A/n: Originally a really quickly put together fill for the Kink meme, but I felt that this one could be saved, so I cleaned it up a little bit and brought it here. This is the rest of what I've been doing with my time when I should have been studying for AP tests. The request was "A nation meets a reincarnated lover (or close friend)" and this thing popped into my head and would not leave. Enjoy my paltry offerings~

Warnings: Historical stuff that might kill your love of Arthurian legend

England still remembers the first day that he met the boy, although it had started to fade with the millennium and a half of intermediate time. It was back in the days where dragons and faeries roamed his forests, not daunted by disbelief and sprawling cities. It was back when everyone had called him Engla. It was back when he hid from his half-brothers instead of the other way around. It was back when in the chill of the night he could curl up under Germania's cloak and feel at peace.

He can't quite remember what he did on a day to day basis. However, he must have been kept from the worst of what his caretaker's troops did, because that's how he ended up running away.

Germania had left something at camp. England can't recall what it was, but it was important since, against orders, England used some of the magic his mother had taught him before she left (he was still looking for her at the time. It was like she fell off the face of the earth or something. Wales must have had her, he decided, that bastard) and turned himself invisible so he could bring it to him.

However, when he called upon a unicorn to give him a ride, he had to argue with her. She said that she didn't want to go anywhere near those "demons." England said that that wasn't a nice thing to call someone, and eventually she relented.

England knows that she said something like, "You're going to regret this, my child," but he ignored her. How could he regret helping out the man who gave him food and somewhere warm to sleep?

But as soon as he approached, he saw the gore: a multitude of men, some Germania's and some that he recognized as Wales's, cut up. Many had arrows sticking out of them, and plenty were lying in the ground, unmoving. He didn't understand. How could this happen? Germania didn't say anything about killing people. Yet he sat on his horse, looking over the carnage as though it was nothing. About then, a man rode up to the nation.

"They've surrendered the castle to us, my lord," He said.

"Good," Germania replied, "Send them off into the wilderness. We can leave some of our people here and continue to expand westward."

England was shaking. He felt like he was going to die or throw up, and the unicorn would be mad if he did either on her back. He asked her to take him away, far away, and she did with no argument this time. She brought him to the middle of a forest, as deep and old and magical as any. She helped him slide off her back and sit down against an ancient tree. He immediately pulled his knees to his face and started to cry.

"I-I'll go get someone," She said shakily, not used to seeing the young nation upset, "Be back in a moment,"

He began to sob harder, missing the unicorn's calming presence.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and stiffened. He looked up to see a boy scarcely older than he was standing beside him. He was wearing a simple brown tunic and was covered in dirt, as though he had been rolling on the ground. However, his state of cleanliness did little to subtract from the vivid blue of his eyes like the sea on a clear day or even the gold of his hair so very similar to wheat ready for threshing. England just balked up at the other boy.

"Are you okay?" He asked, eyebrows knit.

"Bloody Hell, I'm not okay!" England yelled.

The boy backed up and stared at him wide-eyed.

"I'm sorry," England said, curling up again.

"Nah, it was a dumb question," He said, shrugging, "What's your name?"

England got to his feet, Of all the impudent- "We've just met and you assume that I would tell you my name?"

"Woah, relax!" The boy said holding out his hands, "I didn't think you'd flip out. It's not like it's a big deal."

"Oh, you're one of those," England stood and crossed his arms, "One of those people who think that magic is nothing but a load of bollocks."

"Well, yeah," The boy said, "It doesn't work."

"Why I ought to curse you until you see purple!"

"Aw man, that'd be sweet! I'm Arthur, by the way."

"Wonderful, that will let me curse you all the more easily!"

Arthur laughed and England felt himself deflate. He didn't want to fight right now. He just sat back on the ground, "Just leave me alone and go back to whatever hole you crawled out of."

"Yeah," Arthur said, "About that, you're kinda sitting in front of it."

"I'm what?"

"Just stand for a sec. I'll show ya."

