Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Soft orange candlelight lit the tile as England finished his observations, the enchanted pen taking notes as he handled the brass measurements. Sickly green light lit the center of the room, dimly caging the wisp with no form. There was barely room for the two of them, Nation and spirit, with the door shut and warded. After a short while- the times for summoning were always short- England took a thin grey powder and placed it through the East and West circles in the array.

At once the green light flared, drowning out all else in the room before dying, extinguishing the wisp with a quiet pop. England waited for a moment to blink the purple spots from his eyes, before sighing and checking on the enchanted pen.

Damn it.

The pen had been on the blink for months and was transcribing at only one quarter speed- although a quick diagnostic found it's memory storage was unaffected. He looked at the clock- 1am. He should have been able to leave the pen unsupervised and go to bed- if he'd fixed it. As he should have done last week. Or the week before that.

But there was nothing to be done about it now, he needed to be awake tomorrow and the chances of a problem were low. He sighed and stood, wincing at the pain that lanced through his head, and trying to blink away the migraine aura that had been flaring on and off almost constantly since the Brexit referendum. The crazy thing was that the meeting tomorrow, the one he needed to be awake for, would inevitably have it come up even if it wasn't on the agenda. He spent a good twenty minutes cleaning away materials and books and finally made a brief trip to the kitchen to get a cup of tea. Even that much made his vision flicker.

He settled on the edge of the bath and lent against the wall. Sipping his tea, he could do nothing but wait for it all to go away.

The shoe sailed through the air in a graceful arc, hanging suspended in the air for the merest moment before falling..

"AHH FUCK-"

And smashed Prussia's nose in a fountain of blood.

"Nice shot." Bangladesh whistled appreciatively as South Italy whooped triumphantly. India grinned and gave it a polite round of applause.

It was three o'clock on a rainy Thursday afternoon in London, four days into their annual global conference. There was nothing to do, no deals to make in this middling no mans land of the week, so the nations were bored and the usual suspects frustrated. And so, inevitably, they fought. Bangladeshl and India kept score.

"Still, you'd hope so with all the practice he gets," he said mildly, and Bangladesh hmm'ed dismissively.

"I do hope so- but I mean, how many times has he tried to batter him now?."

They watched as South Italy's attempt to follow up his attack was thwarted by tripping over England rolling on the floor with France in a game attempt to finally strangle him. Italy swore loudly and whirled around to shout at the offending nation, met England's eyes, paled, squeaked an apology, and scrambled in the other direction like a startled rabbit. England gave his retreating back a confused look, then looked at France. France looked back and shrugged. They went back to trying to murder each other.

Bangladesh snorted. "If he really wants to get better he should stop cowering whenever England so much as looks at him. It's pathetic."

India flinches and she suddenly looks contrite.

"I didn't mean...Sorry." There's a brief uncomfortable silence puncutated by the sound of a table being splinted by Russia's pipe. "Besides," she mutters, "It's different- Italy's got no reason to fear him. And you don't cower. From anyone." She stares at him.

He looks away and shrugs. It's true in a manner of speaking- the stregnth of being an up and coming superpower is a hell of a drug. His past is very much behind him.

But.

"I think they fought in World War Two." He says, not looking at her. She snorts.

"Then that was his own silly fault and he should get over it," her voice softens, "it's not the same." He opened his mouth to answer-

Suddenly, they ducked. A cup that had gone wild and smashed against the wall where their heads had been a moment before, showering them in shards of cheep pottery.

"Sorry!" Turkey called, waving at them from across the room before being rugby tackled by Greece. Bangladesh grunted and fixed her headscarf. India waved back and smiled.

"Moron." They said simultaneously.

"Good to see him blowing off steam though." India said after a moment, having no desire to go back to their previous conversation. Bangladesh gave him a look out the corner of her eye.

"You mean rather than blowing up ISIS?" A pause while his sister pretended not to see him slouch in relief. "Yeah. He deserves a break." Another, more comfortable, silence descended. Unsurprisingly, it's Bangladesh who breaks it, carefully inspecting her nails and speaking with affected calm.

"Speaking of blowing up, what's happening between you and Pakistan?"

He groaned and buried his head in his hands. With anyone else he would have deflected - played the bigger, nobler man. Or at least rambled some self-serving bullshit. But Bangladesh was the only person who knew him well enough to tell how false it was- and properly understood the nature of the Situation with his twin. It would be pointless- not to mention disrespectful- to try and lie to her.

"Who the fuck knows." He said wearily. She winced, he never swore if he could help it. "At this point I think she just wants to piss me off. I just wish-

Green light and the stink of sulfur. That is what he'd remember of the explosion that punched him through the chest and smacked him back against the wall. Sound sunk into nothing then exploding with a sharp Crack! He felt it in his bones and collapsed to the ground gasping for breath, unable to even curl up to protect himself. For an awful 30 seconds he could see and hear nothing, and clung to the rough carpet as his inner ear rebelled and the world kept spinning.

What? A bomb? In the rolling dark and silence, it could be anything, but who would know to attack the nations? Who would want to?

After a moment his vision returned, filled with pink spots and after flashes of green. His hearing felt at first as if it came from underwater, muddied and distorted. Before it even cleared, he staggered upright and looked around.

It looked like a bomb had gone off. But after a few terrified heart beats he can see it can't be- or at least it can't be any bomb he's ever seen. There's no smoke, no trace of pyrotechnics to produce that flash, through the rotten egg stink of sulfur is choking. There's black ash though, and lots off it, coating every surface- he wipes his cheek and it comes away gritty and soot stained. But the ash isn't evenly or even randomly distributed, instead it curls out in organic loops and whorls in circles and radial patterns from the middle of a bundle of nations- the center point? But even as he watches, the other nation are stirring, scrambling out of piles or curling up to hold their heads and blink spots out of their eyes, disrupting the intricate ash trails. Even the four largest, that push all the way out and up to the four walls of the meeting room, are rapidly disrupted and become smeared by the confusion that erupts.

Shouting, yelling, and more fighting. India just stands there confused and woozy.

"What the hell did you do?!"

He whips around, shocked and nearly falls over his own feet as he lurches back to avoid stepping on his sister. She's sitting up and glaring daggers at him, face contorted in rage.

"What do you mean what did I do?" His head is whirling, what was this? Her face scrunched up in confusion.

"What?"

India waved his hands in a placating gesture. "I didn't do anything!" This didn't seem to help and her anger began to give way to a glimmer of worried confusion.

"Delhi I can't understand you. Did your head finally get big enough to break your brain? What are you saying?"

India blinked. He was talking normally- they often did this, him speaking Hindi while she used Bengali- both of them were fully fluent so what was the problem? He was speaking normally. But, now he focused on what she was saying, she wasn't. The language she was using was an old form of Bengali. Really old. He just hadn't noticed because of his fluency. And now he was paying attention he could see she looked different too. Her handsome face was younger than it'd been for centuries, now with the round cheeks of a child just under twenty rather than a woman nearing her thirties. And she'd called him Dehli. A horrible thought crept up on him.

"What year is it?" It came out slower than he'd like- he needed to focus not to slip into modern Bengali, but he saw her face clear and wide eyes relax into cultivated disdain. God, she looked young.

"Seven hundred and sixty four."

"Twenty eighteen". The he paused for a moment, "- actually it would be more like fourteen-twenty ish for you?". She gave him a strange look for a moment, then her face cleared and she rocked back on her knees.

"Time travel?" she looked around the room again, craning her neck. "Huh."

"...You're taking it better than I thought you would."

She shrugged. " 's interesting." She gave the room another once over and muttered to herself for a minute. Then she looked at him, her eyes full of so much fire that he took a step back.

"Do you know who did this?" she demanded.

"... ?" He said. Actually he had a suspect pool of one, which wasn't quite the same thing- as modern Bangladesh would have pointed out. As it was, she just gave him a look and jerked her head to the side in a 'go fetch' gesture.

So India pushed his way through the multi-coloured throng, hunting for the thick browed nation- he could just imagine him playing with magic to curse his siblings (or France, or Spain, or America, or...)- he'd always been both vengeful and creative, even before he showed his true colours. Weaving his way across the chaos he nearly tripped over Spain and Portugal, been accidentally bashed by Italy enthusiastically fussing over a furious looking brown-haired child, and had evaded the optimistic groping of a disturbingly young France. Luckily, where France was England and his brothers would be nearby- sure enough a small, scruffy child barrelled past him towards France clearly intent on doing some serious damage.

It was easy enough to scoop him up as he went past- and even easier to drop him again when a retaliatory kick rocketed into his groin. Groaning he got up and wobbled to the new tangle of limbs that represented that part of the world. Slowly, and with no small amount of help from Norway and Netherlands the last fight was disassembled into its various constituent parts. Hanging onto the squirming child India thanked his lucky stars that at least now the kid didn't have the stamina to fight all day and he could just wait the tantrum out. If I keep my wits about me, he thought with a wince as he extracted his arm from England's sharp little teeth.

Finally the boy calmed down enough that India could spare the attention to survey the damage. It appeared that perhaps a fifth of the nations had been deaged- he could see a few very young children who could be no older than 6 . As well as Romano, whom he had tripped over earlier, He could also see America and Mexico who were currently squabbling over a toy someone had given them and Argentina who was, against all odds, sleeping peacefully. There were also a few who, like Bangladesh, remained adults- or were near enough, even if they were significantly younger. However the vast majority were teenagers and rather irritable at that- new squabbles were already breaking out as he took the time to actually look at England. Covered in ink and chalk, he looked to be around twelve years old- certainly no older. He bore a strong enough resemblance to Sealand that, aside from the obvious- Finland would never have allowed Sealand out of the house looking that unkempt – they could have passed for twins. The only noticeable difference was that he was shorter and thinner. Although this didn't appear to translate into being lighter, unfortunately.

As he brought the boy back to Bangladesh he wondered how they were going to communicate- would it be too much to hope that England's' English would have remained mostly unchanged for the best part of 700 years?

Yes, yes it was. Not even Shakespearean English could provoke anymore than a flat look of distrust. This posed something of a problem as India didn't actually know enough about England's history to find a language that a) the boy would be able to speak and b) wouldn't provoke a violent reaction from him if asked to speak it.

"Now what?" asked Bangladesh, with all her characteristic charm and grace. Actually, now he was focussing he could tell that he'd slipped into a much older form of Bengali when speaking with her- one that, if a modern day Bengali had heard it, would have been completely unintelligible. So much for stubbornness theory. Damn.

Contrary to their bosses belief (and practices) most nations did not research the histories of their fellows, considering it a woeful invasion of privacy to do so. Besides it often wasn't very useful for their purposes anyway, as the number of serious history books willing to stick their neck out and go 'you know that guy who goes to every public dinner but only has an unlabeled broom cupboard for an office? He's over 4000 years old and gets head colds every time the economy crashes', was, perhaps unsurprisingly, quite rare. This, thought India, was currently spectacularly unhelpful - as the relevant rumour mill were currently all about four foot nothing- however it wasn't as if he knew no European history, and they would just have to make do.

The child was now glaring at them warily, although he wasn't trying to run back to fight with his brothers, which was good- although it also looked like it was simply a matter of time, which wasn't. India decided that offence or no he had to at least try to communicate- and if he failed he could always try asking England's brothers or….He looked around the room. Norway. Norway was next to England right? They were practically cousins! If not he could always swallow his pride and ask Australia. He would have liked to ask Bangladesh, as she was probably rude enough to have gone through someone's history books behind their back- especially England's. "You can't fight an enemy you don't know!" she would have said. But she wasn't here, and that wasn't her fault.

He refocused on England, and made an informed judgement (i.e. a wild guess). Luckily his first guess, Latin, turned out to be understood- unfortunately, however, India had rarely ever had cause to use it and England apparently didn't really understand what he was trying to ask, if the reply of 'I don't know place' was accurate. At least Bangladesh confirmed that England didn't think he'd done it, all though he also seemed to be under the impression that he couldn't do magic. India doubted noise level in the room slowly started to creep back up as he tried to think of an answer, and couldn't. Sighing, he started to explain to him that even it got him trouble, lying was still wrong (and anyway he wouldn't be in much trouble anyway as it was probably an accident), when Bangladesh poked him in the arm and told him to stop harassing the kid, he clearly didn't know what was going on. He opened his mouth to gently remind her that, as a temporal newbie, she wasn't the smartest person in the room right now-

"THAT'S ENOUGH!" Germany's fuse, always on the brink, finally blew. Franky India was impressed he'd held on this long.

"Everyone pay attention! It is obvious that, for the time being that none of those affected can be left unsupervised for however long it takes them to recover! Not even the older ones,"he said, looking at Turkey disassembling his own smartphone. "Does anyone know what caused this?" Silence deafened the room- India felt the eyes track over to their position. He coughed and the eyes snapped up to him, rather than hovering somewhere near his armpit, where England had started to hide.

"He said he didn't do it Germany- he was quite adamant about it in fact" he said.

There was a snort to his left.

"And when have we trusted what he has to say on the matter?" Pakistan said. India could feel his hackles rise at her dismissive tone- but didn't want to give her the dignity of knowing that. Instead of looking at her, he glared at the front of the hall.

"Would you like to interrogate the temporally disadvantaged child, sister dearest? I'm sure he'll be so accommodating-"

"ENOUGH! Since I'm clearly the only one paying attention, I propose that those nations who are not affected should look after those who are- for younger nations this will mean full time care. Though with older ones should only need supervision. Any questions!" A few hands went up. "No? Gut."

As one being, most of the nations got up and left- lest they have a tiny nation inflicted on them. Pakistan stormed off, and Afghanistan gave them a little wave before chasing after her. Bhutan came up and made sure Bangladesh had all their phone numbers- and India couldn't help but notice that, along with most of Africa, Germany had also vanished as soon as he could. Difference being that he seemed to have a small tribe following him; tiny blond brother, both Italy's- as well as France, Spain, and Portugal. Although that seemed not to be entirely voluntary on Germany's part, given the grouchy slump to his shoulders. Australia waved at him as he left, a curly haired child under his arm. He laughed and gave Bhutan a hug before promising to call her, and was promptly sucked into the rising panic that was the vanishing of Mexico and America. After a brief panic Cuba yelled that they'd left with Canada, and that they were complete idiots for not noticing earlier. It was hard to argue with that.

After that the delegation of care became far more difficult- none of the Baltics could agree as to who was going to look after Romania and Bulgaria, and most of the middle east refused to even check on Turkey, who appeared to be faintly amused by the bickering, apart from when Iraq snatched the phone battery of him before he could find a way to pry it apart. Luckily Israel volunteered to check on Turkey, which even if it was only to spite Palestine and appear 'more mature and responsible', meant that one more could be crossed off the list. It also meant that everyone else also chipped in- if only to spite and/or thwart her. Argentina was eventually fobbed off on Chile (?) with much complaining whilst Greece was eventually picked up by Macedonia.

After that there were only a few left: the British Isles, Sweden, Denmark and the Russian siblings. They were a problem primarily because of their apparent (and occasionally unexpected) fondness for violence. Wales had bit the last idiot to try and pick him up, and his brothers looked like they might attack the next person who so much as looked at them funny. Ukraine was carrying a truly tiny Belarus and glaring at the world (slightly tearfully) as though it had personally offended her. Little eight year old Russia played with a bit of the chair that his sister had violently disassembled with the first aid mans' head. Poland had dragged the poor guy from the room, and sulkily declared that they could be someone else's problem for once. England meanwhile was scowling at all in his general vicinity. At least the problem of language had been sorted out, apparently India's first misgivings had been misplaced- French had been the, err, lingua franka of the day and most of Europe spoke it regularly, if not always fluently. Nonetheless, unless Bangladesh developed some hitherto unforeseen gift for insta-language learning, India could see the looming shape of a Latin dictionary on his personal horizon.

Not least because escaping with only Bangladesh in tow seemed more and more unlikely. No one seemed to want to take all of the British Isles- which yes to be fair, was a hell of a commitment, and no, he certainly wasn't going to stick his neck out to have to clean up after them. And, well -

"Obviously when I said all the British Isles I didn't mean 'lets put England and Ireland in the same bedroom', come on give me some credit"

"Honestly, I wouldn't have those two in the same house- not if I wanted it to be standing by the end of the week." Norway said. He'd been frustratingly stubborn for the whole conversation, standing there with his arms crossed and shooting down all suggestions put forward. India could feel his headache returning.

"But it seems cruel to have them be the only family separated- besides, England's what, thirteen? And Wales isn't much older." He tried to give Norway a significant look that boiled down to the essence of 'and that will not help any of them in the long run'.

Norway snorted.

"Look, I get you mean well but I'm not taking all of them- it's not safe and I don't have room" He shook his head and leveled a look at India which he really didn't know how to interpret. He hadn't been caught in the blast, as apparently that's what had 'caused' the change, but nonetheless hadn't escaped unscathed- green chalk splats showing an enthusiastic greeting from his neighbour Denmark, who now looked to have lost about seven years of visible age and a good ten pounds of muscle as he reverted to a wiry teanager. Norway turned back to India.

"Besides anyone who is able to take them all, shouldn't." He paused for a moment and gave India a look as cold as ice. "Why are you so interested anyway?"

A sigh was brutally stifled- Europeans were always so suspicious of anyone outside their arrogant little clique. "The Commonwealth would kill me if they got hurt- England might be an arsehole but some of their favourite uncles happen to be from that archipelago. Besides-" he frowned, "- it's not like there's a whole lot of options for them is there?"

Norway nodded- they (well, the UK) may not have been at the top of the 'worlds most aggressive nations' list for the best part of fifty years but it wasn't like the British Empire was a distant memory either. Brexit hadn't helped either- isolating them even further from those that would tolerate them before.

"If I take Ireland and Scotland- if Finland took the rest, would that be ok? He's only next door after all."Norway said. India nodded, and Norway called them over- unfortunately there was a problem.

"I can't take England." said Finland, looking terribly contrite for someone who'd just abandoned a small child. "I'm really sorry, India, Norway- I can take Wales, hell I think he and Denmark will get along great, but not England." Clearly his emotions must not have been as well hidden as he thought, because Finland took a deep breath and addressed him directly-

"-I'm really, really sorry India. I know the Commonwealth want you to make sure they're all ok, but we just can't take him…", Sweden placed a large soothing hand on Finland's shoulder.

"It w'ldn't be s'fe- n't with Seal'nd 'n the h'se." His voice rumbled with a finality which kind of pissed him off, if he was honest with himself. Norway's sigh and immediate apology- as if he should have foreseen this- did not help. Now India wouldn't say he knew England completely- but his worst side? Yeah, he probably knew more than these guys. And kids? The England he knew adored kids- Sealand might actually be the best thing for the little brat right now.

"You don't seriously think he'd hurt him do you?" He said, perhaps not as gently as he'd meant to. But hell, as much as he liked Russia, he was aware that the British Isles were the only ones who still hadn't been placed. He was even more aware that the kids were getting restless (apart from Denmark, who was fiddling with his nails), and that 'argument' translated in any language. And if there was one thing he prided himself on in the last three hundred years, it was that he'd at least been a half-competent pseudo-parent to the various waifs and strays trapped in the British Empire household.

Still, the muted coughing and shuffling that met his statement, made his blood run cold. The Nordics were avoiding eye contact, even Norway- and the tension in their shoulders made him think it wasn't just inconvenience that made them reluctant.

"..It's not that he's bad..from what I heard…" said Finland, eyes inspecting the once bland ceiling.

"J'st he's.." said Sweden, looking at the floor,

"Unpredictable." said Norway, looking him straight in the eye, "I like adult him well enough, but at this age he could be a real trouble maker. Anyway, if you're so worried, why don't you look after him? His home's not far from here and we won't be so far if you want them to be close enough to visit." He shrugged, "England would probably do better in one on one, or-" he gave a sideways look at Bangladesh, "-one to one-and-a-half adult supervision anyway."

"What sort of trouble maker?" said, India- not one to be sidetracked by such an obvious ploy.

Norway gave him a flat look. "The sort that doesn't always play nice with kids his own size, nothing you couldn't handle, but-", he gave a sigh, an shrugged. India gave him a long look- he had hoped it would communicate something like 'yeah, and how bad is it exactly?', but apparently something got lost in translation because Norway looked at his watch and replied,

"Look I need to go if I'm going to get these guys sorted in time for my flight tomorrow- if you want, I can get them to call twice a week? Who knows, maybe it'll stop them tearing the house down when we set up a meeting." He shrugged again before turning to his charges and saying something that sounded like a harsh, guttural relative of German or something. Scotland clearly said something to the effect of 'you're not the boss of me old man, go fuck yourself'- teenage body language apparently being one of those cultural universals. Ireland (should he call him Republic or South now?) rolled his eyes and asked him something else- Norway's answer made them all sit up straight, and India thought for a moment there might be an argument- particularly from England. But, there wasn't. Ireland looked uncomfortable for moment, but whatever Norway said clearly satisfied whatever was gnawing at him. Scotland looked almost relieved. India honestly couldn't tell what Wales thought of it all, but England's face was broadcasting his upset loud and clear- right up until he realised India was watching him.

India sighed, and Bangladesh sidled up to him.

"So, what now oh great guide to the future?" she said, curiously watching Finland cajole Wales out of the room.

"We take care of England, until the situation is resolved," he shrugged, and knelt down- outside of arm reach- he wasn't a total idiot. But Bangladesh taps him on the shoulder before he can say anything else and asks him what's happening.

"You and England are going to stay with me for awhile until this is resolved." He says it very calmly and professionally. She looks at him. He looks back.

"Like hell I am!"

For Bengal the world doesn't stop swimming till she sits down in her brothers horseless carriage- a 'car', he'd called it. It was a sleek dark thing full of something that probably wasn't leather and silver-coloured metal buttons, levers and knobs of mysterious function. Well most of them.

"- please don't ask me how planes stay up, I don't know and don't care." Delhi snapped, waving the hand on the steering wheel in a general expression of how unreasonable she was apparently being. Prick. Forewarned was forearmed and she might as well start now. Internal combustion engines in particular were a fascinating idea. Even beyond the immediate benefit- her time was unpredictable and about to be very dangerous. It would be regardless of what she did.

What was the phrase? Know thy enemy?

Instead of voicing her frustration - hadn't she done enough by submitting to his overbearing concern? - She simply rolled her eyes and fiddled with the radio, eventually settling on a channel that was playing something that sounded kind of familiar if she sought of mentally squinted and imagined that the players were hyperactive drunks. It felt unnatural to trust him with her back, even if he was distracted by driving. But still she had questions.

"That 'call' thing you were saying that England could do to talk to his brothers?" She keeps her voice light, no need to make it sound like the test it was.

"Yeah?" No tension, just mild curiosity.

""Does that use a string of numbers as a sort of address?"

He paused for a moment. "It lets you talk to the right phone, that's the thing you talk to the person through- so yeah, sort of?"

"So does that mean I can call our siblings at some point?"

"Yeah, sure- hell if you're feeling up to it I can show you how to work the phone tomorrow." He sounds enthusiastic, even as he scans the road for other cars at this strange circular junction. But why wouldn't he?

"Especially Sahadeva right?" she said, unable to stop a smirk curling across her lips. He froze and made an a aborted mouth motion. His shoulder went tight and his eyes furrowed with distress. Strange.

"..She's called Pakistan now." He said by way of a non-answer.

Something inside her twists. Shahadeva and Nakula were two sides of the same coin. They fought of course- occasionally brutally, but when the day was done they were always always on the same side. Even if they thought they weren't. A lifetime on the outside looking in had taught her that much.

She supposed the future really was a foreign country after all.

She tried to steer the conversation back to safer ground.

"So, how do you know England?" He flinches. She bites her lip.

"Can't I just take in a kid about to be abandoned?" She gives him a sharp look. Seven hundred years is a long time, but there are limits.

Although.. Wasn't that just a whole new puzzle? The conversation had happened in an alien language, and her brother hadn't bothered to translate for her- but she could hear the tone and it had been angry and resigned. The boy was a problem. Apparently. She glanced back at him, a scrawny little thing drowning in adult clothes, angry scowl overwhelmed by the largest eyebrows she'd ever seen. He didn't look threatening.

She glanced back at her brother's tense, unhappy face. Dehli, Nakula, her brother could be kind- if it benefited himself first of all. Decades and centuries of neglect and dismissal reared high in her memory. Joking, charming, adventurous and selfish. Her heart hurt when she thought of the last years before she'd finally had enough- every conversation, fine in isolation, leaving her more trapped than before. Charming days where he and Shaha made her feel welcomed and listened too- only for the rug to be pulled out from under her in the throne room and leave her feeling humiliated and foolish in their wake. She glances at the child. Then back at her brother- a good decade older than she knew him. Something wasn't adding up.

"No," she said eventually, just to make it clear. "No you can't." Wouldn't.

India sighed, a sad tired sound that makes her stomach curl up in shame a little. But at the same time. Should she just let him direct her wherever? She was already having to stay with him.

"It's not the thirteen hundreds anymore." He said quietly. There's a quiet pause, the boy even stops kicking his seat- presumably picking up on the tension.

"We were close." She has to strain her ears to hear it.

And you aren't anymore. She swallows around the lump in her throat. "I'm sorry."

"It doesn't matter anymore."He shrugs limply. It does, it clearly still does- but if he doesn't want to talk about it then she can't force him.

Instead she turned to watch the world speed by. At first it made her feel dizzy and slightly sick, but after a while her stomach settled and she could watch the people go by in the minutes they spent stuck behind other cars. They were interesting, along with people who were more normal shades of rich brown where many who were the same pasty white and pink as the nation in the back seat, or the deep glossy black she associated with Ethiopeans. Still others were a bright, painfull looking red. But most interesting of all was the tattoos - bright swirling colours forming faces and birds and abstract designs that stretched over entire arms or legs- or even faces. They were beautiful, and inwardly she marveled at the precision and artistry, as well as the ability to avoid infection.

In fact even glancing through the window she could see that maybe that wasn't such an issue- the people to a fault were uncommonly tall and handsome- their skin mostly free of smallpox scars and their bodies with the pleasing proportions of the well fed. She glanced back at- what was he? England? With curiosity. The child was scrawny and wild looking, monstrous eyebrows drawn tight in a scowl as he kicked the back of her brothers chair again. No, she still couldn't see it. He looked to her like a wild underdeveloped land, and she had gleaned he was from the far west and north- a backwards land in her own time. So perhaps the world was just like this now?

Hope, a fragile thing she tried to keep under control, bloomed beneath her breast. She glanced back at her brother, boyish roundness and arrogance eaten away by time. Maybe. Maybe the future was bright.

"So who do you know capable of messing about with a time machine? I want to thank them." She's only half joking. If possible, India's face fell even further.

And he told her.

Dinner had not gone well. It had taken a full hour to convince England that the food wasn't poisoned, and sure the food wasn't quite up to India's standard, England's fridge being so neglected. Still, it was a damn site better than what England, at any age, would have produced, so he couldn't help but feel offended when he'd shoved his chair back two feet and given the curry an unholy glare.

Bangladesh's coughing was not helping- I mean really, he'd only used a little bit of chilli, far less than she normally used, what was their problem? It'd taken until ten o'clock and being south of an Anglicised Indian takeaway before he'd remembered that chillis were a new world crop, and thus neither of his charges would have been even remotely familiar with them.

On the bright side however, England was easily herded off to one of the many spare rooms, feet not quite dragging - but definitely looking like they would if he caught him unguarded. Bangladesh was equally exhausted and made her way to the room next door, only stopping to ask him where she could wash and go to the loo and such- she seemed very impressed with the bathroom and gave it a sleepy nod of approval before sloping of to bed. Honestly, he could get information out of her tomorrow, being flung into the future could hardly be an easy experience. His face split into a jaw popping yawn, and he finally let himself slump - submitting to the tiredness that had been nibbling at him for a couple of hours. He gave a long look at the remaining two doors, there were more rooms upstairs, but to be honest he couldn't be arsed to climb the staircase. And besides, it felt silly to avoid rooms he hadn't even seen in decades. So he opened the door to his old room, and breathed a small sigh of relief that it had been repainted. Refurbished too- although he supposed that was inevitable given the mess the bomb had made of the whole house.

He spared a glance for the stout wooden door of the master bedroom looming at the end of the hall. They'd need to have a look in it at some point, as England may have stored useful information in his bedroom at some point, and if they were going to fix this….

Well, it's not as if it had to happen tonight, yeah? Besides, it was almost certainly locked- and possibly not only with methods mundane and ordinary. So there was no point in banging the door down now and waking everybody up. He could leave that till the morning.

Light blazes through his eyelids as his body aches, just breathing in the smell of damp grass and sheep that signals the countryside. He tries to get his breath back, having been winded by the fall.

He groans and rolls over, only to have the end of his nose nibbled on by an overly optimistic sheep, he opens his eyes so he can get the dratted thing away from him this instant when he spots the rather gobsmacked looking shepherd. He was middle aged and brown haired, with a red pockmarks complexion that spoke of long term alcoholism- the worst thing, however, was his clothes. They were medieval. And not in the quaint, historically inaccurate way of Ren fairs either.

He pokes at the connection.

Ah. Bugger.

He sighs. Clearly it was just one of those days. Wonderful.

He wakes up and it burns in a way it hasn't for decades...

He curls up, whimpers and rides it out.

She hasn't felt like this since she can remember- the lightning skitter of a people's rage, the strength of a nation going to war. She runs to a balcony in the palace she hasn't seen in centuraries- below is a sea of men, pikes bristling in the sun. Their banners unfurl, and the familiar face of Ilyas Shah marches out in front of his men. Her mouth goes dry.

Well shit.

The world expanded in the dark, the veil stretching thinner- lines of reality crisscrossing it like spiderwebs. The creatures, formless, voiceless, almost thoughtless, stretch and coil and move- outwards.

Chapter Text

Dawn broke cold and damp over the foreign land- and far earlier than she would have expected it to. It appeared understanding the implications of a heliocentric solar system was one thing, and experiencing the off kilter solar behaviour of the far north first hand was quite another. Especially when your gracious brother hadn't even thought to warn you. Bengal pootled around the kitchen in the pale light, poking her nose into the cold box, as tall as a man and about as wide, at the end of the counter. It didn't contain much more than milk in an odd square bottle and a transparent white box of that aggressively spicy vegetable curry they'd been fed last night. It hadn't been terrible, but it had been a shock, and honestly she hadn't been feeling up to it. There were also a few leftovers from the 'takeaway', which had been nice, if a bit greasy. But although working the wash box had been easy enough, she wasn't going to chance it with a cooker- and cold, greasy onion bhajis did not appeal- at least, not without a hot cup of tea.

She shivered, despite her fluffy robe, the cold was still making game attempt to freeze her toes as she wandered just outside the large glass doors and looked over the lush garden. She yawned but, northern summer or no, she still wouldn't have slept much longer. Even fiddling with the radio hadn't helped, and her dreams had been strange - crawling with creatures she couldn't remember, intercut by strange voices and the strange half dreams that fed through the Connection. Images she couldn't understand and voices she couldn't decipher whipped through her brain, fading to nothing as she woke- aggressively confusing. And the Connection- she gripped her glass of water compulsively, the Connection hadn't settled overnight. It still felt like trying to haul something heavy with the world's thinnest wire, biting into the hands of the mind and getting her nowhere. It set her teeth on edge.

She was interrupted by the clattering of a window high above her head, and she stepped out from under the roofs overhang to have a look. A small figure dangling from the windowsill attempting to reach the pipe that ran down the length of the house. Occasionally he'd swing to grab at it - miss by a hair and then fight to regain his grip. After one particularly desperate readjustment she squeaked in concern. England looked down. Bengal looked up.

They stared at each other for a moment- then England leapt straight out of the first floor window and onto the grass, before bolting across the garden. Bengal raced after him, and even with his impressive turn of speed he couldn't make it even halfway to the wooden fence before being tackled by her. They collapsed in a shower of limbs, and being about as athletic as an asthmatic ox, she was very grateful to have a head of height on the wiry little boy. Otherwise she would have been picking her teeth out of the grass.

"Hey-", she reared back to avoid a ballistic headbut, " - watch it! Quiet down, we're not here to OW!" Yanking her hand away from the sharp little teeth gave him an excellent opportunity to try and punch her lights out, luckily she managed to grab his wrist in time, but the kid just would not stop and listen. Nope, instead, despite her trying to reason, he was just trying to throw her off him. Then he managed to actually slap her- a sharp stinging sensation across her cheeks, and she'd had enough. Grabbing a chunk of hair and scarf, he rocketed forward to headbut her again and-

"AAAAAAHHHHH".She screamed, loud and shrill, straight in his ear. His head would have made an almighty crack against the ground, had they not been fighting on grass- as it was the thump sounded pretty painful. He sat there slightly stunned for a moment and she grabbed his other wrist and pin them both to his chest. Then they sat there breathing heavily.

"Are you ok?" she asked in rusty Latin, keeping her voice perfectly level. the kid was a ball of tension and still looked like he might just lash out.

He gave her a bog-eyed stare with those lamp-like green eyes of his before nodding very carefully.

She breathed a sigh of relief. "Good. Are you going to try to run away again?"

This was met by resolute silence. She could feel her shoulders slump; it looked like Dehli hadn't just been being helpful when he'd insisted she stay with him. She bit her lip and wracked her brain for what to say. She'd never been much of a people person, and honestly she'd always found children a hindrance to her research. But she wouldn't just let one run about alone in a strange place in nothing but sleeping clothes and a ridiculously oversized great coat. He didn't even have any shoes for goodness sake!

So she pondered the problem for a minute before saying.

"Is it because we're strangers?" He gave her a scornful look, which, yes she supposed was obvious. "Is there no way we can convince you we don't mean you harm?" His snort said it all. Nonetheless, she couldn't exactly let him up if he was just going to run away again, he was already scanning the area for an escape route. Then a brain wave hit her.

"Is it the connection?" she said, and suddenly those big eyes were back on her. "Yes?" she said and although he didn't nod, there was a definite lack of struggling. "Does it feel- I don't know- stretched out? Distracting? Wrong?" After a moment he nodded.

"Ok, then let's make a deal- I help you find out what's going on with the connection, and you promise not to run away." He's quiet for a moment then nods. "Besides-" she continues, "I happen to be the best mind in all of South Asia- and I think our mutual friend believes your older self knows more about this than he should." She gives him what she hopes is a conspiratorial look and says. "So it would be a bit silly to run away from the place where he lives you know?"

Finally she gets up and brushes herself off, she takes the fact that he doesn't immediately run away as a good sign. "Now, do you want some breakfast?"

He nods and stands up, ignoring her proffered hand, instead opting to pick at his muddy hands and wipe of the grass. Quietly they walked back to the kitchen, and Bengal took the moment to assess him out of the corner of her eye. He still gave his surroundings a once over and he held himself in an almost unnaturally stiff posture. He was an odd kid, but the black smudges under his eyes clearly showed how strongly the weirdness of the connection was affecting him. She almost winced in sympathy. Hopefully they could at least alleviate the problem, she wasn't looking forwards to spending, what? Days? Weeks? Sleep deprived and plagued by those not-quite-nightmares. It'd send her insane.

Of course, having promised him breakfast,she'd now need to produce it. She avoided the cooker completely- she wasn't stupid. But she had at least seen India work the cylindrical water heater, and, after a few false starts she found she could at make edible toast in an oblong box thing. England seemed perfectly happy to munch on the charcoaled ones, and after tearing his way through his first cup of tea she relaxed. The silence became distinctly more comfortable, and England let himself slouch a bit- she refilled his plate with toast when he cleared it, and couldn't help but notice that past his exotic colouring and generic nation prettiness that for all his attitude there was no meat on his wiry frame at all. Although, she thought ruefully, it wasn't as though that adult sized coat was doing him any favours- he looked like a blond, bedraggled cat.

She let him finish his tea before commencing with the interrogation. Or at least, that's what you would have called it if you'd only seen his reaction. As soon as she sat down he stiffened his back and gave her that hard flat look that really wasn't half as threatening as he seemed to think. Regardless, she tried to look friendly- the kid might be difficult, but she didn't get the feeling he'd just go and attack her if he got uncomfortable.

"Now, I know this will sound silly," she said, putting on her best 'I'm a nice friendly adult voice', which got her such a look that she decided to just keep to normal, "-but I don't actually know where I am." England gave her a look which she suspected translated to "?", so she elaborated.

"Obviously I know I'm here in this house in your country, but since I arrived so unexpectedly I'm not really sure where your country is- other than north and..". She could see she was losing him so she grabbed a bit of pencil and a peace of rather thin white paper that had been left lying on the table by India the night before. It had a series of scribbles on the back which she might investigate later, but the other side was clear and that's what she needed. Starting with the whole of their peninsula and Sri Lanka she quickly sketched out east to Indonesia and China, slowly she filled in as many borders of the various kingdoms as she could manage. When she was done she drew an 'X' over her home and a pair of smiley faces for the twins over the rest of the Delhi Sultanate and turned it around for him to look at.

"Here", she said, pointing at the 'X', "is who I am- Bengal, and this is our mutual friend - he calls himself India now but back then he was one half of the Delhi Sultanate, along with his twin who represents the exact same area …' She could see that she was beginning to lose him.

"I used to be called Gangaridai?" England shook his head. She swallowed her pride.

"The twins are also known as Hindustan?" No recognition. "Bharat?" Nope. She wasn't sure whether she should feel smug at England's blank incomprehension, it was rather nice to know the twins weren't at the center of everyone's lives, but it wasn't actually very helpful right now. Still best move on.

"Um, well I'm asking, where on this map are we? Where is your home England?"

England picked up the map for only a second before saying "North, lots of north," and putting it back down again. This was rather unhelpful, as the sun and the weather had told her that much. She opted for a smile.

"I know, you don't get the sun up this early at the equator, I was more asking where in the North are we? Are we Ilkhanate north or Black sea north?" He looked confused. She was rather worried she'd have to go through every avatar until they hit one she knew-which wouldn't help if he was say, a recluse like Bhutan. Then she had a brainwave.

"Do you remember Rome?". That got a response- England stiffened and scowled, but nodded. She could sympathise with that, she'd only ever heard rumors, but there was no empire to date that wasn't a total arsehole.

"Are you more or less north than Rome?"she said.

"More, and west a bit. Er". For a moment he looked torn, and his hand was promptly buried in his lap. The scowly look was back, but it was paired with an expression like he'd got indigestion, and it took her a moment to figure out what the problem was.

"Do you want this?" she said, offering him the pencil. He shot her a suspicious look, partially hidden under his fringe. She just held it there and tried to look reassuring.

"Please", he said. He still plucked it out of her hand and held it like it was going to be taken away. He stooped over the paper and started to draw and just as she was learning, that, huh, that was much farther northwest than I thought- I didn't know people even went that far, and, I wonder if that's where those incredibly pasty Greeks were from? Midway through Englands explanation that his tiny little island managed to contain himself and his two brothers, Nakula walked in- hair sticking up everywhere. He looked for all the world like he'd been dragged out of bed before sunrise, rather than midmorning.

"Look who's finally decided to show up," she shared a conspiratorial look, or rather tried to, with England. "Actually, what time even is it- seems a bit late even for you brother dearest?" She gave him a smile full of teeth- just because he was helping her now didn't mean she had to be nice about it.

"It's half eight?" he said. Then paused as he realized that that meant nothing to her " It's not nearly as late as you think it is - there's a good thirteen hours till sunset here."

She rolled her eyes and flapped her hand at him. "Whatever, could you go and make us some tea?"

Nakula raised his hands in surrender and went over to the blue counter top to root about in one of the cupboards hanging on the walls. Absentmindedly, she watched him potter about the kitchen, boiling the water heater and fiddling with the cooker, and felt herself relax a little. It was nice, seeing him make breakfast again, nostalgic even. Untill India wandered, barefoot, into the garden.

"AAHH- what the f-"

India sighed as they bundled out of the car- Bangladesh had practically ignored him, short of laughing when he'd cut himself walking outside. She'd barked two questions, both sharply technical and then stared out the window. England had said nothing, just watching the two of them with naked suspicion. And clearly something had happened there- they were both covered in grass and mud, and the drainpipe was hanging at a funny angle when he'd stepped outside. But both were staying silent.

He sighed in frustration, and locked the car. How was he supposed to care for them if they wouldn't even talk to him? Maybe it was just second day nerves. For a moment he turned and watched the pair as they approached and retreated from the automatic doors, Bangladesh clearly trying to see how many steps she could take before they activated. He grinned, then his phone buzzed.

hey india! how the old man?

India blinked. Honestly he hadn't expected Australia to be awake yet- considering he must've only touched down in the last half hour.

Fine. He's been a bit rambunctious, but hey we expected that. How are you? Normally your asleep- what time even is it there?

cool cool. I'm not home yet - staying over at Germany's place for a bit before doing the rest of my flight

Its *weird* seeing them so small

He could sympathise, they'd never quite been the same all powerful force to him that they had been to the youngest nations but the novelty was still there.

Yes it is a bit

He waited for a moment. When no new message came through he typed another.

How's your end?

Oh?

I'm fine? Nzs weird but its nbd

trying to communicate when you dont share a language is tough

India smiled

Wish I could say the same- but back in MY day, young nations learned many languages

Why I could speak with everyone from Rome to Canton and never once need an interpreter!

GAAK! Wish I never asked! ;)

He felt himself laugh despite himself - the joys of uncleship? responsible adultship? never got old. He kept looking at his phone for a while- Bangladesh yelled at him and he waved at her to tell her he'd be right there. He'd almost put the phone back in his pocket when it buzzed again.

im sorry

?

I..I should have taken him myself

Its not fair to leave him to you again

India breathed out and fought the urge to fill out his 'unlimited' texts with kisses.

I'll be fine.

….

Really?

Really.

