(no subject)

[shamrocked-.insanejournal.com]

Who: Saints Patrick and George
What: So they finally decided to kill you
When: December, 1541. Months after this
Where: Tower of London



If Patrick had admitted what he was, perhaps his circumstances in the Tower would have been different. If he had said he was a saint or even a courtier, he could have lived in relative comfort while he awaited his death. He could have had people waiting on him hand and foot, despite the fact that he was in a prison, but he said nothing. He couldn't say he was a saint without then proving he had some connection to George. And he couldn't prove he was of noble birth without explaining that whole saint business. As such, his life in the Tower was one of suffering.

Perhaps even if he had explained who he was, he would have been made to suffer. Margaret Pole had been stripped of her title and she had endured the same conditions Patrick now endured before her terribly botched execution not a month after Patrick was tossed in here. Patrick's heart broke for her. All she had been guilty of, was being the mother of a Cardinal.

He wanted to damn Henry Tudor. During the hunger and the cold and the discomfort, he wished he could pray for Henry to be cast into Hell and suffer the pain he was causing his own people. It was wrath, however, and Patrick wouldn't harbour that in his heart. Not even in the days after George had tortured him and he had rested in his cell, unable to breathe without excruciating pain. Instead of focusing his mind on his anger or the state of himself, he surrendered it all to God. He had been through worse. He would get through this too.

When Patrick wasn't sleeping, which he did a lot of without even meaning to, he was praying. He would kneel beneath the window which let the frigid winter air in, and he would pray. While he spoke with God, he felt no cold. The hunger in his belly didn't touch him. The sickness in his lungs didn't cause him pain or discomfort. And when he could pray no longer, he would drag his body over to his straw mat against the wall and cover his body over with his blanket. He slept with his face covered so it wouldn't freeze during the night.

Every day was the same. He would eat the little food they gave him, he would read his Bible, despite knowing it back to front, he would pray, and he would sleep. His body grew thinner until he was skin and bones. Hew grew sicker as the weather turned colder. He was lonely and isolated and even so, there was no hate in his heart. Only hope. He prayed for Henry to have a change of heart. To be a good King. To lead his people back to the light.

And then November came around. Little Katherine Howard was accused of adultery and the investigation was ongoing. Patrick began to lose a little of the hope he had, but still he prayed for it.

And not once, since April, had he seen his brother. He hadn't mentioned George's name or asked about him. The thought of George suffering through this, despite being aware that George had also suffered worse by far, turned Patrick's stomach. And so it went that every day was the same until the day the door opened and someone stepped into his cell.

George had reached a state close to equilibrium, and had stopped spending each day on the verge of complete panic. It didn't mean that he was actually anywhere close to happy, but he wasn't fighting the urge to punch Henry in the head every time he saw him. That had to count for something.

So when the news had come to him that Patrick was slated for execution in a few days, George had just smiled slightly and nodded.

"Hello again," George said, stepping into Patrick's cell.

Patrick pause in the middle of his prayer, which he always said out loud, so his pause was obvious to the people who had stepped into his room.

He heard his brother's voice - a voice he would recognise anywhere - and he also heard the tone George had used. It was not familiar and warm. It was cold and uncaring. Without turning around, mostly because he was actually worried that if George saw the state he was in he might flinch and give away something to the guards that had accompanied him, Patrick said, "I've been expecting you."

There was no warmth or kindness in his voice either. He hissed the words as if he found George distasteful. And then, in his heart, he thanked God silently for sending his brother to him again.

"Well, I'm not here to tear the skin off your back, so cheer up," George said, in the same bored, uncaring tone he used in front of anyone connected to Henry these days. He turned to the guards. "I'll shout when I want let out."

George had suggested, and the guards agreed, that even a heretic deserved to get the news of his impending execution in privacy. And George had been treated with slightly more trust by Henry's lackeys ever since torturing Patrick.

To think, all he'd had to do to make Henry happy was put his own brother under the knife.

