So fanon theory is that it is England's birthday today - 23rd April, St George's Day. A good date - as it's also William Shakespeare's (450th) birthday. ...And his deathday. He just had to be dramatic.

Disclaimer: This story is not about Shakespeare.

The Thousandth Day

1532

"What do I think?"

This is a dangerous question. England pauses, looking at his king. Henry, that spoilt, tempestuous brat.

"I think it's quite the silliest thing I have heard from you yet. What think you of naming it 'The Church of Henry'?"

The king, in his rich velvet and gold, crosses one leg over the other. They are quite alone in the spacious throne room, alight with neat rows of candles. There is the scent of heather and cloves.

"My purpose is to you," Henry says in a low voice. "All my love and my obedience are thine."

"Oh? And none for your wife or your god?" England says nastily. "Whichever wife that may be."

"Catherine cannot bear a son," Henry argues, "and so Anne it must be. If we have no heir-"

"Is Mary not your heir?"

"A son, a son!" This is a path many times taken; Henry is exhausted, exasperated, and his nation - for whom he strives - is indifferent. "Who can Mary wed but a foreign prince? Is that not invitation to France and Spain to close their grasp about your throat?"

England presses his fingertips to his temples, letting out a breath. In the silence his crimson velvet rustles on his ribcage.

"You are most dutiful," he says after a moment - slightly wooden. Humans tire him out very quickly. "...But so is your queen. You cannot expect that Anne will be accepted over Catherine."

Henry leans forward in his chair, fixing his eyes on his nation, the thing that takes the form of a man but does not think like one. England - who prowls like a caged tiger whilst in counsel - stops to meet his eyes. He is respectful of his monarchs but he will not bow to them. They are of him.

"You, England," Henry says quietly. "Do you accept her?"

"She is English, at least," England replies. He doesn't want to make too much of it; Henry will do as he pleases regardless. "Spain's claim will no longer have weight."

"Then all will be as it should." Henry leans back. He is satisfied. "...Your religion must change."

England snorts.

"You know I haven't much care for that."

"You must at least put on the act." Henry pauses. "The Church of England. Commit to my duty, that is my design."

England stops himself from recoiling in disgust, instead nodding once.

"Very good, my leige," he murmurs. "I cannot find fault." He watches Henry through his eyelashes. He can see right through him. "After all... you maintain that you do all for love of me."

1533

Nations are men in shape only. Their understanding of gods and love is limited; their needs to eat and sleep are minimal and they have no sex drive because they do not reproduce. They are best at language and battle: these are the things thick within a nation's blood.

It smells like a battlefield beyond the door - a private wonder he cannot fathom. Humans can create such wonderful things: splendid crowns with delicate filigree, beautiful Bibles hand-illuminated, embroidery so fine that a woman's hands must be bewitched. To this end, England thinks that they really should have refined the messy art of having babies.

He sees the storm on Henry's face when the king emerges from the chamber. The news is not good.

"A stillbirth?"

"No." Henry grimaces. "A girl."

He sweeps away to lick his wounds. England debates sidling away too - after all they've done to secure Anne as queen, this is a humiliating loss. But something makes him stop, his hand on the wall. He can hear the baby crying, a thin, reedy wail. Poor thing, already a millstone.

He goes in gently, the heavy door creaking. The room stinks of smoke and blood, a dazed orange from the candlelight. There are a few ladies-in-waiting and a midwife clustered about the queen's bed; and when they first look up at him, their eyes are hostile. The king should be the only man permitted - and England suspects that his fleeting visit did not bring much comfort. When the midwife recognises him, she nods. They part, letting him come to the bed. The queen lies against the pillows, her dark hair haloed about her. Her skin gleams still with sweat - but he can see that she has been crying, too. The baby, wrapped in white swaddling, is in her loose arms.

She looks at him when he stops at the bedside. Her teeth press to the pink swell of her bottom lip, her face creasing as though she is about to cry again.

"A girl," she whispers. Her breath hitches.

"I know." He sits on the very edge of the bed, putting out his arms. "May I hold her?"

The queen holds out the baby with trembling arms, transferring her. She's a soft squirming bundle, warm against his chest as he cradles her. This isn't something he makes a practice of, holding poor little newborns; he expects that his form is all wrong. Still, he finds himself smiling at her, wrinkled and writhing in his arms.

"My new princess," he says gently, putting out his finger; the baby paws her sticky hand at it, her tiny fingers trying to close. "...Perhaps one day you will be my queen."

He glances at Anne. He means for his smile to be encouraging but she looks away, her cheeks wet.

"What name have you given her?" he asks, looking down at the princess once more.

"Elizabeth," the queen whispers.

"Elizabeth." England rubs his thumb over the baby's cheek. She has a tuft of hair the same colour as her father's. "What a wonderful name."

1536

She isn't even three years old. She won't remember.