"Oi!"

He jumped. England's tiny face scowled back at him.

"She says to get moving lazy bones" He jerked his thumb back to Bangladesh, who'd already started moving between the isles, basket in her arms. He pouted. England sighed like the whole world was against him- like a child.

"Come on, she'll leave us behind." The slight whine, barely perceptible, left him with the strange urge to giggle.

"Ok, ok- you follow her, and I'll be there in a second, ok?" He gave him a smile, which England did not return.

Still when he walked away, India couldn't help but notice that the kid had voluntarily put himself in arms reach, even if he didn't have to. He smiled and looked back down at his phone before firing off his last message.

He's just a child, you know? It's not the same.

I'll be fine.

India grumbled to himself as he shifted his weight off his cut foot again as Bangl- Bengal gave him a look of contrition as he extracted the shopping list from his coat pocket. Working the breaks on the drive up had not been fun, but standing in front of the shoes in the shop he couldn't help but feel a bit accomplished. Clothes shopping had never been England's forte, and apparently being de-aged did not improve matters. Isles and isles of clothes stretch in every direction. India can not say the same of England's patience.

Shirts

Trousers

Boxers

Socks

Shoes

Jumpers

India scanned the shop for the clothes they needed- hoping they could get through this without any unnecessary drama. Bangladesh stood beside the trolley calmly, and although England was trying to affect a similar nonchalance as he hung onto the side of its wire frame, India could see him hunching over and tensing. He'd seemed excited enough in the car, fidgeting and smiling to himself when he thought India wasn't watching but he'd gradually become more distressed as he'd been presented with more and more things- gravitating closer to the trolly until he was gripping it's wire tightly with one hand. And as England the adult had been so very high strung, and so many things would be new to a medieval mind, India couldn't even say for sure what was upsetting him- it could be almost anything. The lights, sound, overwhelming amount of stuff, automatic doors- any or all of them could be a problem. So despite their success with the shopping, even having managed to grab Bangladesh some spare long-sleeved dresses and leggings to bulk out her luggage, he felt like the shoes should probably their last stop.

Stifling a morsel of worry, he leaned over the side of the cart to give England a winning smile. He tried not to let it droop when England automatically hopped off the trolley bar and leaned back.

"Ok last stop, do you want to go and grab yourself a couple of pairs of shoes? I think you're a size four." England shrugged.

"How about a nice red pair to go with your new shirt, hmm?" he said.

England's grip on the wireframe of the trolley turned his knuckles white, and he shook his head violently. India met Bangladesh's confused look for a moment before turning back to him- he wouldn't have ordinarily pushed it, but England needed at least one pair of shoes that fit. Australia's old pair were almost comically oversized- all the smaller pairs having been worn out by the many successive feet of the Commonwealth near seventy years prior. He gently clicked his tongue while he thought.

"Do you want me to help you choose?" he asked cautiously, tilting his head.

"I'm not a baby!" England shoved the trolley away from himself pretty forcefully, if India hadn't been holding the other side it might have spun into the shelf. India watched him stamp off the furthest end of the shoe rack, where the shoes were clearly too big for him. He sighed, as Bengal chuffed in shock and irritation.

"What's wrong with him, then?" she muttered under her breath, faced scrunched up in frustration. India shrugged, feeling a little helpless, he couldn't think of anything that wouldn't just make the kid angrier. He really didn't want to make a scene.

"No clue, do you have any idea?" He pauses for a moment and then carefully affects the mildest voice he can. "Did… something happen this morning perhaps?"

"Has your Connection..being playing up at all?" Her voice was too light to be anything but affected. He felt his blood run cold, and she looked panicked.

"Not like that! I don't think it's fading- its more like…" She bit her lip and waved her hand a little, "It's more like it's tense- pulled taught." She frowned. "Sorry that's the best I can do - but I know he's having that too, that's why he tried to run away this morning." She looked back at England, India frowned, clicking his tongue and turned to watch England, who was still stamping around- but at least he was in the right section..

"Bangladesh? Is it like that time you went to China?" he said. Her eyes went sharp

"My name's Bengal. But yes- it's much much stronger- but I suppose that makes sense" India breathed a sigh of relief. Bangladesh was still frowning. "He might not be sleeping well- I know I'm not."

India hummed an ascent, the knot in his chest loosened a little- it probably wasn't going to be an immediate risk, but he couldn't help but worry even as he continued to watch England. Back rigid, he picked up a pair of shoes, put them back, picked up another, put them back- each time getting clearly more and more frustrated, slamming them back on the rack, which knocked over more shoes, which then had to be picked up and shoved back - knocking more astray. India watched for a moment, biting the inside of his lip, chest tight with nerves. He didn't want to swoop in, railroad him into just taking something- but he didn't want the scene that would almost certainly result from leaving him to wind himself up either.

Bang- Bengal bit her lip.

"Should.. we do something?" Bengal murmured, voice low and halting. India tried to surreptitiously take a deep breath- given the pinched look that she sent him, he didn't succeed.

"Give him time." She nodded haltingly. Another pair of shoes went tumbling to the floor and England made a small scream of frustration low in the back of his throat.

"On second thought, I best go and calm him down".

He walked over, and carefully relaxed all his muscles- going in angry would be like throwing water on an oil fire.

"Hey", he said in French- best avoid any miscommunication, "are you alright? Those are really nice, but your size is a little way-"

"Shut up!" India blinked down at the child glaring into the shoes.

"Sorry?"

"I said SHUT UP!" The boy was glaring at him now, breathing heavily, face distorted by rage. "You're a LIAR! You're trying to trick me!"

India could feel people turn to stare at them. "Excuse me, ….

"I don't care! You're lying to me! Do you think I'm stupid? It's not FAIR!" India felt his blood run cold England let out a wordles shriek.

Shitshitshit- every part of him seized up involantarily, blood roared in his ears and it was all he could do to avoid flinching. He could feel everyone's eyes on them, prickling on his neck- he could feel the prickle of his brownness too. He felt horribly short of breath, and he could feel the beginnings of a sweat. They're all looking at me- He took a deep breath. Marshalling his voice into the calmest tone he could manage he said.

"Be nice- stop shou-"

"NO! GO AWAY!"

A sharp flush rose up his cheeks, and he tried to keep his voice level. He failed.

"Stop it Arthur- we are trying to help you-"

"Liar" the boys face barely changed but his voice sounded weaker, almost wobbly. "What do you really want?"

India's heart clenched, spotting the telltale flush and crumple that signaled tears in England's face. He'd always hated seeing children cry- and this one, well, was never going to be an exception if he was honest with himself. Swallowing past the lump in his throat, he automatically placed his hand on England's shoulder.

"GET OFF ME!" India realled back as England leapt at him- swinging his fists with shocking accuracy, hitting him about the head. He was knocked flat to the ground before Bengal managed to grab him. England squirmed in her hold like a mad thing and kept shouting. Swinging his head round in a panic, he was relieved to see a changing room nearby. Quiet. Secluded. A good place to deal with a small boy who was spinning out of control.

Bengal stared at him in betrayal as he walked away to get the nearest shop assistant.

"I'll be back in a moment!" He said in Old Bengali. He then turned to the shop assistant and said in perfect, affected Oxford English,

"I'm terribly sorry, my nephews not feeling very well- could we use one of your changing rooms?" He felt his breath stop in his chest as she blinked at him in surprise and then looked at England. He almost slumped in relief when she nodded and smiled.

"As long as it's just you and him, you can use the changing room just here-" she pointed to one just inside the door. "Your wife can wait here with me-"

"Thankyou so much!" She blinked at him, and he turned to wave at Bengal. "Sorry, my sister and I, we've only been taking care of him for a little while- I think he's just finding everything a bit much." He knew, logically, he didn't need to explain this- that she had no right to judge- but the words rushed out of him regardless. Something clicked in her eyes, and he saw her shoulders relax.

"It's ok, my brother has something similar- I could give you the times for the shops quiet hour if you like?" He- wasn't entirely sure what that was, if he was honest, he nodded anyway and she handed him a small leaflet from the desk she was at. He smiled and pocketed it. Then he turned back to his charges, who….were not getting any nearer the changing rooms. He let out a small sigh and shot a final grateful look over to the shop assistant before saying.

"I best go over and help before they bring the store down around our ears"

This was easier said than done, all nations were strong and tough, but England seemed to be one part nation to four parts angry wildcat. Bengal was barely hanging on as he tried to duck and squirm away. Barely hanging onto England's hands she yelled at him.

"Where were you? Get over here!"

He sighed, assessed his options and grit his teeth before looping one arm around the boys chest and another around his legs and hoisting him into the air- fully expecting him to freeze when he did so.

"I've been getting us a place he can- WOA-"

England did not freeze. Heedless of the risk of falling he shrieked in anger and kicked out, writhing in such a way that India had to put his legs down to stop him from falling. Keeping his arm wrapped around his chest he caught his head when it came flying back in a headbutt. For a moment India thought they had him.

"You see the hall past the woman in the uniform? There's a room in there we can go to to caaaa-"

All at once England flopped bonelessly, a wrist slipping out of Bengals grip, and his head freed so India could grab both armpits. Luckily India had always been a good wrestler, and got his other arm around his chest before he could slip away completely. He winced as England managed to slap him when he inevitably sprang back to attack- but it didn't take long for Bengal to grab his other wrist in a firm grip. Nodding to each other, India and Bengal then frog marched the kid to the changing room. The attendent flicked them a sympathetic smile as they plonked England down on the seat inside.

"Stay there" India said, before turning back to Bengal. "I'll manage it from here- it's me only so.."

She nodded, looking uncomfortable. "Just make sure he's ok?"

He smiled at her and nodded before heading back into the changing room.

To his surprise England was sitting where he'd been put- but his whole body was tense. Shoulders up around his ears, he scowled fiercely. He could feel anger and frustration bubbling up under his gut, but he took a deep breath and relaxed his facial muscles from tense to carefully neutral. No point throwing petrol on this particular fire.

"England." He said.

The boy peaked up from under his hair and said nothing.

"I'm not going to pretend I'm not upset-" England didn't react. "-but I want to understand why you did that."

Silence. India can't help but sigh as a wave of fresh irritation rolls through him.

"What are we going to do with you" he mutters to himself.

"Why are you keeping me here?"

India blinks. The boy is staring up at him- anger and resolve etched all over his face. India stares back and tries to think of an answer that won't just send this whole situation down the toilet. He has to settle.

"I'm sorry?" He says, and England scowls.

"Why did you bring me here? Why don't you just give me back already- I can't give you anything you want" England's voice is sharp and staccato, and his body language is full of presumption. Again the only thing he can say in response feels weak and inadequate.

"We didn't bring you here" He says, and England snorts at him again. India scowls back at him. "And this is your home- your nation, you can't hide that from yourself"

"Don't LIE to me- your friend lied to me." India blinks.

"What." England's smirks triumphantly.

"She said that the house was mine and that my old self made it happen and that we were in my country and that you were going to help…." He trailed off. India could feel that his incredulity was written all over his face, England, even unmoored from time should be able to feel the reality of Bengals statement. But then again, he thought as England seemed to curl up in on himself again, Bengal herself didn't recognise the feeling at first. For a moment the two nations sat in silence, but India felt like he had to check something.

"England, where do you think we are?" He said, a morbid feeling of curiosity creeping over him.

"Oh probably Mongolia or somewhere, it's too wet and North to be Acre or anywhere like that and you're a Musselman or something and Mongolia has a lot of them" His face was shockingly calm as he said this. India, however, had short circuited.

"I'm not Muslim" he said, unhelpfully. Mostly, sort of - he tamped down on the existential crisis that always arrose when he thought about religion too much, and tried to come up with something to explain the situation in an approachable way. He failed.

"It's 2017, England- we're in London"

The boy rolled his eyes, but before he could open his mouth, India interrupted.

"England, feel your Connection?"The boy scowled. But he plowed on, "It feels stretched because your far away in time, not space." The boys face scrunched up. And India felt he had to ask, "England, have you ever heard of time travel before?"

"Wo', like in those fairy stories?" There was something belligerent in his tone now, and his body was slumped in defeat. India tried for a smile, he didn't know how those stories ended, but it seemed they weren't good.

"But this," he said, swirling at England, "can be fixed. If you let us help you."

"Fine." England's voice sounded flat and tired, but his back had snapped back into that unnaturally stiff posture he'd had before- it made India feel tired just looking at him. England stared straight ahead.

"What do we do now?" Not engaging, but not fighting either- India could tell from experience he'd just have to take what he could get.

"We're going to go and pay for your new clothes at the till, and then we'll go get some lunch." He kept his tone deliberately light, but something in England's posture - didn't collapse exactly, the child clearly had all the posture of the adult him, but it did crinkle.

"Arthur," he said, and the boys eyes snapped to give him a hostile stare, "We could stay here a bit longer if you like?" Had dealing with England always been this exhausting?

"I'm fine" England growled, and stormed out past the curtain.

India sighed, seized by a plague of memory, and followed.

The car was stuffy, all the plastic bags having been shoved in the back seat with England. He had ignored them all when he'd come out of the shop, just shrugging before climbing in the back of the no longer pristine Rolls Royce. India recognised that it wasn't England's usual arrogance- in fact he was more cringing away, as much as his pride would allow. There was no trouble on the way back, both of his charges remained perfectly mannered as Tommy Sandhu nattered over the bridge to the next song. But he couldn't relax- England was unnaturally still, not even twitching his legs as he stared out the window. And whilst Bengal seemed oblivious as she patted her legs gently to the rhythm, India could feel the tension building.

He wasn't going to let it fester.

"England, can I talk to you for a moment, please" Both England and Bengal paused as they opened the doors to get out onto the driveway. "Don't worry you're not in trouble- Sis, if you could put the kettle on for us?" He kept his voice light, and his face clear of worry.

Begal nodded and went inside. England perched on the front seat next to India.

"What's wrong?" England's back had relaxed a little on the drive, but it was ramrod straight now. His only concession to nerves was to fiddle with the little air freshener tied to the cooling vents.

"I was going to ask you that, you seem nervous."

"I already said sorry." It came out harsh and abrasive but again there was that crinkle. Around the eyes mostly. India had had to learn to read pain, sadness, fear and all manner of suppressed negativity in those subtle body changes. It was disturbing to see them in miniature.

But this England was not the adult he'd become, and India made a mental effort to cleave the two apart as he had for his sister. Arthur- his name was another thing that man had never been willing to change- had stopped playing with the air freshener, his hands instead neatly folded on his lap. India opened his mouth, paused and started again.

"I'm sorry Arthur, I didn't mean to say you'd done something wrong. In fact," he said, a sudden bolt of inspiration hitting him, "I'll never punish you without telling you exactly what you're doing wrong first."

Eng-Arthur stared at him in shock. A reflexive burst of pity stung within his stomach before being sharply suppressed. For all their differences he suspected Arthur wouldn't appreciate it anymore than adult England. He continued

"You just seem a bit upset is all?"

Immediately, Arthur's face shut down all emotion- he averted his gaze and became, if anything, even stiffer on the seat.

"It's nothing"

Gently as possible, India replied.

"Arthur, I can't help if I don't know."

After that silence reigned. It grew thicker and heavier, but India knew better than to break it. Soon enough, his patience was rewarded.

"It's nothin'- it doesn't matter" Englands French had taken on that slur it'd had earlier, when he'd been fighting tooth and nail over a pair of shoes. India waited.

"It's just the shop it's - it's" He waved his hands, clearly frustrated, giving India a look like he should just know. "It's just loud,"he finished in a whisper. India waited a moment more, but England had started playing with the air freshener again, emotional bandwidth clearly maxed out from even that declaration.

"Thank you for telling me." He meant it too, part of him had been gearing for another fight, "next time we'll go during the quiet hour ok?" England was deliberately not looking at him, but his frame had relaxed a little, his shoulder rounding into a more natural posture. Without really saying anything, India felt as if a deal had been struck. He smiled.

"Want to come in and get a cup of tea?"

England looked him in the eye and nodded.

Chapter Text

Against his own expectations, the peace held. It was tentative and at first they avoid each other, India bracing for a fight, but gradually the distance shrinks at least a little. India cooks and his charges eat- but Arthur stays in the room afterwards and has a cup of tea. When he comes into the lounge, Arthur doesn't immediately vacate. That sort of thing. It's not totally plain sailing, Arthur presents as completely disinterested- an expert in finding something interesting off to the side of any conversation. The garden. A painting. A mote of dust. It makes it frustrating, when they disagree because India can never be sure the boy is listening. But India is an adult and Arthur is still a child, so it's manageable. Predictable even.

Bengal is anything but. Like Arthur he tries to keep her past and present selves separate in his head for all their sakes. But unlike Arthur, her hot and cold routine is alien to him. Perhaps it's because she looks so much like herself, but when India walks in to the kitchen and offers her a cup of tea he's still jarred by her cold shoulder- a restless hmm or snide comment rather than the warmth of a sisterly greeting. Every conversation is a minefield. Awkward silence where there should be playful rebukes. Vicious barbs in friendly jokes. He'd like to put it down to insomnia- which three days in was now clearly habitual for both his charges- but deep in his heart of hearts he knows that's not true. It's not any one thing, but a creeping relialization cued in over three days of caustic looks and false politeness. She hates him.

So with all that, it's easy to forget that it's England he needs to watch out for.

"FUCK OFF" England's voice cracks with rage. India frowns at the first understandable piece of conversation. Norway had made good on his promise to send his phone number and set up a time for England and his brothers to talk. They'd waited four days. So they could settle in.

"Shouldn't you be in there?" Bengal muttered, looking confused. India shook his head and pressed a finger to his lips. It was a family matter. The child should be allowed his privacy.

A dull thump comes through the wall and India jums up from the hard kitchen seat to go to the livingroom to investigate. The day was sunny, shockingly so- but he was stuck inside monitoring a call he couldn't understand, but which seemed to be slipping from bad to worse. When he poked his head round the door it was to see Arthur hopping around on one foot rubbing his toes as he continues his screaming match. India suspects he lost a fight with the wall.

It's only for a second though. England suddenly puts his foot down with his weight evenly spread and stops shouting. India's been spotted, though Arthur doesn't look at him. India's not fooled- the boy's being quieter, not nicer- a concession to the ceasefire. Even in indecipherable early English he can tell that much. He whips his phone out to text Norway - perhaps they should interrupt now before they really blow up- but before he's even unlocked the loading screen he freezes. England is silent.

But Scotland has not stopped talking. And as Arthur's face goes from lobster red to corpse grey, it becomes clear that the boy is not ok. Every sentence coming through the white plastic phone is low and furious. Punctuated by an almost unconscious sway away by England in each sentence. This,he thinks, cannot be allowed to go on.

Suddenly England lets out a scream of high, harsh rage and chucks the phone away. Bang! Against the wall. India approaches arm outstretched- England backs away eyes open but darting. Unfocused.

"Hey" he says softly.

"What!" That screech is followed by a deluge of Old English- presumably directed at himself with that rapid murmur. The boy is still pale and breathing heavily - he's hyperventilating.

"Take a deep breath and tell me what's happened." India takes a step forward and Arthur takes one back to match. "It's ok." For a moment Arthur stops and goes ridgid. For a split second India thinks he's gotten through. Then 'oh, he's fainted' when the boy suddenly falls flat on his face, India only managing to grab him by the tips of his fingers to soften the blow a little. For a moment he is even relieved - horrible as he feels about it. Argument avoided!

Then the fits start.

They start all at once, a faint tremor in the limbs the only warning before Arthur's whole body starts to jerk and flop like a dead fish. As he watches the uncoordinated movements seem to spread into the shoulders, hips and body. Into his neck. His head whacks a few times off the floor before India can grab and turn him so his twitching body is face up. His face is grey and blood leaks out of his nose- even though the floor was carpeted. And India has no idea what to do.

"BENGAL!" he screams and she comes running but stops short at the doorway, at him kneeling over the tiny spasming body. He can see her face pale.

"What do we do?" he asks, it feels hoarse and his lungs hurt from the amount of air he can't pull in. Her jaw flaps for a moment, helpless.

"I don't know. I don't know - I've seen it happen to humans but-" Her wide eyes meet his and his hit by a horrible reflection of his own ignorance. But it doesn't happen to us. "- umm I-"

She babbles rapidly in circles trying to remember what to do. Then a phrase "-should we hold him still? He looks like he's going to get hurt-" jogs something in his memory.

"No." He says. "Pass me that pillow, I'll put it under his head and we'll wait." She looks at him nervously but does as he asks.

India scours the memory again- an aid, a young woman with laughing eyes who'd been epileptic. When she'd come on she'd told him what to do if she had a fit. Number one had been don't move her. Number two was count how long her seizure lasted. Too long and you had to call an ambulance. But how long was too long? And what good was an ambulance for a nation? How ever much they looked it, they weren't human. Their minds and bodys had their own rules.

Still, he counted. Starting from ten.

Eleven, twelve, thirteen,

His heart was pumping in his throat as the boy twitched helplessly against his own muscles, Bengal frozen beside him, horribly, totally, helpless in their ignorance. At thirty four he seemed to go limp and stop for a moment, eyelids flickering. India breathed out in relief- only to catch it in shock as the seizure took hold again, all the more brutal for its brief pause. Blood appeared around his lips, caught in his teeth as his jaw suddenly snapped shut like a vice. Bengal let out a small high sound of distress. India kept counting. There was nothing else to do but wait.

Eventually after what felt like an age the boy went lax, muscles stilling and then unwinding, freeing him. They sat with baited breath. But he didn't start twitching again, instead laying down quite as anything. Quiet as the dead. India watched him breathe, almost scared to look away. But gradually he unwound and he heard Bengals halting, frightened breaths even out. 115 seconds. Almost two minutes. He didn't know what that meant. He'd remember it anyway.

"Could you-" his voice came out thick and horse. He coughed, cleared his throat and tried again, managing to inject a little false calm into it. "Could you fetch me a wipe? Like a wet paper towel?"

He looked at Bengal, who was pale and wide eyed. She nodded and went to the kitchen, returning quickly and handing him the requested item. For the barest moment he let it sit in his palm, the cold water grounding him a little. Then he leant over and wiped the blood away from Arthurs mouth, hands shaking. The boy didn't so much as twitch.

"Let's take him upstairs and put him to bed. If I carry him, could you get the doors?" Bengal nodded as he wrapped his arms around Arthur's shoulders and knees, suddenly struck by how small he was. He lifted him. Staggered for a moment with the unexpected weight- for all his thinness the boy was made of muscle- and floppiness before writing himself and taking him upstairs, gently maneuvering too-long legs around corners and doorways. He set him down in bed and tucked him up in the duvet, and again, he looked tiny.

Absentmindedly he swiped Arthur's hair from his eyes and smoothed the sheets.

"What now." He jumped and turned to look at his younger sister. It hadn't really occurred to him how much he had relied on her seemingly endless well of knowledge. Knowledge she didn't have in her current form. Seeing her like this, with no explanation, no theory- scared and on the brink of tears- is painfully alien. He can't afford to think about it.

"We wait." There's nothing else to do.

The bedroom was deathly quiet- punctuated only by their quiet breathing. Soft covers swallowed Arthur up and made him look even smaller than he really was. She comforted herself with the fact that he was a good colour and breathing well, but the fact remained that he hadn't woken up even forty minutes later. Those fits had looked painful, so perhaps it wasn't surprising he'd slept through all their attempts to wake him, but India was looking from his phone to England with a steadily increasing amount of worry. Probably finding out how terrible this was and what they should do on his 'internet'. And she was sat here, excluded. Ignorant, useless, helpless.

She fucking hated it.

"This isn't normal is it?" Her voice has a horrible waver to it, which she hates. India jerks his head to look at her as if he'd forgotten she was there. He might as well have done, for all the use she was. He bites his lip.

"I don't think so. The NHS website says he should've woken up after the seizure stops, and if he doesn't we should call an ambulance." She nods as if she hadn't understood only half of what he just said. But she knows that creatures like them don't suffer from the same ailments as humans- not unless something is going drastically wrong with their people.

"Is there anything politically that could be causing this?" Start with the normal. Work your way out. India frowns.

"Not really. Well there is one thing- a devisive decision, it's got everyone upset. Protests." She sits up. Protests were exactly the sort of thing that might spark a civil war - and a reaction like this would be extreme but-

India gives her a shark look. "It's not that though."

"But a prelude to a civil war …" she protests.

"That's not how it works here. Protests are just part of how government works now- look, it just wouldn't cause anything this extreme." Hot anger floods her gut, he's hiding things again. Another thing he thinks she doesn't need to know about- there seem to be a lot of those. But she stifles it down, she's tired, she knows she's not thinking straight. She tries again.

"What does it say could cause it?" her voice measured and reasonable. India looks serious for a moment.

"The only one I can think is relevant is sleep deprivation." Her stomach drops into her feet. "But I think that's only for epileptics so I don't know-"

"It's the curse isn't it?"

The words hang in the air like an ugly great fly, buzzing around their heads. Of course it's the only option left. If it's not biological, and it's not political, it can only be the curse. Whether directly by magic or by magically induced sleep deprivation, it was could only be that. And why England and not her? He was younger, smaller, more vulnerable. Kids, even of their kind, were more sensitive to damage than adults. But it wouldn't stop there. And if it was magical there was no guarantee he'd wake up.

"We shouldn't jump to conclusions." said India, without even looking at her.

"Don't," she growls. He turns to face her "Just stop it. I know it, you know it- don't try and hide this from me like I'm a child. You don't get to coddle me and then order me about like it's nothing." A bitter laugh sips past her lips. "I may be seven hundred years out of time, but you're at least a thousand years too late to be pulling that shit. I won't put up with it."

He's staring at her in shock. It just makes her angrier.

"At least try and act like you care about me as an equal!"

For a moment the only sound is her heavy breathing. Despite never having risen her voice above a whisper she feels breathless and her body is wracked with shivers from the effort. India was folded in on himself, looking guilty.

"I-" His voice is halting, and still quiet. He's speaking Latin, which is weird- but maybe it's just habit with the child in the room. "I don't know. I don't know what could happen- or even what the worst could be. If it's the curse you could collapse tomorrow, or next month. Or never. I just don't know."

"Because we haven't investigated it." I was too busy enjoying myself, she thinks miserably, stupid, stupid girl.

He nods.

"I just, don't understand, sometimes you seem so different and then-" she gestures helplessly. It's not really this situation. It's the whole scenario, it's that she still hasn't spoken to her siblings, and doesn't know why England meant so much to him or why he behaves the way he does. It's his overbearing protection.

She thinks he gets it though, because he leans back against the wall looking sad. No, melancholy.

"1300's, huh?" She feels her face twist in confusion. "Ilah Shah? The man who made you-"

"He didn't make me do anything!" she said hotly. India sighed.

"Sorry, you're right. The one who helped you rebel against me and _" Shaha,she mentally supplied as India waved a hand helplessly. She nodded. He looks relieved and stares at the ceiling. "God. I was such a prick back then."

She blinks in shock and he stares her in the eye. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry. You were right, we shouldn't have bossed you about and dismissed you like that. Even if - even if it took a lot for me to admit it the first time round." Suddenly he chuckled. "I'd save a lot of time if I just accepted you were right straight away, huh?"

"Damn straight." But her heart isn't in it. "So does it work? Does Ilah …" She can't bring herself to say it. Does he die for me? Does he fail? Bright, serious eyes and a small smile hidden under his beard. Late night board games. Does it work?

"Yes. He buys you a few hundred years of independence. Then," India winces. "Then we take over again. Then you're free. And then," almost imperceptibly his eyes flick to the side again and pain clouds his features. "Well. You're free now- you have been for almost 50 years. It was just a very bumpy road to get there."

"Oh." She breathes out, gobsmacked and relieved. "Thankyou." It's her turn to look at the ceiling. It's not like her time under them was the worst, she was their precious baby sister after all. And clearly she had so much more to fight. But. A cage was still a cage, and she was relieved to find she'd escape it. Soon even. After a while she says.

"I like you better. This version of you, I mean."

"That's fair."

She giggles wetly. I've missed you. The thought makes her eyes finally overflow and start crying.

"Teach me to work the cooker and I'll call it even." It was a pain waiting for him o wake up at sensible o'clock for her and Arthur to have breakfast.

"Ok."

"And the phone." She wasn't going to put off calling her other siblings any longer.

"Done."

"And English." There's a pause.

"You know he can't speak modern English?"

"Not for him, for the locals- if we're going to investigate then we both need to understand what's going on." It's ambitious but she's a fast learner, and well, she's not human. "You should probably teach him too. It's sad, that he can't talk to his people."

"OK." A look of determination suddenly crosses his face. "Sister, I'll help you fix this. I promise"

"Me too." Says England, green eyes open and shining with conviction.

Chapter Text

The bedroom was silent aside from the sound of chewing, everyone focused on their task. Bengal had dried her eyes. Arthur was sitting up, though he was tired enough that he let India check his vital signs. India drank in their forms, both pale and determined. Waiting wasn't even a question.

This was how they found themselves standing outside the thick wooden door of England's room- the master bedroom. It was heavy, a remnant, perhaps, from the original bombed out shell of England's Victorian home- although India had no idea why England had been so emphatic about recovering it. Now, standing outside it, it had a palpable menace. Even Bengal, who had been so determined before, seemed hesitant. She kept looking at him in askance, but he found he couldn't make a move on the door. It loomed before him, deeply unforgiving, and utterly foreboding.

Until Arthur rolled his eyes, muttered something under his breath and pushed it open. A heavy sounding click proceeded it, a lock needing no key, and in the same moment the spell it had over them vanished. The door, now just a door, revealed a small room with barely enough space for its contents. A single bed with plain cheap sheets, piles of books of all kinds in three of the corners next to tall, mismatched bookshelves. The fourth corner contained the only thing of interest, an elderly desktop with a thick grey monitor and a matching brick of a computer beneath the desk.

It was all a bit anticlimactic really.

"Already it begins." He said to Bengal, as Arthur ignored the pair of them to start leafing through books, making a noise of frustrated disgust when he clearly couldn't read their version of English. Bengal looked serious though.

"Hardly something to be happy about is it, Delhi?" Her voice was taught and worried.

"India," he said instead of pushing his point. She made a flat noise but nodded her head in acknowledgement.

"Whatever, let's find what we can and get this moving."

They started by organising the books by language- the vast majority were modern English, but as Heyer, Rowling, and other fiction authors piled up it was becoming clear that this pile was the least likely to contain anything useful. Next, a smaller pile of Latin texts- mostly reproductions of historicals. Finally a double handful of books in other languages - French, German, there was even '' in its original Urdu. India couldn't help but stare at that one, until Bengal had given him a weird look- like it was obvious that England would have fiction books in an Indian language. Then again, to her, it might be. He put it down again and shook his head to clear it of the temporal culture shock.

As there was noting of interest in the modern English, he let his two charges split the Latin between them and applied himself to the computer. As he booted it up he couldn't help but wonder if England was aiming for security by obsolescence- his personal account wasn't even password protected. Nor was his email account- although divorced from the modern internet providers it was a devil to find. Seeing only messages from government, he closed it- anything useful would be said in person- England's paranoia would dictate it. He opened up the documents folder- numbered not named- and clicked on the first few.

Enter Password

Enter Password

Enter Password

He opened up the rest- five more were password protected. The rest were junk. A half written novel plot. Copy pastes of news articles on petty crime. Nothing else of interest. He sighed and opened up the emails when the squabbling started. It was fast paced- too fast for him to follow with only half an ear. But too slow and stressy to be relegated to background noise- he spun on the swivel chair.

"What's wrong?" he asked in Latin.

The pair stared at him for a moment before looking at each other. Arthur shrugged dismissively and Bengal frowned at him in a way that was distinctly beseeching.

"Bengal? Arthur?"

Arthur said nothing, but Bengal wordlessly handed him a heavy tome in leather so dark it was almost black. Silver lettering sprawled across the cover- Faucium Terrae. Throat of the Earth. He flipped it open- the first four chapters seemed to be on geography, or an early 1900's understanding of it. After that it mostly seemed to be invested in ley lines, a concept that had a ring of familiarity to it, but that honestly India had never really looked into.

"What am I supposed to be looking at?" he asked.

Bengal rolled her eyes. "Just read chapter two would you- I'm going to find a spot to pray."

She stood up, not needing to stretch before walking off to perform her daily prayers. His own back twinged with jealousy, but was immediately distracted by Arthur telling him that the book was nonsense.

"Let me have a look at it first ok?" he said mildly.

So he read chapter two. Honestly he hoped it was nonsense. After flicking through the first chapter to understand ley lines- he wanted context for the problem after all, he started on the second. He frowned, along with sections on ley line identification and major British landmarks were diagrams of increasing complexity to 'release and direct spiritual energy'. It didn't really remind him of anything England had ever told him about how he did magic, but he'd never been that interested before. Bengal came back from her mid afternoon prayers and sat down, looking serious.

"Seems you were right," she said.

Flicking through the other chapters, he nodded. He didn't blame her for being stressed- magic was haram in Islam, a corrupting practice that subverted Allah's will and design. He didn't like to ask her to do this, but they both recognised that he couldn't do it alone- apart from anything else, she could speed read like no one else he'd ever known. This was why he wasn't surprised when she told him to turn to chapter 7. Arthur rolled his eyes, but once India had read it he couldn't say he agreed with him. Chapter 7 contained spells- combinations of diagrams and ingredients intended to do everything from heal the sick to cursing your enemies. Several called for blood. Even more concerning was the familiar handwriting in the margins. Nation blood is an effective substitute for human, although the effects are more unpredictable, read one. Many of these arrays are of poor quality- did he perhaps only copy them from elsewhere? Read another.

The book hit much of what they were looking for- geographic focused magic could conceivably have a strong effect in nations and England had been clearly been reading this book and assessing it's effectiveness. A memory swam up to the surface of his mind- England intruding on a conversation about superstition, claiming that his own were merely pre scientific observations rather than primitive gibberish. He'd mentioned that blood was an amplifier. It'd sounded so absurdly sinister that India had burst out laughing- the ensuing argument had lasted three hours.

So he didn't say anything when England whined that the book was stupid- this far out of time he may not even recognise the black magic for what it was. But as much as he wanted to say they'd found the answer- there was something missing.

"There aren't any transformation or de-aging spells in here."

Bengal sighed.

"I know, I looked- but I think you were right about the culprit," she shuddered, "I suppose I shouldn't be to shocked but I didn't expect to run into black magic that quickly"

"Im sorry," he said. It didn't really cover the scale of the problem, but it needed to be said. Bengal shrugged and rubbed her forehead, looking dejected.

"It's not like I didn't expect it- anyway, you can't fix something you don't understand. Know your enemy and you will win a hundred battles, right?"

"Right."He said, his heart sinking.

They hunted fruitlessly for another hour before India called a break. Going over the same information again and again was making them frustrated, and India would rather rest than deal with another fight. Bengal had wanted to keep going, although she said that Arthur should take a break- the kid having long given up on reading books in favour of flopping onto the modern English pile like it was a bed. However, the kitchen cupboards had had their meager rations exhausted, and if they wanted to restock India had to go now. It worried him though, leaving the kid under Bengals supervision.

All that was washed away when he went outside. The evening air was pleasantly warm, and the bustle of people was a welcome relief to the stuffy isolation of England's room. The walk wasn't long, but the simple distance from his problems helped them recede to the back of his mind. Even if it wasn't one of his own cities, the crush of people making last errands was reassuringly familiar.

His ease lasted all the way to the shop, but left him as he began to pick up the staples they'd need over the next few days. Picking up chicken, milk and potatoes he couldn't help but think of the ingredients in Faucium Terrae- salt and garden herbs alongside human blood and hair. Notes assessing their practicality and appropriate substitutes- the book contained no transformation or translocation spells, but England had been an accomplished magician. Or had liked to think himself one at least. Could England have engineered his own spell from that book? He'd always got the impression that magic was unpredictable and dangerous- but nations were unnaturally hardy. Did that allow for greater experimentation?

But something bothered him about the whole situation, and as he sat glaring at the limited range of herbs and spices it struck him. They had found no other magic books. And no motive. England had been practicing magic for centuries- enough that Arthur felt secure enough to question Faucium Terrae- and yet the only book they'd found could be no older than the 1920's. India remembered seeing the occasional magic book in his room in the 1800s, and England had a hoarder streak a mile wide. Where had they gone? Had they all been burned up when the house had been destroyed in the Blitz? Had England never sought to replace them? Did he just keep all his acquired knowledge in his head? Seemed unlikely.

And, he thought, searching through the condiments, what exactly was England's motive? Why replace nations with their childhood selves? This, above all else, scared him. Whilst he could conjure up a scenario in which he could foul up a spell and have it backfire upon himself, the spell itself seemed all at once inconceivably petty and ridiculously convoluted. The only thing he kept circling back to was the vulnerability of the younger nations, flung backwards into their baby sate, their reliance on their caregivers. It gave him a chill even to think it but-

He grabbed his phone and flicked to the number he needed.

"Hallo?"

Bengal stared at the books in front of her, absentmindedly leafing through a bestiary. They piled up in useless mounds around her, with just one exception. Half exception. It'd been foolish, perhaps to think they would find the answers so quickly- she had never in all her research found the answers first time around. It was disheartening to be surrounded by so much junk though- cookery, history, architecture, almost nothing on how they'd got here or how to get back. She massaged her scalp, the Connection still tugging at her.

And what they had found….

She stared at Faucium Terrae. It looked shockingly normal for such an evil thing, it looked a bit exotic perhaps, but she wouldn't have batted an eyelid if she'd found such a book in her own libraries. That sick feeling of disappointment was still there, that hope she always felt, that nations should do better, should be better was taking another battering. Idealism always felt like stupidity at these times, whether dreaming of techno-time travel or basic respect. She shook herself out of such maudlin thoughts, this was the situation they were in- all they could do was act in it.

England was oblivious to her frustration, his face finally back to his normal colour, happily munching on a piece of toast while they drunk their tea. While he drunk his tea. She took a sip of her own and made a face, it'd gone tepid while she sulked. It was her second cup as well. She couldn't deny the fact that even she needed a break, she went downstairs and made herself a third cup of tea, vowing to drink it this time. She settled back down in the master bedroom as she took the first sip.

The child had finished his toast, and was now leafing through the brightly coloured English books, trying to read the back cover before throwing each away in frustration. She could sympathise, brain swimming from spending so much time conversing in one of her third languages. England caught her looking at him.

"What?" he said, scowling at her.

"Nothing," she replied, quickly diverting her eyes. They landed on Faucium Terrae, and she couldn't help but frown herself.

"That's a stupid book, you know," said England. She looked at him. His face had relaxed out of the scowl and into the look of bored irritation that seemed to be his default.

"Really?" She replied, trying not to broadcast the scepticism she felt inside. "What's wrong with it?"

"Alright, what do you need to know?"

India blinked, he wasn't sure what reaction he'd expected- horror maybe, or at least surprise. But he was pretty sure that flat calm tinged with exasperation wasn't it. Still he was calling Norway for answers.

"Start with the leylines-"

"They're rubbish- human nonsense to try and make sense of high magic areas"

"High magic areas?"

"Magic is everywhere, but it's not spread evenly- some areas have much more than others. Normally only the magic inside you can be moved to make spells, but in a high magic area you can use the landscapes power too- but it's normally not worth it"

"Why? "

"Well you might be able to tap into more, but unless you have the right array to fix it in shape - "

"Array?"

"A drawing or design that traps the magic. If you don't have one then the magic has to channel straight through you to do anything. Can't keep anything going without constant effort either."

"But these high magic areas don't have anything to do with ley lines?"

"Nope"

"So why was England interested in them?"

There was silence down the other end of the phone, and India found himself tapping his foot nervously. He knew, technically, that there was no rush. But the questions hovering over what exactly England had been doing still bothered him.

"Maybe...England likes to experiment- try things out to see if they make something faster or more powerful. You said he'd been looking at the arrays in this book?"

India felt vindicated.

"Yeah, he'd been writing notes next to them" Norway made an agreeable noise.

"Probably that then, he tends to experiment on himself nowadays- and his brothers. It's a good job they're Nations really, experimental magic is really dangerous."

"Is that what you think happened then? Spell gone wrong?"

"..." Norway's silence stretched on, and the small morsel of triumph India felt faded into worry. A quiet 'excuse me' got him to move out the way of a woman looking to grab some mayonnaise before he went back to waiting for a reply.

"Hello? Something wrong?"

"If it was an accident… why did it go off in the meeting room?"

"It's stupid."

Bengal blinked at him in confusion. England sighed and rolled his eyes.

"That maths isn't needed to make it work."

She frowned. "Then what is?"

All at once his demeanor changed- she was really growing sick of that, he kind of stuttered for a moment before falling quiet. Wondering (hoping) that magic was as taboo in his land as hers, she attempted to comfort him.

"I'm not going to get you in trouble"

He turned to face her fully, picking up another modern English book and flicking through the pages. His voice switched from flat irritation to a halting, focused tone- like he was trying to give a lecture.

"Magic- it kinda like a river or a fire, it's there already and it'll alter things around it. Strange winds at sea, water that turns you to stone, people vanishing for a hundred years, that kinda stuff. It's in people too." He looks directly at her, green eyes pleading. "That's why you don't need this kind of arabic maths mostly, cause your just moving the magic inside you to make the spell."

"But if you want to know what your magic's gonna do when you move it then you need to shape it with words- or objects." Bengal feels her whole body drawn tight as a bow string, but she doesn't interrupt. "It's I don't know how to describe it, and I don't know if its cause I'm...what I am, but I don't think you can have too many of the words you need in your head at once- especially the long spells." The boy stops and kind of shrinks in on himself, biting his lip, suddenly looking every inch his human age. Despite herself, she feels herself lean forward towards him.