George waited until he heard the guards' footsteps retreat down the hall before he let himself smile at Patrick. "Hello, Patty."

Patrick swallowed roughly and when he felt it was safe to do so, he turned to face his brother.

He knew he looked horrible. He knew George wouldn't like seeing the state of him. He didn't care. George was standing in front of him and in his hands there were no knives or whips or hot irons. It was just George.

Patrick rose to his feet, rather ungracefully as they had gone numb while he was kneeling. He moved to give his brother a hug, even though he knew he had to smell absolutely foul. "George," he whispered, sounding utterly relieved. "I am so glad to see you. It's been so long." Almost nine months.

He knew there was only one reason George would come to see him now.

George swept Patrick into a hug, lifting him up off his feet. Patrick smelled about as aromatic as a person who hadn't bathed in months would, and George didn't care in the least.

Patrick was like a bag of bones. George could feel every one of his ribs and all the bones of his spine just by wrapping his arms around him. He swallowed and buried his head against Patrick's shoulder.

"I've missed you very much," George murmured.

"You too," Patrick said, burying his face against George, much like George had done to him. "I've missed you so much too. Have you been alright? I keep worrying you'll end up in here with me. I heard he put the Queen under house arrest. Not...that that was all that surprising."

Patrick pulled away from George only so he could smile at his brother, despite the circumstances. Then he shivered and turned around to reach for his blanket.

"Here, sit down," George urged Patrick, sliding off the cloak he was wearing and throwing it over his brother along with Patrick's blanket. "And eat. Smuggling is hard, Patrick. I have no idea why people make their careers from it."

Granted, all George had managed to smuggle in was two apples and a hunk of bread and cheese, but he was glad he had done it when faced with how thin Patrick was.

"Yes, Katherine's been locked away," George sighed, rubbing his forehead tiredly. "She's taking it as well as can be expected. Half her family's also here. As is Culpepper." George shook his head. "He's not long for the world. And neither is she, I fear."

Patrick sat, pulling the cloak and the blanket in around him. Here in his tiny, frigid cell, he had forgotten what warm felt like. George's cloak was warm. Much warmer than his blanket. And then he was handed food, and Patrick's smile then came much easier after that, even if it faded when George spoke about Thomas Culpeper and Katherine Howard.

"Thank you for the food, brother," Patrick said, biting into the apple happily. It tasted magnificent. He let out a breathy sigh as he nearly inhaled it, core and all.

"That poor girl," Patrick said, shaking his head sadly. "Have you be alright, George? I've been praying."

"You don't need to worry about me," George told his brother, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. Patrick's skin was too cold. He was too pale, as well. George had to bite down the urge to tell him all of this, because it wasn't as though Patrick could do anything about it.

"But yes, I'm fine. It's odd. As long as I'm Saint George of England, I'm apparently safe. It's if I should speak up about anything having to do with Rome that I'll become a problem." He sighed. "I think I'm the only confirmed saint any of them know about. I can't even imagine what would happen if the rest of us poked our heads up."

Patrick made a face and he started in on the bread. He wanted to save some of the food for later, but his stomach was demanding it all now. He would probably regret it, but at the moment, he couldn't care. For a few hours he would feel full and satisfied.

"Let's not find out," Patrick said calmly. "God will deliver us, but I worry about the lengths Henry may go to, if he finds out there are more of us out there. I worry for the people of this country enough." And of course he knew George did to.

As Patrick swallowed the last bite of bread, it stuck oddly in his throat and he coughed. It dislodged the bread, but he kept coughing; a sicky, wet cough that bent him over as his body tried to cope with the force of it. When he straightened back up, he looked even paler.

"Forgive me. The Tower isn't easy on the lungs." His breath sounded wheezy and Patrick hoped that he wouldn't vomit up the food George had brought him. He did that sometimes.

"Well, I've got something like good news, then," George said, trying to summon a smile. It was odd, the idea of his brother being executed as good news. But it meant that Patrick would finally be free. And if George could reattach his head to his body, he'd likely be back on the mortal plane by the end of the night.