She has red curls which frame her face like a fiery cherub. Sometimes he plays with her - he, a godless beast with a church to his name, kneeling on the floor with her and her dolls. She is more or less a prisoner, this tiny princess. He wonders what will become of her.

Her half-sister, Mary, looks at him with resentment. She is dark-haired with her mother's mouth; half-Spanish, Catholic. She knows his part in the affair. When she is queen, she will not abide by him. He can't blame her - he doesn't like to abide by anyone, either.

He doesn't go to the execution. He sits with Elizabeth, who brushes the hair of her doll and doesn't ask for her mother.

She never asks for her father.

In the afternoon, when the nurse takes the princess back, England goes to find Henry. He heard rumours that the king was playing tennis when Anne went to her death.

He is in his private chambers. Seven lives rest on his shoulders - his queen and the six men he accused of sleeping with her. England thought this was all a lot of fuss about nothing and didn't approve, not when Henry has had his share of mistresses. Anne was one of those.

"My liege," England says coldly at the doorway.

Henry is not alone. There is a woman with him, plain, in a severe headdress and veil. She was one of Anne's ladies-in-waiting, he recognises her from court. Under his nation's eye, the king bids her to leave, pressing a kiss to her white hand. She hurries past, eyes down, her skirts brushing England. She smells of honey and spices. Nothing carnal. Not yet.

"It is done but half a day," England says archly, "and here I find you with yet another. Have you no shame?"

"No shame, only duty." Henry is stubborn about it. "The trial was a humiliating affair - one that I must put behind me."

"Who was that?"

"Jane Seymour." Henry raises his strong chin. "She is to be my bride."

"You speak of humiliation," England seethes, "and yet it is you who humiliates me - saddling me with a church I have no want of, all for the sake of Anne, now too thrown aside for yet another." He folds his arms, the taffeta of his sleeves whispering. "I shall take no part in this."

"Jane shall bear a son and heir," Henry insists. "Of that I am certain-"

"And I am certain that we are the laughing stock of Europe," England cuts in coldly. "See to your own affairs; I will not accept a third."

He turns to leave. Henry stands.

"When we have a prince, all will be forgotten," he says, half-desperate. "Mistakes must be made to forge a future - and I am but a man. I cannot know the will of God."

England stops at the doorway.

"You suggest," he says, low, dangerous, "that had you but known, Anne would never have been your design. Catherine is dead - you could have married Jane Seymour without laying the responsibility at my feet."

"But how could I know?" Henry argues. "I am not like you. I am not immortal. I do not have centuries to make decisions." He pauses. "Had Anne but-"

"Peace, I beg you." England shakes his head. "I can make no sense of it."

He leaves Henry to his devices. He has never felt quite so humiliated; surely the joke of Europe, a nation who cannot hold sway over his monarch. Perhaps he will not bow but this reckless man has put him in a cage, gilded and splendid; he and Anne and Elizabeth, they are all the engines of his whim.

1559

Elizabeth in her coronation gown, splendid in scarlet and gold. Her red hair is coiled beneath her crown. She looks like her father, like a Tudor: the colour, the temper, the conquest. She is different. She will last.

On one knee he goes before her - to kiss the white jewelled hand she offers. Her ring is her promise not to make a fool of him. When he bows his head she laughs, calls him a golden-haired devil. She knows what he is, that she may call him her husband but not take him to her bed.

The arrangement is perfect - and just the beginning.

This is all terribly familiar to anyone British or knowledgeable about British history. For those less informed:

Henry: Henry VIII, King of England between 1509-1547. He really, really wanted a son and kept remarrying until he got one (and kept on marrying afterwards, too, ending up with six wives in total). His three surviving children all inherited the throne, albeit briefly in the cases of Edward VI and Mary I.

Catherine: Catherine of Aragon, Henry's first wife - the widow of Henry's older brother Arthur, who died at the age of just fifteen. She was Spanish and Catholic, causing Catholic factions to support her even after Henry cast her aside. Henry's wish to divorce her was refused by the Vatican so Henry to split from Rome and founded the Church of England (which the monarch is still head of today).

Anne: Anne Boleyn, Henry's second wife and the mother of Elizabeth I. Like Catherine before her, she was unable to give Henry a son and this eventually caused her to fall out of favour with the king. He accused her of adultery, treason and witchcraft and had her beheaded at the Tower of London in 1536. She is known as the 'Queen of a Thousand Days'.

Jane Seymour was Henry's third wife, whom he wed just 11 days after Anne's execution. Jane managed to give Henry a boy - Edward, who died at the age of fifteen - but never recovered from the difficult labour and died two weeks later. She was the only one of Henry's wives to receive a queen's funeral.

Elizabeth I, the formidable final Tudor rule who fought off Spain. She ruled for 45 years and never married, instead declaring herself married to the Kingdom of England. She even had a wedding ring! The endurance of Shakespeare owes much to her love of the arts and protection of theatres against Puritan factions.

...There you go. He was in there. Sort of. XD