"And?"

"And you can't make something like this happen without a lot of power, and a lot of words."

For a moment silence descends, England staring at her as if he'd just revealed a deep, damning secret, a hard look of triumph on his small face. Bengal stared back, waiting for the reveal. Outside, a bird was chirping.

"So?"

"So who the fuck ever heard of a witch with only one book?"

Bengal leaned back against the wall- picking up a brightly coloured paperback and turning it over in her hands.

"You think these may be in code?"

England blinked at her.

"Um, maybe? But mostly I think you wouldn't leave the stuff that said you did it just laying around in your bedroom."

Bengal hmm'd and surveyed the room- wooden floorboards, a thick plump mattress, several hefty looking bookshelves. She felt a grin creep up her face.

"England, you know that big iron pole in the fireplace downstairs?"

"Yeah?"

"Could you go and get it for me?"

The boys jaw dropped open for a moment before stifling what she was pretty sure was a giggle. She smiled back.

"And a knife from the kitchen please- we're going to want to be thorough"

"I mean, this spell affected multiple nations with a strong transformation - it's not really the kind of effect you can get by accident is it?"

India, who had seen many strange coloured fogs and noxious oozes seep into the master bedroom during his time at England's, was sceptical.

"Isn't it?"

"No, these transformations are too powerful- I checked their thaumaturgical signatures and they're properly set, hardly any flux at all."

There was a moment of silence as India tried to parse what had just been said. After almost a full minute, India gave up.

"And that means?"

"Thaumaturgical signatures are- they're like a fingerprint. Magic has shapes and flows it likes to be in and when you transform someone the magic wants to go back to its old shape - but I tested Denmark and Wales before they went to bed and again in the morning and there was no flux at all."

A sudden, horrible thought invaded India's mind. "Does that mean they're stuck like this?"

"No I'll just need more information about the spell. But more to the point, a spell like that takes a lot of power, and a lot of control," Norways voice had been calm before, even slightly absent minded- but tension seeped in as he kept speaking, "There's no way a spell like that could be completed by accident- and I can't think of any spell like that that could be cast in the middle of a brawl anyway. So he's been experimenting. With combat magic."

India knew it was rude, but he couldn't avoid it.

"Can you think of a reason he might want to do that?"

"The fuck should I know," India blinked, taken aback by the sudden bitterness in Norway's tone, "why does that idiot do anything? Power? Revenge? Boredom? Because a billboard on a bus told him to?" Norway sighed, sounding equal parts exhausted and infuriated.

"Um." India replied.

"Sorry, sorry, not your problem."

The transformation or Brexit? Cause I'm having to deal with both too you know. But India suppressed that, unwilling to antagonise the only modern magic user he had available over what amounted to semantics. Instead he pressed on.

"So do you know if England would have done his experiments in the house or not?"

Norway made a thoughtful sound. "Perhaps. He used to use the cellar in his house, but apparently he had to seal it up a few weeks ago. Why I don't know, Scotland didn't tell me much at the time and I never got the story out of England before all this happened."

"So his..workshop? Won't be in his house?"

"Maybe, but wherever it is it'll need to be near by- spells like these take a lot of time to make and if he'd been acting strangely Scotland would have told me. Take into account the standard precautions - non-flammable, warded to prevent magical leaks, and secure…. There can't be that many places it could be."

"Hmm." India replied, mind churning on the problem- but- "Scotland?" He felt he had to ask.

Norway sighed. And when he spoke there was that same tension as before. "Neighbours privileges- he's been warning me everytime he thinks England's going to do something stupid, or just wants to rant." Another sigh accompanied by a rustle that might just have been a shrug. "But what can you do?"

"Yeah. Listen, thankyou Norway - I'll call you later?"

"Send me anything you find, and I should be able to figure out a way to turn them back, ok"

"I will." India hung up, but his mind was already elsewhere, hunting for England's workshop. To him there was little doubt that England had built it in his house, the man was secretive by habit- if he had no suitable spaces he would adapt an existing one. The house itself was clearly built in the image of the old colonial townhouse that had been bombed out in the war and India mentally ran through what he knew of the old rooms. The old 'guest' bedrooms were probably too sentimental- or too useful, with their modern appliances, to be converted. The cellar that was closed was almost certainly the old kitchen/ bombshelter. The drawing room had been changed to the new kitchen.

Suddenly a brainwave hit him, a change unaccounted for, and easily overlooked. Quick as he could he rushed to the till- and was then left bouncing on his heels as he was stuck behind an old lady paying for a months groceries in change, perhaps out of spite. When he was finally served he immediately ran back to the house, long legs sending him flying up through the driveway, dumping the shopping none to gently at the bottom of the stairs before running up them all the way to the master bedroom.

It was pandemonium. Feathers and cotton fluff floated in the air from the ripped up blankets and mattress- the bed frame itself had been taken apart and the floorboards underneath clumsily torn up. The desk and bookshelves had all been ransacked and disassembled, joining the books and the scraps of cloth on the small floor of the room- although the computer monitor was untouched, set aside with incongruous gentleness at the side of the computer itself however, was in bits- one side torn open to expose a mess of wires and innards, although it at least seemed to have been spared the battering the desk had endured. One of the walls even had a hole in it, exposing the tattered insulation inside of it- bits floating all around. Vaguely, India thought it was a good thing none of them were human, as the age of the house meant the insulation was almost certainly asbestos.

And standing right in the middle of it all, looking completely unrepentant, were his two charges. Bengal, leaning a long, cast iron poker on one shoulder, gave him a big, unrepentant grin.

"I hope you realise I won't help you clean this up" India said by way of a reply.

She shrugged and gestured to a small pile of books and her feet. "Perhaps I could persuade you with the fruits of our labours?"

He smiled back at her and pulled out the tape measure. "Give me a minuet and then we'll see who has the treasure, sister."

It took a few minutes of measuring, and the best part of an hour of searching for the original plans of the house, before he could be certain.

"This room is much smaller than it should be-" he passed the plans to Bengal and then showed her his measurements. "There's nearly half a meter less space on this side than there should be." He grinned, victory swelling him up with confidence. "And I can't help but notice that this side of the room is untouched by your rampage" he said lightly.

"A Notice-Me-Not spell" England breathed, casting furtive looks that might have been awe at India. India gave him his winning smile.

The wall in question stood unaffected by their searches- a single bookcase dominated it, filled with fiction books. India suspected none of them would be of any use- why hide materials on the bookcase rather than the secret room behind it? Still they removed them to be inspected later- deceptively difficult as all three felt their eyes automatically slip away from it every time they tried to focus. Once all the books were removed, they could see how- a large circle, filled with strange symbols was engraved- perhaps even burned, into the back of the case. Even sliced through by the shelves it was an imposing thing, stretching from the top of the bookcase near the ceiling all the way to the bottom. Even knowing next to nothing about magic, India felt he could say with certainty that this was some serious security. He took a picture and sent it to Norway though. Getting turned into a toad or burned to a crisp because he jumped in without looking not featuring high on his priorities.

Meanwhile, he had dinner to make.

Norway's reply arrived mid-way through. No traps, just blood warded. Get England to try and open it. India smiled and texted a quick Thankyou back.

The latch to the secret door took far less time to find than India expected. He wondered if England had though that no one would defeat the blood ward/Notice-Me-Not spell or if he simply didn't want to fiddle with complex mechanisms. Either way, it took less than a minuet for little Arthur to find the catch and pull the door open to reveal the secret compartment.

Jackpot.

The lab had clearly once been a bathroom- the toilet and sink had been ripped out, and the bathroom cabinets had been repurposed as bookshelves and cabinets for ingredients. An old bathtub was still compressed into one corner, warring with the books and bottles of strange pickled things and powders possessing all other spaces. It looked almost forlorn, a lone survivor of a massacre.

But that wasn't what made India grab Arthurs arm to keep him out.

An array dominated the floor. Spanning from the back wall to the door, it was not circular like the others, but an eight pointed star. It contained two circles full of symbols and each of the four long star points contained what looked like a crest or sigil. India was willing to bet that the four would match up to the points on a compass. But what disturbed India the most was its composition. It was dark red and had an unnatural liquid sheen. It looked almost fresh, and despite England not having been in here for days, India was certain it was blood.

They had to proceed with caution. Telling his wards to stand back, India opened his phone and started to take pictures of the array. He carefully tiptoed around the sides, taking care not to disturb the sticky substance. He moved slowly, forensically, taking picture from every angle- along with close ups of as many of the symbols in the central circles as he could. Two silver lines of powder passed through the 'east' and 'west' points of the star. Even from the door, Arthur recognised it as cold iron- India asked how the boy knew.

" 'Cause it's obvious. Duh." he replied.

India asked if there was anything else he recognised- there wasn't. Apparently 'all that maths' in English magic was one of those things that had turned up in the last 700 years, like electric doors and hygiene.

As carefully as possible India removed the books and ingredients without disturbing the array. It was slow going, with only room for one to pass them out from the room. Disturbing to- the empty fist sized bottle labeled Pig and Nat. blood mix 150: 1 being only unusual in the collection of pickled plants and bits of animal. By the end it was late evening, and the sun had set- time for bed. He sighed.

"Let's take a look at the books in the morning, I think it's time for bed now"

"No!"

"I want to make a phone call!"

He stared at his charges- they looked worse than he did, barely holding themselves upright from tiredness. But neither looked willing to back down. He decided to pick his battles- Bengal was an adult, if she wanted to be completely knackered, he didn't have the energy to stop her. Arthur by contrast had collapsed not 6 hours ago- he herded Arthur off to bed. He did quite well to, only picking up a single bruise in the process. Afterwards it was a relief that Bengal understood how to work the phone easily enough and allow him to crawl of to bed.

But he took a single notebook with him. For the team.

Chapter Text

He turned the notebook over in his hands. It was plain, a floppy leather bound thing full of barely legible scribbles. Once he'd tucked himself up in a comfy bed it seemed basically harmless, but India recognised England's own handwriting when he'd briefly flipped it open.

Scruffy but meticulous entries marked all things magic related dating back around a year and a half, though the book itself was nearly complete almost half its contents had been written in the last six months. He yawned, jaw cracking, but focused on staving off sleep. He flicked through, landing on the middle of February. On it were six entries in close, spiderweb script :

05-02 - Four new targets this week. 2 translocations, 1 enchantment, 1 unexpected hailstorm, 30 unexpected frogs. Astonishing versatility, although all events are occuring within high magic areas. Re-assess relevance.

15 - 02 - Experiment 10. Achieved rain of one frog with modification 42e. Experimenter collapsed from exhaustion. Alarm protocol activated.

16- 02- Modification to alarm protocol, reassignment of emergency alarm to Wales, who is less of a prick.

20- 02- Experiment 11. Modification 42g failure. Frog guts glued to ceiling, alterations proposed-

His body gave out before his determination did- journal falling to the cream carpet with a soft whumph.

The phone seemed to ring for an age before Shaha picked it up.

"Hello? Ra'ana Jinnah speaking?"

"Hello?" Bengals mouth is dry and she runs her hand over the stretchy fabric of her new dress. The phone was made of a strange smooth material with no hard edges, but her grip made it dig in regardless. This feels so uncomfortable, and she's not really sure she should be doing this. Why call Shaha, face of the Delhi Sultanate in her own time? Why not someone nice and uncomplicated- like Bhutan? Why does she do this to herself?

"Bangladesh?" Shaha's voice sounds cautious and closed off- and her accent is also strange. She sounds unlike herself, none of her normal flamboyance or drama. It's so strange, that it takes her a moment to recognise her modern name. Maybe her modern self had Picked A Side? This was a mistake.

"Sorry, Shaha is this a bad time? I co-"

"No! No no no? Sorry I was just… surprised. I wasn't expecting… I'm just surprised." There's a deafening silence between them, it's awful. She feels guilty- she didn't know what had happened but even at their worst they'd had this… fun, sisterly back and forth. Well, mostly. It was illogical but her ignorance of this time felt like it sat between them like a great ugly carcass, poisoning the water of their conversation.

"Look, Shaha. I know.. I know you and India are fighting." She pauses, ready for an interruption that doesn't come. "But I don't care. I don't know what's going on, and I don't want to- not if it's going to drag me into the middle. I just want to be able to talk to you, ok?"

"Ok." Her voice sounds oddly reedy. "What do you want me to call you?"

She breathes a sigh of relief. "Bengal. It's my name, I might as well use it. You?"

"Ra'ani. Or Shaha. Whichever you prefer." It's an oddly cagey answer for her sister, but she doesn't press. Silence descends.

"How are you-" "Are you ok?"

They're words tumble out over each other and suddenly they burst out laughing. The crushing pressure lifts and Bengal slumps onto the sofa. "Sorry, I just haven't spoken to you in a bit."

"I'm fine." There's a small pause, then Shahas voice starts up again, as if she's not used to this. "I mean- things are going fairly well, politics is politics is politics but it's getting better- it's fairly stable so at least I don't feel sick all the time anymore-" Words flow like water, though Bengal can't help notice her sister doesn't blindside her with things she can't understand. It's nice, and for the first time all week she feels like she's talking to someone, rather than past them. She can follow the conversation easily, though that's also the language- she's good at Latin (better than her brother) but it feels very much like a second language. Slipping back into her native tongue is like slipping into a warm bath, and when she needs to respond her answere's come effortlessly.

But after exhausting all avenues of light gossip the conversation turns, inevitably, to her house mates. It starts innocuously,

"I'm glad we can talk. I missed you, while we were fighting." Bengal says. Far from her war and on the other side of the planet, there's no need to treat her sister like an enemy.

"Not our brother?"

She shrugs. "Him too. You know I'm surprised your fighting again- what happened?" Deafening silence, again. She can't seem to go ten minutes without putting her foot in it.

"It's..complicated." Her voice is carefully controlled and light and again Bengal is struck by the difference 700 years can make- in her time there would have been a sharp, casual dismissal or a wild deflection, and she's not sure what to make of this more closed off version of her. Shaha continues, with a biting dry tone. "How are you managing with England?"

Bengal winces. It's a complete diversion, but she recognises a rebuke when she hears it. "Sorry, I didn't realise it was such a sore subject."

"It's just complicated." Shaha's voice softens, "You couldn't have known." Bengal waits for her to elaborate, but she doesn't. Rather than letting the conversation slip back into silence, she answers her older sisters other question.

"He's fine. Well. He's a brat- " A sharp intake of breath comes down the line. "-but nothing we can't handle. As long as you don't do anything too quickly around him he'll sit with you quite happily." A small disbelieving noise came down the phone.

"It's true! He's like an oversized alley cat, feed him and give him some space and he'll tolerate you." It's quite funny actually, watching Arthur slink into the kitchen a few minutes after her to collect his toast and tea with a sculpted look of disinterest. I'm not here for you, it says, you just happen to feed me. Bengal normally kind of avoids kids- she doesn't dislike them, per say, but they require a lot of attention and get sticky fingers all over her books. England is refreshingly low maintenance. "India hovers over him all the time though, and that makes him tense."

She'd expected her sister to agree, but her voice comes out very serious.

"At least one of you is, just keep your wits about you around him. He's obviously young, but with a man like him, it's better to be safe than sorry ok?"

"Ok?" Bengal says nonplussed. But just as she's about to ask why everyone's treating the kid like a smoking firework, Shaha interupts her.

"I've got to go ok? But Bengal?" Her voice is oddly intense and a little desperate. "If you need anything. Call me. Please."

Weightless, floating in the infinite blue sky, Mumbai sprawls out beneath him. It was wispy and small, winding alleys punctuated by grand walkways and palaces. People flowed over every nook and cranny, a riot of colour. Pink, blue, earth-dark orange and phosphorescent greens.

He flew closer, light winds blowing him from one rooftop to the next till he drifted to a stop resting on a minaret. A gentle breeze ruffles him as he watches the people dance and cartwheel, crashing into each other with flashes of green and blue light- it makes them take root and bloom. Lily, lotus, jasmine. And a towering rose bush twisting and pushing itself through the throng and up to the sky, blooming orange, white and green.

"Beautiful" says England.

The blond man is standing behind him. There are no steps but India knows he didn't fly. He could leave any time and England wouldn't be able to follow. England's red kameez flaps in the wind over white trousers. India is not afraid, he tells a joke. England laughs, bright and breezy.

India turns back to the rose choked streets as warm arms encircle him from behind. England's face is pressed between his shoulder blades. Wind ruffles his hair. It feels nice. He feels needed.

"I love you," says England.

"I know."

Eventually the riotous colour dims and storm clouds gather on the horizon ugly slabs of grey. "England, I need to go." He tries to disentangle himself but the arms around his middle cinch tight as a vice. "England!"

Suddenly, blood and pain. In his stomach. He looks down and sees a sword sticking from his belly. Blood gushes down his legs and coats the floor as Mumbai turns black then crumbles and the sky bleeds away leaving him in a black featureless nothing. England's nails turn to claws, gouging his flesh. Green eyes glowed in the dark. He fell, choking on blood. That voice rang in his ears- now in English.

Why did you think I would ever let you go?

India jerked awake, nauseous. The dawn was bright and cold, weak light sliding over the room. He was left panting and shivering in the bed when the shame and humiliation hit. It choked at his throat, along with that feeling of being watched. Of being clung onto so tight it crushed you but still found wanting and the blistering fear of the rages that followed….

It had been years.

And the dreams had been bought on not by living in England's reconstructed house, with a young England yowling at every little thing, but by a notebook. He glanced at it, lying on the floor it looked like little more than a scrap of leather - and it wasn't like it's innards were any more interesting. Instead they seemed totally banal. Utterly pedestrian. His response? Felt utterly stupid.

Unable to go back to sleep he went and washed himself, scrubbing himself almost brutally hard under the freezing cold water from the shower. His head chased itself in circles looking for why he'd dreamt that again after so many years. Decades even. Because he could have a conversation with child England - hell, he could have a conversation with adult England- and feel none the worse for wear. He could sleep in a near replica of the place he was imprisoned with minimal fuss. So why did the notebook a problem? Why couldn't his bastard head just keep it together after so damn long- or at least save it for when he wasn't caring for a pair of vulnerable children.

He shut the shower off, panting hard, and he tried to settle his breathing back down, but his head was racing, tripping over itself and coiling around and around and around-

His thoughts chased him all the way downstairs, where they were interrupted at the kitchen door. His charges were up and sat at the table. Both looked like they'd been there awhile. Bengal was nursing a cup of tea while England was slumped over his arms, already looking half asleep. Deja vu hit him, and grounded him- 2018, the curse, small Arthur. Nations were tough, and healed quick, and he seemed none the worse for wear after his fit yesterday. It was a relief, on multiple levels- they were fine. For now.

It was still unsettling to see his sister up so early though. She was normally more of a three-in-the-afternoon kind of person. He knocked on the door.

They jumped. Bengal nearly slopped her tea down herself as she whipped around to look at him before settling right back into a slouch full of carefully affected calm. And Arthur. Snapped to attention like he was on a parade ground, back straight, shoulders back, puffy eyes set in a flower. India sighed and checked the time on the microwave.

6:30 am.

"Do you want some breakfast?" he said instead of swearing.

His charges nodded, one languid, the other sharp and mistrustful. He just busied himself with whipping up batter, making dosas for all three of them- though he left out the chilli and added more ginger to make up for it. The rhythmic motions calmed him. His head emptied out as he focused on seasoning the griddle pan, gradually building up the layers of oil and seasoning. And when he glanced behind him, he wondered if it was catching. Bengal watched him with a sleepy interest and England was slouching- though he snapped back to attention the moment he saw he was being watched. But he let it slide, returning his focus to the food. It didn't take long.

He plonked the dosas down in the middle of the table, still steaming from the pan and started dishing it onto their plates. Arthur looked at it, and then at him.

"Try it." he said, far to familiar with that particular look. Arthur took a bite and swallowed efor talking again.

"Thankyou." India blinked as the boy started shoveling it down, absentmindedly chewing on his own breakfast. Arthur slowed down quickly, to a crawl before glaring at India and stopping completely.

"What."

"Nothing."

"I can be polite!" Englands eye was twitching.

"Never said you couldn't." Just thought it, you know, in general. In the abstract. Don't expect it. Sure it was something that his adult self was scrupulous about now - but that was a recent development. For almost everyone.

Arthur gave him a narrow eyed stare. India looked away.

He really wasn't doing well this morning.

The rest of the meal passed in companionable silence. When mugs were drained, he refilled them. When plates were scraped clean, he piled them high with more food. He even cooked up a second batch when they finished the first. They would never have asked him to, but insomnia makes you ravenous, and seeing life return to their eyes was worth it.

"So what do you want to do now?" He said. There was still a pile of dosa on the table and he mentally filed them away as snacks for later.

"Well we've got those books we found last night. We should start there." Bengal said, looking determined. Honestly, to him she still looked half dead, and he'd hoped she'd take the high road and suggest sleep. Certainly there'd be no way Arthur would try and sleep with both of them up and awake.

"They'll still be there in a few hours," he said gently.

Bengal snorted.

"It's not like we'll be getting any sleep anyway, might as well make ourselves useful- you can have a look at that notebook while we go through those spell books-"

His stomach dropped like it was full of lead. "Actually, I'll join you with the books. Three will be faster than two."

"Huh?"

"I had a look at the notebook last night. It's full of experiments- without knowing what to look for, it won't be useful." And he wouldn't have to look at it. At least until he sorted out his head. The ensuing debate- because there was always going to be one- was short and one sided and ended with him herding both of them upstairs so all three of them could get started. Bengal chastises him for being bossy, but he directs them to start clearing places to sit in the bombsite that is the master bedroom. He's gratified to note that Arthur, at least, listens to him without argument.

That brief flame of triumph is snuffed out when he opens the book he's assigned himself. Spoken Latin from the second century AD is apparently not enough to cope with high level magic texts. Each word makes sense, or looks like it should, only by the end of the sentence he knows no more than when he started. It's like trying to dig a trench with a teaspoon.

He yielded and dug out a dictionary when hs focus started to give him a headache- ignoring Bengal's annoyed glances. Find a word he was unsure of. Check it. Find a word he was unsure of. Check it. Find a word he thought he knew but apparently didn't. Check it. Find that by the end of the sentence he'd forgotten the original translations he'd made and he had to go back to the beginning of the sentence. Fetch a notebook and pen, so he can make notes as he translates. Make a sentence and guess the meaning. Find a word he doesn't know. Repeat.

There two hours in when Bengal loses her patience.

"Look, just-"

"Let's go to the living room, hmm?" He says beatifically, face split from ear to ear with a plastic grin. "It'll be much more comfortable. I'll get some snacks."

Arthur's staring at him like he's grown a second head. India notes with frustration that although he'd been reading squint-eyed with his finger tracing the lines of the text and mouthing along the boy had still got about a chapter in. He'd barely got to the end of the first page. Bengal sighs loud and exasperated before bundling up her books and heading downstairs. Arthur waits until he leaves, and then follows in his shadow. But for all their annoyance India feels like a whale has been lifted of his back when he leaves the master bedroom for the relatively clean and comfy living room.

Of course, this does nothing to help his reading.

"I could cast a translation spell if you want?" muttered Arthur, after an hour. His words hung in the air like a particularly noxious fart as the two adults stared at him- one angry and disbelieving, the other embarrassed beyond belief. The boy sank in on himself, legs folding to press the book he held to his chest and shoulders collapsing in to hide his head like a tortoise. Even his voice shrank.

"I mean, I've not done it in a long time but-"

"NO!" India's disapproval is almost drowned out by Bengal's absolute fury and Arthur, cornered, rocked back for a moment.

"Why not! I can do it!" He shouted, and his body uncoiled from its cower and into an almost crouch.

"That's not the point" India said quickly and levelly to diffuse the situation. From the look on Arthur's face you'd have thought he'd slapped him.

"But I can help." He looked so wounded.

"You could hurt yourself" He said, hoping affection would mollify the child. Instead, he just looks insulted.

"I won't-"

"You shouldn't be doing magic anyway, it's not right." Annnd trust his sister to put her foot not just on the trigger but straight through it, eyes flashing and a grim expression on her face. He could have screamed at her for her misaimed protectiveness. Utter conviction. Zero consideration. Arthur's face twitches and for a split second he thinks he sees despair, and then he blinks it away and his face contorted with rage.

"I- you- I'm only trying to help!" The boy chucks the book on the floor with a heavy THUNK and springs up, towering over them for a split second with his fists clenched before storming off upstairs. India can hear the thumpthumpthump of his footsteps as he races away. They mirror the thump of his racing heart.

Trying to get his breathing under control he glares at Bengal - only to be met with an equally powerful glare back. As if this is his fault.

"Do you want to go after him or shall I? Wait-" he says before she can interrupt, "- I'll do it. We don't want him to actually run away."

She flinches and a little guilt coils in him, but he's up and marching out the room before it gets him to apologize. He flies back up the steps, but he can hear that Arthur has headed for the top of the house- his heavy footsteps make dust float down from the ceiling. India pauses for a moment and tries to think about how to approach this. It wasn't his first rodeo. Australia in particular sprung to mind - a child with a massive heart and equally massive holes in his memory where his native population should have been. His mood had been equally erratic, and when he'd been overwhelmed or upset it'd been best to leave him to calm himself. But he'd been tied to the house by a sense of love for England- his 'father'. Arthur. Little England. Wasn't.

India was not foolish enough to think that the temporary ceasefire he'd achieved on Friday would be a substitute for that kind of bond. So he took a deep breath and climbed the stairs.

The first thing he noticed was the dust. It coated everything- tables, carpet, railing, stairs, in a thick, gritty grey blanket that muffled his footsteps. It was so thick that India could easily see that Arthur had gone round the corner by the footprints on the carpet and handprints along the banister. The rest of the house was by no means spotless, and had relaxed a little since his confinement 71 years ago, but this was jarring. The England he knew hated mess and disorder of all kinds and if he couldn't bully you into cleaning it he'd spend all night on his hands and knees bringing it up to standard. Even in his seemingly more relaxed modern form….this felt wrong.

Suddenly there was silence. Arthurs footsteps stopped and India peeked around the corner. He stood the far corner, staring straight at him with a carefully constructed look of disinterest. It was spoiled by the waver in his voice.

"You gonna yell at me again?"

"No."

"You better not. If you do, I'll hit you." India stifled a sigh even as his cowardly heart picked up a beat. The echoes of the man who would become the Empire are already present in this kid, and he can see them overlapping. It makes his skin crawl. He consciously relaxes his body, keeps it non-confrontational, waiting for the boys anger to burn itself out. He notes the little things- the dust motes, the fretful crumples around the boys eyes, the fact that by some unspoken rule they've both slipped back into French. It helps. And after what feels like an age, the boys shoulders slump.

"I was only trying to help," he mumbled, staring at the floor.

"I know" It's said without heat.

" Of course you do," a half hearted sneer, quickly dropped. "Why're you angry with me then?"

"I wasn't. I was worried." The boys eyes flash with anger and he hunches in on himself as he shouts.

"What. Did you think I'd try and hurt you-"

"No. I thought you'd hurt yourself." Silence. Arthurs stare is wide and disbelieving, and his hands are shaking. India's just trying to keep his cool, so maybe he's coming out too cold, so he tries again. "You've already been placed under a powerful spell that we don't know how to lift. Arthur, who knows how trying to cast another might affect you-"

"-Translation spells aren't dangerous!"

"Under normal circumstances!" He cuts of Arthurs' whine, and tries to ignore how vulnerable the boy now looks with his eyes that wide. "This isn't normal circumstances. If something went wrong-" It costs him something to say this, but Arthur deserves to know. "-If something went wrong there's no way to know if we could fix it. If anyone could fix it."

The boy just stares at him, wide eyed and gawping like a fish. And then he regains composure, closing of his facial expression and refusing to look him in the eye.

"Who cares." His voice is quiet and flat. "It's not like I can die."

"That's not the po-"

"Anyway you can't say Bengal ain't angry. She doesn't even know anything about it and she hates it. Bitch."

A cold pit of frustration opens up in his stomach. "Don't say that."

"Why? 'Cause it's true? She hates it and it's not good enough for her. Bitch."

"Arthur" He says, anger leaking through into his voice despite himself. The boy shows his teeth somewhere between a smile and a grimace, he knows he's got under his skin, and India can see what he's going to say even before he opens his mouth.

"And? You can't stop me saying it! She's a bitch! A stupid bitch! A great h-"

"THAT'S ENOUGH"

Arthur's face pales immediately and flinches, back straightening out into that wooden, military posture again. India takes deep breaths to try and get his temper back under control, so the fight doesn't come to blows. Or Arthur faints. One of the two. It takes a minute.

By the time he's regained his composure- enough that he won't start yelling like that again- Arthurs gone from grey to chalky white. He's holding himself unnaturally stiff and carefully tilted to the side, like he's ready to defend himself. After a moment the boy nods meekly, a jerky, halting motion that makes India feel like actual shit. Except. He couldn't have the boy saying those kinds of things- it's not right. But he's not sure what to do now. He can't send the kid back to the living room- it'll only start another fight. But at the same time he's hesitant to punish him more since shouting so clearly terrified him.

"Do. Do you want me to go to my room?" India blinks. That wavery voice sounds strange coming from this kid, and he notes with a vague feeling of concern that he'd slipped back to a formal 'you'. But he wasn't sure what to do with it.

"Yes, if you could." Is what slips out instead of...something. 'Are you going to apologize' maybe? Are you done being a brat? Maybe even, are you ok? But England pushes past him and is down the stairs before he can take it back and… he supposes it's better that way. More normal for the child. He watches him go for a moment, then his phone bleeps.

Hey. The array you found is a summoning array. Powerfull, but completely harmless unless you use magic to activate it.

I don't think it's related.

India stares at his phone for a moment before really registering that Norway was explaining that creepy sign in England's lab. It feels like an age since they found it, though it was only yesterday evening.

Why not? He replies, having to work quite hard to get his fingers to work properly. He started to walk down the stairs - out of the dust and into the clean, bright landing beneath.

Too large. I'd have noticed if he'd drawn it out on the meeting room floor. And it's the wrong thing, transformations don't need gating runes

...?

The compass points. They help fix position for all involved

makes summoning really easy to spot

India bit his lip, leaning against the wooden railing. To him 'summoning' sounded like the exact kind of thing time travel might be based on. But what did he know? Still he quickly types out a reply.

You don't think it's a summoning?

…

No. Why would I?

India typed out the sensations his charges had been having, placing particular emphasis on Bengals 'stretched' feeling. It felt strange- had Norway not asked his own wards? But then again maybe Denmark was the type to hide his problems. Scotland and Ireland certainly were.

And?

India furrowed his brow, feeling distinctly annoyed. It took a moment to form his reply.

What if they were summoned across time rather than space? When you get into it, they're basically the same thing.

The reply was instant.

No.

I'm sorry. Why? Maybe his irritation bled through because the next reply was slower, taking almost a full five minutes. Or maybe he was wrangling Scotland. It'd be nice to know he wasn't the only one struggling.

I'm sorry but time travels just not possible. The array you saw was to summon a fairly small creature across dimensions in the same time. no one has ever successfully summoned across time before and it take so much energy it might as well be impossible. we just don't have enough information atm to say how he did it

India stared at the phone as guilt coiled in his stomach. Maybe it was stubbornness, but he hadn't told Norway about the journal because if he had then the nation would want to know what it said. It was bad enough knowing himself that he was avoiding it, but telling others would be worse. Technically he supposed he could send it to him. But that would be it, an admission of failure. He mulled the information around in his head, trying to find a loophole. But he didn't know much about magic, so what could he say?

He takes a brief moment to press his ear to the door of Arthur's room, just to make sure he's in there, and then pads downstairs to do it all again. Quietly he sits on the bottom steps to compose himself. He doesn't like this, he'd much rather deflect with a joke and smooth things over. He takes a moment to enjoy the hall, bright light streams through the glass at the top of the door and over the riot of clothes and shoes on the rack. It makes him smile a bit to see that England's shoes are just as all over the place as their own. He wonders if they're rubbing off on him. He also wonders if he could stay here rather than have a what is going to be one of the most uncomfortable conversations of his life.

As a rule, he kind of hates telling people how to do religion. There's so many different faiths inside him held so strongly that it was just better to stay out of it. But. They need to be able to get along long enough to fix this. Even if she was sort of right.

"How is he?" India jumps, lost in thought. Bengal is leaning against the door frame fidgeting with her orange headscarf.

"He's in his room," he says by way of a non-answer. She gives him a look.

"I think he's ok. He hates being shouted at." She has the grace to look contrite.

"I didn't think he'd react so strongly." He smiled, if young England overlapping with the Empire made his skin crawl, then it was a relief to see the overlap between Bengal and Bangladesh. Never had the feeling of having a 'baby' sister been so apt. "I'll apologise for shouting at him."

India gave her side eye. "Not for telling him he can't use magic?" She snorts.

"Hypocrite. I won't sit by and let him screw his own soul over, he's a child." India blinks, there's not much he can say to that.

" It's what he's used to" His voice is blank, neither approved nor disproving. Her eyes turn hard and he braces himself for a fight.

"And?" For a moment they stare at each other, then she deflates, taking a deep breath and forcibly calming herself. She looks dead on her feet from exhaustion. "I don't like this, but I won't use magic to undo this if I can help it. And I won't use his."

India bites his lip, but he can't ignore the elephant in the room. "And what if there's no other way?"

"My people will always come first, but.." She looks like hell. " I'll endure. For as long as I can."

They sit silently in the hallway, neither moving from their position. India can hear the birds chirping outside but it doesn't touch him or the icy lump of guilt and worry in his gut. He looks away and watches the dust motes shining in the air. Maybe I should give this place a clean.

"I just wish we knew what was happening." It was said mostly to herself, India only just caught it. But apparently 'shit' was the feeling of the day. The last couple of hours played in his head, him being difficult, refusing to acknowledge his own weaknesses, causing fights. He felt sick. And seeing Bengal having to face down the possibility that there may be no good answer for her, no way to keep to her religion and her safety- made it worse. It was only a notebook.

"I'll read it tonight," he says quietly, staring at the carpet. "I don't want you, either of you, getting hurt to obtain what we need." He looks up, Bengal is giving him a distinctly worried look and he wonders how bad he must look. He musters up a smile. "It's my responsibility."

"I...Are you sure?" This time he puts some effort into his smile.

"What, you think your big brother can't handle a little notebook? I'll be fine."

"I'll be fine." Bengal looks at him. His hair is mussed from rumpling it to many times and his eyes are droopy from tiredness. She suspects his smile is fake too, but he is skilled at faking his emotions, so she can't be sure. "I still expect you to apologize to Arthur."

She sighs and slopes her way up the stairs, shoulders heavy as iron. She dislikes apologizing when she couldn't have know she was doing wrong. It feels like a trap. But standing outside of Arthur's door she can admit to herself she also hates being tongue tied. It's an unfamiliar sensation, and she kind of hates the uncertainty of it. Eventually though, she just has to start.

"Arthur!" She knocks on the door. There's no answer. She knocks again, as bad as this feels she thinks it should at least be face to face. "Arthur? Can I talk to you?" The silence persists.

Her stomach twists and she's bombarded with images of the room empty, the kid having decided to leg it- getting lost, getting hurt. He might technically be England, but the future was a foreign country. She grabs the door handle, her head is fuzzy with sleepiness and she nearly faceplants the door when it doesn't open like she expects. It actually does give a bit, a sliver of room becoming visible before the door sticky with a screech of wood on wood. He must have jammed a chair under the door.

"Arthur! England!" Her throat burning and she's hammering on the door. "Are you in there? Arthur-"

"What."

She breathes a sigh of relief and rests her head on the door. He's not thrown himself out the window at least. "Sorry for yelling at you earlier." She doesn't get a reply. "Are you ok?"

"...I'm fine."

Again she finds herself staring at the door in the middle of a hostile silence. It's a very plain door, boring to look at. She looks at the carpet instead- it's not much of an improvement. "Try and get some sleep yeah?" Her neck heats up with embarrassment. Try to get some sleep. Try to get some sleep? What was she, his Aunty?

"Whatever." Thankfully, the conversation died after that and she didn't have to deal with the emotions. What was it she said to Shaha? That he was like a cat? Low maintenance. She breathes a sigh of relief and goes to take her own advice.

She can't.

Even in the half light of her room, her body won't relax. Between the fight and the fear of Arthur running away and that painfully uncomfortable apology, she's buzzing. Every bone in her body hurts and her mind is spinning, but she's gone all the way through tiredness and out the other side. Despite knowing she needs sleep, she's manic. And of course, that ever present grating stress of the overstretched connection sawing its way through her guts every time her mind drifts for a second.

She can't stop picking at her nais. Her legs won't stop twitching every time she doses off, waking her after a millisecond of sleep. But at the same time she's confused enough that she forgets what she's doing midway through anything- she goes to get a drink and forgets halfway down the corridor, then goes back to bed. Instead, brain at idle, she dwells on her sleeplessness, and wants to cry. Lying on the bed trapped in the waking world, the future presses down like a pillow over her face. She endures it for as long as she can. Three hours. Then she just has to go back.

"Why do you do it?" She's standing outside England's door again. It's boring to look at, so she's brought a small pad of paper with her and is writing notes in a half dreaming state. "Magic?"

He's so silent that for a while she thinks he must have finally fallen asleep, and she's talking to herself. Then he whispers, full of anger.

"Excuse me?"

She jots down a few more things: fits? And fear. She's sure now that Arthurs discomfort earlier today was in the magic itself, not just reaching out to help her brother. And this spell is already doing harm, nibbling away at their insides, making sleep impossible. She tries to imagine a man so stuck in it that he'd volunteer to do it under those circumstances. She tries to imagine a boy who would. She slides down to sit on the floor.

"You knew it could hurt you, and you're Christian right?" She thinks so anyway, he mostly prays out of sight in the morning, and he blasphemes with Jesus.

"I already said I wouldn't do it again- what more does he want to know?" he growls. "Tell him to ask me himself if he wants to know."

A flare of irritation in her chest and her lips purse, "I'm asking for myself! He has nothing to do with this."

"Jesus Christ, fine. Yes I know magic will condemn my immortal soul to hell, if I have one blah blah I repent. " He's breathing heavily and she can hear him holding back a shout. "Happy now!"

She rolls her eyes, as if that answers anything. "Yes, right. So why would you offer?"

"I WAS TRYING TO HELP!"

"Oi! Everything alright up there?" She freezes as India's voice blasts up from downstairs. England goes quiet. She realises that as an adult and an independent nation she can act however she wants, but a substantial part of her still doesn't want to upset her brother- or get Arthur into more trouble.

"Yes!" They chorus. It's surprising that Arthur joins, but she guesses he is still in his room. Where he is supposed to be calming down. Dammit.

"Sorry." It's quiet. She's gone about this all wrong, and whilst she holds her beliefs close to her heart, she can also feel some empathy for this kid. But, well, she'd kind of expected him to have the same views she did. People of the Book were alike in so many ways, and uncomfortable as it was to admit to herself, she liked this kid. Maybe it was only because they were both wracked with insomnia, and maybe he had grown up to be a deeply unpleasant person. But. She looks at her notes. No evidence stares back up at her.

"I didn't come here to fight, I'm just confused." She pauses, searching for a way to say this, because it hadn't come out right the first time. "You're a clever kid, so why would you do something you know is wrong? Something you knew could hurt you?"

"-I told you-" He jumps on her words, but she cuts him off sharply.

"And if you had to kill someone to help would you do it?"

Ugly silence. Bengal can feel her heart beating in her ears, every nerve ending straining to hear his response. She can't even articulate why this matters- 700 years is a long time, and her brother can be dramatic but he would never, never fake a reaction just to incriminate someone. He sincerely believes England did this. But. No evidence.

Eventually he answers.

"...not for you, no." Something unravels in her heart- he wouldn't hurt someone just because it'd give a ...what even were they?...friends? Associate? Wouldn't hurt someone just because it would help them. But that's not enough. She taps her notebook and asks before she can forget again.

"And you wouldn't do it for any other reason- magic, I mean," she clarifies. The answer is quicker this time, and quieter.

"no." Her whole body relaxes and her head falls against the wood of the door with a soft thump.

"Good. That's good." The boy just grunts in reply in a smal, non committed sort of way.

She stays there for a moment, staring at the carpet and th small gap beneath the door. Sadly, she realizes this isn't actually that different from having a conversation with the kid normally. Hard, unresponsive front with a small sliver of access where you can talk genuinely. And randomly you get shouted at. Maybe it's just sleep deprivation. But given the way he folds up into himself when he thinks no one's watching… she doesn't think so.

Bengal isn't blind. She knows she can be difficult to get along with- while most people like poetry and literature, she is, even by her own standards, obsessed. And when it comes to 'dull' mechanical topics, she can talk for hours. And people always butted in to divert her when she started to talk about politics. She was obsessed with justice, and on freedom. She hated hypocrisy- and was incapable of keeping it to herself. She liked to think that this was just the way her people shone through her. She loved them.

But there was one thing she hated, which she knew was all her own. Fake emotions. Hidden thoughts. The future was scary enough without having to play mind games when ever you even spoke to someone. Low maintenance. Hah.

She lies down on the floor and stares at the gap at the bottom of the door. Her body is too tired to do anything but notepad rustles as she fiddles with it. After a moment she murmurs.

"England." It's his name after all. "Do you want to play noughts and crosses?" She's not sure what she's expecting, but she dreamily draws up a grid and places a cross in the center anyway.

"Alright." The boys voice is quiet, but calm. She slides the paper under the door, and waits for a reply.