"They've decided that you're a heretic, through and through," he said. "It's to be beheading."

Patrick breathed a sigh of relief, even though he had known it was coming. He smiled widely, even through the wheezing. "That is good news. I was terrified they would choose to burn me, actually. And you wouldn't be able to do anything to make the flame kill me faster so it would be a long, agonising death. I wasn't looking forward to that. Beheading is quicker." George had been beheaded.

"Will you be there?"

"Hmph, I'd have poisoned you if they'd decided to burn you," George said, mouth twisting irritably at the thought. Bad enough that Patrick had to be killed. They could at least have the decency to make it painless.

"And of course I'll be there. They'll probably display your head, but that shouldn't be too hard to get once no one is looking. You'll be walking around fine by the end of the night, if all goes well."

Patrick let out a relieved sigh and he started in on the cheese. "George," he breathed, "this is amazing. Cheese, not being executed, though I can't say I'm not pleased. I want to get back out there. I've been rotting here for nine months when I could have been helping people. I've been praying a lot for patience. I must be here for a reason. Or maybe it was just to keep our mutual friend safe. Either way, I'm eager to get back to work."

And that brought on another coughing fit.

George rubbed his brother's back, knowing sadly that he couldn't do much to help.

"They grow a little more complacent when they think they've caught a heretic," George reflected. "And the people they're hunting learn a bit more about how to hide each time they catch someone. God works in a million small ways." He smiled at Patrick. "Just try not to get caught again once you're out?"

Patrick stopped coughing and he leaned heavily against his brother as the fit ended. He was shaking just a little bit, but it didn't matter now. Not long to go.

And even still, he shot his brother a Look when George told him not to get caught again. "I did not 'get caught', I gave myself up to save someone else. Believe me, though, I aim to avoid it at all costs." It wouldn't do to end up here again looking like someone they already beheaded. He would be in trouble then.

Patrick started in on the apple, sad it was the last thing he had, but he still felt better than he had in a very long time. "I'll make my way to a safe house where hopefully they will be able to feed me an entire farmyard. George...thank you for coming. And thank you for- Thank you for refusing to let them try and break me. I know it couldn't have been easy for you."

"Of course, my mistake," George said, smiling a little despite the situation. "And with any luck, you'll come back with a full stomach."

He hugged Patrick gently, mindful of the fact that his brother was obviously not in good health. Saints usually healed faster than humans, but the Tower was hardly conducive to being healthy.

"It would have been much worse to let you be truly tortured."

"One can hope. My stomach hasn't been full in months, it would only seem kind that if I have to die, it could remain so afterwards."

Patrick hugged George back despite his health. If he had been human, he probably would have died long ago. There was fluid in his lungs. He wheezed through it and coughed it up, and yet he survived. He hoped dying might cure that too. Or that he could get somewhere where his body would right itself soon enough.

"Yes, it would have been. George, you did what you had to. You can't let yourself feel guilty for it. I am grateful for what you did. Never forget that, Brother."

The sound of footsteps echoed down the hall, and George tensed up. Someone was coming. He gave Patrick one final hug, kissing him on the forehead then murmuring, "We'll see each other again soon, don't worry. I love you."

Then he stood up, carefully exctracting his cloak from around Patrick. They'd gone through too much for the guards to see him comforting Patrick and get suspicious now.

Patrick hurriedly snarfed the rest of the apple so there would be no evidence that his brother had smuggled food in to him, and then he nodded at George and mouthed, 'I love you too' because he was too afraid to speak now, lest they be heard.

He huddled down in his blanket, suddenly cold now that the cloak had been taken from him. Then he turned back to the window, as if he had never stopped praying to speak to George in the first place.

George turned away from Patrick, trying to force his expression into something close to boredom and slight disgust. The guard peered into the cell.

"Excellent timing," George said, stepping towards the door as the guard started unlocking. "I think I've spent long enough here."

He forced himself not to look back as he left Patrick's cell. Just a few more days and his brother would be free.

Albeit temporarily headless.