13 January, 1999

"O for a muse of fire," England quotes, "that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention," and hits rewind on the videocassette player.

America pauses, his fistful of popcorn halfway to his mouth. Careful, England wants to chide him, don't let the kernels spill between the sofa cushions. "That's really pretentious."

"That's the first line of the play."

"I know it's the first line of the play, I'm just saying—"

England sighs. "I thought it would be a proper start to things." The videocassette player whirrs and clicks behind him in agreement, or so he imagines.

The sofa, however, groans as America sinks deeper into it. "It's just a movie."

"It's a damned good movie," England says, "and I'll quote whomever I please."

"Touche." America holds up his hands in—no, surrender is never the right word for America, England thinks, his mouth twisting at the side. Appeasement, perhaps, though that word's more suited to England also. "So was Agincourt actually like that?"

The way England bares his teeth isn't quite a smile. "It was equally satisfying." Ah, the image of France sprawled on the ground, his hair and armour plastered with mud and the rain spattering his cheeks—it's an image he hasn't yet tired of, even after all these centuries. "A good deal muddier, but that's difficult to portray onstage." He smirks again; it's difficult not to. "Can this cockpit hold the vasty fields of France, after all."

"Huh?"

"The prologue asks the audience to create the army in their mind's eye," England explains, checks the time on the videocassette player. Still another three minutes to go, it seems. "Since the stage alone isn't equal to the task."

"Is the movie?" America asks, grinning, and England ought to scoff at his cheek but there's something so guileless about it still, even after all these years. Well. All these years might be overstating matters. God, he didn't even exist when Agincourt was fought, did he?

"Better," England says, "and worse. It leaves less to the imagination, but—it's difficult to explain."

"Try me."

England rubs his temples. "You've made enough films of your own history, you know the feeling. When the picture before you isn't quite as you remember it."

"Well yeah," America says, "but sometimes it's a better story that way."

"Will would agree." England has more than a trace of a smile, remembering. "He and I had this very conversation—oh, every time he wrote one of his histories, or nearly. 'We remember them twofold,' he'd say. 'As they were, and as they ought to be.'"

The tape clicks to a stop.

America's smiling, but there's a softness to it, a kind England doesn't often see on him. "Smart guy."

"Oh, he was brilliant. And rather self-effacing about it, too."

"Wait, Shakespeare was shy?"

"No, not shy, have you ever met a shy actor? It goes against the principle of the thing. And he did act, you know. He was no Burbage or Alleyn, but he did well enough with it." There was a kind of comfort in watching him perform, England recalls—he knew each board he trod, each line he spoke, knew them as surely as if they were parts of himself, and never tried to inflate their worth or call attention to the man behind the illusion. "He accepted praise for his work, he'd have been mad not to, but he never dwelled on it the way some others did."

America cranes his head to the side, and good god, why must he look so young tonight? "You miss him, don't you?"

"I do," England sees no shame in admitting. "Him, and the Chamberlain's Men, and the playmakers, and their audiences." And their queen—perhaps their queen most of all—but well, he hardly needs to say that. "God, those days."

"Must've been great," America says absently, flicks kernels of popcorn onto the floor.

"America, I just vacuumed."

"It's just a few kernels."

"Yes, and you can clean them up later."

America wrinkles his nose. "Why should I clean your house?"

England reaches forward and cuffs him upside the head, lightly.

"Hey!"

"You deserved it."

The next kernel of popcorn America flicks is aimed squarely at England, who manages to deflect it in time, if not quite to turn it back on America. America scoops up another fistful of popcorn and launches it at England, and this time England can't swat them all away; one even lands in his open—and sputtering—mouth. "You little—" he begins, strides over to the couch, and buffets America about the head with one of the cushions.

"You'll knock over the bowl!" America says through his laughter, but puts up a valiant effort to defend himself, fends off each strike with hands and elbows and shoulders. England swats at America's stomach, and America says "Oh no you don't" and grabs the collar of England's shirt, pulling him forward and trapping his hand behind America's back and, yes, upending the bowl of popcorn in the process.

England can't decide if the pillow trapped between their chests is too much of a buffer between them or not enough of one. Shallow as America's breath is, England can still feel it against his cheeks and lips. His chest constricts, mouth parted—

"We should." America clears his throat; he glances at something over England's shoulder, his gaze not resting on England's face. "We should probably start the movie."

"And clean this up," England agrees, glancing down at the spill.

"Yeah. I make another bowl, you clean this up?"

"Ought to be the other way around," England mutters, but does his best to withdraw. His hand's still trapped between America's back and the sofa's arm, so he says, "You need to move."

"Right. Right." America leans forward, allows England to withdraw. "And you'd burn the popcorn."

"It's better burnt," England informs him, brushing a few stray kernels off his trousers. "I'll fetch the broom."