This is how India finds her: sprawled like a cat in the hallway, headscarf askew, and a small piece of paper covered in noughts and crosses pushed just clear of the door. He pick it up and snorts- 5 all - and places it gently back down. Asleep he can see how young she really is, round faced and soft, barely an adult. Opening England's door, he sees Bengals mirror- a tiny boy slumped against the wall, snoring gently- sleep robbing his baby face of all menace. He carefully places his duvet over him, and goes to fetch a pillow and blanket for Bengal.

After all, they had no choice but to rely on him.

"Shaha."

"Mhmm?"

"I don't think he did it."

Chapter Text

Begal jerked awake at the thump as India chucked the diary at the kitchen wall. He groaned and grasped his head in his hands. Tentatively, England poked his head round the door. Don’t worry, she mouthed, I’ll deal with it.

To be honest, even with her head foggy, she’d expected it. The last two days he’d not been himself, jittery and forlorn when he thought no one was looking. Falsely chipper when they were. Even England had noticed, and since India was too wrapped up in his own head to notice, she’d been the one who kept him calm.

“Are you alright?” she asked him.

India grunted in reply, not even gesturing to the book laying forlornly on the floor. Sighing she made him a cup of tea. It was much harder than it should have been.

Get mug. Get spoon. Get tea bag. Stare at the tap in confusion before turning it the other way. Thoughts bobbed in and out of her mind, barely surfacing before being swallowed back into the depths of her exhausted fugue. Still she managed. India grabbed the tea gratefully, and slurped it down. There were heavy bags under his eyes, and his shoulders were stooped from tiredness. She couldn’t blame him, her back was no better and she couldn’t blame it all on the spell, days of reading useless books would do that to you. Of course, India had yet to realise that crucial bit of information.

He didn’t do it.

This thought beat a little rhythm at the edge of her thoughts - blaring into prominence after every finished book. She was sure she had hinted at it the day they’d argued. But still they focused on the books, and the diary especially. Of course if you accepted her premise…

England's magic is not the cause

...Then all their work was for nothing. And both her and the child were getting worse. Not dramatically perhaps- there’d been no more fits, though the boys hands sometimes trembled. But in small ways. Her focus, normally obsessive, was flighty. Her reactions were slow and sluggish. And her thoughts were a mess.

Still. She looked at her brother curled around his nearly empty tea cup. It wasn’t steaming anymore- she looked at the time- one of the things he’d taught her about this new world- an hour. An hour had passed her by without her noticing. She shook her head and re-focused. Her brother. She watched him go over and pick up the diary and flick back to the beginning. There was only one conclusion.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing. We’ve gotten stuck.

She sits there and tries to think. Rearrange the pieces in a way that makes sense. If not England then who? Or what? And most definitely, how? Whatever it was needed time, and power to do this. That couldn’t leave too many people in the frame. But however she twisted it she couldn’t see any more clues. Did they even need them?

She blinked.

“Brother”, she said, he hmm- ed and looked up from his reading.

“Is there a mosque in this city?”

The mosque shined with inner light. Outside it was a plain brick thing, similar to the shops that squatted either side of it. But inside the walls were painted white and caught and reflected every mote of light that seeped through the small windows until the whole place was bathed in a warm white glow. Gently she rubbed her feet in the soft green carpet, grounding herself. At the entrance the boys rest- England fidgeting nervously as India naps in the chair.

A deep voice interrupts her. 

She blinks and turns to the man who just spoke. Kind brown eyes peek out from bushy red eyebrows, and his leathery brown skin crumples into a smile. He’s wearing plain clothes and an aura of gracious curiosity at her scrutiny.

“Sorry I didn’t catch that,” she says in Arabic after a while. The Imams eyebrows shoot up for a moment.

“Do not worry about it, it’s not everyday I get to exercise my classic Arabic,” he chuckles. “What brings you here, young one?”

“I’ve been forced 700 years into a future by an unknown curse and seek your guidance.” To his credit he only blinks once.

“It was green,” she adds.

“Ah?” he says. “Might I inquire as to when this- curse- was applied?”

“Just over a week ago?”

“And have you been experiencing some stress before this occurred?” His eyes have softened from confusion to compassion.

She thinks of the rebellion and the twins, the constant feeling of tension and desperation. “Yes,” she admits, “But what’s that got to do with anything?”

The imam nods like he expected this. “Have you considered talking to your doctor about these feelings?” She feels a hot flush spread across her cheeks.

“I’m not mad!”

He puts his hands up placatingly. “I never said you were-”

“Yes you did!” Bengal jumped and looked down. England was standing slightly behind her, arms crossed, like a little bodyguard. She looked at him in shock. Her eyes trailed downwards, specifically down to his feet.

“Take your shoes off!”

England blinked at her.

“What?”

“Do you see anyone else wearing shoes?  Take them off and stack them on that rack over there.” For a moment he just stares at her. “Now please.” The boy gives her a forlorn look before sloping off to do as she says.

She hears a chuckle behind her and whips around to look at the imam, who is failing to hide a smile behind his hand. Her face feels like its about to burn off from embarrassment. “I’m so sorry, he just doesn’t-”

The red bearded man waves it off. “It’s alright, it takes time to learn these things. When did you take him in?”

She blinks, she didn’t really take him in, they were simply housemates- all be it separated by substantial gulf in development. Still, she supposed to a human, they would look like mother and child.

“About a week ago.” He winces.

“Big changes then? Have you got anyone to help you?” His voice is soft and his eyes are kind. Bengal finds she can’t meet them. She looks down and twists her fingers instead.

“My brother.” As much as he could help.

The silence yawned out in front of her. Compulsively, she tries to fill it. “It’s just….not how it’s meant to be.” She blushes, her stomach coils. “I mean- I’m trying, I was hoping- things would be different. I was trying to make things different. But it turns out that it’s not going to work, I’m going to fight the same battles over and over again. Even if I survive- I don’t know if I can-”

Her voice chokes off and a heavy hand lands on her shoulder, grounding her. She takes a moment, she breathes. He lets her compose herself before speaking. Miserably she reflects how silly it is, unloading to someone who thinks she’s crazy. But this glittering future with it’s cars and antibiotics and computers-  it’s wearing on her. It’s wearing on her not knowing what to do or how to act. It’s wearing on her to watch the boy and watch herself just waiting for a seizure. It’s killing her to watch her brother lose sleep over it. But in the back of her mind the worst is that she now knows, bone deep that when she goes home, her victory will be fleeting. That it’ll vanish, like ash in the wind, and she will have to fight again, and again, and again. And for the first time, she doesn’t want to know more.

In the face of everything it feels small, and selfish. But it’s got a sharp grip behind her lungs, and the fear hurts. She doesn’t want to have to fight forever.

“It sounds like this is a very stressful time for you. I know you won’t like to hear this, but perhaps you should consider talking to your doctor, before consulting me. Treatments have come a long way since I was in practice-”

“She’s still not mad.” England was glaring at the imam, looking for all the world like he wanted to thump him. Unconsciously she put a hand on his shoulder. He shrugged it off, but shot her an apologetic look. Then a thought that had niggled at her finally floated to the surface: 

“Wait, you speak Arabic?”

“You didn’t know?”

“Who speaks Arabic?” India stretched and yawned as he unfurled from his chair.

“I do.” said England.

“Really,” India paused. “Why?”

Bengal rolled her eyes and turned back to the imam, who looked quite concerned, drowning out England's- “ ‘cause of Crusading in the Holy Land, obviously, ” with her own,

“Thankyou, but unless doctors have a treatment for curses I think you will have more luck with this.” She winces as India continues to talk to England - “but why would you need to know?”- “‘Cause I’d be a shit bodyguard if I didn’t?” -

“Don’t worry about them, they’re  always like this.” The Imam turns back to her and raises his eyebrows. “What can you tell me about anti-curses?”

His face turns somber. “I can only repeat what I have already said, please, I implore you to seek medical advice first. Whilst magic can be the cause for many distressing events, the problems are far more often medical rather than magical.” Gently, he places a hand on her shoulder. It rests there heavily, like a warmed brick. “If it’s any comfort, your not the only one whose come to me with these concerns. In these uncertain times many seek greater explanations for their pain, why a young man recently came to me to request my help with a house fire he said was caused by a haunting!”

India froze mid sentence, “Wait, realy?”

The imam blinked, “...yes? I mean the man was in shock, grieving, his house had just burnt down- praise be to God, his shop wasn’t destroyed too.”

“Is he prone to delusions, the man, I mean?”

The imam began to lean away, brow creasing in confusion. “No, he always struck me as very sensible, a miracle considering- well, considering.” At this point his voice dwindled to a worried murmur, aware that his words maybe weren’t landing in the right ears.  Firmly, Bengal shrugged his hand off her shoulder, and stepped away. He gave her a forlorn, pleading look, but before he could reach out to her India jumped in. “And you said there were others? More than usual?”

She stepped back, stomach churning like it had a monsoon inside. England followed, shooting her nervous looks. Head spinning, she took the seat her brother had vacated, tuning out England hovering by her side- didn’t he say he was a bodyguard? - to cover her eyes and wait for the world to stop shaking.

After a moment she peeped between her lashes. She’d planned to pray. She’d planned to do a lot of things actually.

“England,” she murmured, “could you pick me up a Quran from the shelf over there and bring it to me?” She was sure India had mentioned they gave out free copies in the car. It’d stuck with her, not only for the convenience but for the luxury, to have enough to give them away so freely. But she wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Again, she peeped through her eyelids. England stared back. He blushed.

“Just because I can speak it doesn’t mean I can read it or nothing! You gotta tell me what it looks like!”

“It’s the one with the green cover, there’s a whole pile of them on top of that shelf.”

He nods and walks off with a forced and unnatural nonchalance. She wondered if he’d forgotten that they were free here. Probably. She suspected that it should be worrying, that he’d steal for them after knowing them only a few days, but she was too tired to feel much of anything. Except dizzy. She felt lots of that.

“-I mean I admit it was strange, the same green  light and strange smells, but he’d just come off a nightshift,  the eyes can play tricks on you in the dark-”

She closed her eyes again, thoughts fading in and out as her brother and the imam continued to talk in low, worried tones. She sat there, floating at the edge of consciousness rolling a plan in her head. It was crazy, probably stupid, but…

She jumped. England flinched for a half-second and drew his hand away from her shoulder, before shoving a small green book at her chest. She looked at it and blinked. A Quran. Yes. Good. She tucked it into her coat.

“Thankyou,” she said.

England's eyes widened in shock. They always did, she noticed, when someone treated him with a pinch of respect.

“Wait. Are you saying these things are connected? Somebody is preying on my community?”

“I..perhaps.” Then India turns to her eyes full of fire. “But first I have to check something.”

India flew up the stairs, not even kicking his shoes off before taking them two at a time. He hurtled across the landing, swinging himself around the doorframe into the ruined master bedroom.

“What is it?” cried Bengal from downstairs. He collapsed to his knees and started hunting through the junk, papers flying everywhere.

“The fire!”

“What fire?” she panted from the top of the stairs. England was already at the doorway, barely breathing and hovering nervously behind him.

“The one the imam talked about. I’ve read about it somewhere before!” He pulled out a pile of newspapers - all nationals- unlikely to report on a strange house fire, especially one that didn’t even endanger the building it was in. He discarded them just as Bengal entered the room and leant against the wall.

“Do you want us to help?” she said. He swung his vision around, books, books, Financial Times, books.

“I think it was on the computer actually,” he muttered.

“That’s the thing you were reading when we first came in wasn’t it?” he blinked in surprise.

“You remember it?”  

“Yeah, sure, just give me a moment.” She picked her way across the mountains of splinters and paper, grabbed something with both hands and passed him-

The monitor.

“Ah,” said India, staring at the great grey box with a carefully neutral expression, “Thankyou. Did you perhaps also see another box over there? Black? Made of metal?” A horrible thought crosses his mind. “Possibly full of wires?”

His heart sinks at their stricken faces and gradually the pair of them root through the detritus. After a few false starts, England, cringing, presents the computer to him.

What was left of it, anyway.

One side of it was wrenched open, and wires spilled out of the component-less casing, leaving it a husk of its former self. Even the fan had been removed. For a moment he despaired. Internally. It wasn’t their fault. Then he took a deep breath and looked at where England had picked it up. There lay much of the rest- the motherboard, CPU, disk drive. And as he picked them up and turned them over in his hands he breathed a sigh of relief. It had been disassembled, not smashed.

After some more searching he found most of the remaining components- only the fan was destroyed beyond repair. It was cracked clean down the middle, likely an accident. He sighed. It was frustrating, but manageable.

“Sorry,” said Bengal, looking sheepish. Behind her, England shuffled from foot to foot. They both looked exhausted.

“Don’t worry. You couldn’t have known, and I can fix this.” He waves the motherboard at the rest of the computer. “You guys try and get some sleep.” He looked at the wreckage. “This might take a while.”

“I KNEW IT!”

Bengal jerks awake, head spinning. It takes a moment to coordinate her limbs, but she still manages to scramble to to India’s room, England sneaking up behind her, yawning. Her brother had thrown himself backwards, hands in the air, surrounded by junk. The grey com- no- monitor, was flickering slightly but showed pages of big bold titles in English. A white fan blew on the wiring of th actual computer, whose left side was still exposed. India grinned.

“I was right. I knew I’d heard of that fire before.” He tapped the glass with a responding plink! “Right here. Green flames, written down here as wiring gone wrong.”

She blinks at him.

“Whuh?”

He ignores her. “England- not you, older you- was collecting news articles. Petty vandalism, arson that sort of thing- all over the city, no particular pattern, I thought it was nothing. Until I talked to the Imam. Three of the incidents here were brought to him by concerned members of the public who suspected magic was behind it and England -” he raises the black notebook “-was certain of it.”

“All these incidents are in here. Some are marked as being false alarms. But the rest? He’s recorded and attempted to replicate them.” He opened up the book right it the middle.”Like, listen to this- fifth of February-” He rattles of a translation of the entries, but her head is still trying process the last section. So she interrupts.

“Sorry, what?”

He sighs. “Ok, from the beginning-”

In the end, it takes three tries to explain it to her. It’s unconscionable, even England starts to give her a funny look. But her head is still swimming from sleep deprivation, she could honestly just drop where she stands. But she feels she gets it. A thought swims up from the depths.

“See, I told you he didn’t do it.”

India’s eyes widened in shock and confusion.

“Eh.”

For a moment they just looked at each other equally bewildered. Then, a memory. Shit. I told Shahadeva didn’t I?  She feels herself flush in embarrassment.

“Um. Older England. I don't think he did it. He doesn’t have any of the stuff.” She pauses for a moment as her brother looks at her in stunned disbelief. “I thought I told you?”

“No you didn’t.” He says flatly. She rallies though.

“Well now, we know he was investigating…”

“Yeah, and whoever got them got us last week!” England piped up. She nods, but India still loks uncertain.

“...Perhaps,” he says.

She sighs, she’s tired and she’s confused but this makes sense to her. “Look. I know he did something to you, and it still hurts. But that doesn’t mean he did this. For the last two days we’ve been going round in circles. If your going to help, you need to let it go. ”

She knows immediately it was the wrong thing to say. His face falls, then hardens, and he folds his arms.

“I’m so sorry for my concern-” his voice is cold “- you’d think being the only one whose met the man in question, lived with him, survived him, would know. But apparently not.”

She flinches. Stupid mouth. “I didn’t mean it like that-”

“Perhaps I should just make some dinner hmm? Since that’s all I’m good for .” Then he rose and swept past her, furious. She stood stock still until he was gone before flopping onto his bed and cradling her head in her hands.

“Can..Can I go to my room now?” She glanced at England, surprised. His eyes flicked from her to the door India had left through. She sighed.

“Yeah, try and get some rest.” He gives her a brief withering look, which ok. Fair. “Or look through some of the research, maybe there’s something we missed.” He nods and  makes for the door. He pauses in the doorway, and for a moment he opens his mouth as if to ask something, but then he closes it, and leaves.

Finally on her own, she groans. What was she thinking? She knew older England was a sore topic, she knew the boy had grown up into- someone bad, dangerous, even. To bring it up like that and throw it in his face. And he was still suspicious. Still dabbled in dark magic. A suspect. Maybe he teamed up with someone. Maybe he hid the evidence better. India didn’t make that sort of reaction up. And you just threw it straight in his face. Moron. She hated this, it was like she wasn’t even in control of her own mouth anymore.

It couldn’t go on.

Quietly she took the Quran out of her pocket, flipped it open, and began to read.

She leaves it an hour before shuffling into the kitchen. India’s not cooking, instead his nose is buried in that dratted diary, and he’s scowling. She sneaks around to boil the kettle and root around in the cupboard. Only when armed with tea and cake does she sit down at the table with him.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean what I said.” she says, setting them down in front of him. For a moment she thinks he’ll reject it, but then he takes a sip of tea.

“It’s fine. Not like you know any better yet.” She flinches. “If you hadn’t said it you’d still be thinking it.”

The silence is somehow even more awkward with the sun streaming through the window, birds chirping happily. Bengal fidgets with the end of her scarf, trying to muddle her thoughts into coherent words. India sips his tea.

“It’s still not fair to you though, I knew it was sensitive and I still said it.” He gives her a Look. “I’m sorry!” Her voice becomes low and halting. “I just can’t see how that boy could become someone so…” She waves her hand helplessly. So able to hurt you. All her life the twins had been this dominant, overwhelming force, able to whether wars and disease and migrations that would have killed lesser immortals. The idea that a tiny island nation- this tiny island nation could cause such harm was….

India sighed, and finally looked at her. He looked so old. “You’ve seen him through a tantrum though.”

“....yeah,” she says, “he’s a sleep deprived thirteen year old.”

India laughs, softly and bitterly. “Imagine that but cunning. And with guns.”

“...What’s a gun?”

“Swords then.” He rubs his forehead and takes a bite of cake, as she tries to contemplate that. She can’t.

“How long?” she asks, staring at her lap. He puts his cake down. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to! Sorry I’m babbling-”

“200 years”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” He sighs and takes another bite of cake while she tries to digest that piece of information. Eventually he pulls the diary close. “However, while I was sulking I did find something useful. He taps an entry in February. “The family who were affected by the fire are Arjun and Ishaar Thakur. And Arjun’s shop is right round the corner from us.”

The shop wasn’t very busy to India’s eyes, which perhaps had something to do with the burnt out husk of the flat above. On the one hand, the fire clearly hadn’t been that severe as the shop was still open. But its black and empty windows glowered down at the street in a way that was, quite frankly, menacing. A little alarm went off as he opened the door and the three of them piled in. A half a minute later, India slapped a bag of nuts on the counter.

“Just this today, mate?” said Arjun. He looked much like his profile picture, though he was taller than India had expected. A big, barrel chested man, he hunched, like he was afraid of taking up to much space, bushy black beard touching his chest as he looked down at India. He looked tired, but his smile seemed very natural, considering he was still working just below the burned out shell of his flat.

“Actually, Mr Thakur.” The man frowned. “I was wondering if I could ask you about the fire upstairs.”

“What about it?” His eyes where creased in confusion.

“Can you tell me what happened?” Immediately, Arjuns body language closes down and he rings up the nuts.”

“Wiring failure.” He says flatly. “Unusually bad, the police said they’d be able to tell us more when they’ve completed their investigation.” The last words are said with a hint of scorn. Arjun clearly didn’t believe a word of it

“Is it?,” And here India took a deep breath, aware that the next sentence was going to make him sound like a madman. “Not magic?” Arjun paused, before looking him in the eye.

“What makes you say that, stranger?”

“Vihaan. And it’s the green flames,” says India, pushing across a printout of the news article. Arjun picks it up, then sighs before pushing it back to them.

“Look, I’ve already got someone looking into it -”

“Arthur Kirkland right?” says India. Arjun blinks and gives him a suspicious look, and India continues before he can interrupt. “He’s missing.”

The lie came easily, almost as soon as he’d started retracing Arthurs steps he’d realised that he’d need a cover story. He was going to talk to who he talked to, go where he went, in order to get inside his head. If he didn’t want to come across as a deranged stalker, he’d need a cover story that couldn’t be verified. He’d practiced it in the car all the way up. It was barely even a lie, really.

Arjun's gentle face morphed into shock and horror. India softened his gaze, and tried to look beseeching. “I was hoping you could help.”

“Why haven't you gone to the police, I could tell them what I know-”

India tapped the news article still sitting on the counter. “We both know that won’t help.”

Arjun frowned. The sharp beep of the door signaled more customers entering the building, a group of laughing teenagers, who immediately gravitated to the drinks fridge by the counter. Then the man sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

“Meg! Can you take over from here!” he shouted. A muffled “sure,”  came from the back room, swiftly followed by a lanky redhead with angry red acne all over her face. “You going for the rest of the day?”

“Yeah, you wouldn’t mind closing up for me would you?” A bored shrug. “You’re a star.” He turned back to them and beckoned them out the door, before asking.

“Who are you to Arthur anyway?” India’s mouth went dry, and his stomach swooped uncomfortably.

“A friend,” He croaked, lie souring on his tongue.

“Mum! Ishaar! I’m home.” Arjun yells as he lets them into the house. A lean man with a white button up t-shirt and a neatly trimmed beard comes down the stairs to meet them.

“Hey, I wasn’t expecting you back so early, everything ok?” He says with a remarkably deep voice and gives Arjun a quick kiss. He turns to India, who’s hopping about on one leg, taking his shoes off. “Who’s this?”

“Vihaan. He works with Arthur.”

The man looks the three of them over. “Family business?” 

India jerks his thumb behind him, to Arthur. “He’s the family, I’m the business. We work together.” He nods before looking at the other two questioningly. “Hazarika and Arthur.” He says, gesturing to each in turn. “I’m afraid my sister doesn’t speak much English. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about the fire.”

“Arthur's missing.” Supplies Arjun, beseechingly. His husband nods before turning to them again.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you anyway. Shame it couldn’t be under better circumstances. Do you want to come through?”

As he walks through the house he can see that nothing in it sits straight. Piles of books and blankets sit crookedly on every surface, mashed next to wonky and occasionally cracked nick-nacks, glued together with some kind of glitter glue. Pictures hang at odd angles on the walls. With the exception of three- Arjun and Ishaars’ graduation photos, and them in bejeweled and brightly coloured sherwani for their wedding. It looked warm. It looked lived in.

And when they entered the living room there was a full spread of cakes, biscuits and tea waiting on the table. Arjun scratches the back of his neck and chuckles awkwardly.

“Thanks mum!” he calls into the kitchen, a dark hand with an emerald ring waves him off. He turns to them. “She always goes a little overboard when we have visitors, don’t worry.”

They settle themselves down on the two overstuffed sofas that had somehow been squeezed in the modest room and pour themselves some tea. On one was India, flanked by his two charges. The other, Arjun and Ishaar- Ishaar gently leaning on his husband. Arjuns mum- Padma, the records had said- looked on from the kitchen.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

“What do you already know?”

He draws out the black book from his trouser pocket, “Only what’s in here”

“Arjun nods. “Yeah. Can I have a look at that.” India hands it over, and Arjun opens it to the right page and whistles. “Hey look Ishaan, he wasn’t kidding. I’m amazed you managed to find us with the information here. It’s pretty sparse.”

India shrugs, of course England had avoided identifying features, he’d been a spy for over a hundred years. “It took a while.”

Arjun nods. “I was just curious, ‘cause this didn’t really start with the fire.” He open the book to another page- fifth of January, and hands it back.

“It’d been going on for a few months. Things going missing, windows and picture frames cracking in the middle of the night. They’d come in spates, one week we’d get loads and then we’d be fine. At first we just thought it was just unlucky.” Arjun paused and took a sip of tea. “Then a goat was teleported into the bedroom.”

India blinked. “A goat?”

“Arjun nodded emphatically. “I know right? One minute I’m fast asleep and the next I’m being trodden on by this mangy creature that's screaming it’s head off. Though-” He smiles and nudges his husband, “- I still think he had better morning breath than you.”

Ishaan rolls his eyes. “Fuck off.”

Arjun snickers, then continues. “Still, waking up with a goat in your bed and your husband outside in the street is a bit beyond a bit of bad luck. So I started looking for people who knew about magic.”

“Including Imam Abdullah?” He nods. India takes a sip of tea

“Arthur was the only one who offered to help without seeming like a massive scam artist. He comes in to get milk every Saturday at 11.30 without fail. So it was just luck that he overheard me whinging to one of my mates really.” Arjun pauses, and give him a funny look as he chokes. “He was really good, actually. Very professional. Didn’t want paying though.”

“Seems he’s actually a sensible person when he’s sober.” India gives Ishaan a questioning look.  “I’m an A&E nurse in the local hospital, he turns up drunk at least once a month only to abscond the moment he’s out of sight. We just roll with it at this point.”

“..Sounds like Arthur to me.” Little England looks up from where he’s picking apart a piece of cake. “Not you.” he clarifies in French.

Their hosts give him an odd look. “..His mum’s French.”

Arjun nods and continues his story. “Well we thought that was it for a while- Arthur said he was off to do his own investigation and nothing else happened and that, we thought, was that. Then the fire happened.”

“It-” Arjun’s mouth opens, then shuts and opens again, his face going pale. “I was in bed that night. The fire alarm didn’t go off.” His face is pale and he puts his tea down quickly to avoid spilling it. Ishaan pulls him close for a side hug, heedless of his audience. A hot coil of guilt and jealousy coils in India's stomach. He still has to ask though.

“I’m sorry,” he lowers his voice to a soft murmur, like he’s coaxing an animal out, “anything you can tell us would be helpful, but take your time.” He looks at Ishaan, who gives him an uncomfortable shrug.

Arjun takes a deep breath. “Don’t worry I already had to tell the police and Arthur. I can do it again. Ishaan- doesn’t remember much about that night. I’ll get to that part last though ok?”

“We’d both gone to bed early, it’d been a long day and we were knackered. But the next thing I know.” Again he pauses, wide eyed. “It- it was like it was in January. But the goat this time, it was completely silent and nearly frozen- I only woke up because it stepped on me. That- that probably saved my life. The room was already full of smoke, and when I opened the door it was boiling hot and I could see this green fire creeping up the wall. I picked up the goat and ran.”

Suddenly Arjun took a big gulp of tea. “When I got outside I could see the flames leaping out the windows of the box room- Ish uses it as a study so I thought-” he shakes his head. “But there’s nothing in there that would burn green. The weird thing was I wasn’t scared- it was like someone else had grabbed my body and was moving me about. I called the fire brigade and the police. And then I started looking for Ishaan. I couldn’t find him, that’s when I started to panic.”

Ishaan grimaced, visibly wincing, as Arjun suddenly squeezed his hand for comfort. “I got lucky there- as soon as I set the goat down it ran off into the alley. A minute later out comes Ishaan.”

India feels his eyebrows shoot up. “You mean-?”

“He was turned into a goat this time?” Arjun nods. “That’s why he doesn’t remember much, according to Arthur memory loss is pretty normal if you get transformed like that.”

India nods. “And, err, what else did Arthur say?”

“Not much, he just looked very serious and asked us a bunch of questions about the night before but he said they didn’t help much?” India’s heart sank, but then Ishaan poke his husband.

“Actually they’re was one thing.” He turns to India. “We’d taken a bunch of photos of these ‘arrays’ to document what was happening, and after the fire.” He blushed. “I snuck inside the police cordon and took some photos of my own.”

India stared at him in disbelief.There were so many ways that could have gone wrong it wasn’t even funny. DNA, arrest, being charged  with arson, tampering with evidence…

“I know, I know!” said the nurse hurriedly, “but the police had finished their investigation- I checked! It was just for safety reasons.” Arjun gave him an extremely tired look. “Which doesn’t make it better I know! But look at this-”

He whips out his phone and shows him a photo. It’s a room. Blackened and full of the melted and burnt detritus, it's hard to tell what it might once have been. The wallpaper has been burned away in many places leaving exposed brick and insulation. Sunlight spills in from the hole where the roof used to be. For a moment it’s hard to see what he’s meant to be looking at, everything is so damaged. Then Bengal gasps, and points. In the center of the far wall are four lines that might once have been straight, burned and sooty against a ruined backdrop. They go straight through the wallpaper and leave lines on the brick beneath. The center is obliterated. A halo of unshaped soot. But if India was a betting man, he’d bet on two concentric circles, filled with strange runes.

A summoning array.

“What did Arthur have to say about this?” India said it slowly, a million possibilities whirling through his mind. Arthur researching an intervention and fouling it up. Arthur researching the previous problems for his own gain and fowling it up. Or worse, getting it right. Combat magic. India had no idea if summoning normally caused fire, only that fire seemed to be exactly the sort of thing combat magic might want to produce. Chilling thoughts mingled with memories- drawing on them and giving them teeth. Famines caused by carelessness. Why not fire? Countries undermined from within. Why not a house? A nation slowly back sliding to the bad old days-

“He frowned and looked very serious, then put a blocking rune on the four corners of our building,” Arjun flicks to a picture on his phone. A wheel like symbol in white paint sat at the bottom of the wall. The outside looked kind of celtic to India's untrained eye but the spokes looked like nothing less than a bundle of spiney forks. Vaguely he wondered if England was back on the psychedelics. It’d explain a lot.  “We were a bit sceptical at first but the building hasn’t had any problems in the last couple of months, so it must be working.”

India carefully doesn’t let his mouth fall open in shock. The England he knew would rarely help without a catch.

“Could you send me those photos?” His voice is shockingly normal. Perhaps it was unfair- England could be reasonable, even principled at to a strange timetable known only to himself. But India had learned the hard way that even people he saw as special-

“Yeah, sure.” Said Arjun.

- even those he made feel special, were disposable. You didn’t know why, even if you thought you knew when. These men did not know England. No one did.

Apart from him. Maybe. 

She dipped in and out, dreams a kind of half waking hallucination- frightening visions of battle fields, then green flashes, then fire, then tentacles multiplied and refracted into lines and geometric shapes, to a refracted face of an unholy creature. Punctuated by wakefull paralysis, eyes darting a second before sinking back down. Falling, falling. Disorienting images flicking by mundane and mangled corpses side by side. Chased by monsters. Eventually she lifted a hand like lead and pinched herself. Heart pounding, sanity returned with wakefulness.

She’d collapsed on the sofa. By the time they had got home, Bengal could feel herself slipping in and out of sleep. She barely badgered the pictures out of him. The sun was still high in the sky. Did that mean she’d barely slept? Or was the day truly that long? She had no way to tell- time in this country didn’t seem to run properly at all. Her phone buzzed. She jumped.

Her brother had been kind enough to change the settings to Arabic,as the Bengali setting had been illegible. It still was, mostly. But she found the messaging service eventually. It was Pakistan. .

16.00

Hey I think you fell asleep while we were chatting.

Or you accidentally hung up again. I’ll send you the stuff.

17.45

Are you alright?

No, no she wasn’t. But she wouldn’t say it. Typing was hard. She managed though. Pakistan didn’t respond. Probably dealing with her boss? Or maybe sleeping. Apparently that was a thing people still did. She fought the urge to laugh hysterically.

Instead she clicked on the photos folder. Then closed it, because apparently that was actually the camrat?  She opened a few more till she found the proper one. She flicked through the Thakurs photos. They were mostly small stuff. Some looked like summoning circles, but others were squares or little overlapping triangles. She couldn’t make sense of them, though some looked familiar. She knew India would have sent that to Norway. She flicked through anyway. Again and again she came back to the same picture.

It was their bedroom. Fifth of January. Post goat. Cool blue walls oversaw a ransacked room. Clothes and knick-knacks were strewn everywhere and the bed had been half stripped. The duvet looked wrecked, covered in dark smears. She was also fairly sure the goat had widdled all over it. Ew. nothing had escaped unscathed. It took her a moment to realise that there was no array.

Maybe they didn’t notice? She dismissed the thought. They’d taken pictures of every other one they’d found, if they’d seen it they’d have a photo. And they’d had to fix the whole room, maybe even replace stuff- the duvet and bed looked especially battered. The duvet even had those strong brown lines that probably wouldn’t wash out-

Wait. She blinked. Shook her head and looked again, closer. Then she went and pinched a duvet cover and a marker.

Because those brown marks weren’t shit.

They were burns.

It took a lot of experimenting, toggling between the Ishaan and Arjun’s photo of the room. It was no wonder no one had opened out the blanket, it really was spoiled as well as burned- goats were messy. And when she was done it was incomplete. But a great compass point, spokes wound with vine-like swirls stared back at her. And  it had been burned straight into the blanket. That wasn’t prepared. That was spontaneous.

She stumbled over to the wall phone, grabbed the piece of paper beneath it and did the only thing that might help.

She messaged Norway.

Chapter Text

“The little bastards burned it!”

India nods as Bill continued angrily about the vandals who had damaged his wall a month ago. At first glance Bill screamed ‘pub owner’, and then screamed it on the second and third glances just to make sure you had got the message. He was big, pinky-white, and bald as the proverbial egg. He was only five foot two, but made up for it in tattoos. “If you see them again send them straight to me and I’ll sort them out.”

India nods along and quietly strokes his fingers against the chilly surface of a beer. Non-alcoholic. England scowled at his orange juice. It wasn’t really adorable that the child expected to be served alcoholic drinks, but he was medieval in his outlook. Literally.  Bill gives the boy a funny look.

“He just wants to drink what I do.” India takes a sip. It tasted more or less like the real thing.

Bill chuckles. “Chancer.”

The pub was very English. The Dog and Duck had sat on the same site since Tudor times - and looked it. Heavy, dark wood paneling gave it a closed in feeling, and the furniture was so old that even years after the ban, it still smelled of cigarette smoke. The drinks had been somewhat updated, but still tended towards dark stouts and tooth rotting, brain-smashing ciders. As a concession to the times, it also served a spirits and a strawberry daiquiri that might have, if you were lucky, seen a strawberry at some point in its creation.

India takes another sip of his not-beer. “Can I have a look?”

Bill shrugs. “Sure, bring your beer and we’ll have a look now if you like.”

Just as they were getting up, a small hand grabs his sleeve. Suddenly, he remembers that England needs a translator.

“We’re going to see the damage, you can wait here or come with.” England hops off the stool and follows him, grabbing his juice as he does, and they leave through the small passage to the back of the pub. 

“What happened?” he says, clearly bored.

“I’m not sure yet, older you marked that the owner had a problem with vandals. Fire, goats, property damage, similar to the last people we saw.” Many things about the Thakurs experience still bugged him, from Arthur's convenient arrival to the sudden change in spell effect. Perhaps Norway was right and it really was a transformation. He took a glance at England, and his shocked look as he sips the orange juice. He suddenly took a large gulp of the sweet liquid, and India suppresses a small smile. Stunning work, if it was. One of a kind, probably.

The thought didn’t sit easily.

“Here we go!” Bill threw open the door to the bin area and shoves the recycling skip out of the way. Behind it was a four pointed star array. Again. India gives a low hiss.

“I know right?” Bill plants his hands on his hips with a big sigh. “No idea what they used- welding torches maybe? But blow me I don’t know any welding torches that could do that to solid bloody brick.” 

Indeed, the star-shaped array wasn’t burnt onto the wall but melted straight into it. India walks up to it and (carefully) sticks his finger inside. It is narrow, so he has to wiggle a little, but he hit the back when his finger was in halfway. He turns to look at his young assistant, who shrugs.

“It’s a high magic area?” England suggests. “Like the other house?”

“Hmm.” India rubs the soot on his fingers. The four pointed star and the concentric circles were crisp and graceful- whoever had done this hadn’t struggled at all.  But what kind of welding torch could do that?

“So what do you think? There can’t be that many people with the kit for this can there?” Bill had rolled up his sleeves, revealing the small black semi-colon on the inside of his wrist. “The CCTV’s on  the blink- useless hunk of junk- so I don’t have any video or anything.”

Just as India was about to answer, his phone buzzes.

When did you give your sister my number? 

India blinks

For that matter when did she learn to use a phone?

Tell her I don’t speak Bengali

I can’t even google translate it ffs. Her dialect is too different

A small ‘typing’ icon bobs irritably at the bottom of the screen. India heads it off. 

Send it to me? 

Please?

It takes a moment, then a series of long paragraphs fill the screen, typed out in profoundly misspelled Bengali. Or rather, misspelled modern Bengali- but the worst was the sentence structure, which had fallen apart under the pressure of sleep deprivation. India tried to read it fast, but large chunks were incomprehensible. She’d found something in one of the Thakurs pictures, something they’d overlooked- the blanket was burned, a spontaneous array rather than one laid down and triggered, and -

And-

India felt his stomach drop and his heart race, face developing the funny tingling nearly pins and needles of a panic attack. His hands shake. He tries to suppress it, throw up his face of normality- eyes like this , mouth like that -

“Hey are you alright-?”

India’s eyes snap back to the pub owner - whose face is much nearer than before. Bill reaches out to hold his arm- then yelps as England kicks his shins.

“England!” It comes out harsher than he meant, and Arthur jumps. He tries to soften his voice, but it is ruined by him panting like he’s run a marathon. “Stop it!.”

Both boy and man look visibly worried as they frog march him back into the pub and pour him into booth.

His head is spinning- being in close proximity to the kid isn’t helping. He’s swamped by feelings he thought long buried - piercing fear, uncertainty, and on its heels, acutely aware of where and when he was - guilt. His hearing muffles and his vision blurs. Then a glass of water is shoved into his narrow circle of vision.

It's odd, he doesn’t remember putting his beer down. 

“Drink some of that, ok? Take your time.” Bill says, and he wraps India’s hand around the glass. The cold hits his fuzzy head like a hammer, providing an anchor into reality and a focus point. He takes a gulp that makes his teeth hurt and feels the cold slink down into his stomach, livening up his deadened nerves all the way through.

“Hey! Sip it! You could choke- take your time!” A little hand shoves him aggressively in the arm. He barely represses a flinch. A sharp reproach in English. A confused murmur, then a clear voice. “Come on snap out of it! What’s wrong?” The childish-ness of the voice itself is a relief in many ways.

Bill cuts him off. “Just sit quietly, take your time, ok? I’ll bring you another water.” His voice is firm and sounds reassuringly in control. Somehow Bill’s discourage England from bothering him, impressive, considering they don’t speak the same language.The boy doesn’t try to push him again. Instead, they let India come out of it on his own, hearing re-engaging, tunnel vision de-activating, and his heart rate slowly settling back to normal. He became aware that Bill was sitting across from him, and that England was perched on the edge of the sofa. They looked worried. Especially England.

“Sorry.” He mutters, feeling guilty. Bill shrugs it off. 

“I’ll bring you more water. Stay here as long as you like mate.” India nods, then turns to his phone.

“Could you get us some chips, please?” He wouldn’t feel right till he’d dealt with the problem, and that might take a while.  He is too light headed to drive anyways. Bill gives him a thumbs up. He didn’t look at England. Instead he turned to the text, and begins to translate.

Hello Norway, ally and friend.

I need your knowledge about the magical curse upon me, england and your children. your friend and me have looked at magic happenings. we have identified fires and vandalisms that match in lots of ways the one on us.

One switched a man and a goat, and made a fire. the array was spontaneous. adult england's books suggest this is impossible, from your knowledge - how (if) can you power this?

On the second note, england was employed by victims to investigate and help. to you and my brother (your friend) he is a suspect. 

With respect to your knowledge - this is not in the evidence. england looked at these curses - tried to replicate them after they had been used. he couldn’t succeed. this I must emphasise. additionally, he tried to help free of charge. when problems stayed he made protections for them. I think they worked, but I am a beginner looking at this- you can confirm. We must think again.

He was helping them.

India looks at his translation, fingers shaking. Corrects a few spelling mistakes.

Then hits send. 

He barely managed the drive home. His head was in a fugue as bad as the ones he’d get in the 1920s, and his limbs felt like they were connected by puppet strings- never quite where they were supposed to be. It took all his focus to make the short drive back to the house. He pulled into the driveway to the grinding of gears as he fought with his arms to shift them. 

He flops his head on the steering wheel, England's high voice hazy and distant. This was insane. He was insane. How could he feel so dissociative when they now knew England wasn’t at fault. Wasn’t sliding back (probably). Wasn’t plotting ( probably ). Bitter, hard won suspicion battered away at his ribcage under the smothering smoke of dissociation and reason. In his mind's eye he could see the people he talked to, he could see the others who’d survived and escaped. The ones who thought he’d gotten over it. Bengals face front and center. In his mind's ear he could hear her voice.

Why are you upset? Isn’t this good?

Is it? It was mad, perhaps to talk to yourself- but in the claws of the storm he couldn’t care less. He had for the longest time- centuries - wanted England to change. He’d wanted the relationship without the exploitation, the hurt, the humiliation of disrespect. He’d wanted the biting humour and barely stifled passion. He hadn’t wanted to be caged. He’d tried, and tried, and tried. It’d taken World War 1 for him to realise that nothing was ever going to change. It freed him as much as it hurt him.

Now I’m wrong. 

The thought opens up a yawning terror inside him. The kind that had him scrubbing floors till three in the morning. The kind that made him change his kameez for a western suit and bite his tongue. A sharp pinch bought him back to reality just long enough to hear Arthurs childish voice.

“Do you want me to get Bengal?” His voice is soft, and unlike him. India had expected him too shout. Or maybe Arthur expected him to shout. It’s an unhappy thought that doesn’t quite bounce off his dissociated brain. He apologizes, he’s not sure what for. The previous hour is a mess in his head.

The boy shakes his head, though India can’t make sense of why, and hops out of the car. He stares after him a moment before resting his head back on the steering wheel and giving in to the panic attack. 

The array glistened in the afternoon light- almost a week since it’s discovery and only the edges had gone brown and flaky. Did the array store magic? Or was to blood itself magical? Moreover, what had England found out? What had he hoped to achieve, the night before that fateful meeting? Bengal makes a note on her paper.

