glints: a golden pendant, the kind that opens to hold tiny portraits inside. It must had fallen when England removed the key from his neck.
France picked it up and immediately recognized the face within: Queen Elizabeth Tudor, likely in her thirties or forties in the miniature portrait. Why would England wear an portrait of his old sovereign around his neck?
The nation in question approached him and snatched the pendant from his hands; suddenly more lucid, he grabbed France by the collar and shook him.
"Don't touch it," he growled, his voice full of venom, eyes shiny with something not entirely attributable to alcohol. France was taken aback, raising his hands.
"I was about to give it back," he tried to justify himself. England led go with yet another shove, then turned the pendant over in his hands with a tenderness born of pure devotion. France recognized that devotion. And understood.
Under any other circumstances, England would never have allowed himself to appear like this, but he was too drunk to maintain any semblance of composure. He collapsed to his knees, clutching the jewel to his chest, and began to cry.
"Her voice," he choked out between sobs. "Her voice, I can't remember it anymore."
France was left stunned, unsure what to say or do. He swallowed hard, glancing down the corridor to make sure no one else was witnessing the scene. Then, crouching down to England's level, he placed his hands on the other's shoulders.
“Angleterre, mon ami, please stand up—”
This time England’s fist connected square to his cheek, sending him sprawling backward.
“Why didn’t you tell me!?” England shouted, clutching the golden pendant to his heart, "You knew it would hurt like this! Why didn’t you say anything!?”
France cursed under his breath, sitting up to glare at him. He wanted to fire back with a sharp retort but he couldn’t bring himself to do it: he had too much respect for love.
“Angleterre, you’re drunk,” France said firmly, pulling England up by his arms and half-carrying him toward the bed. England thrashed, slurring protests and throwing weak punches, but eventually, his strength gave out and he slumped, still clutching the pendant and sobbing quietly.
With some effort, France managed to get him into the bed, removed his boots and jacket, and tucked him under the covers. He let out a long sigh. Why did everything with England have to be so complicated? He looked down at the distraught nation, whose vacant, grief-stricken gaze was fixed on the pendant and the portrait of a woman that didn't live anymore.
“Rest, mon ami. I’ll inform Écosse you’ve returned,” France murmured, ruffling England’s blonde hair before leaving the room. England didn’t even glance at him.
It was the cruelty of time, wasn’t it? “You’ll always be in my heart” was a mere platitude when time eroded memory, a process even beings like them weren’t immune to. First, it was the voice. Then the little details of the body, the features of the face. Finally, the death became nothing more than an idea, a shadow of who they once were, their true essence forever lost to history.
Despite himself, France felt a pang of jealousy.
At least England had a portrait to cry over.