England didn't really want to, but he decided that he might as well play along, at least until his unicorn came back.

Arthur took a hold of one of the ancient knots in the tree, then another, then pulled himself up to grab new ones. England followed him out of curiosity. Eventually, when they had climbed what was probably about ten feet, Arthur shimmied around the trunk. When England followed him, he wound up on a thick tree branch.

"Woah!" Arthur said, "You actually came," He frowned, "Ya know, even if you don't want to tell me your real name, I gotta call you something."

England sighed, "Well, the fae call my brother and me Myrddin, so if you'd like-"

"Okay, Myrd! Come on!" He grabbed England's wrist and dragged him along the branch. They were approaching a cliff. England was about to point this out until he saw a crack in the wall.

"You really do live in a hole," England marveled.

"Yeah, I got nowhere else to go. The Angles killed my mom and dad, and the bugs are better company than my sisters. Stupid Elaine, stupid Morgause, and especially stupid Morgan."

"Wait a moment," England said, stopping in his tracks, "You're Arthur, son of Uther Pendragon."

"'S right. Not like it's going to help me."

"But you're a prince!"

"So? The Angles don't care. They killed dad, didn't they?" His eyes flashed angrily.

"I wouldn't know," England said, kicking at the bark and pretending it was Germania's face.

"Hey, don't worry about it. Just… let's be friends, okay, Myrd? We'll make it through, I know it. Now come on," He yanked on England's arm, "I got some day-old rabbit soup in there and I can tell you stories about monsters from the sky."

England rolled his eyes. Well, this boy could be interesting for a while.

Later that night, as he and Arthur cuddled with one soft wolf pelt to lie upon and another to keep them warm, England realized that the unicorn hadn't come back. When he called her to ask why, she had said that she'd never seen him smile so brightly before.

The years passed for England and Arthur. England tried to teach him magic and failed on a regular basis since Arthur preferred fighting with the sword England had stolen from a water nymph. Arthur tried to show England how someday his people would reach the moon and failed since England always snapped that he had better keep England's people from reaching Camelot (although he was always careful to call them "the enemy" or something like that. No need for Arthur to know that England was the Angles). They grew closer and closer. England came to the point where he could barely imagine or recall life without Arthur. He gave the boy his all: the best equipment, the best magical aid, the best advice. It wasn't easy, though. Every victory Arthur made, the weaker England felt.

Still, it was worth it. It was all worth it to see the way that Arthur woke up every morning, positively radiant. And he had become quite radiant. He'd kept that same golden hair, but now it was fairly clean and would gleam in the candlelight. He'd grown tall and broad, with skin just darkened by the sun. However, his face was still just a bit round, just a bit boyish. He was lovely to look at. Even though England was barely seven by human reckoning, he couldn't help but wonder if he was falling in love.

And then one day, when Arthur was nearing his fortieth birthday and starting to show his age, the unimaginable happened: England awoke and he felt wonderful. There was no weariness in his bones, no soreness in his muscles, no mysterious bruises or cuts coming from the ills of his true people. He enjoyed the sensation momentarily, but then he had a realization: there had been a battle last night. The Britons should have turned the Angles back. He should have scarcely been able to move, and he felt as though he could run a marathon.

No. This was bad. Arthur wasn't the type of king to sit back and let his troops fight. He would have been on the front lines, Excalibur in hand. If the Britons had been decimated, then Arthur might be… he might be…

England leapt from his bed, barely bothering to pull his cloak over his long tunic, and called his dearest unicorn.

"Take me to him," He said.

The unicorn nodded, knowing exactly who "he" was. England mounted her and in the blink of an eye found himself at a blood-soaked battlefield. He saw Lancelot standing outside of a tent, looking carefully blank.

"He's in there, isn't he?" England asked.

The knight nodded.

"Let me in."

"Yes, lord Myrddin," He opened the flap, "Just please don't make too much noise and be quick. No one knows how much time he has."

England nodded and entered.