Bengal stares at the note, and blinks. She then slowly, seriously, takes a sip of tea. She makes a face and spat the cold, clammy liquid back in the cup, swilling her saliva around to purge the remainder.  She puts it with the others. Five in a cluster like a rejected little tribe, milk scum floating on top. Any more and she’d run out of mugs.

But who cared! She had a lead, a focus to direct her attention - she was jittery with sleep deprivation and excitement. They could move forward. Finally.

Now if only she could hold a train of thought for longer than a minute.

“Bengal!” A voice. Again she blinked, looking around for the source. “Bengaal!”  Vaguely she wonders if she’d finally started hallucinating from tiredness.

Then England crashes through the door in a very un-hallucinogenic way. His yells were cut short as a cup skids away under his feet - spinning away and knocking the rest over. Tea spilled everywhere as he flailed, catching himself on the door handle with a yelp. She sighs and stands up before it could soak into her dress. For a horrible moment the world tipped sideways. She catches herself on the wall. She was fine.

England, heavy bags under worried eyes, stares at her in shock. Perhaps she shouldn’t have worked through her nap.

“You ok?” he says. Vaguely she wonders if she should pat him again, get him used to taking comfort, because she wasn’t that bad. She smiled at him. It didn't help.

“Yes.” She says, eventually. “Are you?”

“India’s sick- he’s talking funny and can’t get out the car! I can’t pull him out on my own!” She rubs her ringing ears at his shrill voice. Panic oozed into her from somewhere beneath her navel.

“Show me.”

Trying to walk down the stairs shows her that she is not fine. She hopes the kid doesn’t notice but the world is tipping like a ship in a storm for her. He doesn’t, and she makes her wobbly way into the sharp sunlight on the drive, pausing only to grab a scarf and quickly wrap it round her hair. Its barey decent, but it’ll do. India is slumped over on one side, his hands white on the steering wheel. He almost looks like he’s passed out.

He doesn’t respond much when she gets there either, only raising his head when she shakes his shoulder. Far from being glazed over, his eyes are blown wide, irises pitch black and surrounded on all sides by white sclera.  His eyes are terrified. And he’s panting too- shallow and fast. However, unlike the seizures, she knows this. She’s seen it too many times to count.

“Brother can you hear me?” He nods like a drunkard. Gently she places a hand on his back and rubs it. There’s nothing to do but wait it out. “I’m going to take you inside - you understand?”

At first he shakes his head, but eventually she cajoles him out. It’s hard because, although he’s responding to her voice, she doesn’t think he can hear her very well. She’s not sure if the future has a better name for hysteria- but from her own experience she knows how it can deafen you. His limbs don’t seem to be responding right either - when he stands he sways perilously. She leans him on her. England takes his other arm without question. Between them they get him out of the car, over the threshold, and sit him on the sofa. He immediately slumps sideways.

“C-” His breathing is so heavy his voice gets cut off before words can fully form. “Car...the keys.. inside. .” He makes an attempt to stand up. She puts a had on his shoulder, which he immediately pushes off. “The car’s ...unlocked.. I need.. To go back.”

Her knees have folded up under her from tiredness, but she understands enough to turn to England, who’s also visibly swaying despite his stiff posture.  “Go get the keys and lock the car please.”

As he lurches off India tries to shout after him. “Its a button press!” But it’s swallowed up by his breathing.

“He’ll figure it out.” She places a hand on his knee to reassure him. The look he gives her is wild.

“How do you know?” She rubs his knee. She doesn’t know, but saying that will only make it worse.

“He’s a smart boy.” India lets out a horse, bitter laugh that chokes itself off in a sob. He buries his head in his hands. Her stomach clenches and she rubs his shoulders with her hands, trying to comfort him. His muscles tremble under her finger tips.

“Its ok, it’s alright, we’re fine-” Bengal has never had a mother. The twins claim to remember her, claims she found her in the delta of the Ganges, but without memory it may as well not have happened. All she can draw on is the few times she’s watched human women comfort children. Or men comfort young boys (and, occasionally, girls) on the battlefield. She always made herself scarce. Comforting was Nakulas job. So she can’t be sure she’s doing it right. She keeps it up. Slowly his sobs subside and are replaced by deliberately slow, deep breathes. Under his breath she can hear him muttering on the out flow-

“One, two, three, four.” Then in for the same amount of time. It reminds her a little of meditation. She can’t recall it being used like this. Gradually, his shaking subsides too. She hears the door shut and England stumble into the room. She take a glance at him. Somehow, he’s grazed his face. The boy flushes under scrutiny, but she turns her attention immediately back to her brother before he can say anything.

“It’s ok.” He croaks. He’s still breathing in fours. “I’m alright. Just check he’s locked the car properly.” She pauses, he doesn’t look ok. He pulls his hands away from his face, his eyes are swollen. “Please. I’m ok, I just need a moment.” He pulls a weak smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

Reluctantly, she takes her hand off and nods. She tries not to feel hurt that he’s shutting her out again. She just has to try and trust him to do what’s best for himself. A week ago she’d have had no qualms, but now?

“Call me if you need anything , all right? You understand, you big idiot?” Her voice is deadly serious. He nods.

She carefully stands up- its hard, and she stumbles before catching herself. She takes one last look at Nakula, whose face is buried back in his hands, before heading into the kitchen, boy on her heels. She puts the kettle on.

“What happened?”

England's face twists and he sighs. “I told you , one minute he was fine, then he’s going grey and moping all over the shop.”

“And nothing else happened” She hears a noncommittal grunt from behind her just as the kettle boils. She takes it off the heat. “By the way, have you had anything to eat?”

“No, maybe, I don’t know!” She turns to look at him, he’s looking at his feet but is very tense. He doesn’t say anything else.

“And?”

He looks at her, face warped by stress. “And what?”

“Did you have anything to eat?”

“Oh.” He blinks. “I’m fine, I had chips. India didn’t eat any though.” He bites his lip. She pours out the tea and puts it on the table for them before rooting out the ginger cake. It’d been one of India’s experiments, seeing if they still liked the same things as their older selves. The results had been mixed, but the ginger cake had been a resounding success.

England sat and fidgeted as she cleared the table, moving her Quran and the pages of notes off to the side so there’d be room. His hands were shaking. He hid them under the table when he caught her looking.

They don’t even sit for a minute before the dam bursts.

“I think I did something wrong. Me and the big man were both speaking to him at the same time, I think he wanted to know why the wall was so melted, and I wanted to know what he was saying but I don’t think he could cope with the two languages at the same time cause he went grey and wobbly and started breathing heavy-” he took a deep breath, face flushed from distress, eyes shining, “-But he speaks two languages all the time so I don’t know what I did wrong. But he apologised in the car and I don’t know why! You’ve gotta help me!”

He’s panting almost as hard as India now, and internally she steels herself, she hadn’t been storing her energy to support them, and it takes a moment to process what he’s said. And try to say something palatable.

“What did you say to him?” In her defence, she’d never claimed to be good at it. The boy pales sharpley.

“I don’t know!” he wails. Whatever steely pride had been holding him up all week seems to crumble now as his head  collapses into his hands, nails biting deep into his scalp. She freezes, every instinct trained by years with siblings tells her now is the time for a hug, but she knows the boy would fight to the death rather than accept. Instead she proffered the only thing likely to distract him.

“Cake?” She plonks a large, sticky slice of ginger cake next to him. He ignores it. She tries to think about what could have caused India’s meltdown. Things like that, well. When she’d experienced them it had always been because she’d felt hopeless, like the future was going to crush her - grind her up like a bug and there was no escape. She didn’t think anything the child could say could have caused that. She pauses. Well, almost anything .

But England would have noticed. She glances at him, curled up in on himself- he doesn’t look like he’s lying. It must be something else.

Then, horribly, an idea strikes her.

“Give me a moment.” He looks up at her, puffy eyed as she sneaks into the next room.

Just in time to see India heading out the door.

“Where do you think you’re going?” It comes out angrier than she meant it. He looks at her as he pulls on a light brown jacket, one half of him bathed in sunlight.

“For a walk,” He still doesn’t look quite right. “I just need some time to myself.”

She opens her mouth. “I’ll be alright.” He says, and holds up his phone. “You remember how to take calls right? I won’t be long.”

She shuts it, it’s not like she can force him to do anything. He gives her a thin smile, and walks out the door. It clicks shut just as she hears a yelp from the kitchen. She runs back in to see England halfway across the room cradling his hand to his chest, boiling hot tea all over the table.

There's a moment of panic when she tries to pull him over to the tap, fails, and has to try and persuade the scalded teanager to tend to himself. “It’ll heal in a moment! I’m fine” is not really what she wants to hear. But she can’t make him move, so all she can do is hand him a towel to mop up the burning liquid as the boy resolutely ignores his red, shiny burn. She glances at her notes.

Because whatever he says, this is not fine.

The sun beats down on his back shockingly hot as he walks around the neighborhood. He likes to walk, he finds it freeing, and it normally takes him away from his paperwork. It’s like that now, not so much walking towards as away . Giving himself some breathing room. Because something had to give, and if he wasn’t careful, it’d be him.

How can you run away- they need-

He blots the thought out there. Bengal was a grown adult, not a little lost lamb. If she wanted him to trust her… He shook his head and changed direction once, twice, letting himself get lost in a way that was physically impossible on home turf.  His thoughts chased themselves, fragments of memory, and flashbacks, and thoughts blending together into a confusing, conflicting soup. He walked quicker, barely avoiding bumping into others in his haste to get away from himself.

He walked until he was too hot to continue. He wasn’t tired, nations were tough as oxen, and such a short walk meant nothing to him. But that didn’t stop respiration. He was soaking in sweat- in his defence the coat had seemed like a good idea. An extra layer between himself and the world. The UK was normally cold enough to accommodate. No wonder England was so fond of them.

He sighs, and stops dead in his tracks outside a coffee shop. Because this was what it came down to. Again. He pushes the door in and joins the que, barely conscious of his surroundings, only just remembering to hold the door for an old lady with a green jewel on her finger. 

England. What was the phrase? Can’t live with them, can’t live without them? Except normally that meant you had the desire to be with them, not desiring to chuck them to the other side of the galaxy. Being free, being on the other side of the world, seeing him only at public meetings, was enough. Was the compromise he could survive. Could thrive on, even. He was a living reminder that India would never settle for less, ever again. He orders a chai and feels himself slump.

Because he couldn’t cope with this. It’d barely been two weeks and he could feel his head slip away from him. It wasn’t even as if it was like he was dealing with England proper.

How does Ireland even cope?

By bitching at you. And drinking. His brain supplies. It didn’t help. Especially since guilt had joined the anger and deep ingrained fear in his stomach. He sighs again, unable to stifle it. The barrister, a bouncy young woman in her twenties, flounces up.

“Here you go sir! Sorry for the wait!” and she presents him with his… coffee?

“I ordered a chai?” he says, staring confusedly at the frothy top. It had a fern painted in it.

“Yes, a chai latte?” Her beatific smile crinkles uncomfortably around the edges. “Is there a problem?”

“No, no! Thanks.” He walks away, unwilling to cause a fuss- then cursed himself as he sat down. He wasn’t meek, or cowed, or too stifled to speak up and explain what he actually wanted. And then he felt awful. She was only doing her best. And according to Bengal he’d never cowered. So why did it even matter?

Because that's not how I remember it.

And then he was back in the spiral. Old and new memories overlapping, guilt and anger and fear digging and clawing into his stomach until he felt he was going to be sick-

“Excuse me,” says a soft, confident Marathi voice, “May I sit with you?”

He looks up, but was so out of it he didn’t respond for a second.

“Or perhaps not? Would you be better with this?” Her voice trembles with nerves for a moment as she transitions to slightly accented Bengali.

“No it’s fine!” He replies in Marathi. “I was just surprised, is all.”

The lady sits down in a flurry of bright clothes, a small thump into the chair at the end suggesting a leg injury- or perhaps at her age, arthritis. She was a handsome woman, with grey shot through her black hair, and wrinkles around her serious, watchful eyes. She rests a pink walking stick against the table as a waiter brings her tea and biscuits. She looks familiar.

“Could you get a cup, please,” she turns and says to the girl in English. “For my friend.”

She pours him a cup.

“Chai tea,” she says with a smirk. “You have to specify here.” She pauses for a moment, looking suddenly uncertain. “You don’t mind if we continue in Marathi do you, only my English isn’t so-”

“No! No! Marathi’s better for me- whatever suits you.”  She breathes out in noticeable relief and waves her hand in a way that says to him, well you know. A green ring glints on her finger.

“Wait, you aren’t Mrs Thakur are you?” She nods.

“And you’re they young man who visited my sons.” It’s not a question. “Vithala?”

“Vihaan.” They sit in silence. “I should thank you for the cake, you’re husband must be a happy man.”

She snorts derisively. “I hope not, he’s dead.” India’s face flushes with shock and embarrassment as he tries to backpedal, but she waves him off like an annoying fly.

“Don’t apologize child, it was the best day of my life. It’s why I refuse to wear white, you know.” She gestures down at her garish gown, bright green and covered in sequined patterns. “If there’s any justice in the world he’ll have been reincarnated as a slime mould.” She takes a dignified sip of tea.

“I’m sorry to hear about your friend.” India’s mouth dries up.

“Coworker.” She gives him a long look. He squirms.

“Sorry, I just assumed you were still close.” India’s stomach flips over as he takes a large mouthful of scalding tea. “Since he left you holding the baby- how do your kind even reproduce anyway?”

He chokes. He splutters. He snorts boiling tea out his nose. “Well, I believe- garrg - that you get a surrogate-

“Not that you silly boy, I have sons, I’m old, not backwards.” She gives him a stern look.”I meant as a nation? Avatar?”

He gets the sensation of falling. His stomach flips itself back over and lodges itself somewhere in his throat. He becomes acutely aware of the bright lights and busy tables, and of how he’s on a sofa against the wall. No way to leave.

“That’s a state secret Thakur.” His voice croaks - for good reason. Humans got a bit funny about personifications of their communities. At best they just measured everything you did and ate, augers haunting your every step like vultures. At worst...well, there were good reasons why they’d allowed themselves to fade into myth centuries ago.

To her credit, Mrs Thakur winces. “I know, I’m sorry- my father was a civil servant before he joined the marches. He recognised you immediately. Don’t worry, I don’t think anyone would believe me if I told them.”

She continues. “You exactly the same.”

He smiles a little. “Immortality will do that for you.”

“I suppose so.” She takes a little sip of tea, then purses her lips into a grimace. “But I meant that you look like you did in Arthurs pictures..” She sees the look on his face. “He has them on his mantle piece, that’s why I thought you were still close. I’m sorry.”

“I suppose it’s going to seem a bit silly but I only realised who you were when you walked through the door the other day. It’s your voice, I think.” Her eyes take on the far off look of the old when recalling something very far away. Extremely far. If her father had recognised him during the independence marches or even the salt marches, she must have seen him when she was just a little girl.

He doesn’t say anything.

She looks sad. “I suppose that must mean that Arthur is the same type as you. Who is he then, really, Britain?”

“England.”

“Oh.” She has a far off look on her face. “No wonder my boys were so trusting of him.”

He feels his brow crease. “You weren’t?” Generally people who immigrated where as much a part of the nation as anyone else, though they never lost that thread to their first home. Being around England should have been as natural as breathing.

She gives a sharp toothed smile. “A bit.But he fights his family constantly, he even told me that he’d driven everyone away. Even the man he loved.” She shrugs. “I can read between the lines.”

India’s voice catches in his throat- it takes him a moment to regain composure.

“Did he really help your boys without asking for anything?”

She gives him a serious look. “Yes.”

He gropes around for another explanation. “And did you ever get the feeling that he had some other interest, a plan- or just something he wasn’t telling you?”

“Other than being the immortal embodiment of England?” she says, one eyebrow raised. He purses his lips at her.

“No.” She says. Her voice was firm. “I have a good sense of people and he goes to my crochet club. And I knew he could be erratic from Ishaan. He never did anything untoward.”

“And your boys would never hide their worries from you, or lie to cover something up?” He couldn’t deny, something had been off in that conversation.

“No!”

India feels the floor fall out from under him, his stomach shrivels and his palms sweat. There’s no escaping it. He was wrong, Bengal was right. See, I told you he didn’t do it.

Mrs Thakur takes a sip of tea. “If it helps, my husband was always lovely to people outside the family.”

“Arthur wasn’t.” He replies flatly. “He coasted by on sarcasm and his political convenience.” There was little more useful than the combined knowledge and determination of a loyal creature that cannot die and will not rebel.

A moment of silence opens up between them. The coffee cools untouched in a mug as India taps his fingers against his tea cup.

“I don’t think he liked himself very much.” India says slowly. An internal dam broke, and the words flowed out. “He used to get drunk- or high- a lot. He was arrogant, a tyrant when sober. But when he drank he’d sometimes be easier to handle. Gentler. He didn’t dwell on things so much.” Memories of sopping up vomit and blood, of hauling back a sobbing man and holding him till he stopped. His hand tightened involuntarily on his cup. “Or he’d be worse. Much worse.”

He sends a desperate glance to Mrs Thakur. He doesn’t want to explain this, but is scared he might not be able to stop. She nods in understanding.

“And he’d apologize sometimes. He’d be nearly normal . And I’d think- I can make this work. You know? Especially because he always tried to stick to his own rules.” It’d been one of the things he’d genuinely admired- England barely gave a shit about what others thought of him, but he had his own code. India is, and always had been, a social butterfly. He’d admired that. They’d admired each other. It makes him feel sick to remember it. “Do you know what was so bad about this, really? It made him predictable - to me at least. And I could use that. Sometimes. And I could-”

“Protect the others.” Mrs Thakurs eyes were as far away as India felt. He nods. It takes him a long time to forgive himself, that. It wasn’t something he could pride himself on. After all it’s not like he could have died .

“And he thought himself good. Because he’d only occasionally smack us about.” His voice shakes with anger.

"They always think that.” Mrs Thakurs voice is heavy with disdain. They lapse into silence.

“Mine liked to dance.” Her voice is quiet, but strong. Unlike him, she sounds like this topic is well worn. He wonders if she saw a doctor. “I tried to find as many classes as I could. I had blisters on my feet for years. ” She shakes her head. “Can’t stand it now.”

“We’d watch Shakespear.” He’d never grown sick of them though, they’d been an escape.

Again they lapse into silence, nursing their hurts. It took a weight off him, to talk to someone who knew how bad it could get. Bengal… Just wasn’t Bangladesh. She hadn’t lived through it. Yet. His heart clenched. She liked him.

India was tolerating him for the greater good.

“One thing I don’t understand.” Her voice is slow. “Is why you don’t just take the child and run.”

His mouth goes dry. “Mrs Thakur- “

“Padma.” She gives a wan smile. “I think we’re beyond formalities, don’t you? What I mean is - you escaped. Arth- England - is not your problem anymore. I like living here, I even get like Arthur well enough. But, what’s the phrase? He made his bed- let him lie in it. If he- if he has no one who wants to help- that's his own fault.”

He looks at her, and tries to organise his feelings into something that makes sense. If anyone deserved to be left alone to suffer- he suppresses a shudder at the thought- it was England. The man never wanted help anyway. But that’s not an image he can sustain. Instead his brain measures that horrible unpredictability next to him trying to help. This strange thing casting spells that should be impossible. Little England seizing, blood dripping from his face. And a wrinkled, thin man in a dhoti- fighting for freedom without ever firing a shot.

“Because it would be wrong.” Padma’s eyebrows shoot up, and he rushes to clarify. “For me anyway. I think he’s in real danger- and I don’t want that.” He doesn’t say, so is my sister , because he realises to him, that’s not relevant. He could have left England behind. It’s strangely painful to realise why he didn’t. “I haven’t wanted that for a long time.”

Padma gives him a soft look. “Is that why you joined the non-cooperation movement?”

“No.” India is a bad pacifist. He’d joined because, after a certain amount of time, England couldn’t justify hitting someone who didn’t fight back. Predictability. It had ruled his life.

“How about you?” Her eyes widen.

“Me?”

“Why didn’t you take Arjun and run?”

She looks sad. “Nowhere to run to, I suppose. And who would I be if I did- hah! Some unreliable’ divorcee, immigrant, single mother. I barely even spoke Englinsh- he wouldn’t let me learn you know. All the other ladies thought I was too proud. Or stupid.” She looks at her teacup. “Even the Asians.” She smiles forlornly. “I never was good at making friends.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, he’s long dead now.” She shakes her head, looking pained. “Is that why you can bare to look for him? Because you escaped and I didn’t?”

“I -” he closes his mouth, starts again, “-I don’t think so. It’s been longer for me.” They live so long that, though he thinks they’re very like their citizens, some solutions are just open to them that- aren’t. To humans. But he’s also stronger now, no longer fracturing at the edges, or willing to entertain dangerous men just to wrestle control out of chaos.

Vaguely, he is aware that most of the patrons have filtered out. Sunlight still streams through the windows- but it’s noticeably lower in the sky. The waitstaff are packing up, mopping and cleaning tables. He takes a sip of tea and makes a face. It’s gone cold.

“I don’t know what to do.” He says. “I don’t know if it matters that he didn’t ask for payment. His kid-” he pauses for a half-second at the lie, but stops himself from backtracking, “- his kid is showing signs of being like him.”

“Oh.” She winces. “I got lucky. Arjun’s nothing like his father.”

“I think my sister wants me to forgive him.” He blurts it out. It’s unfair, perhaps, but the fear is there. Padma sips some tea.

“Was your sister there?” she asks eventually.

He opens his mouth, closes it, then opts for honesty. “No.”

“Then I don’t think she gets a say, do you?” Her voice is firm, and allows no argument.

There’s a gentle cough next to them.

“Sorry,” says the bouncy barrister in English, “But we’re closing soon..”

“No problem, we were just finishing.” India replies. He feels wrung out and dry, but lighter too. Padma nods. He helps her to her feet, wincing at the audible click of her arthritic knees. Humans aged so painfully. They walk out the door together.

“See! There he is!” India turned in surprise. England was running up the street, rudely pointing right at him. He turns to yell at Bengal, who is following at a more sedate pace. “I told you he was around here!”

She rolls her eyes.

“That’s what you said three streets ago!” As they get closer he can see they must have got a little sleep- their faces are flush with health and they’re standing straight again. Doubtless that was why England could find him now. He feels a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. England also had a bandage on his right hand. He’d have to ask about that later.

He turns back to Padma. “Goodnight, thankyou for talking to me.” He means it.

She gives him a long look, then smiles. “Likewise. Take care, India.”

Chapter Text

“And as reports continue to come in about the acute, mania-like symptoms affecting local residents in Wiltshire, activists have renewed criticism of the Government's cuts to local social services. The incidents have been likened to medieval dancing plagues by experts, with-”

“Are you sure about this?” India turns the radio off, switching back to his phone’s home screen, before facing Bengal. Sun streams through the window as she sips her tea. It gives a golden, hazy look to everything, like the air is soaked in honey.  

“Shouldn’t I be?” He says, hand pausing over his coat before leaving it on the rack and only pocketing his car keys. Pain flickers across her face- he sighs. “Look, I know they’re lying about something. And you’re right, we can’t waste time.” He translates the news report before continuing. “Those villages are near Stonehenge. If that’s not a high magic area I don’t know what is. What the Thakurs are hiding… it could help us.” 

She doesn’t reply, but her face is twisted into an unhappy look. His phone buzzes and he turns from her to unlock it with a flick of his thumb. Norway.

Transformations are extremely rough on the body. Memory loss, body pain, balance issues- unless someone really knows what they’re doing you can badly hurt someone. You don’t have to worry so much with nations, but humans? Aren’t that sturdy. 

He frowns and takes a bite of his dosa. 

The birds chirp as Bengal sips her tea on the steps. Absentmindedly, India shifts from one foot to another, as he finishes his food. He would normally eat at the table but he’d woken up solidly energetic- he’d not stopped researching all morning. On the floor above, England kicks his feet back and forth through the railings, head hanging in a doze.  

“I want to take Arthur with me.” India says eventually. Bengal is startled, then her forehead creases in concern. “As a thankyou- and sorry. For leaving you in that state.” 

“Do you think you’ll be ok?” he shrugs, drawing on that well of...strength? Purpose. That had been replenished. He glances up at the boy above. 

“Yes. I do.”

The car is so stifling hot, even India has to open a window. Next to him sits England, bright red from heat but otherwise alert. He’d been in a funny mood the whole journey, tracking India’s movements almost nervously, and jumping at roundabouts. Perhaps India’s dissociative driving had been scarier than he’d thought. He suppresses a twinge of guilt. 

He feels a bit incongruous parking on the Thakur’s driveway. He’d not really noticed before, but the street was incredibly normal- redbrick semi’s with a few potted plants outside. The other cars are decent to shabby hatchback type things- with the occasional big piped, innocuously small young man’s racer to break it up. His own shiny government car sticks out like a sore thumb. 

He double checks his phone- 14.55. Just five minutes before they’d planned. That was ok. 

“We’re only here to get information.” He re-explains to England. “I’ll lead- you can support me. Just act natural and we’ll be fine.” Sit still, be quiet, is what he doesn’t say- it’s not like the child will be able to understand what’s being said. But the kid is so on edge from the journey India needs to soothe his ruffled feathers.

The boy just stiffens up more. So India breaks out a cocky grin as he cracks the car door open.  

“Don’t worry! We won’t leave without answers.” 

They swan up the drive, past the potted coriander bush together. It’s not long, but it does the trick. Confidence flows up India’s legs and shakes out into his shoulders, and his open posture becomes as natural and light as air. England shifts behind him, serious and dour.  India straightens his shirt. Then knocks. 

“Come in!” Arjun throws open the door, smiling and rumpled all over. His green shirt is streaked with flour. Despite his smile, his eyes are creased with worry lines. “Mum’s out, so there’s not much cake- but I’ve made tea and scones.” 

“Please.” India replies, as both of them follow him through to the livingroom and settle on the sofa. Tea pots are already on the table, joined by half a dozen lumpy scones with cream and jam. India's own practiced smile comes much more naturally than Arjun’s. Ishaan smiles back at him, already sat across from them on the other sofa, legs crossed and Alice in Wonderland open on his lap. 

“If you want biscuits, there’s some in the kitchen. Feel free to help yourself” India nods, and relays the message to England, who immediately perks up and slips away. Arjun snorts, soft face still settled into a warm smile. However, it slips away as he sits next to his husband and meets India’s eyes. 

“So what did you want to talk about, Vihaan?” His eyes are nervous. 

“I just wanted to go over a few things regarding the night of the fire… and the month before, if that’s possible.” 

Arjun gives him a confused, uncomfortable smile. “Why so formal? Just ask us whatever, you know?” 

India forces himself to relax his shoulders. “I was going to ask if anyone had access to your house in the month before the fire? Break ins, unexpected guests?” 

“No.” They both look surprised, and Arjun glances at Ishaan. “Should we?”

India bites his lip for a moment before deciding to tell them. “The arrays used on your house were spontaneous- rather than being drawn by someone then activated- which is pretty rare.” One of a kind. “Are you sure there wasn’t anyone at all? Especially in February - anyone who might have been upset with you.”

They shake their heads. Ishaan speaks up, deep voice ringing with sincerity. “You mean the fire? I can’t imagine anyone- obviously a lot of people get upset with me at the hospital because they’re under a lot of stress. But nothing like that. I mean even the police haven't found anyone with a grudge.” 

“The police?” The last India had heard the fire had been written off as faulty wiring.

Ishaan freezes for a half second. Unless you were looking for it, you’d have never noticed. Mentally, India files it away. “They carried out a full investigation, obviously, to determine if it was suspicious. It was actually them that made me aware of the array in the first place. They showed me the pictures in victim support.” 

His brow creases in confusion. “Really? Seems a bit harsh. Why go into the house for another picture after that?” 

Ishaan meets his eyes with a level stare. “They clearly had no idea what they were looking at- the picture wasn’t very good. Besides-” he shrugs, “-it’s not like I could just walk out with their evidence and hand it to Arthur is it?” 

India’s reply is interrupted by England walking in, laden with biscuits. He walks into the living room carrying a plate of them, pockets noticeably bulging. He freezes for a moment and eyes the adults suspiciously. India shuts his mouth and redirects.  

“It’s ok, come and sit down.” He says in French,  and pats the seat next to him. England nods, puts the plate on the table and joins him before fishing a custard cream out of his pocket.

“Kids.” Arjun shakes his head with a strained smile. 

“You have no idea,” India jokes back. The tension hasn’t diminished at all. He scratches the back of his neck as he turns back to Ishaan. “Is there anything on the night you could have missed?”

Ishaan frowns thoughtfully. “Maybe? Like he-” he pats Arjun's knee, “-told you, I don’t remember much. I went to bed early, I remember that because this one’s crosswords were still all over the place, I had to remove like- five of them to lie down.” A small smile twitches his lips. “After that- it was cold, and terribly painful all over. The next thing I can remember is waking up in an alley and scrambling out to see the house on fire.” 

Again there’s a small hitch that has India tensing automatically, besides him, he notices England do the same- even without understanding the conversation. Maybe it’s his Connection, or maybe he’s just picking up on India’s body language. 

Arjun squeezes Ishaan's hand as the man miserably rubs his brow. “Arjun was crying, and handed me his dressing gown. Good job too because the ambulance and that didn’t take long to get there.” He laughs unhappily. “I don’t particularly want to get done for streaking.” 

India quirks his lips into a sympathetic smile as he lets Ishaan gather himself. He backs off a little too. “And nothing else outside the house was odd or unusual in any way?”  

“Not unless you count the weather,” says Arjun, half joking. Ishaan squeezes his hand again.

“Yeah, I was back at work the next day. Felt like a sauna.” Ishaan says, and looks at his husband. “Some places are getting rain though.” 

“Like Surry.” Arjun smiles and nudges him. India gives them a confused look. “We went to visit my Aunt.” says Arjun. Again, an uncertainty- more noticeable this time. India and England tense. 

“I thought Padma left all her relatives back in India?” She’d certainly implied it. Arjuns face freezes. 

“My Aunt, there are two of us after all.”  Ishaan's voice is light but notably cool. Arjun visibly relaxes. India shrugs apologetically before moving on.  

“Did the spell leave you feeling sick? Or disoriented at all?” 

Ishaan laughs bitterly, “Which one?” 

“Any.” 

Ishaan gives him a long look. “All of them. Why does it matter?” 

India shakes his head. “Are you sure?”

Ishaan gives him a long look. “Yes, of course I am. Why.”

“Because that’s not possible.” Ishaan opens his mouth, India beats him to it. “Transformations are brutal on the body.everything twists and warps. And a human mind doesn’t fit neatly into a goats brain. The resulting trauma is somewhat like a concussion, apparently. And agonising body pain unless the caster really knows you and what they’re doing. You wouldn’t have been able to crawl out of that alley on your own. Or remember that the bed was covered in crosswords right before. And you certainly wouldn’t have been at work the next day.”

Ishaans reply is quick. “Well maybe it wasn’t the next day, maybe it was a few days- like you said I was sick.”

India shakes his head. “I phoned and checked with your work. You were in the next morning.”

“You- You called my work?” Ishaan rocks backwards. “How?”

India keeps his voice level. “I told you, I’m Arthurs co-worker. I have to get to the bottom of this.” He doesn’t say- I pulled strings with the civil service - he doesn’t have to. Ishaan’s head sinks into his hands. 

“Holy shit.” Arjun is white as a sheet, but squeezes his husband close as he continues. “Fucking fuck.” 

India ignores him.

“The spell didn’t actually transform you, did it?” 

“No.” Ishaan still has his head in his hands. “I got flung to some godforsaken field in Surrey. Nearly got arrested for streaking.” 

“It’s not like it even matters.” He lowers his hands from his face. “The police aren’t going to believe me if I told them the truth. And even if I did they’d still want to know why I was even in Surry that night instead of at home. And while Arjun nearly burned to death I was being useless in some stupid bloody feild in the rain nicking clothes so my bolloks didn’t freeze off! And the police still think I did it! You want the truth? Fine! The police think I burned the house down! They think I did it! It doesn’t even matter if they prove it because the suspicion could make me lose my job! Being a nurse..it’s my whole life! Happy now?! Even streaking will fuck me over. So a fat fucking lot of good this does me-” 

Ishaan slams his hand into the table- more bite than bark. India jumps reflexively. There’s a flash of silver- and Ishaan screams. 

There’s a knife sticking out of his hand. Blood everywhere. 

It seems to impale him to the table. India can only stare in shock as England leaps up and grabs it smoothly from flesh. He then levels it back at Ishaan- who’s coiled on the sofa around his hand, looking small- or maybe that’s just because India is standing now? Before changing targets to Arjun, who’s also on his feet. England's hand doesn’t even waver. 

“PUT IT DOWN! ” 

“GET AWAY FROM MY HUSBAND!”

India turns the tables over in a crash and shoves Arjun out of the way as the knife misses him by inches. England's face is stone and he handles the knife with practiced ease. India puts himself between this madman and the Thakurs- hands open. England's eyes widen in shock.

“Get out of the way!” He says in French.

“England. Arthur. Put the knife down. You don’t want to do this.” His own voice is shockingly steady, though it feels like it comes from a different person, somewhere in front of his mouth, rather than in it. The boy looks at him blankly.

“Why? I’m doing my job.” The knife gleams as he readjusts his grip. It was a kitchen knife, with a black handle, and an inhuman, wicked thin, sharp blade. With no crossguard it wasn’t suited for this stabbing and Arthur had already cut himself on it. A thin line of blood ran from his hand, down the handle to join the rest staining the blade. India felt sick. 

“You don’t want to do this though. Right?” India waves his hand at- everything. Broken crockery and furniture. Blood. Vaguely he’s aware that Arjun and Ishaan have retreated to the back of the room- perhaps even the kitchen. He thinks he can hear someone on the phone- Arjun. Good. He’ll call the police. Or an ambulance. Both. 

He takes a step closer to England. If he can, he’ll grab his arms. There are some options that are only open to nations. England takes a step back, looking frustrated. 

“That’s not the point!” England says it like India’s the unreasonable one. He waves the blade around emphatically. India waves his hands to calm him. 

“What are you talking about?” Hurt flickers across the boys face. 

“You wanted them to talk, and they threatened you.” India’s mouth drops open as his hearing suddenly went muffled, like his whole head hand been dunked underwater. The information hit this interior wall inside his head and just.. Bounced off. He took it and wrapped it around until it was balled up and buried. Outside himself, he can hear England still talking. 

For a long while he can’t respond. It’s strange, but from the inside he can see England's face change as his green eyes sweep over India’s face. As he gets no verbal response. He must not look too good. The boy looks confused, then worried, his eyes darting around the room then back to India. He wonders if it’s finally dawning on England that something is very, very wrong.

“Arthur.” It takes a lot of work to make his mouth move, and his voice croaks. “Put the knife down, please.”

He creeps forward by millimeters. And it feels like aeons. Finally his hands close on England’s. They’re warm and tiny and England's eyes flick down to look at them before staring back at India. He applies the barest pressure to get him to lower his weapon. 

When the police barge through the door, the knife is already on the table.  

The police station smells of vomit and bleach. 

India is sat in the waiting room, on a hard plastic chair. Between diplomatic immunity and the Thakurs testimony he’d been quickly released. 

England is in custody. 

The shock had faded to numbness, then anger. It started as a small simmer in the toes and fingers and worked its way up- until it burned over his legs, arms, face and chest. The kind of bone deep, gut wrenching rage that burned long, rather than hot. Which was good, because he’d been wrong - the knife hadn’t missed Arjun. He’d needed stitches. India hadn’t- benefits of being a nation. His ears are ringing. 

It’s my job! 

India glowers at his phone, the face still showing the number of the Brittish Prime Minister. His lip curls in disgust. Apparently no one at the Home Office had thought that their miniaturized nation might need documents. Or diplomatic immunity. He takes some small satisfaction in forcing the obstinate bastards to actually do something for once. 

The relief was temporary. 

Squeaking door hinges make him jerk his head up to see an old, paternal looking policeman guiding England towards the front desk with a hand on his shoulder. The boy spots him, and pauses for a moment- wounded pride and fear flit across his face. Any other day it would have made his heart flinch. Not today. After a moment Arthur's face closes up, hardening into a look of aloof disinterest. India endured the police officers pointless lecture stoically, barely taking it in. The boys face is extremely familiar.  

He doesn’t care. 

He holds his anger tight to his chest on the drive home. They’d been lucky, apparently the civil service could cook some documents pretty fast when someone gave them the right incentive. He hopes they haven't been gone long enough to worry Bengal. He glances at his watch and scowls. 16 hours. Fat chance. England fidgets when he thinks India isn’t looking. India ignores him. The silence in the car is ice. 

He pulls into the drive, sweeps out of the car and into the house to the sound of crunching gravel. Once they’re both in the house he closes and locks the door. Then, and only then, does he turn to look at England. 

“What,” he hisses, “was that.” 

For a half-second the boy freezes again, then eyes narrow and he hisses back. 

“My job. If you didn’t want my doing it you should have said. ”

“No. I shouldn’t.” His heart is throbbing in his ears. “I should be able to trust that when I send you into our hosts kitchen you won’t steal a knife and fucking stab them with it! ”

“I only stabbed one of th-”

“I DON’T CARE!”

The boy flushes and balls his fists. “Why?! It’s not like you know them! They’re not even yours! They were hiding things! The skinny one was going to hurt you, why can’t you see that. Why are you being so stupid! ”

Blood drains from Indias face so fast it leaves him dizzy. “You what...” He tries to focus on the boy in front of him, not the swimming overlay of red coat and musket. He can’t. He’s not sure why he even bothers. “You... You vicious, evil little shit- how dare- ” 

“ AHHH!” 

They freeze. The scream is short, high pitched and female. India looks at the stairs in horror, then back to England’s shocked eyes. Bengal. 

Upstairs, the fit is still in progress. India begins to count, and slips a pillow behind Bengals head. Her body twists, long painful seizures interspaced with floppiness. Her scarf has got caught under one shoulder. At every twist it draws tighter around her neck. His fingers are shaky and unsure but he manages to slip a finger underneath and pull it away from her throat. England steps over the threshold.  

“Stay there!” He does, one had outstretched and eyes wide as saucers. 

India focuses on his sister. His hands struggle to find a way to fully loosen her hijab- his fingers slip over the cloth. And when he thinks he does grip the cotton and pull it completely loose, she’s not breathing. Carefully, he waits, heart in his throat. She breathes again when she goes limp, then stops when another fit takes her. It punches her gasping breath straight out of her. 

It happens twice more before the seizures finally pass. He gently rolls her onto her side, her eyelids flutter for a moment, but she doesn’t wake. Gently, he rubs her hand. Her face is relaxed, but so so tired, even asleep. Or unconscious. They’re not really the same. He checks his watch. Four minutes. Ish. He has a sinking feeling he’s in for a long wait.   

That they’re in for a long wait 

He glances back at the boy. He’s standing rigid at the entrance to the room, eyes not straying from India. India holds his gaze- he doesn’t know what else to do - other than keep the boy away from his sister.

“Is she alright?” England's voice is quiet. India shrugs. He doesn’t have the energy to lie. As he shifts his knee, paper crackles. 

He looks down. The floor- from door to bed- is coated with paper. If it had ever been in any order, Bengals seizure and India’s ruh to help her had destroyed it. He picks up two halves of a page that had ripped in the chaos and turns them over. They’re covered in Arabic- they look like passages from the Quran. 

His head is buzzing too much to make sense of it. Instead he focuses back on Bengal, and clears away only the papers that could make him slip. He opens his mouth. Pauses. 

“England.” He says eventually. “Could you prepare her bed for me?” 

The boy jumps to comply, skittering carefully around the edge so he doesn’t tread on her outstretched fingers. As he busies himself fluffing pillows and pulling back the duvet. India tries to figure out how best to lift his sister into bed. Carefully he bends her knees, loops his arms around her in a bridal hold and lifts her. It’s ungainly, and he struggles to put her down on the bed gently, and his back hurts. But he manages. 

England tries to help. India’s glare cuts him off before he can open his mouth and the boy backs away. 

He gets his sister tucked into her bed and strokes a stray hair back from her forehead. It’s wet. For a moment he just stares at it. Then he fluffs her pillows, wraps her up in the plain white duvet. He shudders. In this state it reminds him of a funerary shroud. 

Eventually he turns back to England. 

“You can help me tidy this up.” He gestures to the general chaos of the room. The boy immediately starts gathering papers. Between them it doesn’t take long to pile up pages and pages of quotes, ideas and theological arguments on the chest of draws. He even fishes her phone out from under the chest of draws. After the rustling stops, the silence is deafening. 

“I didn’t mean to upset-” 

“Don’t.” The child flinches. But India is dizzy from emotion, and can barely stand to look at the child right now. He can’t do this. “I need to sort out food. Stay here, and think about what you did. We’ll talk about this later.” 

He waits for the child to nod before taking the mess downstairs. 

In the kitchen, he can breathe again. He leans against the wall to hold himself up as his limbs shake. Gently, he lay the papers on the table. There were twenty of them, with at least double that number upstairs. Bangladesh had always been devout, but never like this.  

Mixed in with the direct quotes were theological theories- ramblings really. Her writing had suffered the same as her texts from sleep deprivation. Sentences were disjointed, changing subjects randomly or ending without conclusion. It was difficult to follow but it all revolves around a small range of passages.  

I seek refuge with Allah and with His Power from the evil that I find and that I fear.

In the name of Allah I perform Ruqyah upon myself from everything that harms me and from the evil of every soul, or from every envious eye, may Allah cure me.

It didn’t take a genius to realise she'd attempted to exorcise herself. And botched it. 

He clenched his jaw, if that was the case then why was she now unconscious? An excorsism in Islam either worked, or it didn’t. Or perhaps he was way off base, England had done nothing to trigger his own fit. Perhaps this is just the same. 

