For St George’s Day/England’s birthday (which he shares with his No 1 export, Mr Shakespeare)!
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.
"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."
The Thousandth Day @ FFNet: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10294555/1/
04/23: Happy Birthday England
happy birthday you big gay baby
happy birthday arthur~~~~~~~
Four hundred fifty years ago today, William Shakespeare was born in Stratford-Upon-Avon. Today, he’s known as one of the best playwrights the world has ever known.
From the top:
Shakespeare’s birthplace x2
First Folio, owned by the Shakespeare’s Birthplace Trust
The Royal Shakespeare Theatre at sunset
The Church of the Holy Trinity, where he’s buried X2
another another tags to type and post the tag that comes upshe, he, they, im, yea, well, if, ok
LETS PLAY THE “TYPE THESE WORDS IN YOU R TAG BOX AND POST THE FIRST AUTOMATIC TAG THAT COMES UP” GAME: DIRTY WORD ADDITION OK