Title: For the Sake of a Tudor
Summary: The Tudor House - the craziest family of lunatics to ever take the throne of England. It lasted only three generations, and good riddance.
Characters/Pairings: England, and his 16th century bosses, and a bit of France and Spain to spice it up~!
Rating/Warnings: T+, for things that
will happen *hint, hint! wink, wink!*
Genre: General/Introspective - God, why can't they have any good genres?! D8
Word Count: 597 w/o the toppings
Projected Number of Chapters: 7
Oh, my first multichaptered fiction THAT I WILL ACUTALLY FINISH! HELLS TO THE YE-AH! 8D

*sniffle* I'm going to dedicate this monumental feat to my first beta, and bestie-estie-bella, darandomninja. And I'll also dedicate this to hannaadi88, who unintentionally placed the idea of reading a book by Philipa Gregory into my head, and starting me on my obsession of Tudor Dynasty England. ;A; I love you guys!

Aaaand . . . just a little something 'bout this chapter, then I'll go away. =3= So, Iggy's in the bad-ol' Tower of London (*snicker, snicker*) because, well, the previous dynasty just ended and there's a bit of confusion, right? Well, in this confusion, it just so happens that they mistake the amazing Iggy as a regular courtier, and throw him into the Tower as a threat to the safety of the new king (King Henry VII). Obviously, it takes place right after the War of the Roses, as King Henry ascends to the throne. And this is where our story begins . . .

And go vote on my poll? Please? '8D

The Tower of London was a place for criminals, plotters, and anyone else that disrupted the delicate flow of power in the English court. Fortunately or unfortunately, it was not a place reserved for just any prisoner - they had to be well known, and under the scrutiny of the public eye. Or at least the gossiping milkmaid's tongue.

But Arthur Kirkland met neither requirement. Yet, here he found himself, his spirit rotting away in the musty and demoralizing cell of the Tower. Without a window, he was unable to estimate the amount of time he'd been shut into isolation, but he liked to say that it was only his boredom that made time stretch on. He'd like that, but he'd also like to be out of this prison and be treated with the respect he deserved as a proud nation.

Neither seemed likely.

And this is what time and tedium had reduced him to - a blabbering nation that took enjoyment from telling himself bad puns. What had his world come to?

A light and unmistakable knock on his cell door, a creak of un-oiled hinges, and a perverse smirk later, he knew exactly how far the world had degraded. And from his judgment of the hopeless situation, he earnestly liked to have been struck dead on the spot by a stray lightning bolt.

"France," hissed England, the hackles on his neck bristling at his rage. "What are you doing here, you frog?"

His eastern neighbor sauntered into the room luxuriously, clicking his tongue in disappointment. He made sure to twirl the ring of keys on his forefinger in obvious sight. "Is that anyway to talk to your liberator, mon cher? Really, if I had the choice, I'd lock you in here forever and throw the keys to Russia."

A shiver of delight crawled down his spine - he was to be freed, and none of France's threats could be taken seriously. Actually, nothing that came out of that wino-bastard's mouth could be taken seriously. Unless it was a sexual proposition, in which case one should pay heed and be wary of the eventual attack the hormonal Frenchman would spring.

"If you are here to undo this mistake, I do insist that you do so smartly - I cannot keep the King and his court waiting," England demanded confidently, his eyes dancing with wild excitement. There was nothing in his perfect posture or carefully controlled features that betrayed the long days of anxiousness and terror he'd been subjected to while in his prison.

Somehow, France could read his life-long rival like a book. His eyes softened to something akin to empathy as he answered. "I've explained the situation to King Edward - who seems to have taken a special liking to my men - and he is awaiting you to join him in his court with full title and decoration."

"I should think so," England answered shortly. He crossed his arms defensively and pierced his rival with an intense pair of green orbs peeking out from under heinously thick brows.

Seeing his compassion gone in vain, France dropped his hints of pity and produced a red rose seemingly out of thin air. He felt the wry and taunting smirk on his lips as he observed the rise of one bushy brow questioningly. France had a simple answer.

"Welcome to the Tudor Dynasty, mon ami."