Her phone buzzes. Three missed messages. 

Bengal? Are you feeling a bit better?

Bengal?

Are you ignoring me, Bengal? 

He stares at the lock screen for a long while, they’re most definitely private. Even as he watches it buzzes again. Four missed messages. 

Seriously bengal stop scaring me like this. 

Bengal?

Bengal!

He doesn’t open them up, even as the phone keeps buzzing. Instead he messages Norway. 

Norway, I’m just back from the Thakurs. Not a transformation, it’s a translocation. Total translocations now 4. Transformations 0. Also some fires- failures maybe? 

My sister just had a seizure. 

He pauses for a moment, thumb hovering over send. He adds more.

Also you were wrong. England not safe around adults either. 

SEND. 

He puts the phone down and heads upstairs again. His feet are heavy on the stairs, and when he stands outside of Bengals room his whole body is stiff. The door is still open. England is slumped next to Bengal, not touching her. India fights the urge to drag him away. Instead- 

“England.” 

The child looks at him, eyebrows scrunched in stress, then stands. India steps aside to let him into the corridor before shutting the door, closing them in. 

“Why was it your job to stab him.” His voice is quiet and controlled. His hands are in his pockets and his arms close in with a relaxed spine. Deliberately unthreatening. The child shrinks in on himself- though he adopts India’s posture. Mirroring him. Silently.

“Eng-”

“I’ll pack my bags, yeah?” his voice is flat and unemotional, and he stares past India’s shoulder rather than look him in the face. 

“You’re going nowhere until you tell me why you hurt Ishaan.” England's face doesn’t change.

“Because I did.”

“England-” India growls. The child's eyes suddenly flash angrily.   

“He was going to hurt you! If that’s what you want, fine- I don’t care! But you told me they were going to give you information” England isn’t shouting, but only by force of will. “And they didn’t! They were lying to you. If you’re going to be weird, fine. But you’re the one who didn’t tell me!” 

India splutters and barely holds his own voice in check. “This is not my fault. I shouldn’t have to worry about you going mad if  someone twitches the wrong way!” 

England's eyes widen in shock. “I’m not mad!” 

India can’t help himself, he waves a hand in frustration. England flinches. “Aren’t you? Who does that?” 

“Then just chuck me out right now! I did what was right. I know it. I was taught it! If you don’t want me then just do it. I don’t care! ” India's ears ring as England gives up on keeping his voice down.  “You knew it! You told me that we weren’t going to leave without the information!-” 

“To keep you calm! Not so you’d stab him!” 

They stand across from each other screaming. India’s heart is thumping fast against his rib cage as his throat burns. Endland stands across from him eyes screwed narrow and fists balled, face sun-burn red. All pretense at keeping their voices down had failed.

“Who taught you!” It’s a demand. Not a question. England’s laugh is choked off with a dry sob.

“Why! So you can shout at them before you get rid of me? It doesn’t even matter. I didn’t even do anything bad .” 

“You stabbed a man!” 

England's eyes are wide and hopeless. “He deserved it!”  

India lets out a ragged yell and waves both his hands above his head. “Why!” 

“He was going to hurt you! So I hurt him first.” England's voice has descended into a furious growl. “If he didn’t want to get hurt he should have got out of the way.” Suddenly England leaned back and his face closes off into pained contempt as he blinks rapidly. “My king would have at least said thank you.” 

India's heart stopped and plummeted into his stomach. “What.”

England suddenly pales and squeezes his eyes shut and for a moment India thinks he’ll clam up. Then he meets India’s eyes directly. They bore into him. 

“My king would have understood what was needed. He would have known I was doing it for him. He would have been proud that I wasn’t being weak .!” England's voice chokes off for a second, his shoulders shake, and his hands clench and relax repeatedly. He visibly fights to stay in control.

“And unlike you he actually cares about me. He understands he can’t protect me from anything - they’ll always be a scarier fish, and if I’m not ready it’ll crush me. And I’d deserve it.” England spits it like venom. “So if keeping me safe means making sure I can fight, or making sure prisoners don’t run away, or - or waking up at sunrise to practice or even executing people! I don’t care. It’ll make me strong and safe and that’s all that matters. And do you know what!” He flings an arm out viciously and snarls. 

“I’m good at it. I’m tougher than any actual person. I can train harder, I mend faster - even if I break bones.” India’s entire body goes cold from shock. The child draws himself up to his full height. He barely comes up to India’s chest. His eyes are cold as ice, even as his hands shake and tremble.

“I enjoy it. And if you can’t handle that you can take your bulshit and shove it up your arse! ” England's voice cracks and squeaks- and he grabs his mouth with bruising force. But he can’t seem to stop himself, even though the tears are being held back by shear force. It just comes out muffled.

India is frozen. The hard lump of horror has tangled itself into a painful knot of pity which scrapes itself along his insides every time he swallows. It takes a moment to gather his thoughts as the child fights against his own instincts.  

“You don’t like doing that, do you?” He says eventually. England freezes, audibly choking on a sob. In his youth, India was never interested in what happened outside his borders- if it didn’t happen to his family or China, he ignored it. He almost regrets that now, because  the only nation he can think to compare this to is Russia. He doesn’t know if it’s close enough to be useful.

The boy doesn’t say anything, but turns his face away. The knot in India's stomach sinks even lower. Suddenly the kid mutters to himself in his own language. 

“It’s not like it’s a secret.” He doesn’t look at India when he speaks, and his French is thick with distress. “I protect the king. I fight in their wars. I serve their food. I dress them.” He pauses for a second. “I keep peace in their house. In return they - make sure I can learn. It protects me.” 

His voice falters, and India knows if he lets it lie the boy will never speak of it again. The adult hadn’t. 

“From?” 

“Everything-” His voice is breathy and panicked. “-I could be captured, or overrun again, or sold into slavery, or hurt, or tortured, or killed - not normal killed but killed forever and-” 

“And that makes it ok?” 

England looks at him, finally, imploring. His lip was shaking. “It’s the only thing I’m good for. I’m too stupid to be a diplomat and too nasty to be a monk. And some one has to keep Wales in line.” 

India takes a sharp breath through his teeth. He knows this side of the story.  “So as long as it’s for your king you can hurt anyone you like? Even your brother.” His voice is very careful and flat, trying to keep the child talking but unable to prevent his feelings showing completely. In his mind's eye he sees Ishaan bleeding. He very carefully does not think about who  the ‘king’ in that situation was. For all sorts of reasons. 

Headless of his tone England nods, eyes distant, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “Not anyone I like. Just anyone who needs it.”  

“And you think that works do you.” England jumps at his tone. Then he says something that immediately shatters it.

“Worked on me, didn’t it?” 

He doesn’t sound blase, like he doesn’t understand what he’s saying. Instead he sounds...exhausted. Like he’d long since accepted something ugly and painful and learned to live with it. As much as India didn’t want to think it, or wanted to think the adult would have told him, it fit. It didn’t sound like a lie. And what he’d already described- being a child servant and soldier- wasn’t so very different. 

It’s a thought all at once too alien and too obvious. He doesn’t know what to do with it. 

“Who.” he almost jumps at his own voice. England gives him a despairing look. 

“Lots of people. It doesn’t matter. I got less weak.” The last sentence is a dagger in India's heart, He doesn’t know enough to fix this. But he remembers the things people would say to him. It’s not the same. But.

“It still hurt you though, didn’t it?” 

England shrugs, tear tracks dried on his face, which is perfectly blank. “And? It’s not like I can die from it. Not really.” 

“That’s not the point.” Vaguely India wonder who said that to him. Correction. He wonders who said it to him first . 

England shrugs, and silence falls again. After a moment a thought clearly crosses his mind. His lip wobbles before he bites it and squeezes his eyes shut. “Can I at least say goodbye to Bengal before I leave?” 

India stares at him before kneeling down to his level. The boy turns away. “England, look at me.” He does. “I’m not getting rid of you.” 

Tears spring up in those large green eyes. “Why? I failed you .” 

India opens his mouth and swallows his pride. “You did the best you could. But please, please, promise me you won’t hurt anyone else again. Even if they look like they might hurt me. That’s not your job.” England stares at him like he’s an alien. Maybe to him, he is.. 

“But it is. ” England whispers. “Why do you even care. I hurt you didn’t I? Even my older self hurt you didn’t he?” 

India’s skin goes cold. He hadn’t even considered that the child might pick up on that.

 “Your older self...he used to hurt people to control them, to make them do what he thought was best. I’m not going to lie to you.”  England turns his face away, clearly in pain. India reaches out and touches his chin. The boy flinches. “But no one deserves to be treated that way. Not Ishaan, not Wales,” on the second attempt he turns England's face towards him. “And not you, either.”

England's face crumples and his eyes fill with tears. India opens his arms in a silent offer and England flung himself into the hug, burrowing himself into his chest and finally, finally . Cries.

Chapter Text

43 AD- Invasion of the Romans

410 AD- Retreat of Romans in Britannia

5th century (?)- Anglo-Saxons 

793 - Vikings 

1066~

A quiet groan interrupts him- he jerks his head up, but it’s not Bengal, it’s England. He’s sprawled against Bengals bed, head resting by her feet, but still on an uncomfortable wooden kitchen chair. He squirms and mewls - India pokes him. He wakes with a yelp, but nods sleepily at India before going back to sleep. This had happened three times now. England had pushed him away sharply after he’d cried himself out, and had turned away, clearly wrestling himself back into his normal. It hurt. But he’d stayed with Bengal all night and clearly let India see him sleep. It was something- trust.

But change? He just couldn’t know yet. Maybe.

India sighs, setting down the history book and his notes to rub away stiffness in his back and neck. The phone reads 5.30am. No new messages. It’s not a surprise- there’s been no change all night. Bengal is still unconscious.

Aside from England's periodic nightmares (curse related? Personal? The child hadn’t said and he hadn’t asked) the pair had been still. He’d watched them, staving off sleep by reading Bengals papers- all Ruqyahs, until the words blurred across the pages. Despite what she believed, he could follow what was written and meant- and it should have been safe. Why hadn’t she trusted him with it? What had been so terrible that she’d felt the need to hide? Had -

He swallows and squeezes his eyes shut. Correlation is not causation. His stomach flips over and he swallows again, quickly, reflexively.

Stuck, he’d then picked up a book of England's history- privacy was good right up until a man got stabbed. Now he knew-

Well, what? He knew England had been in the battles and he knew he’d been expected to justify and engage in battering his siblings. He knew he’d been scared, and believed the shit that had been fed to him. But the rest was all lists- what could he say about the Anglo-Saxons or Rome or even the Vikings? The Normans were probably bad but…

Sleep overtakes him. Then his ringtone nearly kills him in shock. He stares at it uncomprehending before opening the message. 7.40. Norway. He flails at it it. It hangs up. He screams quitely.

Luckily, Norway rings again.

“Hello?” India winces at his own voice- he sounds like he’s gargled a cheese grater.

“If I accept your time travel theory, will you set up a spare room for me?” Norway's voice is depressingly alert and- is that cars he can hear?

“Whuh?”

“...Obviously if you can’t I can stay at my embassy but ..” India cuts him off.

“No, we’ve got plenty of room, I hardly think England would mind,” India’s brain is slowly catching up to the rest of him, bringing the relief he should feel from being believed. Norway lets out a soft laugh.

“I’m not so sure of that,” he sounds sad, and a little bitter. “I’m sorry about your sister. Is she still unconscious?”

“I...yeah, she hasn’t stirred all night.” Again with the swallowing. He should really get a glass of water, to at least wash away the fear. If nothing else.

“Are you ok? What happened with England?” Norway's voice is notably softened. India’s not sure how to feel about that.

“Yeah. Thanks. What time are you arriving?” He avoids the final question, some things are best said in person. Suddenly a bolt of terror hits him. “You’re not bringing his brothers are you?”

There’s a moment of silence on the other end, and India hopes he isn’t offended by his blatant avoidance. “No, I left them and Denmark at Sweden's place last night when I got your texts.” India breathes a sigh of relief.  “I should be with you by lunchtime, ok?”

India thanks him, signs off. Then leans back and stares at his charges. They looked like a painting in the weak, early morning light- he could almost fool himself that they were both asleep. His heart clenches.

He needs to get out of here.

His head is so fuzzy that it’s a real fight to make it downstairs and to make a cup of tea without tumbling head over heels and into a cupboard or a wall. As it is he struggles to operate the kettle. Tea brings some life into him, but also brings the pain in his back and legs into sharp relief- even nations aren’t built for all nighters in wooden chairs. He paces around the ground floor to gently stretch them off. It’s on his second lap that it hits him. He marches back into the living room.

The living room is dark in the early morning sunlight, large windows letting in what little there was to no avail. Still it was nice, overstuffed chairs and sofa surrounded by little decorative coffee tables. And more bookshelves of course. And all of them had at least one ornament.

Apart from the mantelpiece.

Over the fire, at the heart of the room, it stood naked and empty. He hadn’t rightly noticed before, between his sister and the little boy causing havoc everywhere he went- and the curse. But typically it was stuffed to bursting with family photos. Big ones, small ones, wartime ones, christmas ones, baby ones- much to the consternation of the younger nations. Even Victorian ones in black and white. And at the heart of it stood a big family photo that had been updated every few decades stretching back to the invention of the camera.

He runs his finger along the naked shelf. Dust. Thick dust.

‘ BrrBing!’

He jumps, head snapping back. The doorbell? He checks his phone for updates, nothing. As harsh as it was England didn’t seem to have any friends who would check on him, and it was too late for it to be the milkman.  He opens the door. Postman, maybe? 

It’s Pakistan.

He slams the door shut.

“Ow! Open the door! Fuck!”

In the split second the door had been open, the woman who was technically his sister had wedged her foot in the door. As far as India was concerned it was her own fault it had got caught. He lets the pressure off anyway and opens the door to glare at her. She meets it without flinching.

“Finished?” Pakistan is the same height as him, but being female lends her the frankly unfair advantage of high heels. Especially when he’s still barefoot.

“What do you want.”

“Oh you know, quiet, peace on Earth, my rights to my border resp-” She cuts herself off with a forced cough. The interruption to her habitual snark is uncharacteristic. His eyebrows shoot into his hairline. She shuffles uncomfortably in the doorway as her face- almost a mirror image of his own- rearranges itself into something more appropriate and subdued.

“Bengal tried to exorcise herself didn’t she?” The eyebrow comes back down. Pakistan’s face is barely changed, but he knows her better than that. She’s afraid.

His eyes narrow. “How do you know that?”

Her eyes flick sideways to avoid them. “Can I come inside?”

Reluctantly he lets her in. In the hall she shrugs off her silver grey trench and slips off her unnecessary shoes. She avoids his stare, spending a few moments adjusting her skirt, shirt and scarf. They’re impressive, gleaming iridescent green with gold embroidery. His comfy blue striped pajamas don’t compare at all.    

The thing that offended him most however, was the small, peacock blue suitcase she’d dragged in behind her. It was only a weekend case, but it fucking rankled.

At least without the heels she didn’t tower over him anymore.

“Explain.” His voice is icy cold. He’s too tired for diplomacy. Pakistan looks unbalanced by the omission of their fighting -it only lasts a second.

“She asked me for help,” her voice is calm and measured. “You know our sister, she’s not normally one for Ruqyah. She wanted a second pair of eyes. You-” For a moment she pauses, before clearly biting her tongue, then she closes her eyes and starts again. “The sleep deprivation was messing with her, and I think she didn’t want to put more on you.”

There’s a moment of silence where India tries to digest this. The first emotion is of course, frustration- he’d worked that out himself, thanks. Others boiled underneath- guilt, worry and a dash of betrayal. Pakistan shifts uncomfortably.

“Is she ok?” India looks at her, she’s rubbing her hands nervously. “Did it work?”

“She had a seizure last night. She’s been unconscious ever since.” She pales.

“What? But that’s not right - “

“I know.” His voice is heavy, like his body, with tiredness. Up all night and he’s no closer to that answer than before. “I don’t know what happened.”

“Can I see her?”

A chill runs down his spine- cutting through everything else. “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

Pain flicks across her face and she clenches her jaw, visibly struggling with what she wants to say. Then she relaxes and proffers her open hands. Look, I don’t want to fight. India tenses.

“I’m not here to hurt her ag-”

A door slams upstairs. Their heads snap round to the top of the staircase. England freezes. His eyes flick from India to Pakistan and back again. India pushes past her to stand on the bottom step.

“What is it?” Out of the corner of his eye he sees Pakistan blink at the French. What? Did she really think it would be that simple?

“Bengal is awake!”
In a moment he bounds up the steps, Pakistan following behind. He has the presence of mind to order her to wait at the door before heading in himself. She ignores him. But as soon as he sees Bengal he doesn’t care.

Because something is wrong.

She’s sitting up, leaning doubled over and shaking in pain. Her hands are balled, white knuckled, in the sheets- still she turns and gives him a grimace-smile. 

“India?” She laughs, gurgling wetly. Despite the baby face, that’s modern Bengali coming out of her mouth.

A tentative smile crawls onto his own face.

“Bangladesh?”

Nose in the air she waves her hand like a queen, straightening up a little in defiance. “The one and only! Only took two weeks of judicious -” She stops, and pulls her hand down in front of her hand turning it this way and that. Smooth skin, unblemished and perfectly dark catches the sunlight. The smile slips away. A flurry of movement as her hands shoot under the covers and into her clothes, clearly feeling for something. Her eyebrows crease, then her eyes fill with worry.

“It didn’t work.”

“Sister?” Frightened eyes meet his.

“It only moved my mind didn’t it? This is my younger body?” He nods. “Shit!” She shakes her head. “Shit! Shit! SHit! That’s not right- I’ve been trying for weeks- fuck!” She turns back to him, face pale. “Pass me a pen and - ahh!”

She doubles over in pain- in an instant he’s by her side and holds her but she flinches and waves him away. Then her hands go back to clenching in the duvet. Stomach coiling and blood freezing, he obeys.

“Paper!”

He sweeps Bengals notes aside and grabs the notebook as the pages scatter to the floor. He strips it back to a clean page and hands it to her with a pen. The fit has passed but she’s sweaty and grey from pain. His heart pounds in his ears as she writes with trembling hands. As she writes, she talks.

“Here are my experiments. I was sent to thirteen sixty two, under the command of Ilah Shah. I know you don’t like him but-” A wave of pain makes her yelp, and England is by her and grabs her hand. She snatches it away quick as thought- staring at him wide eyed. He flinches.

She looks up and her eyes narrow. Not at him, but past him. He follows her gaze-

“Brother.” Her voice is icy calm. “What is she doing here.” Pakistan is standing in the doorway like a green and gold statue, with a look of - the only word he can think is grief but surely that can’t be right. Whatever it was vanishes under scrutiny leaving sharp faced disdain in its wake.

“Saving you from this spectacular mess you’ve made of yourself.” India opens his mouth, anger swelling in his throat. His sister cuts him off.

“Fine. Do whatever you want.” Pakistan's hands clench. Bangladesh ignores her and turns to him. “I trust you know what you’re doing?”

His whole body freezes for a second. Eventually he grasps for words. “I’m trying to get rid of one of them, I promise.” Which of the two would be worse to keep? Her face softens when it comes back to him.

“Don’t worry about it.” Her hands are stiff in the bed sheets. “They’ll probably come in handy.” 

Then she shudders, leans over the side of the bed, and throws up. India leaps away to avoid it, it barely misses his shoes. His face contorts in shock. It’s black .

For a while she just heaves, and he’s rooted to the spot. There’s a clank- England has grabbed a bucket and shoved it under her face. It’s far too late to save the carpet but it’s a gesture he didn’t expect - and when Bangladesh stops throwing up he can see from stare that she didn’t either.

She draws herself up, dignified if not for the shaking and the black drool slipping from her mouth- she wipes it away quickly, eyes closed.

She takes a deep breath.

“I’ve been using Ruqyah for weeks to try and undo the spell, with no success. I thought initially it was England-” Arthur jumps at his name but she doesn’t notice. “ - but that can’t be true. No mortal- even a nation, can fight that. Whatever pulled me through-”She bends over and loses another wave of black vomit and as she straightens she suddenly cries out in pain- hands seizing around the blanket. India grabs a tissue and wipes away the mess she can’t get for herself. Her teeth are clenched so hard only tiny wimpers escape. He grabs her hand- yelps and yanks it back.

It's burning hot- like fire.

She pants and coughs as the fit recedes. “It’s not going to let me go this easily- I feel it tearing me in two.” Her eyes are wide with despair. “It should have worked- I’ve been trying for weeks, I don’t even know why it got me here now-”

“The exorcism,” India breathes. “Your younger self tried Ruqyah last night - do you think?”

She nods. “It must be. I- It’s almost like I’m on either side of a tunnel. One end here and the other in the thirteen hundreds. If we each tried at the same time then maybe it overrode whatever was keeping us trapped for a little while. But even then-” She gestures helplessly down at her young body. India nods.

“India, I don’t think I can do it again.” He stares at her, her voice is shaking and she swallows. “They won’t let me.” His stomach turns to lead.

“What?”

“The space, in between the two ends of the tunnel it’s full of creatures-” She shudders and a wave of pain makes her yell. “These- I can’t even explain them- it was so dark but I could feel them and - I got away but- !”

Suddenly she goes limp. India grabs her before she falls straight out of bed, Laying her back down onto the pillows he shakes her gently. A pained sound erupts from the base of his heart.

“Bangladesh? Sister? Come on, fight it!” She doesn’t wake up.

He swipes his hands through his hair, giving up after only a second. Her breathing is shallow, but steady and her hands have relaxed. Under them, the blanket is burned. All around them is the sour stench of sick. She’s trapped back in that tunnel - whatever it is- and there's nothing he can do.

“So you’ll let me help?” India whirls around. Pakistan towers over him. He stands up sharply. She continues. “What do you think she meant by creatures?”

He stares at her blankly. Then the anger hits.

“You think that after that I’m going to let you stay?” England, who’d been crouched by Bengal, stands beside him - glaring at Pakistan. He flings a hand out. He hates Pakistan, but she doesn’t deserve to be set on by the boy. Besides. He made a promise.  Her face contorts in anger, but not shock.

“Oh give it up! What are you going to do? You’re stumped. Stuck. Up Shit creek without a fucking paddle. She’s my sister too and she is in danger, you have no right-”

“ Nineteen seventy-one .” He doesn’t say it loud. He doesn’t have to. Her face pales, and her body hunches in on itself in shame.

She doesn’t apologize- but then again, he didn’t expect her to.

“I told you, I'm not here to hurt her again.” She whispers. “I swear on my soul- I’m not.”

“India? England?” He whips around. His sister, still shrouded in pillows, has cracked her eyes open. Her voice is cracked and horse from Bangladesh's vomiting and yelling, but it is unmistakably Bengal. Dopey, she scans the room, her eyes widen in shock as she sees Pakistan. And she grins ear to fucking ear. “Shaha?”

Pakistan moves to take a step past him and he blocks her. The moment is awkward. Even England jumping in to check on Bengal doesn’t help. Her replies permeate the room as he holds Pakistan's gaze.

“I’m fine. Tired. No it doesn’t hurt too badly. The smell is pretty bad, but I’m not sure I can walk just yet.” She laughs “No! He’ll throw his back out completely. You bought the bucket? Thankyou. Of course I’m fine!”  

Eventually, minutely, Pakistan steps back- but her eyes never leave his. It’s enough.

He turns back to her to assess the truth of Bengals claims, and finds her eyes flicking back to him. Between him and Pakistan, in fact. He tries to smile reassuringly, but she scowls at him, for just a moment. It hurts his heart. But it’s ok, he’ll tell her the truth when she’s well. He smiles at her and she does smile back. So.

He turns back to Pakistan. For a moment he watches her watch Bengal.

“Fine. You can stay.” he says it in Urdu. Her shock is quickly, infuriatingly, stifled. “But if you so much as lay a finger-”

“I understand, India.” There’s a little hitch before she says his country name, and her eyes are tired. But he means it. It’ll have to do. He stands aside so she can sit beside their baby sister.

Even though she’s ignoring him, he nods. “I’ll make some lunch.” Not that he or his charges have had breakfast. At the door he turns back- England is glaring at Pakistan, much to Bengals whispered discomfort.

“England?” The child turns to him, but his body is facing Bengal. “Could you help me make dinner?” For a moment he thinks Arthur might refuse, but all he does is shoot another nasty look at Pakistan before joining him. India places a hand on his shoulder and switches to French.

“It’s ok, she’s safe now.” The child nods, face firm and serious.

There is nothing, Bengal decides, quite like sunlight on cold skin, or family after nothingness. Or soft blankets. The fear of the inbetween place had burrowed itself straight into her bones . India’s care and England's self-conscious worry root her on Earth, words filling up the space where anxiety would breed. And Sahadeva is here.

Which she hadn’t expected.

India sweeps out of the room, England in tow, but Pakistan remains staring at her. Her face is surprisingly still, but her eyes are wide and worried. Warmth blossoms in her chest, entirely separate from the all over cold ache in her bones that the- whatever it had been, had put in her. Sick smell makes her stomach roll, but honestly she has no more to throw up. Laying down she can see Shaha's throat work, even though she remains silent. Desperate for the warmth of conversation she tries to relieve the pressure on her shoulders by sitting up. Mistake. She yelps. Everything hurts.

“Lie down, just rest ok?” Her sister reaches out to push her back down- but, honestly, she doesn’t need the help because her back gives out on her. For a moment Bengal blinks uncomprehending at the ceiling. As the pain recedes, the world comes back- and her sister is hovering above her hands hovering above. Her own hands are shaking, still she gives her a smile.

Shaha smiles back, but it doesn’t reach her eyes, which almost look through her. “Do you remember what happened?”

Bengal shuts her eyes. Cold. Black. A golden thread. Fear . “Yes. I went all the way back- home? I saw Ilah Shah again.” And scared him witless with her yelling. “And then-” her throat swells up. She opens and closes her mouth. Nothing comes out. “Sorry - I don’t want to-”

“Shh, it’s ok.” Her sister coos like Bengal is still a babe in arms, which should make her furious. But honestly she’s so tired and in so much pain that it’s nice to be babied for a moment. And this Shaha, with her sad eyes, knows her boundaries. She shouldn’t need to fight to prove herself so much.

After a moment of soft, warm silence, her sister speaks again. “I’ll mop up the sick, shall I?”

“Alright.”

Bengal watches her elder sister tie up her glamorous skirts and grab a mop and bucket. Unbidden, tears fill her eyes. It’s a ridiculous sight. Powerful, regal Shahadeva mopping up her baby sister’s sick like a hand maid.

“What’s wrong!” In an instant she’s by her side fluffing pillows. It’s so alien that despite the pain she starts giggling and can’t stop. Her big sister cracks a smile, but she still looks so worried.

“Nothing! Nothing!” She hiccups. “I’m just so glad to see you!”

And Shaha smiles, real and genuine and swipes a hair away from her face. “Same to you, sister.”

Down in the kitchen, India’s phone is buzzing. He flicks it open- it’s Norway.

Can you prepare beds for two, please? Scotlands coming.

Ire- so close to the surface right now, bubbles up only to be interrupted by another buzz.

Little shit stowed away in my boot - can’t even send him back.

He sighs, frustrated and heavy. Though his shoulders relax.

“She’s your sister isn’t she?” And his shoulders hitch right back up again. England is staring up at him with those lamp like green eyes- but they’re wide and serious, with not a trace of guile or scorn. India lets his shoulders relax again.

“Yes.” He pauses for a moment. “She’s my twin.” England's eyes widen in shock- going comically bog eyed. He can’t help but laugh a little. It comes out slightly choked. Sibling countries were pretty normal, stick in a border or a mountain range with plenty of trade and watch them sprout like mushrooms- but twins? For most of his life he’d thought they were the only ones. Right up until he’d met the Koreas. Against his own will tears build up behind his eyes. England's mouth immediately snaps shut, and he looks at the ceiling- clearly uncomfortable. 

“It’s ok, I don’t like my siblings either.” it’s so heartfelt he laughs again- but it’s a little warmer this time. He breathes and pushes  the tears back. “If you like I could-”

“No.” His voice is firm, and he hopes one day he’l get used to the rollercoaster of emotions. Instead, he places his hand on England's shoulder. “I meant what I said. It’s not your job to fight my battles - never was, never will be. I’ll deal with Pakistan, ok?”

The child nods, now looking at him again- his hand has coiled into India’s rumpled shirt. He needs to tell him. “On the subject, Scotland and Norway are coming tomorrow. Will you be alright with that?”

England pales and nods, his hand tightening compulsively in India’s shirt. “I’m gonna have to be, aren't I?” India says nothing, but draws the boy into a warm, strong hug. The only promise he can make. 

Chapter Text

“If I’d known you were going to be difficult, I’d have kept my mouth shut.” Bengal rolls her eyes, the day Shaha kept her thoughts to herself was the day the Earth stood still. Then she takes a deep breath and steps- gritting her teeth against the pain that races through her stomach. Shaha, if anything, grumbles louder. “You should be in bed .” 

Bengal tightens her arm around her sister's shoulder, but doesn’t say anything as they tackle the next few steps. Shaha doesn’t see this as any reason to stop. Naturally. “I mean Norway is an adult- I’m sure we can trust him not to leave the house a smoking wreck. He can just cope with not being waited on hand and foot for five minutes.”  

“He’s already been there two hours.” Shaha gives Bengal a look , and her jaw clicks shut. She keeps it that way for the rest of the steps, not least because even with support, every step is agonising. The only thing stopping her from going back up to her bedroom is that- this close to the end- the return journey would be even worse. Besides, the lingering cold is unbearable. At least downstairs is full of distractions. 

She can hear those distractions through the wall. She can’t make out anything they’re saying of course, they’re speaking a language that sounds very different from Latin- though given they’re neighbours they could all be speaking their own too. England doesn’t seem to be saying much. But maybe that’s a good thing?

Suddenly, there’s a burst of searing cold through her stomach and black spots in her vision. Her foot slips, straight off the step and jamming her heel into the floor. She folds like a pack of cards, horribly weightless before crashing down the last stairs. Shaha yelps and lets her go. Pain lances through her tail bone, foot and lightnings up her back. Shaha massages her own neck. Bengal just lies there gasping. 

“You alright?” Through her pain she turns her head enough to see England. His head poking around the door frame. But he only looks at her a minute before staring at her sister. Not in a friendly way either, but the way he used to look at her. Suspiciously. Her own lips flap helplessly against the pain as she nods. 

Shaha, for her part, ignores the boy and helps her sit up. Gradually the pain recedes. England's suspicion doesn’t. 

“Stop it.” She says. England blinks but doesn’t respond. “England. She’s my sister.” 

At least this time he looks at her, eyes shockingly cold in the warm light. She doesn’t shiver and holds his gaze, after a moment he shrugs, and turns away from both of them. Bengal sighs. 

“Rude little thing isn’t he?” Shaha remarks in Bengali, voice light. Bengal feels her neck heat up. 

“He’s not good with people.”

“No shit.” 

England's staring at them again. At Shaha, actually. The heat reaches Bengals neck- he can probably tell they’re talking about him. But when she tries (and fails) to stand, both immediately take an arm each. Even so, their radically different heights mean she needs a moment to find her balance. 

They hobble into the kitchen, and Bengal gets a look at their guests. There’s no question the younger one is England's brother. Despite the henna-red hair there’s a familiarity to him- from the set of his nose and his bright green eyes, to the ridiculous eyebrows too big for his face. Even his thin mouth, which twists to a smile when she walks in. He’s not much younger than she is, really- but he’s gawky like a teenager. He blushes under her scrutiny. 

Which meant the other must be Norway. He was older than her- though again not by much, and clearly younger than India. He looked like he’d been carved from salt. Technically he isn’t much paler than the brothers, but his cheeks have none of the redness to them that theirs do- even his hair is practically white. He just nods and pulls up a chair for her. 

They sit down at the table. England on one side, Shaha on the other.  

The silence is cloying. Or it is for a moment, and then it becomes greetings. Between Pakistan and Norway- no one else is included because no one else speaks the language they are using. Scotland sighs, leaning back so his chairs front legs are in the air. She looks at Norway. 

He kept looking at her too, so does Pakistan. She shivers. 

“Are you cold? Do you need another jumper?” Pakistan switches immediately. Norway’s voice dips with audible concern- and her sister snaps back at him in the language they were using. Bengal swallows a sigh. She’s not that sick. Her sister just gives her a look though- and carries on. “I could get England to get it for you-”

“I’m fine.” Her voice is level, and she can feel her back muscles knot up and her cheeks heat under the combined stares of the entire table. “What’s Norway saying?” 

Her sister's face scrunches up in frustration. “Nonsense. Apparently Ruqyah is a bit too difficult for him to wrap his head around,” she waves her hand loosely, “don’t worry about it.” 

“Why, what’s his problem?” 

Shaha rolls her eyes. “He’s dense and narrow minded. Don’t let it worry you.” 

Bengal bites her tongue. There’s simply no point arguing with her sister when she’s like this. It’s infuriating. Instead she nudges England. He doesn’t actually look at her, but instead leans on her like a small, knobbly heat pack. It’d be quite nice if he didn’t look like he was trying to make his brother combust with his eyeballs, but she’d take what she could get. Around her, Norway and Shaha’s argument - though polite, probably, continues unabated. Actually, perhaps coming down here wasn’t such a good idea, the spots are back and everything feels slightly muffled...

“So,” Bengal snaps back to reality at Scotlands voice. “India.”

Is that a question? She’s not sure. “Yes?”

“He’s your brother.”

She turns to look at him, body aching. He seems sincere. “Yes? He drove you from the airport.” She racks her brain for what he might want. “Did you have a nice trip?” 

He shrugs and stares her right in the eyes. She doesn’t shuffle uncomfortably, but only because it would hurt. Next to her, England actually growls. “Scotland-”

“England~.” Scotland mock-whines and rolls his eyes. “Seriously Wart, I can’t even talk now? Actually, better question. How do you put up with him?” He jabs a finger at her. She stifles the fleeting urge to slap it away.  

“I wasn’t aware there was anything that needed ‘putting up with’,” She lies. Then sniffs haughtily to complete the effect. He rolls his eyes. Again. Seriously, does he not know any other facial expressions?

He opens his mouth-

WHAM. 

She jumps and immediately regrets it in every cell of her body. It was only Norway anyway -  putting his mug down far harder than was needed. Judging by Shaha’s white knuckled fist- didn’t that hurt? - Bengal isn’t inclined to say he’s the problem just yet. Between them is a slip of paper with some runes drawn on it.

She sighs. Immediately Shaha turns and starts fussing, smoothing her dress and fixing her scarf where it goes over her shoulder. Like she’s barely out of the second century.  She blushes -  England's staring at her,  and she can hear Scotland laughing under his breath. She practically slaps her hand away, even if Shaha’s hurt look makes her stomach twist and flop. She takes a deep breath. 

I am seven hundred years out of time. She is seven hundred years away from the woman she was. She is here to help. Calm down. 

It only takes a moment, and she can talk sensibly again. Her sister relaxes when she smiles at her, uncoiling the fist she’d remade. Bengal can see deep gouges in her palm where her long nails had bit into her, though thankfully none of them were bleeding. (Seriously, why the long nails though? They weren’t like her at all-)

She breathes again, and asks. “What’s with the spellwork there?” Shaha makes a face like she’s swallowed sheeps piss. 

“Nothing worth knowing about. It’s just-”

“That’s a translation array.” England pipes up. Shaha visibly slumps, and Bengals eyebrows shoot up to her scarf. 

“-it’s just Norway may want to use a semi-permanent translation spell to talk to you directly,” she mumbles. Bengals eyebrows shoot up even higher. But her sister just turns and snaps-

“-which is no reason to eavesdrop England.”  

“It’s right there! It’s not eavesdropping if it’s right there!” He waves at the table emphatically before turning to Bengal, who’s beginning to feel a bit ragged really. “You tell her Bengal.” 

Makes her remember why she normally hides in the library back home. She sighs. “You put it on the table sister, you can’t expect-”

“Wait, since when do you know how to do arrays?” Scotland's voice is sharp, but not directed at her. She stifles the urge to sigh again. 

“Maybe I’ve always been able to do them and you’ve been too thick to notice, wouldn’t be the first time.” The boy shoots back in a nasty, sneering tone. Bengal can feel herself losing her temper. 

“England.” He gives her a look of such overwhelming, woebegone, exhaustion that -

“Yeah right, you-”

“It was probably in one of the books we pulled out of Englands laboratory!” She snaps, breathing harder than she should be, before slumping back into the chair and suppressing a little groan. She feels a little bad, perhaps for interfering but frankly Arthur is going a funny shade of puce and she does not need an actual fight on her hands. Apart from anything it’d be embarrassing if India woke up to find she couldn’t keep them contained for five minutes. 

She puts a hand on England's shoulder to calm him. He shrugs it off at Scotlands snicker. She glowers at the absolute brat across the table.  Norway coughs. He is ignored. 

“What exactly is your problem? ” Her voice is frustrated and her face is burning. 

Norway coughs again, cutting off both her and Scotland, Norway poking him in his bony ribs. It is brief but full of irritation on Scotland's part and scrunched eyebrows on Norways (it looked like fond exasperation, but it could just have been the sun in his eyes). After a deep, beleaguered sigh, Scotland switches back to Latin. 

“Norway wants you to use the translation spell so he can understand you better. His Latin’s a bit shit.”

“Absolutely not.” Shahas voice cuts in, low and angry. “It’s haram. And besides, can’t you see she's ill- ”

“I’ll think about it.” The words are out before she can stop them, and she snatches up the paper as well. Turning it over in her hands she can see the paper’s so thin that the ink has bled completely through it, creating a perfect copy of the circle and runes on the other side. She can feel Shaha’s scandalised look on the side of her head. But frankly she’s all out of energy and patience. “How does it work?” 

Scotland perks up, “It takes a little of the casters magic and a bit of yours to create a link that will let two or more people hear what's being said in their own languages -”

Or maybe not.  

“Or you could just translate for me.” He sighs. She supposes it must be disappointing for him- but it is haram. England tenses like a guard dog. But Scotland ignores him. 

“Seriously, why even bother?” it’s mostly under his breath, but apparently even that's too much for England.

“She said no, arsehole! Learn to take a hint.” England growls. She sighs. 

“Yeah ‘cause your a fucking master of that aren’t you Runt?” Scotland snaps back. “Fucking impeccable manners havn’t you? Sweet little lamb.” It’s full of so much sarcasm she could probably bottle it. She sighs again, this time with feeling. Norway and Shaha put their heads in their hands. They are all ignored.  

“You’re just a poor unfortunate soul aren’t you? No matter that you’re constantly in the shit. None of it’s ever to do with you is it?” Scotland continues bitterly. 

England flushes again, and she grabs his shoulder. It doesn’t stop him running his mouth though.

“Nothing happened!” Arthur’s perilously close to yelling, and frankly Bengal’s not sure whether she should stop him or not. 

“You really expect me to believe that? When the Old Bastard here got woken up in the middle of the night and bolted across half of Europe to get here?” Scotland has clearly stopped paying attention to Norway's quiet attempts to calm him and shoves his hand off his shoulder roughly. “I heard your name idiot. What. Did. You. Do? ” 

“NOTHING!” England’s on his feet, though even standing up he has barely a head of height on Scotland - whose being held in place by Norway's hand on his shoulder, looking unnaturally stiff. She shivers at the display of  casual magic. The only thing keeping England in place is her hand around his wrist.

England’s panting like a wild thing. Bengal’s mostly sure he won’t hare off and thump a downed opponent. Mostly. 

Best get him out of the room though. She squeezes his wrist. He turns to look at her. “What!”

She doesn’t take it personally. “Do you want to go and check on India?” 

He blinks once, twice- eyes clearing. He nods and storms out, snatching his hand from hers with a sharpness that’s equal parts frustrating and hurtful. Anger coils up in her gut. Norway releases Scotland from whatever spell was holding him. Her everything hurts.

“That went well.” she snaps at the brat. He shrugs, looking slightly abashed. 

“Sorry you had to see that.” he says. Then he points at the translation array crushed in her hands from the shock and pain. “Are you gonna use that or not?” 

She jams it in a pocket. “I said I’ll think about it!” 

“How many, sir?” 

“ All of them, private” 

He awakes with a jerk and a yelp- reeling away from the green eyes hovering over him like a nightmare. Arthur jerks away. Then India registers the clear light, the hard sofa and the dusty smell of England's lounge. He swallows the taste of cordite- 

Screaming as people are ripped apart by cannon fire. The bodies lying unburied, mutilated or worse-

He runs his hand along the sofa to ground himself. 

“Are you ok?” Arthur's voice is trying to be impassive, but so thankfully childish. And worried. India lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, sits up properly-

And slumps, groaning as pain throbs up the entire length of his spine and popping his neck as he moves it. 

“Owww.” Arthur approaches looking properly worried now, but India sits up and waves him off, rubbing his own neck to try and un-cric it. 

“I’m fine,” he says, then yawns. Arthur clearly sees this as a sign he can draw closer- within arms length even (there’s a sympathetic twang in his chest)- and lets himself flop to sit on the floor. Today, for some reason it seems strange for him to be on his own. India has to blink a few times before it comes to him. “I thought you were with Bengal?”

And that brings back- Norway, Scotland, Pakistan . He groans again. 

England blushes and looks down at his feet. Then he starts ripping up the carpet fluff and mumbles something so quietly that India can’t hear a word of it. 

“I can’t hear you if you're mumbling,” he says eventually. 

“I’m sorry.” The kids face is stony and his shoulders are tense. He looks exhausted . India scrubs his face with his hands. Arthur flinches. India puts his hand down. 