"You are a strange little man," America calls after him, then: "Hey, England?"

"Yes?"

"What was Agincourt actually like?"

England really ought to get the broom and dustpan. Instead, he pauses before the telly, leans against the cabinet it rests in. "I mentioned the mud."

"You mentioned the mud."

"Awfully convenient, that mud. For Harry, I mean. France's knights were all in armour, and our longbowmen had almost none." If he lids his eyes and breathes in, he can almost recall the smell of the day: the stench of the muck, the sweat of his soldiers, the iron reek of blood pervading everything. "The knights had to wade through the mud to reach us, and sank in it up to their knees. Imagine trudging through something that thick with twenty kilos of metal strapped to you."

America makes a face that's half-whistle, half-cringe.

"Some of them drowned in their armour," England goes on. "Those that did reach us were too exhausted to put up much of a fight. And the field was too narrow for France's numbers to do him much good. All those lines of men crushed together, scarcely able to use their swords."

"Ouch."

"Yes, well. War is rarely pleasant, particularly for the loser."

"I know that."

"France did learn to mind my bow after that, though." England's smile can't really be called one. "Would that the lesson had stuck longer."

"Right, because Joan—"

England hopes the look he shoots America is sufficiently murderous. It quiets him, at least for the moment.

"Never mind," America says. "So, uh, did Henry really say all that? 'We band of brothers,' that stuff?"

"Will dressed it up a bit. The atmosphere was a sight more remorseful; we spent most of the eve of battle cleansing ourselves of our sins." England remembers that, too, his hand at his heart, his lips pressed to the ground. "Henry said France would likely capture and ransom the nobles, but the common folk would see no such mercy, so they had best fight for their lives. I think the message stuck."

"Kind of different from 'we band of brothers.'"

There's still popcorn clinging to England's sock. He brushes it off. "As they were," he repeats, "and as they ought to be." He really ought to do something about the rest of this; the popcorn still litters the floor, and he crushes more of it underfoot every time he shifts his weight, sends crumbs scattering in patterns he can't decipher.

—well. Save that one.

England squints and stoops. Coincidence, most likely, but he knows the rune taking shape among the crumbs. He traces the emerging pattern with his finger; it's one he's outlined before, a ward to guard and protect. The air shivers as his hand passes through it, and it sets him shivering as well.

"England?"

He shakes his head. Merlin's beard, he's reading significance into everything tonight. Even Will wasn't all signs and portents. "It's nothing," he says. "I'd best clean up."

"Yeah," America says, and England looks up in time to catch the slight frown creasing his features. "You do that."

England nods and rises to standing, blinks. More patterns gather and swarm before his eyes, fleeting glimpses of—something. He rubs his eyebrows to relieve the pressure gathering behind his eyes. Damn. Is his economy fluctuating? No, the effects of that tend to be more violent, perhaps it's something in the Thames again. He says as much to America, tries to smile.

"Can't be any worse off than it used to, right?" America asks. "I mean, a century or so ago."

"I bloody well hope not," England says, wincing at the memory. The blood behind his eyes throbs steadily, swells. Damn again. It's almost the same feeling as when England first tried his hand at factory work and found himself too exhausted to close his eyes after; they were red and swollen enough that even attempting to shut them hurt. Or perhaps it's closer to a feeling he had earlier than that, on campaign in the Low Countries and Ireland—

His head nearly splits in two at that thought, and England shouts, clutches his temples. Ireland. Fuck, has she done something? No, but merely thinking her name makes him want to double over.

"Hey, England—" That note of uncertainty isn't often one he hears in America's voice, and he'd remark on it if the drumming in his head were less incessant, but even his teeth are starting to chatter to that infernal rhythm. England falls to his knees, and the ground trembles.

"England, England, your house doesn't get earthquakes, seriously, England, what the hell—"

"Fuck if I know!" he manages to shout as the air around him hums and thickens.

There's a tearing sound, as though the fabric of the world is being rent, and England's head swims before it swarms with sound and light—the fae are by him, surrounding him, tugging at his clothes and hair and chattering insistently, their shrill voices overlapping until he can't make sense of any of it.

"Slower," he gasps, "please—"

"England, what the hell?" America asks, and dimly, as though through a clouded glass, England sees America get up from the couch and cross to him, take him by the wrist. England tries to snatch his hand away—the fae are making claim to him now, it's not good to interfere with that—but the fae pull in the opposite direction, and England's head spins once more.

The fae continue to shriek, and England strains to listen: Gloriana, they repeat, again and again. Gloriana.

England's blood runs cold.

"Elizabeth," he barely breathes. "Something's—something's gone wrong with Elizabeth."

"Elizabeth?" America asks, and though England can't see his face well, he imagines the confusion settling over it. "England, she's been dead for like four hundred years."