Arthur was lying upon a makeshift bed of straw and a few pelts. His chest was bound with bandages that were slowly turning red. His breaths were shallow and labored. There was sweat upon his face. It was clear to see that the king was not long for this world.

It took England all he had not to throw himself at the man. Instead, he approached and placed a hand on his cheek. Arthur opened one eye. They were still so blue, but they were bleary now.

"Myrd," he asked, "'S that you?"

"Yes, dear king," England said.

"You came to save me, didn't ya?"

England swallowed, "No. I-I can't."

"Too bad even for your magic, huh?"

England debated how to answer. He could lie to the man. He could say that was it. But on the other hand, could he really say anything untrue to Arthur right then? The king looked at him, expecting an answer. Expecting England to be open.

"No… It's not that, I just… I'm just not the right person."

"What do you mean? You're the kingdom, aren't you?"

England shook his head, "No… no I'm not."

He looked puzzled, "I thought you said you were a nation, though."

"I- I-" He felt like he was going to start crying. Dammit, why was he telling him this? Arthur could have died happy, why did England have to try to tell him the truth?

"It's alright, Myrd."

"You don't need to comfort me. I'm not the one that's dying." He took a deep breath, "I'm not your nation. I'm them. I'm the Angles." He really did start crying, just like the useless child he was, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I mislead you all these years."

Arthur sighed, "Oh, Myrd, I wish you would have told me sooner. I'd have switched sides."

"You'd what?" He could have sworn he misheard. A king didn't leave his throne just to support an enemy country he happed to like as a person.

"Listen," Arthur said, smiling, "You're the one I care about. When I was alone and didn't have nobody, you were my friend." He had to pause to breathe, but England couldn't bear to interrupt, "We spent all that time in the woods, just being awesome together. I'd have followed you anywhere."

"Arthur…"

"I'm the one who should be sorry." He took a ragged breath, "I never got to take care of you. I helped so many of my people, but it's always hurt you. I thought I was helping you this whole time, but I've just been…"

"No! Don't worry. I was fine. It was what I wanted. You were perfect, Arthur."

"Myrd, all these years I wanted to be your hero. I don't wanna give up on that yet."

England smiled, "Don't worry, you were… you still are."

"I mean it. Some day I'll be back. When you really need me, I'll be there."

England smiled, "Don't be daft."

"Hey, I got by guts cut open. I can be as daft as I want." He smiled. It was weak, but still as joyous as ever.

In spite of everything, England found himself laughing, "Alright, but if you want to help me, you need to know my real name."

"You mean that thing you wouldn't let me hear the day we met?"

"The same," He leaned down, "Arthur, son of Uther, my name is Engla land. Come find me."

He smiled. "Okay, See ya round, Myrd… Engla."

Arthur seemed to have used the last of his energy on the conversation. His eyes closed and he fell asleep. England stayed by his side until the great king breathed no more.

Centuries passed now, not decades. England still thought of the promise occasionally. He'd think back to it, sometimes sadly, sometimes fondly. It wasn't a rational promise; dead men did not return, but it was just so Arthur that it was hard to ignore. He took the fool's name for his own and wore it proudly, a sign of his first love and only true hero.

One day, he set out on a voyage. He met another boy with hair golden as grain and eyes blue as the sea, who comforted him when he cried. He was obsessed with heroes too. He said that he wanted to be just like King Arthur when he grew up and England would smile sadly at him. Every now and then, the boy would call him Engla instead of England and his heart would soar.

However, he wasn't a prince: he was a colony, England's colony. The only reason he was like that, the Empire assured himself, was that he had taken his form from England's memories. That was it. He wasn't Arthur, he was America.

But every day that passed, he seemed more and more like the long-dead king. Too soon, England had to let go. Like no time before, he had prayed that Arthur would come and prove that he was different from America.

It wasn't to be. The wounds of the Revolution faded, and America became England's friend in his own right. The island nation tried to let go of the idea that he was Arthur. He didn't want every single one of America's actions to be judged against what the king had done. But he couldn't help it, it seemed all too much like Arthur had come back from the dead.