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.” Arthur blushes and looks away. “Unless?-”

Sullen silence. 

“I made you a promise, and I meant it. If there’s something wrong, you need to tell me so I can help.” His voice is deliberately low and quiet, the way it would have been for any of the colonies if they’d broken a vase, or for one of his stray cats back home.

“Got inna fight wi’ Scotland.” England’s actually beginning to create a little bald patch on the carpet. “He’s being  a prick. An I lost my temper an’ just left Bengal there to put up with him-”

“She’s an adult, she can look after herself.” India cuts in quickly. A coil of dread knotting in his stomach and the taste gunpowder on his tongue. 

“How bad was the fight?” he says. Please don’t let me need to call another ambulance.

England continues to de-fluff the carpet rather than look at him. 

“I didn’t punch him or nothing. We just shouted a lot. Then I left.” The kid shrugs and peeks at him through his lashes. India sighs. 

“Well that’s something at least.” He considers for a moment, then puts his hand on the boy's shoulder- the kid doesn’t flinch. “Well done for walking away from him. It can’t have been easy for you.” 

England looks up at him properly now, shock written in his wide eyes and red face, a smile flickering at the edge of his mouth. India relaxes, then stands- wincing as his back whinges at him some more.  

“Alright, let’s take a look at the damage.” England nods, in reply and stumbles to his feet. And together they walk into the kitchen. 

The damage, it turns out, is minimal. Physically, there’s only one overturned chair, and a damp spot on the table where something had been spilled and hastily mopped up. He opens the bin- no shards of china there. There’s a mug isolated in the sink though, whole and undamaged. Of course, Pakistan is tapping away at the table rapidly and Norway is playing on his phone while Bengal and Scotland glare in opposite directions in oppressive silence. So. India suppresses his second sigh of the day. And contemplates setting himself a quota. 

 The windows are unchanged too- which is a shame because the room’s an absolute hothouse. He marches over and opens the window over the sink to let a waft of fresh air, birdsong, and car horns into the dining room.

“Go grab yourself a seat,” he says to Arthur in French. He turns to the wider room “Does anyone want some tea?” he asks in Latin, then again in English. 

“We’ve had some.” Pakistan snaps, tapping her fingers even faster, as Norway takes a surly sip of tea. And at least Pakistan and Norway respond. India fights the urge to just march out of the room and go and get some more (hopefully better) sleep. Instead he puts the kettle on and drums his own fingers on the table. 

“So what happened?” He asks in Latin. He gets a wall of sounds back- his little sister gesticulating angrily and Scotland scoffing at her,only to be shouted down in turn by England- India puts his hand on the boy's shoulder, and he rolls his eyes, and slumps down with his hands slapped over his ears. Frankly India wishes he could do the same. 

Even Pakistan makes a few comments, though she’s completely drowned out by the dim. It mostly seems to be about magic -of some sort- being used- or not used- in some -possibly- bad yet highly unspecified way. And apparently Scotland didn’t like India? Which, fine? As long as the boy was respectful that was firmly not his problem. The only one who doesn’t speak is Norway, who can’t understand a word of it, and who just huddles against the wall, hiding behind his phone.

In short, it’s clear as mud. In deference to his maybe quota, he holds his sigh inside. 

 “Ok I think I get the picture,” he lies. He pours himself a cup of tea and takes a slurp, letting the heat soak into him and clear his head a little. Then he turns to Norway. 

“What’s going on?” he repeats in English. 

Pakistan snorts and rolls her eyes. India ignores her to instead wait for Norway's response. But the guy only shrugs. 

“No idea, I've been trying to find what happened with Bengal and England but your sister-” he looks pointedly at Pakistan, “-hasn’t been very open about it.”

India takes a mouthful of tea, ignoring Pakistan's glare as she says, “I’ve already said everything I know. But somebody didn’t think I needed to know about England. “

The accusation burns, but India keeps his voice level. “Maybe because you don’t.” 

Pakistan rounds on him. “Are you serious right now? I’m supposed to be helping my sister and you figure I don’t need to know - “ She throws up her hands in disgust. Bengal and England are looking between them with undisguised nervousness, whereas Scotland’s eyes are boring into the side of India’s head - like he could set him on fire with gaze alone. He feels his face heat up as Pakistan continues ranting. “- Did you hit your head last night while I wasn’t looking? O-”  

“- We’re just saying that your message was very ominous.” Norway cuts in with a startled look at Pakistan, as if she’s ever reasonable nowadays. “And I, for one, was concerned.” 

India takes a deep breath and unknits his eyebrows so he’s no longer scowling. “You don’t need to be - we’ve come to an..” agreement? Promise?  “An understanding.”  He clenches his hand around the phone in his pocket. “The situation isn’t an emergency anymore. We can discuss it later.”

Pakistan scoffs, and taps her fingers on the table so fast they lose rhythm and just create noise, 

Norway frowns at him. “Why? If we get it out of the way now and nothing needs changing then it’s done. If it does, then we’ll sort it either way.”

Proper irritation floods him then, making his head throb and his voice snap. “I sorted it out before you got here.” He takes another mouthful of tea. “Trust me there’s nothing more that can be done at the moment.” Unless you have the Thakurs phone number, which you don’t. But that’s not an emergency. 

“But-” Norway continues. India interrupts him. 

“And I don’t want to discuss it here. ” He jerks his head at the combined kids. All three of them stare at him as Pakistan rolls her eyes and Norway puts his empty mug down. India swigs down the last of his to drown out his annoyance.

 “Do you want another one?” He points at Norway's mug. The man nods, and India swoops over to the kettle - ignoring Pakistan's proffered mug and her muttered insult in Urdu. Mostly it gives him a moment to calm down from Norway being upfront about England's problems. Hypocrite. But the frustration fades as quick as it comes because, at the end of the day, he’s here to help. He pours two teas and loads a plate up with ginger cake before returning to the table.  

“They’ve already got fig rolls.” Pakistan says in English, scowling.

“Yes, but they prefer ginger cake.” He says flatly, in English, setting the plate down with a clink.  

Norway sighs, accepting his tea with a word of thanks. 

“So, Bengal?” he says. 

There’s a moment of uncomfortable silence, before Norway throws his hands up in general exasperation as Pakistan avoids looking at the pair of him. India stares at the pair of them and- fuck the quota - sighs. 

“Shall I get you her notes from upstairs?” Norway nods and India fetches them, swearing under his breath as his back and neck protest all the way there, and at the general unhelpfulness of his unexpected guests. When he gets back he sorts them into two piles- one for Bengal, the other- much smaller one- for Bangladesh. “Here, her handwriting’s a bit of a mess but we should be able to clear up anything you don’t recognise.” 

While Norway quietly begins a chant, holding up a silver magnifying glass that glows with a faint blue light, India turns to his sister. 

“How are you?” he asks softly in Bengali. She smiles briefly, and shrugs, then winces. She still looks tired and pale, but was clearly no longer in the kind of excruciating pain that she’d been in last night. It’s not a lot but it’s something. “How come you’re out of bed?” 

“Sore, but otherwise fine,” says Bengal as she rolls her eyes. “I figured that we might as well try and figure out what I actually did.” 

“You couldn’t have predicted it,” he corrects gently, relieved by how stable her voice sounds.

She shrugs and smiles sheepishly. “I suppose. And you don’t need to worry so much.” 

“I know.” He reaches out and holds her hand. “I just worry sister, I know you can handle yourself but.” The words are too personal to say in front of Pakistan so he swallows them down painfully. “I’m glad nothing permanent happened.” 

Bengal flinches. Pakistan and Norway are discussing the finer points of Ruqyah. Arguing, rather. Again. He sighs.  

“What.” He switches back to English.

“Nothing. It’s fine,” says Pakistan, at the same time as Norway says, “Could you help me understand what happened last night? Apparently most of it is only need to know. ”

He shoots an icy look at Pakistan and continues. “And apparently I don’t. ”

Pakistan snorts and rolls her eyes. But India grips his mug against the annoyance prickling in his chest, and shrugs. 

“I can take you through it just fine.” He explains what he knows, and what he suspects about Bengals fit last night and the emergence of Bangladesh, but he quickly changes to translating for Bengal. He switches from Bengali to English and back again, testing the words in his mouth before saying them, both wanting to be clear and swallowing around the lump in his throat. It takes a long time. The clock hand moves relentlessly across the clock's face, and the sun moves stubbornly across the sky. At one, India takes a break to make them more tea and rest his voice. 

He can feel all of them flagging- England is drooping despite his rigid posture. Scotland gets so frustrated he jumps up and marches out of the kitchen and into the garden, pacing back and forth like a caged thing. Even Pakistan’s glower into her tea  becomes hooded and bored. But Bengal and Norway are alert, interested and firing off answers so quickly it’s a struggle for India to keep up with them. 

It seems, to both of them, that this is new information.  

Which is….frustrating. He keeps his eyes on the pair of them, and nowhere else, though his knuckles ache from gripping the china of his mug so hard. 

He’s part way through translating the reasons why magic unraveling normally comes with backlash that Norway interrupts to talk to him. “This would be a lot easier if I could just talk to Bengal directly-” 

Pakistan groans and buries her head in her hands. “-Oh god not this again.” 

Norway gives her a flat look. “If I’m here to help I need to understand what she did. She’s the best person to do that. And if she could make sense of her own notes-'' He gestures at the pile with a wry smile. Which is a bit unfair, Bengal handwriting is not that bad. “And I still don’t feel I properly understand why Ruqyah works the way it does. She might be able to explain that.” 

Norway turns to India. “So, what do you say about a translation spell?”

 India sighs, knuckles now hurting - again. “No.”

Norway doesn’t turn away though, “could you ask her for me again though?-” 

“She said she’d think about it, is that not enough for you?” Pakistan snaps. Unbelievably, India even agrees with her. “If you want to know how it works you could just listen to me.”

“Or observe you.” Both of them turn to stare at him. “Norway makes the spells and you break them?” They both blush bright red and hide themselves in their coffee mugs. For a moment there’s a long enough embarrassed silence that India can think about everything else that needs doing. Perhaps, given it had been three weeks he should even do some cleaning to make the guest rooms habitable. But eventually Norway turns to face him again. 

“Ok. Im sorry.” He sounds genuine, and India relaxes his grip in shock. “No using the magic or casting spells. However, would it be possible for me to measure her magical signature?-” Before India can say anything he powers on. “-There's something very strange about it, but maybe if I can measure it I can figure out what’s actually happened.”

Silence. The only sound is car horns and birds through the window. And underneath that the sound of Scotland throwing rocks in the garden. “She wouldn’t have to use any of her own magic, it’ll be completely halal- I promise.” 

India blinks, and looks at Bengal, who’s visibly shivering despite the cloying heat. Pakistan shrugs out of the corner of his eye. He ignores her. It’s not her view that matters. Then he switches to Bengali. “Hey, Norway was wondering if he could measure your magic. You won’t be casting any spells yourself. He thinks it’ll help him understand what happened last night.”

She looks Norway straight in the eye. “He promises? Only he’ll use magic?”

India relays this. Norway nods. “Yes.”

“Ok then.” 

It takes a bit of shuffling around for her to be able to reach Norway across the table, and when he places his hands palm up she pauses- frozen- before placing hers on top. There’s no array, no ingredients- hardly even a chant, just a single  rhythmic syllable from deep inside Norway's throat. Nothing seems to happen. .India fidgets with his mug - it’s not surprising, it doesn’t mean anything, there’s no reason why magic must-

His breath catches. A line of electric blue light rises from Norway's hand, passing straight through Bengal’s to hover above it, leaving a trail like the Northern Lights as it sways from side to side.  Then another, and another. Their pale, luminous blue  form threads that waft and weave light over Bengals wrists, till her whole hand is covered in complex patterns that sway to  the throaty singing. India’s own knuckles are white around his mug, but the lights don’t even touch his sister after they pass through the first time, and she seems unharmed. The lights reflected in her wide eyes.

But Norway looks concerned. It doesn’t show in his voice- which is stable, but there's a groove between his eyebrows and a new, hard edge to his mouth.

 Eventually the lights start to dim, then vanish. India looks up from where he’d been checking his phone, and blinks to help his eyes re-adjust to the relative dimness of the dining room.  Bengal retracts her hands fast, then flexes them experimentally, quirking a single eyebrow at Norway. She looks...fine. He checks his phone again. 

Despite it taking an hour and fifteen. He looks at his little sister, slightly worried. 

“I’m fine.” she says it quickly as she turns her hands over again. “I feel just the same.” 

Pakistan cuts in with English. “So what’s the verdict?”

Norway frowns, swallowing heavily, and taps his fingers on the desk. India’s stomach starts to coil again. He can feel his palms start to sweat. Even Bengal starts to look unnerved as Norway's silence stretches out, and she leans over to whisper in India’s ear, 

“What’s wrong?” 

India just shakes his head. 

 Eventually, Norway speaks. “It’s strange. Physically she’s fine.” He pauses to let India translate to Bengali, then Latin for England. “But. Her internal magic is depleted- so low I’m surprised she’s even standing. And her connection to her people, it’s not just stretched it’s under a tremendous amount of pressure.” He looks very worried for a moment. Before turning to England and slipping into a language that’s all hard consonants. The boy stiffens and immediately looks to India- his face would look uncaring if not for the wideness of his eyes. 

“Is everything ok?” he asks in Latin. The kid shrugs. 

“He’s asking if it’s ok if he measures me like he did Bengal.” The kid’s fiddling with the end of his shirt undermines the confident tone somewhat. 

“It’s ok, it looks safe.” England rolls his eyes and plonks his hands down on the table with a beleaguered sigh. After a brief pause Norway takes them, and begins his singing over again. The blue lights rise, and then in partner, some green ones bleeding out from England's skin. India doesn’ know what that means, but the green lights seem pale and stilted in comparison and England squirms, face going red.  

It barely takes five minutes for him- which makes India’s stomach twist up all the more. When he’s done England snatches his hands back and bolts from the room. Norway's face has gone downright stormy.

The atmosphere’s so tense that even Pakistan doesn’t make any snide quips. India can feel his breath shortening, the mug becoming even more slippery under his hand. Eventually he can’t take it anymore. 

“Is he the same?” He fights to keep his voice level.   

“Yes.” Norway takes a hurried gulp of tea. “England actually knows how to use his magic so it’s more responsive, hence the lights, but yes. They're the same.” 

Quietly a little hope blooms in his chest. “So what’s wrong with them then?” 

Norway looks at all of them, each in turn. Mouth opening and closing like a fish.

 “I don’t know.”

The air is punched out of India’s lungs and the gap and makes him sick. His stomach churns so fast he can’t make himself break the silence, even to translate for Bengal. So Pakistan does it. She does it adequately actually, and Bengal sounds- not shocked, but quietly resigned. India swallows around his thumping heart, and stands up. “I need to go find England.” 

It’s on the first floor he lets himself finally feel what he’s feeling, They come in waves. Guilt, anger, fear, guilt, anger, fear. His palms are sweaty and his heart feels fit to explode. And his head’s stuck in a wheel of Bengal, England, the Thakurs. He checks his phone again. Nothing. His brain start to run to fever pitch and- 

No. no. He takes a slow breath in through his nose, and out through his mouth. And another and another…

His breathing slows, his heart settles down. His brain...goes quiet. 

“Are you ok?” says Norway.

India yelps and snaps his head round. Norway is right behind him and must have moved like a cat in slippers, because the stairs are loud enough to wake the dead. Norway peers at him unblinking, quirking his head slightly to the side like India is a particularly confusing puzzle he wants to take apart. 

“I’m fine.”

Norway nods, but doesn’t say anything just stands there, occasionally looking down the corridor without even a flicker of a smile. It makes India twitchy. 

“Do you want to see Bengals room?” he says just to break the silence. “I think there’s something you should take a look at.” 

Norway nods. And he takes him there- Norway’s eyebrows shoot up at the black mark on the carpet. 

“I thought I mis-heard that part,” he says. Then his eyebrows come back down into a worried frown as India shows him the burn marks on the duvet. He takes photos while India recounts what caused each mark. England pokes his head round the doorway. He looks fine, but India takes the excuse to leave Norway to take his pictures alone. 

“Are you ok?”

England scoffs. “I’m fine, it just felt a bit weird is all.” 

“You sure?” he says. England  looks ok, a little pale but nothing else. England rolls his eyes at him, then glares around his side. He checks and sure enough, Norway’s done.  India takes them both to the laboratory.

It is a state. 

Even magic blood rots eventually, and the array had started to brown and blacken in places, taking on the stinking edge of decay. Even the iron powder had rusted. Norway takes one look at it and reels back- declares the whole thing a health hazard and asks why they hadn’t cleaned it away weeks ago. 

“Strangely.” India says through gritted teeth. “I was a bit distracted.” 

“Wuss.” England mutters under his breath. India fights a little smile at Norway's offended look. 

Still, it doesn’t take long to get boiling, soapy, bleach water and slop it over the floor. This doesn’t clear the mess of course, just whips it into a stinking,  frothy red-brown mess that burns his nose and throat. But it loosens the gore so something can be done about it.  

Thank all the Gods for Scotland's spare fishing waders. England in particular looks skeptical, mostly because between them and the adult sized marigold gloves he looks like he’s been eaten by a tent. But he scrubs hard and efficiently at the tile when they give him a sponge. Less brilliantly, he applies the same energy to glaring at Norway. India gives him a look. He pouts at him.   

“So,” India says, because twenty minutes in and cleaning is as deathly boring as it’s ever been. “Is there actually anything useful still here, or have I been procrastinating for nothing.” 

Norway stares at him, like he’s trying to see right through him. He stares right back, trying not to let his frustration show. His pocket buzzes. He stays very still. Norway sighs and gives up. “Technically no, the only thing interesting about this array is that it crossed dimensions and bought a creature back. That and the diary tells me it had to be right before the meeting because it was a full moon.” 

“But-” India’s stomach curls up on itself. 

Norway sighs, and turns to scrub even harder at a stubborn bit of gore. “Their magic, it’s not just depleted, it’s being drained.” India’s hands clench and he carefully controls his breathing. In. Out. “If they were both magic users I’d say it was by a spell but-” 

A pause. 

“You still haven't told me what you meant by your text.”

India puts his sponge down, because if he grips it any harder he’ll tear it. England is oblivious, of course he is, he can’t speak his own language- so he’s scrubbing away, dripping soap and blood. India still turns to him. “Arthur, could you start tidying the bedroom please.”

Arthur opens his mouth, eyebrows creasing sharply. India interrupts  “Dry yourself off first. I’m not going anywhere.” 

Perhaps it’s a testament to their new understanding, perhaps it’s just luck. But Arthur clicks his jaw shut and does as he’s told, sloughing off bloody waders in a pile in the doorway and mopping up the flecks on his face. Norway waves a hand and suddenly India can no longer hear the birds. England stiffens and flowers, before turning lamp like eyes to India. Again that uncomfortable feeling from last night is back, and that knowledge that if he even looks uncomfortable Arthur will ‘defend’ him. 

It’s a really good job he put that sponge down. 

He smiles and waves instead. It does the trick. With Arthur gathering broken things and piling them up outside the ...silencing spell? Norway turns to him, expectant. It takes India a moment to find the words. 

“What did you mean when you said he doesn’t play nice with kids his age?” 

For the first time, Norway looks confused. “Why-” 

“Because you were very vague and frankly it’s been one thing after another with him.”  India’s blood is roaring in his ears. “And yesterday he stabbed someone.” 

Norway's eyes are wide with horror. “Shit.” 

Fucking- “Yes! Shit! Indeed! But don’t worry, by shear dumb luck he didn’t do any permanant damage - and hey! I’m already healed- perks of being a nation -” he spits it out like poison, “-but the humans, well - Ishaan Thakur will regain the full use of his hand but they were the only good leads we’ve had through this entire fucking thing. And Padma gave me some very good advice-” He takes a deep breath, blinking rapidly. “It’s not like they sell ‘Sorry I Stabbed You’ cards at Tescos!” 

Norway opens his mouth. India raises his hand like a gunshot. 

“- and I don’t think that kid would know how to give an apology no matter what way he gave it. Do you know the only thing he was angry about was doing his job? Apparently his King had him beating and torturing people, even his own siblings. ” 

“So.” He brings his face closer, and hisses. “What, exactly, did you mean when you said he doesn’t play well with kids his own size?” 

For a moment Norway just sits there, grey faced, his sponge motionless in his hand. The only sound is it dripping on the floor. Eventually he finds his voice. “That must - that must’ve been awful-”

“It’d have been less so if I’d actually had the information I’d needed in the first place.” 

“You’re blaming me for this?” Norway squeaks. 

India pokes him in the chest, practically nose to nose with him. “Weren’t you the one who knew him as a child-”

“-I wouldn’t say known -”

“Weren’t you the one was convinced that I’d be the best person for the job?” 

“You volunteered! ” 

“But mos of all, weren’t you the one I asked for help when I was going to be looking after the man who used to beat me bloody , only to be told some vague bullcrap that means less than nothing, and gave me no warning at all that the kid’s a flipping mess from the top of his head to the tip of his fucking toes!” India’s throat burns like he’s swallowed razors as he gasps for air. And then there’s silence, and India can’t stand to look at Norway anymore.

He can feel tears running down his cheeks. He can’t even wipe them away because his hands are covered in filth. He tries to slow his breathing. In. Out. Root himself in the here and now. Norway's got a point. He did volunteer. Like a fool. It doesn’t make his blood settle down at all. He keeps breathing.

“I’m sorry.” Norway says. India's breath halts and he blinks, blood still heavy in his ears as he tries to untangle it. “I didn’t consider the impact on you, and I should have. I just thought you might already know, considering- “

He barks a harsh, short laugh. “Well I didn’t. He never told me a damn thing.” 

Another pause. India can hear the quiet slosh of water behind him and can only assume Norway's moving. “That wasn’t a criticism.” Moved towards or away from him? India would get away. He feels radioactive and ready to implode. He just breathes in and out. 

A hand is placed on his shoulders and he whips round to look at Norway, tears dripping from his chin. Norway doesn’t sound, or look angry, he’s just bundled up in a crouch with his face scrunched up in sympathy. 

“I never knew about the torturing stuff.” He says slowly. “I knew he’d always be in the front line of battle, and I knew- through Scotland- that he was bad to Wales. But I hadn’t known him personally for hundreds of years by the thirteen hundreds. I had no idea.” He pauses. “But that’s not an excuse. I should have been clearer that he was-” Norway flaps his jaw for a moment.

“A child soldier?” India says. It feels strange to say it out loud. Norway just shrugs, 

“Which one of us wasn’t? In one way or another.” He doesn’t say if he means Europeans or nations in general, and it probably doesn’t matter. They all saw battle too young. “The rest of us chose to do better with ourselves.” 

India raises an eyebrow at him, something cold and sardonic weedling into his gut. “Did you?” 

“Well I tried. That’s not an excuse- I didn’t get free of my neighbours for a long time- there wasn’t much I could choose for quite a while.” Norway shrugs, then laughs at India’s gawping.  

“I didn’t get along with Denmark or Sweden for a long time.” The thin, sad smile tells India exactly who’d come out on top there. “And there was Germany of course.” 

And Germany. Of course. India’s mouth goes dry and he nods. He’s rather ashamed to say he’d forgotten. Though not so much as the British Empire, which was practically yesterday, it was still recent. Absentmindedly, he presses a hand over his side. 

“It’s shit isn’t it,” he says instead of apologising. 

Norway laughs. “Yeah. I really am sorry, I didn’t think…”

“-neither did I.” India can tell the truth well enough to know it in himself. The water continues to drip from Norway's sponge. “Thankyou.” 

Norway shrugs. “Don’t worry about it. The quicker we figure this out the faster we can get things back to normal- so.” He waves his sponge in the direction of the boy and then gets back to scrubbing. India keeps looking though.

England is stacking fluff and broken things carefully in one corner and chucking books in the other. It’s almost entirely unrelated to cleaning, but he goes about it with single minded determination - so much that it seems he hasn’t even noticed the argument. His scowl makes him pout like the child he is. And. India thinks about normal. He thinks about a dirty house full of bad memories and a boy who goes back to war when this is over. He thinks about a boy who was made a weapon. 

    Why don’t you just take the child and run? 

His stomach flips over and his throat clenches at the thought, and he turns away and begins scrubbing - ferociously- at the blood ground deep into the floor. 

The sun is heavenly. It soothes the ice cold ache in Bengal's body, and she luxuriates in it. The bird’s songs are unfamiliar, as are the scent of the garden flowers, but honestly it just gives her something to focus on that isn’t Scotland's restless pacing at the other end of the garden. The stones he’s throwing thump softly on the ground. 

She smells the grass, and her jaw unlocks, taking the pressure off her head just a little.

Her fingers brush against the crumpled paper in her pocket- she tenses again.

“Pass me your hand.” Bengal raises an eyebrow without opening her eyes. “Please,” Pakistan amends. 

Bengal lets her sister rub her knuckles and feels the final knots and tension leek away. She brushes her fingers against the spell again, and frowns. 

“What’s on your mind?” says Pakistan. 

“Stuff. Magic mostly. Even Norway hasn’t got a clue.” Pakistan's hand clenches round hers, warm and strong, the new calluses already worn down by time and moisturizer. She relaxes into it. 

“I don’t think it’s that mysterious, England-” Pakistan pauses. “The England I knew was madder than a box of frogs. We just have to find who- or what- he enlisted to help him.” Bengal opens her eyes and squints against the light. Even silhouetted against the sun, she can see Pakistan's frown,

“You don’t believe that,” she says, squeezing her sister's hand. 

“The word of God should be unbreakable.” Pakistan's voice is quiet, and nervous. But she only said what both of them were thinking. Bengal scans her face, but her face has gone flat and expressionless. In the distance she can hear the quiet thunk of Scotland's rock throwing. 

She looks up at the sky, the little birds flitting from tree to tree, and she’s so deeply, deeply tired. So heavy- she can’t keep her eyes open. Or speak. Her body sags against her will and cold surges up from her bones and she slips away from her body. Stabbing pain in her belly, smoke rising from her skin in the dark…

“-Bengal! Wake up!” 

Pain in her cheek. Sunlight burns her retinas as she blinks, shivering despite heat pressing in on her like an anvil. Pakistan's frightened face hovers above her, and when the sunspots fade, she can see Scotlands too.  Bengal brings her other hand up to rub her stinging cheek. 

She doesn’t try to pull her hand from her sister's grip- Pakistan's nails would tear her skin like rice paper. 

“What was that for?” She says sharply. For a moment Pakistan's eyes just trace her face, watching. 

“You went somewhere there, for a moment.” Her voice is so solemn and for a moment Bengal can’t speak, feels like all the air’s been stolen from her lungs. Scotland blinks and silently places a rock besides her head, and she doesn’t even have the strength to turn her head. Her sister frowns and shakes her again. “Bengal?!” 

“I’m here.” She says, blinking and shaking herself free. She glances down at her trapped wrist. “You can let go now.”

Pakistan huffs and drops it like a hot rock, and Bengal can’t help but rub at the dents in her skin. “You didn’t need to pinch.” 

Her sister has the grace to look ashamed, and her voice is tense. “You went inside yourself again. Like yesterday- I thought…” She seems to weigh up her next words, opening and  closing her mouth before finally - “I thought I was going to lose you.” 

Then she turns away and snaps at Scotland. “Did you find something?”

Scotland shrugs. 

“Sorry?” says Bengal, totally lost. 

“He’s looking for something,” Pakistan speaks before Scotland can even open his mouth, and the teenager rolls his eyes at Bengal before placing another stone at the crown of her head. She opens her mouth to object but Shaha interrupts her too. “Don’t worry, he’s just measuring things - he said there might be traces of some creature. A spirit, though in my opinion more likely some sort of djinn or devil, which might explain-” 

“It wasn’t a nation.” Scotland says, hands moving with complete assurance as he does his magic measuring trick. Unlike Norway there’s no light at all but she can feel static on her skin again and she shivers. It’s horrible, having a stranger so close, but she trusts her sister to protect her from others.  The only people who had been allowed to hurt her were the twins. 

Surprisingly, Shaha just shrugs rather than address his rueness. “Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence. But I’ve not hunted down black magic for at least five centuries. When would I have had the time? ” She laughs quietly at herself.

Scotland looks from her sister, back to her. Bengal shrugs.

“Do you really not mind sharing a house with my brother?” His voice is flat and nakedly disbelieving, and his eyes bore straight through her.    

A defensive rope of anger coils in her stomach. “He respects you if you do the same,” she lies. Respect has nothing to do with it. But she’s got pride, and the kid deserves standards. 

“Bullshit.” Scotland snorts and looks away. “But really, how much trouble has he given you?” 

She scans her eyes from the tips of his stupid red hair to the end of his too-big feet. This explained far too much about England's ...everything. What? Were the British Isles hiding behind the door when the basic social decencies were handed out? Alongside the patience? And diplomacy?

“I think you should ask him that, if you're so interested.” 

Scotland laughs sourly and stares at her again. She fights the urge to shiver. “Don’t worry I will.” 

She meets his gaze though. “What’s the diagnosis then doctor? Will I live?” 

“This whole house is sitting on a rift in reality.” His voice is flat. “And it’s feeding on you.” 

Bengal’s voice shakes. “ what? ” 

Chapter Text

Scotland and Norway are arguing- he can hear them through the wall. He’s almost certain they’re arguing about the rift, but since he can’t understand them he can’t be sure. Norway had torn his way through the whole house and found nothing.  He had seemed calm enough at the time - but. India runs his hand over the stairway carpet as the argument raises another few decibels. Then silence. India presses his ear against the rough paper of the wall. Quiet voices, dimmed to a sullen and exasperated murmuring. 

He plays with the fluff balls that have accumulated from neglect on the carpet. The evening air is still heavy with heat, and the late sunset stripes the stairs below an exhausted gold. 

“They’re still going at it then?” says a voice in Bengali. He looks to the bottom of the stairs. His sister is leaning heavily on the banister, like her spine won’t hold her up- and her voice is rough and slurred. 

You should be sleeping. Is what he should say, but what comes out is- “Where’s your shadow?” 

Bengal chuckles. “Asleep on the sofa, I crawled away when she started drooling.” 

He snorts. “Jet lag?” Bengal just shrugs. 

“It’s when you- oh nevermind.” It’s not important anyway. On the other side of the wall he can hear furniture being moved - maybe chairs? Again he can’t quite make it out, but he’s dignified enough not to smooch his face against the wall to check. 

“Can I join you?” Bengal says quietly. Her hesitancy is unnerving, and unlike her. Still, he shuffles up so there’s space on the stair for two, and pace the space between him and the bannister. She wobbles her way up, and takes his hand when it’s offered and immediately lets it go when she feels she’s steady. He respects her enough to trust her on it. 

She carefully lowers herself next to him. On the other side of the wall the argument has escalated again. His sister fidgets with her dress. 

“Are you going to say anything?” It’s so strange to think that she’s so openly worried about what he thinks of her. Not since.. .Well. since before she was this age. Well before. 

“I promised to treat you like an adult, didn’t I? I take those more seriously nowadays.” His voice is level, and he can see a flicker of a smile on her lips. “If you don’t want to include me on your schemes, that’s your choice.” She flinches. “Sorry.”  

“I didn’t expect anything to go wrong, truly.” Her voice is low and she shivers when she speaks. Up close, he can see her hand tremble. “And we just needed a way to get-” 

“Unstuck. I know.” She sighs. 

“And now something is sucking the magic out of us-out of me - “ she shudders again as his gut squirms. Carefully, he puts an arm around her, she doesn’t shake him off, which can only be a good thing. “-they could be doing anything with it.” 

“You couldn’t have known.” He says. 

“No. I couldn’t. ” Her face is still so pale. He wishes that face wasn’t so familiar to him. “But neither could you.” Clearly he makes a face because she leans against him and scowls. “Even you’re not arrogant enough to think you can read minds.” She pokes him in the side as if to deflate his imaginary ego, and he laughs. The knot of feelings inside him loosens, just a little bit, and for a moment he just basks in the warmth of her half-hug and the sound of Norway and Scotland ranging the whole damn kitchen by the sound of it. 

“So how did that second meeting with the Thakurs go?” That knot tightens right back up again inside his chest and winds up until it hurts. He sighs. Then tells her. 

“Oh fuck.” She fiddles with the end of her dress. “What now?” 

 “I don’t know. I can’t turn up at their house again with a fruit basket and a card.” 

“No, that’d not be good.” 

“And-” He pauses and does a little head jerk towards the boys room, hoping to convey a general sentiment about the sheer, overwhelming lack of social skills the boy has. He’d got him to go to bed earlier, and without a fight even. He’s relieved about that, obviously, but it’s strange too. Her face is blank though, so he elaborates. “I don’t think he’d know why- I’d just be forcing him to do another nonsense task.” 

Her face stiffens and then relaxes into something desperately sad. 

“Yeah.” The silence stretches on and on. 

“Are you talking about me?” says a small voice in Latin. India turns to see England standing at attention against the wall. The bags under his eyes, when they meet Indias, say he’s tired, but his face is blank. 

“You don’t need to stand to attention.” It slips out unintentionally, but India means it with every fibre of his being. England just stares into his eyes though, beseeching. He relents. “But yes, I was telling Bengal what you did.” 

He nods and turns to Bengal.

 “You must hate me now.” He doesn’t even seem angry, just tired. It’s such an arse backwards response, that, yes actually now he thinks about it, he’s seen before. On drunken nights when that mask would slip and India would see the real person he’d fallen in love with, not the tyrannical Master of the house. 

Still, India's eyes drift over to Bengal. He’s not sure any of them have the energy to fight, but he doesn’t want to have to try anyway. But again, she just looks very sad

“I’m too tired to hate you.” The kid gives her a Look. 

“Really? ‘Cause you’re kinda preachy.” She just rolls her eyes at him.

“Brat. Get over here.” And the brat does. India just stares at the pair of them for a moment- England, sitting and finally, properly, allowing himself to slouch, with his knees pulled up to his chest. Bengal makes exasperated sounds in her throat as she flicks her fingertips through his fringe to try and lie it straight. Unbidden, a laugh bubbles up in India’s chest. Bengal gives him a Look of her own. 

“What.” 

He can’t help it, he snorts. Then replies in Bengali, “You have no idea how surreal this is.” 

She rolls her eyes and chuckles herself. England's eyes dart between the two of them, tense again, though not uncoiled. “Whatever,” she swaps back to Latin, and flicks England's hair again. The boy relaxes. India does too. The silence is so much heavier this time, and more comfortable. Bengals hair flicks have softened to sisterly head pats, and if anything, England is leaning into them. The largest Empire there has ever been, the world's most dangerous man, India’s bastard ex-husband- curled up like a stray cat for head pats from a woman who could justly say she wanted him dead.  It really is the strangest thing India has ever seen. 

His own eyelids and body droop, pulled down by the soft heavy feeling in his chest flowing into his limbs, and he lets himself rest against the wall. England is clearly asleep now, and Bengals hand slows to a stop, rubbing a single clump of blond hair between her fingers. 

“I wish I didn’t care.”

It’s a whisper. Barely said and barely heard. He doesn’t say anything, not even about the pang of empathy in his chest. There’s no point.

He feels the same way, after all.  

Ow. Ow ow ow. The waking world dribbles into her head like a pickaxe. It’s warm, but everything hurts. Her back and shoulders, from where the stairs and banisters dig into her. Her neck, from being at a funny angle all night. Even her fingers are full of pins and needles from being crushed under her and her brother all night. 

“Ahhhgh- ah.” India yawn-groans and squirms upright- “ -ow,” - wacking his head off the railing with a dull clunk and slumping back, squashing her in the process. Behind them is a small giggle.

“Are you stuck ?” She’d turn and glare at the boy if her neck would work. 

“Next time you can fall asleep on the stairs, and we’ll see how you feel ok?” India says.

“Brat.” she adds, as India groans and levers himself upright. Finally, she can breathe again!

England sticks his face over hers, eyes scrunched up equally in amusement and concern, a grin twitching at the edge of his mouth. He sticks his tongue out at her, fast like a snake, and she rolls her eyes. 

There’s a click and India whips his head round and releases a flurry of irritated Hindi- England scowls. So she knows it's her sister before she even opens her mouth. Their back and forth lasts all through Bengal hauling herself upright on the banister, panting.  She ignores the pang of hurt when neither of them acknowledge her- it’s familiar but unjustified- and instead tries to shuffle onto the next step down so she won’t be quite so harshly squished between her brother and the bruising wooden railings. Shaha is at the bottom of the stairs, dressed relatively plainly in a blue salwar kameez as she adjusts her red head scarf flapping her hands at her twin sharply despite her grin.   

Suddenly there’s a creak of stairs and Shaha shoves a phone screen in her face. There’s a photo of the three of them - her, England, and India- in a pile at the top of the stairs. They’re fast asleep- the boy curled up like a cat and India drooling a little. She’d wedged herself into a position that looks like she’s broken half her limbs as she tries to sprawl in a space half the size it needs to be. 

“You’re all so cute, I was thinking of keeping this for blackmail purposes.” Shaha says in Bengali with a teasing smile. Bengal just rolls her eyes and bats her hand away, but can feel herself smile, even if her brother isn’t. “Maybe even after this gets fixed, who knows?”

“Speaking off,” she continues, switching to Latin, “Norway wants the lot of you down in the kitchen, he needs the boy to do a spell.” Bengal can feel England tense behind her, and her brother sits up properly, turning to the side and spouting off something to someone at the bottom of the stairs. She leans to the side and there’s Norway, looking pretty well-rested for someone who couldn’t get to bed last night. He says something back in what's probably English. Her brother's eyebrows pull into a serious expression and he nods immediately and stands up. So does England, his face grim. 

“What is it?” she asks in Latin, because England can have no more understanding of what is happening than her. 

“Norway's going to try and find the center of the rift, apparently it can’t be under us - but it can’t be far, or Scotland wouldn’t be able to sense it.” India says. Her stomach churns, and she rubs her arms at the phantom cold. Norway says something, and India replies. 

“Why?” she says, heart pounding.  

India looks very serious, and England's eyes dart between the pair of them. But it’s Shaha who replies. “He thinks what happened with you is Ruqyah tried to unravel the spell- oh, that’s how ruqyah tries to deal with magic by the way- we figured out last night, thanks to you guys stopping us going to bed- ” Shaha flaps her hand sharply at her, but Bengal’s too tense to even rolls her eyes- “But there isn’t any actual spell on your body per say, so there's nothing that needs correcting, so it did the best it could and acted on the connection-” 

Bengal grips her stomach, “And pulled the soul of modern me here.” Shaha nods. 

“But it’s more than that,” says India, “it means the portal itself must still be open at least a little-”

“Draining us of magic.” she says, twisting her dress in her hands. India nods. 

“Norway thinks that between England and Scotland’s connections he can find the center of this rift.” She shudders, and glances back at Norway. For a moment their eyes meet, and something must show on her face because he immediately starts talking in a strong but earnest tone, and India blinks before turning back to her.

“He also says England and Scotland won’t be using their magic, at all. They’ll be safe.” Her stomach unwinds- besides her, England's shoulders relax. He was going to do it. The thought makes her feel sick, almost as much as not knowing why. 

Behind her, her sister rests a hand on her shoulder and says softly in Bengali, “Sometimes, these ugly things are necessary.” 

Bengal ignores her, and India’s disgusted glare, to meet Norway's gaze again. And nods.  

So they all follow him into the kitchen, which seems less than half the size it actually is, with the furniture shoved into the corners, and pile and piles of paper stacked on top of the table. Instead the floor is dominated by a complex, beautiful, chalk triangle. The sides are equal, but only just long enough for Scotland and Norway to sit without touching, and the points barely poke out of the rune circle. In the center is a round of copper about the size of her palm with a hole punched straight through the middle. Only one corner is left empty.

Her sister pulls out two chairs and hands her one, and she sits, but only because even the short trip down the stairs sets her off shivering. She leafs through some of the papers- a few are her notes, but many of them are -or were - arrays, their ink now spooled out like unruly threads. Next to them are the likely culprits- prayers, but only a few. England stays by the wall. She can tell nothing from his facial expression.

She wipes her sweaty palms on her dress again and tries to keep her voice level. “Are you sure you're going to be ok?” 

Scotland snorts and she can feel Pakistan's judgemental shake of the head without even turning around. And she resents them for it, because it means that- whatever England actually feels, he hides it. 

“Norway's not actually using his magic.” India says. “Just using it as a guide.” He looks confident, but that could be a lie.  

England ignores them both, flopping cross-legged on the only free corner of the triangle. Her eyes flick back between all three of them, and when Shahadeva slips her hand in her she grips it fiercely. Norway says something, both boys snap back in sync and he pinches the bridge of his nose and hushes them. All three are silent. 

Then Norway starts to chant. Her knuckles turn white. His chanting- of actual words probably rather than the wordless guidance of throat singing- slowly rises in volume and pace. Nothing happens. Then the chalk begins to glow blue and the boys flinch as green light rises straight from their skin. The copper glows red, then white, then starts to rattle. 

And it’s over. 

The lights fade with Norway's chant, and India marches over to England who jumps up and waves his arms in a way that can only be described as look! I’m fine! And Norway checks on Scotland, who lounges totally unaffected. Her hands unclench. Still, she keeps her eyes on the rattling copper. 

It keeps going, increasing in rate and ferocity, gradually inching itself across the floor as it rocks almost from edge to edge. It flips over- once, then twice.

Then clatters to the end of the kitchen, smacks itself against the wall and whizzes under the kitchen cabinet. 

And Norway gives a deep, beleaguered sigh.  

The reasoning was that a spontaneous array still needed power. The reasoning was that that power would still have a limit. And so, supported by the way the copper dowsing pendulum swung enthusiastically at the building that started the mess, the reasoning was that the rift must be in the old meaning room. 