England shakes his head, mouth dry, throat thick. "Time is—time is a funny thing," he says, wetting his lips. "Who's to say what happened then isn't happening now, elsewhere—"

Save her—save yourself—

He can't tell whether he nods or collapses, but he does hear America shout "England!" again, feels America pull him close to his chest. Ha, it's almost the picture of how England used to hold him long ago, sometimes, but they've reversed their positions now.

The fae are little more than streaks of light now, building and burning in intensity and swirling round and round—

—until a crack greater even than the first splits the air, and there's nothing but darkness.

England opens his eyes and the darkness abates, but only slightly. The pain in his head fades no less slowly; he gives a small groan and hauls himself to his knees, blinking as his eyes adjust. America's chest is still a solid presence against his back, and England—well, it's a comfort now, he supposes.

"England," America says, his voice oddly high and thin. "England what the fuck is going on?"

"I don't know," he admits, standing. Wherever they are, it's colder than a witch's tit. England can make out the foggy outline of his breath in the air, and behind him, America's teeth chatter. There really isn't much light to speak of, only a dim glow from a half-dead lantern and a few cold pinpricks of light from the window. England rubs his forehead yet again. Where is this? It feels familiar, it feels like his land, but who would live here, like this?

America hasn't stopped speaking, he realizes belatedly. "—don't know if you spiked my drink or put something in the popcorn or I don't even know but seriously whatever you did, not cool."

"I didn't do anything, it was the fae."

"Right. The fae." America's most likely glaring. "England, stop pinning everything on your little fairy friends and tell me—"

"Quiet!" he snaps. Mercifully, America listens. England takes a steadying breath, continues. "I have no idea where we are, and only the vaguest of ideas how we got here, and I do not want to attract undue attention."

"Was this a classified project or something? Some kind of—I don't know, is it that underground hadron collider? It's the underground hadron collider. Wait, that's in Switzerland."

"Yes, America, that's in Switzerland, and no, I am not developing any technologies for teleportation, now help me look around."

"This is a dream," America says. "This is a really really bad dream. This is the kind of dream where I'm going to look down and notice I'm not wearing pants."

"Are you wearing pants?"

"…yep."

"Well then."

"England—no. Fragment of my imagination that looks like England. It's time to wake up, okay? I don't like this dream anymore. I want to go back to Kansas. There's no place like home, there's no place like home, there's no place like—what is that smell?"

And now that some of the initial panic's faded, England notices it, too. Really, he's surprised he didn't notice it sooner, because the reek pervades everything. It's the stench of dirt and dung, unwashed bodies and what they leave behind, of grease and sweat and drips of meet and stale beer. And something worse overlaying that: the cloying smell of rot.

"England—dream-England, you know what I mean—but anyway, jeez, what happened to your housekeeping—"

England stretches out his hand, strokes one of the rough-hewn bedposts before him. He can see shapes if not details, and the room has few enough of those. It's a small room, little more than a garret, which explains the chill. Other than the bed, he sees something that puts him in mind of a close-stool—no proper toilet, wherever this is, that explains some of the smell. There's a trunk at the foot of the bed, he nearly bangs his toe into it, and the bed itself gives off a sort of dying heat; America's noticed that, and he holds his hands over the covers, rubs them together briskly. If England squints, he can see a desk in the far corner—

—and a figure slumped over it.

Again, England freezes, but the figure doesn't move.

"England," America says, now in a whisper, "there's someone here."

"Yes. I know."

Slowly, slowly, England creeps closer. The silence is thicker than he'd like. Some distant sounds from outside filter in—shouts, perhaps, and a sudden squeak—but no car horns, and none of the country noises England knows. It's a cliché, but England suspects the loudest sound is the hammering of his heart.

Slowly, slowly, England rounds the corner of the desk. Slowly, slowly, England stretches his hand towards the man, and the dying lantern-light spills onto his fingers.

America, of course, abandons such delicacy, and taps the man on the shoulder.

"What the sodding hell—" England begins, but the man doesn't stir.

"Shit," America breathes. "England, is he dead?"

He's had to say I don't know too many times, and here's another. "I don't know. It would explain the smell."

"Oh man, you have no idea how much I don't want to be in a creepy house in the middle of the night with a dead person. No. Idea."

"I have a fairly good idea," England says, recalls all the nights America used to crawl into his bed. He hoists the lantern aloft to get a better look at the man and starts: the man's jerkin and doublet hang about him far too loosely, and even in this light, England can see the black stains on his cuffs, the dirt ringing his collar. A wealthy man, or he was once. More significantly, a man from another time. The chill settles into England's bones. Where have the fae taken them?

He lifts the lantern higher to cast some light on the man's face, and nearly drops it.

"Dear sweet fucking Christ," he breathes.