Then it was the '40's. If England had a darkest hour, it was then. He had been blitzed to pieces. There were deep cuts all over his chest, especially over his heart. For the first time he could remember, England felt like he was going to die. Really die.

One day, there was a knock on his door. He managed to get out of his chair and answer. Maybe it was America, finally getting his head out of his arse and giving him more than guns. Maybe it was Arthur, finally returning to give him his all.
It was Germany, coming to give him a beating. England fought with all he had, but it wasn't much. The bombings had taken too much out of him, and Germany was much bigger and stronger even on a good day. He found himself on the ground.

"I've been ordered to take you prisoner," Germany said, "Please do not resist further."

"You're never taking me, kraut bastard!" England tried to push himself onto his hands and knees but failed.

"England, if my boss won't even listen when East and I come begging for him to end this war, why would he let you free? You are the last of Western Europe that we do not control. Now come along."

He knelt down to pick England up. The island nation struggled valiantly if vainly to keep the larger man from grabbing onto him. Even though he knew he was going to lose, he wasn't going to give up. It wasn't what he did.

"Will you just be rational for once?" Germany demanded, exasperated, "We won't kill you… probably. France is still alright, even though he has been a terrible pain, always trying to molest everyone in the prison. If you would just let me take you, you would be fine."

"Get the fuck out of my house!" England demanded, biting Germany's hand when he was foolish enough to put it near his face.

The larger nation let out a cry and stood up. He pulled a gun from his belt and aimed it at England's head, "I didn't want to do this, but you leave me no choice. I hope that this will not actually kill you in your current state."

England glared at him as he wrapped his fingers around the trigger. He wasn't going to flinch away from the kraut bastard.

Then there was a loud bang, but instead of feeling immense pain or blacking out, England was left to watch as Germany collapsed to the floor. The empire looked to his doorway. America was standing there, looking as sheepish as one could while holding a smoking pistol.

The young nation walked over to his former mentor, making sure to pick up Germany's gun before stomping on his hand. England couldn't help but laugh as he heard bones snap. It was what that bastard deserved.

"Next time don't try to take someone from their house, got it? It ain't fair."

"He can't hear you, you know. That happens when you shoot someone through their temple."

The larger man looked over with a smile on his face, but it fell as soon as he saw what kind of state England was in. "Dammit you're a mess," He said, "let's get you out of here."

He lifted the smaller nation, and England found that he didn't have the inclination to resist, although he could blame it on the adrenaline running out. England let his head rest against the boy's firm muscle. He noticed that his former protégé didn't smell like he'd expect: like engine grease and hamburgers and cigarettes and other modern things. Although there were hints, especially of the latter two, stronger than that was the scent of forest, an honest day's sweat, and maybe a little bit like an autumn breeze. It was all together something that he hadn't been used to since the sixth century.

America, in his typical way, never stopped babbling all the way to the camp he and the rest of his unit set up just outside of London proper. England wasn't really listening, but he could swear he heard, "I came back, just like I said. Didn't I, Myrd?"

He might have been making things up, but he wondered if it was finally time that he told America what he thought to be the truth.

Then he wondered if he even needed to.

Historical background: If there is a Wales and there is a Scotland, England is not British in origin. The word England (originally Engla land, hence the name used) is taken from the name of an invading Germanic tribe, the Angles (Who were actually from Denmark. Hey, neither of them can get their hair to sit down). This means that all those loving stories about England and King Arthur: yeah, England is the reason he died. Arthur was a Briton trying to protect his homeland from the invaders. And yet, England still seems to have a strong affinity for him…

England goes here by the name of Myrddin, a figure in Welsh mythology thought to be a person Merlin was based off of, and as England takes Merlin's role here I thought it was appropriate. Myrd was said to have gone crazy after a battle and fled into the woods to chill with the animals and learned magic there. His name means "Sea Hill" (The fae might call all island nations this as a term of endearment) And, well, since I had just written about England running off into the woods to be alone with his magical friends and meeting a child Arthur…