"What?"

"It's Edmund," England says, barely believing it himself. "Edmund Spenser. Gloriana. Of course."

"Gloriana? Edmund Spenser? The poet?"

"Yes, the poet." Died for want of bread, Ben Jonson said, and England can believe it. His own stomach gives a pang at the hollowness of Spenser's cheeks, the sharpness of the bones beneath. Damn and damn again. "The fae said Gloriana was in danger. Gloriana was his name for her in The Faerie Queene."

"That's great and all, England, but he's been dead for—"

"Four hundred years, yes." The light itself trembles. "Considerably less than that now."

"No way. No. No way in hell." America's voice rises, sharper than the chill. He seizes England by the shoulder, spins him around. "This is just—it's one of those bad dreams you get from indigestion or something, I never should have eaten that pot roast you made, I bet I got food poisoning and that's why I'm sharing a room with a guy who's been dead for four hundred years because—I mean, I'm dreaming, I have to be dreaming, I'll pinch my leg to prove it—ow!"

"America," England hisses, "you're hysterical."

"I'm not hysterical!" The effect of America trying to shout and whisper at the same time would be comical were England himself not on the verge of doing the same. "I just—these things don't happen."

"You believe in aliens," England murmurs, and the odd strain seems to have crept into his voice now. "Is this so much harder to accept?"

"Aliens are not time travel with fairies and have I mentioned the part where we're in the room with a dead man in the middle of the night because I am seriously not okay with that—"

Spenser groans. England does drop the lantern. Somehow, mercifully, it stays lit.

"—he's alive?"

England wastes no time, takes Spenser's wrist and presses two fingers against the vein. His pulse is sluggish, weakening by the beat, but there. "Barely. Spenser, Spenser, do you hear me?"

There's movement behind Spenser's eyelids, at least; his lips part, but no words come out. Is England too late? Inwardly, he curses himself, and curses everything else he can think of for good measure, from the courtiers who allowed his most treasured poet to starve like this, to the fae for taking him through time with no explanation, to America, who has picked up a pewter cup from the desk and is, from the looks of it, sniffing its contents.

"England," America says, and the colour of his voice has changed again, darkened. "How did this guy die? In history?"

"Starvation," England says, smoothes some of the rank hair from Spenser's brow.

"I'd rethink that one." America holds the cup under his nose, and England nearly gags on the scent: roses mixed with rot.

"Hellebore. Black hellebore," he manages, and looks down at Spenser in horror. "Good god, man, did you do this to yourself?"

"Not I," Spenser croaks at last, and England cannot bend closer to listen fast enough.
But more isn't forthcoming, and England has no water to offer him.

"Jesus, look at his throat," America says. "It swelled right up."

"I know," England snaps, and grabs Spenser's wrist again. "Thy Nation speaks, Spenser."

Some flicker of light stirs behind his eyes. "Praise god," he whispers, each word a labour. "I did hope—I would see you, before the end."

"Who did this to thee? Speak, if you can."

Spenser chokes, the brightness in his eyes now almost feverish. "The book—"

"What?" America asks.

"Gone—ought have been—" Spittle foams at the corners of Spenser's mouth as his limbs stiffen, his eyes roll; his chair rattles against the floorboards as he leans back into the darkness, trembling.

"America, hold him still!" England shouts. "He's convulsing!"

America nods, and even in the dim light England can see the color leech from his face. He grips Spenser 'round the torso, pinning his arms close, and though Spenser's legs thrash madly the rest of him remains contained. Perhaps too contained—the muscles at the side of Spenser's cheek twitch under England's fingers, but his jaw remains shut. Somehow, he forces the words through: "Find—Will—Will Shakespeare—"

"We shall, we swear it—Spenser—Spenser—Edmund, stay!"

But with one final great shudder, he is gone, the lantern guttering and dying with him.

"England," America whispers in the thickening dark. "England, what's going on?"

Trembling, England slides his fingers up Spenser's face, finds the lids of his eyes, pulls them down. "I suspect we're about to find out."

.

A/N: The complete footnotes will come at the end of this fic. There will be a lot of them! (Seriously, I have so many books stacked on my desk right now.)

Agincourt! Agincourt was awesome—well, if you were English. The English were grossly outnumbered, but thanks to their longbows and to some really awful terrain on the field, they prevailed against the French. Also, watch Kenneth Branagh's rendition of Henry V's Saint Crispian's Day address if you have the chance. Just—just do.

Edmund Spenser was basically England's poet laureate during Elizabeth I's reign—his epic The Fairie Queene is a mythical retelling of her court. He died on January 13, 1599 "from lack of bread" according to Ben Jonson, but—well, the fact that the summary of this fic mentions Shakespeare and zombies should indicate that the official version of events might not be what happens here.