But frankly, to India, the reasoning was bullshit. 

“So you should be picking up something around here?” he says in English, toeing the new carpet. That they’d had to replace it was evidence of a sort of course, but the staff had been vague about the state of the old one- and the two regular caretakers were missing and off sick respectively. As it was no one else had directly seen the old carpet before it was torn up and the new one laid down. 

“I am picking things up. There’s no shortage of things to pick up.” Norway says, yanking on his unruly pendulum as it whirls aggressively at the floor like an upside down helicopter. “But it is clearly not here.” 

India rolls his eyes. Norway snaps, “Look, I don’t know what to tell you but you’ll know it when you see it.” India nods just to mollify him. 

Norway had suggested the array might have burned all the way through to the floor beneath. But no amount of diplomatic papers were going to get the increasingly harassed and fretful staff to rip up the carpet in a government building. It had been worth a try though. Stress relieving. 

“Could you not even give us a clue?” Pakistan says, back on full sarcasm now the trail was cold. 

“Starshaped probably.” Norway throws his hands up. “Not that we’ll be able to find it under this wretched carpet.” 

Vaguely India looks around the room, not expecting to see anything useful really, more to keep an eye on the kids. They’re spread out across the room, Bengal resting again, panting on a plastic chair- if Pakistan had had her way she’d still be in bed- and the two boys at opposite ends of the room, having used up all their patience not to murder each other in India’s illeagally overcramped car. Thank god for diplomatic immunity. Again. 

“Ok,” says Pakistan, “but pardon me if I’m being oblivious, doesn’t this building have a basement?” 

As one they turn towards the replacement caretaker- Jim. Jim was the least senior member of the cleaning staff, and had the hovering, uncomfortable air of uncertainty to prove it. He shuffles under their combined stares.

“Yeah, we have a basement.” He shuffles some more when the kids join in the staring. “But it’s staff only, and only the cleaning staff go down their at all.” A moment. And then some more shuffling. “I guess you want to see it then?”

“Yes, that would be very helpful.” India says, Pakistan beconning Bengal- and by default, England and Scotland- over. Nonetheless, it’s her that takes the lead in questioning the caretaker, Scotland close on her heels, and England close on his. 

“How far does the basement run?”

“Under the whole building Maam.”

There’s a gentle nudge at his elbow, and he turns to see Bengal sidling up beside him, eyebrows raised. Behind her Norway is tapping his pendulum, muttering under his breath, every so often he stops to flick it. The only reason he’s even as close as he is is because of how slow she’s walking. 

“And what's down there?”
“Store rooms mostly, Maam. But also boilers and the fusebox, y’know. Maintenance stuff.”

“How’re you doing,” India asks his sister quietly, not wanting to draw attention to her. She rolls her eyes at him. 

“Same as always.” she says, then points subtly in front of them. “I was actually going to ask you how they’re doing.” India looks in front, to where the two boys have fallen back from Pakistan and Jim, and are hissing words at each other like a pair of angry rattlesnakes, and swears. 

“And how often is it cleaned?”

“Err, every fortnight? At least the storerooms are, but the boiler rooms are only cleaned before being serviced so they’re checked less often. Maam.”

He needs to separate them. His whole body tenses up at the thought, the bland, creamy corridor pressing down on him- Bengal nudges him, sharply, in the ribs. Her face looks very concerned. He lets out the breath, and breathes slowly back in again. After a moment he can muster up a smile. 

“You’ll be fine.” she declares with frankly unearned confidence. 

“And it’s only authorised personnel that have gone down there over the past month?” 

“Do you mean the cleaners and the maintenance people, Maam? It should be- just them ad their managers, it’s passwords locked y’see and theres a book at the bottom you have to sign to say why you’ve been there.”  

Still, he has to steal himself to make the few last steps to catch up with the boys. Scotland is now bent almost double, and England is standing on his tiptoes so they can snarl insults in each others faces. Heart pounding, he taps them both lightly on the shoulder. 

They whirl around and pin him with death-looks, it takes all his effort but he doesn’t flinch. Instead he raises an eyebrow, turns to England, and says in Latin.

 “Bengal would like to have a chat with you, that ok?” And. 

He gos. He drops the glare, nods, and wanders off back to his sister. No muss, no fuss. 

Huh. 

Still, he should probably say something to Scotland for politenesses sake- his heart stinks. For a second. Because Scotland's face, which had been unreadably blank while he was talking to England, is contorted in a look of bone chilling hatred . 

“Look, this isn’t a terrorist thing is it, Maam? Are you sure you don’t want me to call the police or something?” 

“No, Jim. That wouldn’t help.” 

But. India’s heart slows, and he straightens up- Scotland doesn’t actually look so very much like his little brother. For one thing, even as a teenager, he’s far taller. And for another, India has never taken any of his shit. So he’s not about to start now. “And how about you Scotland? How are you holding up?” 

The gangly boy huffs and turns away, only to have to halt immediately because they have finally reached the lift at the end of the corridor. There’s a series of short beeps, the door opens, and all seven of them pile in. It’s big and industrial, designed to take cleaners and their trolleys, or to transport things to and from the store room- even so, it’s a close fit. Crushed against Scotland, Bengal and the wall, India’s stomach twists from the claustrophobic feeling. 

Theres a rustle from the front of the box, and Jim speaks up. “Now, if I could just get your full names on the list for security re-” 

For a moment there’s an uncomfortable silence- India winces as Scotland's shoulder jabs into his collar bone. “What is it?” he says. 

“I- it says nobodys been to clean down here for over a month.” Again another pause, and a prickle goes across India’s neck. “It’s probably just James, he always forgets to fill in the paper work. It’s not like there’s anything valuable down there anyway, the - the-” Jim sways, and when India successfully maneuvers himself s he can see his face, his eyes are glassy. 

“Jim?” Pakistan asks.

“I- yes? Do you want me to take you to the front desk, we must’ve gotten really turned around if we wound up here-” The clipboard clatters to the ground. He doesn’t seem to notice. 

“We want you to take us down to the basement Jim.” Pakistan's voice is firm and commanding, but it’s the piece of paper concealed in the hand she puts on his shoulder that makes his eyes clear. For a moment he just blinks, then pales. Then nods. 

“Yes. I’ll...I’ll do that.” There's a bleep from the control panel, and a momentary sense of weightlessness, and they're going down. “....Is this what you’ve come to fix?” Jim asks eventually. The lift stops with a metallic clunk.   

“We’ll fix it,” says Pakistan, again with the confidence of a conman. She doesn’t take her hand off Jim's shoulder. And judging by his shivering, she really shouldn’t. Judging by the shivering of Bengal and Scotland, he’s not sure they should. Norway's pendulum is tap-tap-taping against the door.

But it’s only when it opens that India can feel it. 

His heart races, his palms grow sweaty, and his breath huffs out in a fine mist in front of him. Cold, icy cold, presses in until it forms like a lump in his gut. Inside his head is every fretful thought and worst case scenario. His mouth tastes like iron - and cordite.  His hands shake. So do his companions. England worst of all.

“It’s this way,” says Norway, not looking away from the pendulum tugging on the string like an ill-trained dog. He moves forward, and Bengal follows him, praying under her breath. Scotland follows next. Then Pakistan. 

India, however, takes a few stomach-deep breaths slowly in- then out. He notices the walls and the floor, and the smell of moist concrete. Real things. Non-magic things. It only makes the feeling recede a little, but it’s enough. He reaches out and puts a hand on England's shoulder- he flinches first (of course) but then reaches out- and lets his hand drop. India raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t comment. 

“Come on, lets go,” he says in Latin. “Nearly there.” 

It’s only when they’re walking out the lift that Jim finds his voice.

“What about the kid?!” his voice comes out squeaky but surprisingly strong, considering. “If-If this thing - if this thing-” Even as he speaks his eyes begin to glaze over again. 

“We’ll be fine,” India says, with an authority he does not feel. Instead he grabs the clipboard from the floor and writes their bosses phone numbers on it.  “If we’re not back in an hour, call these numbers- tell them Vihaan Srivastva, Ra’ani Nehru and -” 

“Lukas Bondevik”     

“-Lukas Bondevik, requires assistance with the latest matter.” Jim nods and takes the clipboard in shaking hands. Then the door closes and he’s gone. India knows in his soul that he won’t come back, no matter what happens. 

They’re on their own. 

“Let’s go,” says Norway, voice tense. 

The corridors are damp and non-descript, featureless grey, Every so often there’s a pair of double doors, same colour as the wall, with heavy metal handles. They pass many of these, on both sides, and every time one of them pauses to inspect one, Norway snaps at them, and they follow the pendulum. Until this one. 

“Stop here,” he says, rooting around in his pocket. His pendulum vibrates so aggressively it  pulls the string horizontal against all the rules of gravity. He fishes out a small ball of paper and throws it at the door.  A wave of cloying cold energy erupts from the door, ruffling their clothes, India breathes against the rising memories, in and out, even as his hair stands on end. The copper pendulum lets out a low, angry hum which makes India's teeth hurt. 

Bengal gives a low whistle. “It didn’t like that at all, did it.” 

Norway nods. “It’s time- stations everybody.”

India nods, and backs away with Scotland, Bengal and England, translating as they go. Far enough away as to be (maybe) out of the blast radius, but close enough to (maybe) help if needed. Pakistan starts laying out a prayer circle, not nearly large enough to use all of what she had made due to the narrowness of the corridor, so she doubles up. A failsafe for their failsafe. Bengal begins praying herself, and India can feel the cold lift (a little) and his heart rate slow (barely).  

It means he can focus more as Norway draws a half circle in chalk around the door and steps inside. On the sharp, almost acrid smell as he crunches something in his fist and takes a small piece of red chalk- the type you could find in any grocery store- and draws a triangle, then a sigil in the center of it. 

And it emerges. 

A white array, like a jagged spiderweb, throbs angrily across the door like a living thing. It writhes, spits flame, and lets out a caustic hiss when Norway lies a hand on the bottom quadrant. Embers rise up along Norway's arms, his clothes begin to smoke. India’s breath freezes in his throat.  

Norway starts to chant.  

It’s a throaty, musical thing and pulses with the rhythm of the array. The flames sway with it, rolling off his skin like fog.

For a moment Pakistan's voice falters, and ice cold air washes over them before she starts praying again and they can breathe. India can feel Scotland shift at his side- he puts his arm out to stop him. Scotland shoves his arm away. 

Norway's voices rises.

Cracks and splinters start to spread, then collapse that segment of the array unravels itself. The  lights pop and burst. But the remainder pulses insolently, bright enough to light up the whole corridor. Then Norway stumbles and slams both hands into the array, and it’s blinding. Lightning lashes against the man, skittering along his skin like claws. Norway’s chant is still rhythmic, but India can see him flinch. Pakistan is gasping now, unable to speak. The cold freezes India in place, England clings to him and India clings back.   

Norway paints a sigil over the top half- just one horizontal line.

And everything is flame. He can see nothing, he can hear nothing but the roar of the flame. He digs his fingers into England's shoulder as he forces himself still -

 Fire and lightning lashes against the prayer wall. He can see her lips move, but her prayers are drowned out- 

“Stop!” Bengal yells, and India can feel the inferno over the freezing fear, the heat charing him-

- he will pull that man out himself if he has to-     

The fire dies with a piercing shriek. The array unravels like a spool of thread and the corridor goes dark. Pakistan's prayer dies with a croak. Magic washes over them, cloying and rank. India grips the boys’ shoulder tighter to ground himself. Scotland pushes free to support Norway, pulling him back to standing from where he’d slumped at the bottom of the door. A light comes on in England's hand, weak, thin, and powered by only a single word.

In it’s pale light India can see that Norway is unburned. He can breathe again, and he lets go of England to open the door. But when his hand touches the handle, he freezes, unable to twist it against the heavy, crushing sound of his heart in his ears. Breathe. In. Out. He still can’t open the door. Breathe. In. Ou-

“Are you going to open it or not?” says Bengal, who’d rushed to Pakistan's side. India jumps. He pulls the door open, wincing.

The smell hits him like an uppercut, sending him coughing, throat convulsing to the side- trying not to vomit. Behind him come a series of disgusted noises. A nudge into his stomach. He looks down- England’s face is grey, but questioning- the only one not choking.   

In the light of his spell India can see the room is crammed with broken tables and chairs, and outmoded computers that probably still kind-off work, except for the way they’ve been left behind by the world. Big tubes of filament lighting too. Though they can’t explain the oppressive buzzing that bores into India’s skull. But no window for light. No obvious source for the smell, either. India carefully runs his hand along the wall till he can feel the metal box and switches on the light.

There are flies in the air.

And in the center is a star-shaped array, rough and lopsided, pulsating and shifting like vines. The concrete looks translucent-  a thin skin stretched over a gaping black wound.  He can feel the magic humming on his skin. He doesn’t need Norway to tell him what this is. 

There’s a body in the center. Burned to charcoal and hollowed out by maggots.The only thing he can say about it is that the person used to be tall. When he remembers to breathe, the smell is like a wall- rotten meat and burning.

Carefully all six of them space themselves out around the edge. Far enough away that they are not caught in it as it swells outwards before crushing back in on itself. And again and again. The magic tickles, like reeds against his skin. Like fish hooks. Vaguely he’s aware Norway’s been dumped in a chair by Scotland, that England is leaning back away from the hole, that his sisters-  

-“Why would you do this?” the words slip from his lips like poison as his little sister stands, shaking, bloody but victorious. Shahadeva, his Twin, his whole world-

“We need to go,” Pakistan says in Latin, and again in English, voice serious. Norway just gasps, but Bengal and Scotland both agree, and India can feel a little hand tugging him away.  

Against himself he scowls. “What and run away? No.” 

Pakistan grabs Bengals hand and snaps. “What’s the point? They are long dead.” 

 India’s fists clench, he slips his hands from Englands and the edge is spitting with purple fire as it swells back out like an ulcer and -

“ I kno~ow. But look how cool his spots are! ” Pakistan says, voice high and girly even as she scowls and throws her hands up. He can feel the shadows as the reeds tower above his head and the mud up to his knees-

“What?” He finds himself taking a step foreward, right to the edge, even as his voice wavers. “This isn’t right”

It’s midday and all he can smell is the mud under his feet and the rushes that tower over his head. His sister shows him a frog and he laughs because it is so cool...

-Gravity starts to pull him down. Like a lead weight. England collapses to his knees, hands over his ears. Far away he can hear Pakistan yelling “You’re mad- completely crazy!” And Scotland chanting something.

The stone is huge, and carved with royal edicts, but Brother only gets a glance at it before there’s a phantom pain in his knees as his twin is thrown down next to their eldest cousin, Khandaha. Then real pain as he’s thrown down. -

-Purple flames part before his eyes. And beneath him is an ocean. A pure black ocean. His eyes widen- wrapped around his hand and up- a golden thread. And beneath in the black ocean- gold- like a river-like a path- 

-They don’t throw Vanga down, and he’s grateful for that- she’s still really a baby. But she’s still crying- same as his and his twins legs are still oozing pus. Him and Sister are still so scared as they’re looked down on by the Emperor of what feels like the whole world.

“I am not going to hurt you anymore,” he says in a voice that rattles his bones, as his servants bring out lush robes and food that makes his mouth water- 

Scotland finishes chanting. The whole thing contracts- for a second all he can see is concrete stretched thin like drum skin a few inches from his toes- shoes- armoured boot- brogues -sandals - . Then-

“Why would you do this?” the words slip from his lips like poison as his little sister stands, shaking, bloody but victorious. Shahadeva, his Twin, his whole world lies at her feet with an arrow in her throat. He’s felt her shock, her pain, and her betrayal and it resonated over his own into a cacophony of malice as he draws his bejeweled sword and -

He falls in.

The cold is like a hammer to the chest, like being flash frozen. Like being stabbed. He’s falling, or perhaps sinking and for a dizzying minute -

By mid-day he’s fallen behind the Emperor's retinue, and no amount of huffing by his twin, or projected anxiety down the connection will get him to speed up his horse. And because he doesn’t speed up, neither does she- they’ve been far too much apart this past century.

 Partially, it’s because he wants to enjoy the scenery but mostly, he just wants to talk to his baby sister. The heat beats down on him as he draws level with the palanquin. He can’t feel how she is of course (though he sometimes has to remind himself of that), but he knows she’s still injured because of the bandages. She doesn’t respond to his greeting. She must be sulking. He talks anyway. 

“It’s so good to have you back with us again, little sister,” he says, “You’ll love it at the palace. You’ll have all the books and scrolls you could ever need. And Akbar! I know you think he’s a brute right now, but he’s the smartest person I’ve ever met- he’s not much of a reader, but he reminds me so much of you I’m sure you’ll adore each other-” 

-he forgets where and when he is as he tumbles downwards. As his chest burns- 

They stand together at the funeral, all three of them. He can feel the echo in his fingertips of his Twin fiddling with her mourning clothes. Normally it would not be so clear, so acute, so self-smothering as it had been when they were children but pain and loss brings it closer. And so he tries desperately to only think of his pain at Shah Jahan's death lonely death, only of what was lost and never, never , of what his is about to lose-

- and then theres a tugging sensation in his chest and around his arm and-

There is war now, aways. He can feel it on his skin and in his leg when he walks with a cane. But he doesn’t care, he will be stronger, and free. And his sisters will have to see that. He throws open the flaps to his tent and smiles. The pale man in the bed smiles back. Honestly, after such a long, hard day, he deserves a treat-

He is beneath a golden tangle shooting out in all directions, dividing and subdividing wrapped around his arm in endless black in all directions. Except-

The guns roar and people are screaming, running everywhere, dying everywhere, this is a walled garden, why would they do this? Why would anyone let this happen? He trips and falls- he knows not on what except that the ground is wet and slippery from blood and on his face and the guns keep firing and-

He is not there. He is his freedom and democracy and rising power and he will never ever be weak again. He is in 2017 and he is trying to end a curse. He stops falling. Opens his eyes. Like oil it presses against them and he looks at where he is. The whispers do not stop.  

It is nearly midnight, and there is no England in sight, but even if there was, there is nothing he could do to take this feeling away. He is lighter than he’s been in centuries- he grabs his sisters hands, one on either side so he knows where and when he is because apart from the throbbing bleeding wound in his side-he could just fall into it. He sees his brand new flag attached to the flag pole he knows he could just fall into this feeling, this place- the future-  

He was a fool. 

He is burning and bleeding from his side as the mobs hunt people down in the street, as they torture and maim because of the border, as the pain reache inside his head, his heart and slices away something he thought had withered too much for him to feel himself lose- 

There was no up or down here, no window back home. Only towards or away from the pinpoint of light at the center of his web. Around, in every direction, is the swirling black waves of the void. But it is not only black but shot through with threads of gold that tangle and intersect and in one part form a great long river-

-he looks back one last time, at the Earth, at the land that had been his body. His sister, his twin, separated but not, grabs his hand and together they walk with their people into the whirring, singing light-

-it’s not only black but alive-

A wave coils and slips its tendrils in the river, and then it grows. Horns. Eyes. A face. It reaches up and a terrible awful dread pulls up in him but he’s too experienced to thrash, it’ll only eat up his air.

He can’t breathe.

Eventually his instincts do him in. It hurts too much. He gasps and the black goes down his lungs and chokes him. Unlike a human, he has too much practice at dying to panic. He tries to pull himself towards his light. It only jerks towards him. It’s funny.. His connection pulses warm and familiar in his chest. But. There’s no way back. All of him is here, not just his mind.  

Oh. 

I’m going to die. 

There’s no way back. He’s freezing. He knows no magic. He’s drowning.

Oh 

oh

-

-

“Brother!” He hears it not with his ears but in his soul. His stomach burns. A warm hand grabs his and he grabs back instinctively as he turns back to. Pakistan. Her face is pinched in pain but before he can do any thing she pulls him back to reality. He collapses on the concrete like a sack of potatoes. Vaguely aware that he’s fallen on something soft and covered in cloth. And then he throws up, black. 

And passes out.    

“He says nothing’s changed, he’ll be back in fifteen minutes to check on him again.” England translates as Norway leaves the room.  India is layed out on the sofa- Shaha and Norway had only needed on look at the stairs before deciding fuck that- and he is still breathing. It’s the only thing that's keeping her together. 

She touches his wrist, it’s cold and clammy. She touches his forehead- it’s burning. He had woken up a moment ago, called her Vanga- a name she hasn’t had in centuries - and passed out again. Norway had said it was magic depletion, and it felt almost as if he was healing - from what though, is unclear. The name...perhaps he’s experiencing what she did. It’s not a comforting thought. 

England is leaning into the side of her leg, plucking fluff from the carpet where he sits.

“England.” she says, clenching her knuckles. “Can you translate something for me? To Norway.” 

England nods and together they go into the kitchen. He’s making rune circles again, whilst Pakistan busies herself with the kettle. Of course, as soon as she enters the room her sister goes to her. 

“How are you?” she says in Bengali. “Oh God, you look exhausted, Scotland went to bed hours ago-”

“Sister-”

“You really don’t need to stay up, Norway and I can keep an eye on him and his depletion isn’t half as bad as-”

“Pakistan!” Her sister snaps her mouth shut, and her face pales. Bengal hadn’t meant to snap, but. This was beyond a joke now. 

Basic respect should not be so difficult, dammit. She meets her sister's eyes, and says, politely and firmly, “I need to talk to Norway. I would appreciate it if you were there.” 

Shaha's face doesn’t change at all, which is unnerving, but her long nails fiddling with the end of her scarf are brought up to scrape against her lips- a familiar, pre-nail biting habit. “Of course I’ll translate for you-” 

“No. England will be translating.” She loves her sister but she’s not thick . Shaha does bite her nails now, just pressing down, not even enough to dent her nail paint- then removing them quickly from her mouth. “I want you here to consult on something else.” 

Shaha’s face is confused, and England's eyes dart between the two sisters and Norway ike he’s expecting a fight. Bengal takes a deep breath, to steal her nerves, and another- then switches back to Latin.

“England. I want you to ask Norway to tell me everything he knows about translation spells.” 

Chapter Text

The hand in his dissolves to dust, sharp heat slipping through his fingers and leaving him adrift in grit, smoke, and nothing. Nothingness pounds against his ears like the pressure in a deep sea.

He is alone, and he is falling. Then-

She’s wailing. 

His sister, outside, blood and gunpowder in the air as the machine gun keeps firing as he slips in the blood and collapses to the ground only to be pinned under another body, then another, then another- 

No- he thinks, -please no-   he tries to scrabble awake, but it’s so dark he can’t even tell if his eyes are shut. The pressure wants to crush his skull like a coke can- 

He slips deeper-

The rail thin bodies of the starved, jutting from the skin-

-He flails thinking of the gold threads, if he can grab one maybe- if he can find one maybe-

Blood under his sandals, the distressed scream of a horse as the wire slips tight around its neck. he tries not to hear, he tries not to hear-

Deeper-

It is a victory like no other, bodys piled so high they swamp the valley with smoke when burned, black and acrid and stinging his eyes as he ignores the victory so immense it tore the twins stomachs open and left them helpless and bleeding-

Deeper-

Nowhere, they say again to another set of confused adults- humans, younger than them but bigger and older. We are from Nowhere. No parents, no home. 

They say they must have some somewhere, and in the twins mind there’s this distant flicker- the edge of a sari, maybe, and a bull shaped talisman hanging from a braided rope around her waist. But even in their memories she is not theirs, and they are not hers. 

No, we're from Noone. They say, scoffing down scented rice. It’s just us.

Just us, his voice says. Lost in the dark.

“You want to what ?!” Shaha has not stopped pacing the kitchen, leaving the kettle abandoned, and Bengals clarification ignored. Bengal grits her teeth and turns to Norway.

“It can be done, can’t it? A one way translation spell which won’t use my magic at all, but will let you understand me.” England translates pretty rapidly, and Norway hisses through his teeth. Then a long explanation, and England turns back to her to translate.

“It’s difficult- the two way translation spell works because it creates a link between the two people where their magic can interact. The language itself is never transformed, -”

“But you understand why that's unacceptable to me.” England rolls his eyes at the interruption, but translates anyway. Norway nods, but says nothing. She steels herself. “Can it be done?” 

There’s a much longer pause, then an extended information that has England crumpling his face in confusion. The two exchange words back and forth for a bit, England's voice trailing off into murmurs. She braces herself for the worst. 

“He says yes.” She can’t miss the trepidation in his tone. “It will be much harder because the normal spell moves ideas- not changes the words. And it has to happen at the same time and -” he pauses for a moment, “keep up? Not like what he did with your notes.” 

So it has to actually transform the words and be simultaneous to my speech? “Yes, that does sound difficult.” He nods. “He thinks it would be best if he did it to translate Latin that way-” 

“-he’d only have to cast one spell for all of us to understand each other.” She nods.

England shakes his head, “two spells. But yeah. That's what it sounds like- so he needs somebody to be a base to get all the words out so he can make an array.”

“Would that base person need to use magic themselves?” 

“I can’t believe you.” Shaha says, cutting off England's translation. “Are you really doing this?” 

Bengal doesn’t even turn around, “ I am not doing anything other than what’s necessary. It doesn’t put me at risk and it isn’t- “

“Technically.” snaps Shaha. 

She closes her eyes. “Yes, technically , and unless you're going to round up every witch from here to Mecca on the off-chance they caused it….we can’t work like this- I don’t like it but-”

“You barely know him, and your relying on this-” she waves her hands at England, as her mouth flaps uselessly, “- child to translate for you-”

She keeps ranting, but Bengals eyes are burning- why was she always, always like this? “You hypocrite.” 

Her voice is quiet. It had taken everything to stop it from shaking. But Shaha goes silent anyway. Subtly, England insinuates himself between them. It’s pointless of course- the twins had never hit her- they’d never needed to. “Excuse me?” 

“You heard.” Shaha looks like she’s been slapped- Bengal ignores a twinge of guilt, the urge to apologise. “What do you expect me to say, huh? You had no problem working with Norway back there.You didn’t even have a problem with Scotland doing it- and he’s a child .” She takes a deep, stabilising breath. “But you’re different from me- you can talk to Norway directly and make up your own mind about what you want to risk. I can’t. I know you edit out anything you think I don’t need to know. It’s awful.” 

“I was helping-” Shaha says, gaze straight and unbending, looking down on Bengal from her full imposing height.  

“Do you have any idea?” Bengals heart pounds in her chest, almost like it could punch straight through. “How awful it is, to have somebody make that decision for you? To have your own family take away your voice like that?”

Shaha flinches, looking away and hugging herself. Bengal takes in every line of her face- the scrunched up brow, the frown lines. The way her hands twitch like they want to grip the handle of her treasured sword. Bengals blood is still roaring desperately in her ears as she waits for her older sister to reply. Eventually, she does. 

“Yes,” she murmurs, “of course I do.” 

Disappointment crashes around her ears so hard it makes her sick. If she’d been less well rested, she might have sat down. “Then why do you do it?”  

No answer. 

“This is my life!” She’s shouting, her throat is sore. “This could kill me!”

No answer

“Why shouldn’t I talk to Norway myself? Why shouldn’t I be able to explore every option possible?” 

Shaha meets her eyes directly, and then says, in a tone so familiar Bengal could mimic it in her sleep. “A long time ago, I made a promise to protect you-”

“And?” Her sister freezes, eyes wide. “Do you think this-” Bengal waves her hand around the room, “- is protection? Stopping me from talking for myself? You can’t protect me from everything!” 

Her sister hasn’t moved at all, doesn’t even seem to have absorbed what Bengal is saying, Suddenly, she does need to sit down, and staggers into a seat- weighed down by exhaustion and anger and disappointment- 

“You can’t even protect me from yourself.” 

 It’s spiteful. It’s nasty. Bengal means it with every fibre of her being.

Shaha looks like she’s been slapped. For a moment her sister just stares at her, face grey, eyes shining. The closest she has ever seen her come to crying outside the hands of the battlefield doctors.

“I still can’t watch you do this to yourself. I’m sorry”  

She turns away. The door shuts behind her with a quiet click . 

Bengal puts her head in her hands for a second and just. Breathes. For a moment. 

“Are you ok?” asks England, in Latin. Hopped up on her own anger the language change is a little jarring- it takes a moment to find her tongue. Her mouth doesn’t seem to want to make the words. 

Eventually she nods. And keeps breathing. 

“Yes,” she says, lifting her head to look back across the table to where Norway is holding his hand out in mid air, like he doesn’t know whether to touch or not. “I’m ok.” 

They lock eyes, and she sends him a grim smile. He nods. He doesn’t look disapproving at all- worried, maybe, with that crease between his eyes- but not offended, or shocked that she threw her older sister out. Strangely, that helps; if only because he’d worked with her sister before and- normally- that would mean she’d be on her own again. Her sister is very charming when she wants to be. 

Eventually, he starts talking. England translates. 

“The base person for the Latin would not need to alter themselves. It’s like the measuring spell he cast on me and Scotland, it only measures the way it works for you, and then the actual spells are cast on himself.” The boy pauses for a second. “It would be completely halal. But it’ll take time.” 

Bengal nods, considers the implications. Probably no different from the mystics back home- with their back alley businesses and street stalls in the sun, hawking protections from the evil eye and Jinn, and for the right price…There was always a winding trail of people from all types of religions willing to pay another to sell their soul for one thing or another. Not that she’d ever needed them. Like butchery, it had always been distant, unnecessary- and disgusting. But of course, she wouldn’t be getting her own hands bloody.  

She looks Norway in the eye, and shivers when a fresh throb of pain runs through her. 

“When do we start?” she says, finding her Latin. 

“As soon as you’re ready,” England says, twisting his hands over each other. 

She thinks of her brother, who has only moved once in the two hours she’s been sat by him, and of his ice cold hands and burning forehead. She thinks about pain, and cold all the way to your bones. She thinks about promises, to yourself and to others. She thinks about God- she’d prayed twice today already- and about risk. She thinks about magic.  

After a moment, she nods. 

Norway nods back, and England translates. 

“Then let me set up the stuff and we will start first thing tomorrow. Remember, you can back out at any time you wish.” Then Norway smiles. England frowns for a second. “But I look forward to working with you, Bengal.”

“You too,” she says, standing. 

She hopes she hasn’t just made a terrible mistake.

The blood-slick mud flows cold over his ankles, sucking him down heavier than the sword that feels too big in his hand. Seeping between the gaps in his sandals. He feels sick, he feels sick, he feels sick and cold and too young to be wielding the sword himself though he is just as old as the soldier he cut down- 

Heat. 

It punches through him. There's a hand on his forehead. And a voice, ice-hard and fierce, like a glacier. “ I will bring you back ”, it says. 

It’s a promise. 

And for a split second it chases away the mud and the bodies and the millenia old memory of a boy history soon forgot. There’s sand under his hands, he thinks- he can feel the grit between his fingers.

A- a thumb- a thumb strokes against his forehead, and he wants to yell- jump and shout and wave his arms - and then it’s gone

And so is the sand.

And he goes down, down,

And the mud closes back over his ankles.

“Are you ready?” 

Norway's voice comes from the doorway. It is calm, and doesn’t startle her, but England is wringing his hands as he translates. The early morning light leeches the pair of them of what little colour they have, leaving them looking sickly and pale. England in particular looks close to throwing up. 

She takes one last look at her brother, unmoving in the morning light, and swipes a hair away from his eyes. Breathes deep. And stands. As she passes England on her way to the dining room, she squeezes his shoulder. Somehow, she thinks he won’t be up for verbal reassurances.

The dining room itself is already prepared: array drawn out in white chalk on a black table cloth. Norway sits down at the table and rests his hands palm up on the table. Then he speaks. 

“Are you sure you want me to do this?” England translates. Bengal breathes in, then out. 

“Why wouldn’t I? I’m not the one performing the magic, am I?” 

Norway smiles at that translation. She sits on the opposite side of the table to him.Her hands shake as she puts them on top of Norways. Again, he asks if she is ready. She doesn’t answer verbally, just meets those cold blue eyes and nods.

Beneath their hands is the pair of concentric circles, filled with runes. She doesn’t let her skin touch it. 

Norway nods back, and starts.  

The chant is low and throbbing, the words incomprehensible to her, but make the hairs on her arms stand up regardless. For a minute nothing happens, and Bengals stomach twists in doubt, she swallows once. Twice. What if my sister was right?  

Then the power snaps into light, and her doubts vanish. There is no backing out now. Magic thrums around her, and the lights- coarse, jagged wires of blue and green, like seed lightning- snap out of the air and lift off of Norway's skin. They swirl in the air, splitting apart and coming together in ever smaller branches- randomly building and building , yet…

They almost form patterns. 

Then they shoot towards her. Out of the corner of her eye she can see England's hand clench, and she tenses, preparing for her trust to be broken. But the lights stop above her skin, never touching, only hovering. She relaxes. England, she notices, doesn’t. Norway, magic reflecting green and white-blue in his eyes, switches from singing to a deep throaty chant- wordless and endlessly repeating. 

This is her cue- she starts to speak. At first her Latin is shaky from nerves, but as the magic doesn’t even touch her skin- instead simply ghosting over an inch above it, she relaxes. Her voice grows stronger, and faster. It doesn’t much matter what she says, so long as it’s convenient, and she finds she speaks of everything that comes to mind. The weather, geography, witnessing the invention of the zero. Beneath her arms, the chalk runes start to writhe and grow. Slowly she moves onto describing her home, and some of her better memories of it, feeling a smile tug at her lips as England stares at her with gleaming eyes. On the black cloth, the runes continue to branch fractally, like roots, as the lights become denser and more frenetic in their movements. 

Norway swaps back to song. The lights draw in around him until he’s glowing. Bengal keeps talking. She will until- 

“England.” Norway says sharply. The boy jumps, back going rigid and wonder wiped from his face by flat attention. Then he plunges his hands into the lights. 

Unlike with her, they do not keep a respectful distance. They skitter across his skin and entwine his arms. At times, new lights seem to emerge from his own skin only to collapse back under it before it can join the growing lightshow. And it is a lightshow- Norway, having resumed singing- is almost obscured by the lights dancing around him now, a web so dense that Bengal can just see his eyes squeezed shut and his brow creased in focus. There is no doubt, he has moved onto the second spell now, the first being held stable by England while he works the next one. 

For an indeterminate amount of time, it stays like this with the three of them sitting around the dining room table. Norway casting, England holding, and Bengal doing nothing much except waiting. 

Until. A shift. A shudder so faint, Bengal thinks her eyes must be playing tricks on her. But then again, the web of lights around Norway flickers, and as his singing devolves into throat chanting again, it falls; collapsing in on itself until it folds beneath Norway's skin like it was never there. The pressure in the air fades. England leans back and flexes his hands.

“Did it work?” she asks. 

Norway's serious mouth twitches up in a smile as England stays silent beside her. 

“You tell me,” he says, in perfect, comprehensible, Latin. 

The two spells wipe Norway out, and after, he heads upstairs to rest, leaving her to stand in the hallway, ears buzzing from his translated Latin and  brusque escape from continued conversation. England, clearly having had enough of (awake) company for now, immediately vanishes into the living room, groaning immediately. Through the wall she can hear his brother's sarcastic voice, and his muttered, resentful reply. 

She rubs her fingers together, remembering the static crawling near her skin. Looks inside herself. No change. 

Breathes. 

More muffled comments bounce back between the brothers, and she groans, but just as she touches the door handle it swings from her grasp. 

“Just fuck off , why is that so hard for you to understand?” England nearly runs into her, jerking away so hard he sends himself careening into a wall. He doesn’t even look at her as he storms up the stairs two at a time. 

She sighs. 

“That must be a new record mustn’t it?” She says as she enters the living room. 

“Aye, sure,” Scotland scoffs, before turning back to India’s sprawling form. “Your brother’s still breathing by the way.” 

Bengal rolls her eyes. “Thankyou.” 

She walks over and settles in the squishy armchair next  to her brother. His face is too still. Her throat dries out at the thought. 

“Are you ok?” Scotland asks eventually, making her jump. “From the spell I mean?” 

“Yes,” she says. 

“Did it work?”

She nods.

They’re quiet then, the both of them, the only thing breaking the silence being the rhythmic ticking of the Grandfather clock. It’s Scotland who speaks, eventually. “Your brother- what's he actually like?” 

She looks at him; he’s frowning, perhaps, ever so slightly. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean, what’s he like when he’s not playing house host? When me and Norway aren't here.” 

Bengal blinks, gazing at the boy across from her. “I don’t know, the same? He thinks he has to deal with everything because he’s older, I think he’d call it protective- but I call it arrogant myself. I’ve always loved him of course, he’s my brother- when I was little…well, the twins were the whole world to me. But -” she pauses for a second, before carrying on quietly, “He’s very different now. I think this is the first time in a long time that I’ve liked him-  he cares more now, deeply cares, I mean. And he’s more honest now than I’ve ever known him to be. I- he’s changed, and I like it, even if he still frustrates me half to death sometimes.”

There’s a…complex look on Scotland's face- eyes kind of scrunched and mouth looking like it wants to pull itself in two different directions. It kind of jerks open and closed, and his eyes skitter across the room before coming back to her. 

“And he treats everyone else as well as he treats you, does he?” 

Bengal watches him for a moment. “You’re worried about your brother.” 

He looks away. “Shouldn’t I be?” 

“My brother would never hurt him,” she says bluntly, curling her knees up to her chest. This whole situation rankles, who is he, really, to judge her brother? 

Scotland snorts before rubbing his face. When his eyes are visible again, they look…exhausted. “Just. I. Can you tell me what my brother did exactly? To make Old Man Norway panic like that?”

Bengal readjusts herself in the seat, staring at him. Maybe , she thinks, sympathy needle-sharp in her gut- but on the other hand, she doesn’t think she’s ever seen the pair of them stay in the same room as each other without fighting. She doesn’t want to make things worse.  

“Please,”  Scotland says, shoulders hunching, “Whatever else Wart is, he’s my youngest brother- on some level that makes him my problem.” 

“And I realise I’ve maybe been a bit of an arsehole,” he continues, “but I made a promise long ago-”

She tells him.

Or at least, she tells him as much of the story as she knows, which isn’t everything- which she tells him too. He listens, watches,  and to his credit, the questions he asks are sensible. It takes a while to get through everything, but eventually she comes to an end, everything aching. 

Scotland looks. He looks defeated . 

“Is this what you’ve been arguing about,” she asks him eventually. 

“Hmm?” he meets her eyes for a second, “Oh. Some of it, yeah. Mostly he’s just a fussy little bastard- he’s always been like that but-” Then he cuts himself off by burying his face in his hands and saying something. Fast and in another language. She suspects it isn’t polite. 

“Sorry,” he says, emerging from his hands. 

He says, “And you definitely didn’t ask him to-”

“No!” 

Scotland snorts softly. “That’d be a first.” It’s muttered, almost too quiet to hear. But it’s in Latin, so. 

“I would never ask him to be a tool,” she says, voice equally soft. “He’s a child.” 

England's brother doesn’t look at her, staring at the wall and twisting his lower lip between his fingers. The sun is low in the sky at this point- the evening light makes his hair look like he’s on fire. Eventually, he glances back at her.

“It’s that simple is it?” 

“Yes,” she says, and wonders what sort of life you have to lead for it to not be. “It really doesn’t have to be anymore complex than that.” 

Suddenly, Scotland looks up, throwing her off her guard again. “And your brother? Would agree to it when he wakes up?”

“I don’t think it would even occur to him to not.” 

Scotland nods, looking distracted. His head hangs for a second, before lifting it again to watch her brother. And they sit together, watching her brother breathe. The silence is punctuated only by the ticking of the tall clock, and it’’s mechanical dings as it hits hour, after hour, after hour. 

Upstairs, she finds her sister has locked her door. 

“Shaha!” she says, banging on the wood. No answer. She knocks again. 

“Shahadeva!” 

Sullen silence. Bengal scowls, irritation curling painfully in her gut again. “Fine!” She says, “If you want to hide, do it. But if you’re waiting for an apology then you’re going to be waiting roughly for eternity. I’m not sorry, and I do not appreciate you freezing me out like a child.”

The door remains stubbornly shut and unmoving. 

Doesn’t stop her though. “You said you wanted to help me, to ask you for anything, did you actually mean that?”  She says, “You can’t just talk to me when it’s convenient. That’s not fair.”

She pauses. It’s dark outside. Maybe Shaha has done her last prayers and gone to bed. Maybe that’s what gives her the bravery to keep speaking. “I miss my time. My real time, it hurts to be here, I hope you know that. I miss my people, and-” 

“I miss you two. I do miss you, and Nakula- and I miss you as I knew you even if you could be awful and I think I like who you’ve become. I- I want to live, and be free, and-”

“I want to go home.” 

She looks at the unmoving door. “And I want you to help me.”

Nothing. 

She clenches her fist and walks back downstairs. If her sister wants to be a child about it then fine . 

But, she thinks, I made the right decision.

You don’t get to be angry with me for that. 

Chapter Text

Blood is in his hands, his hair. The taste of gunpowder and iron in his mouth. When is he? The mud- no- sand- no- mud? Is sucking him down. Again. Colder now- he’s older, now. Age and famine aching bones and pounding, raging, broken, hoping heart. He doesn’t know where he is. His gun  turns from England to his Twin to his baby sister and back again. He’s falling. And then he’s not. He thinks maybe he can hear the ocean, next to the man he failed to kill across the trenches- failed to kill soon enough so he bled out across a barbed wire fence. There’s the sporadic rattling of the machine guns over the endless moans of the dying and the silent decomposition of the dead.

“ I’m sorry .” 

He’s on sand again. Ocean in his ears.Two small hands grip his arm. The voice is equally tiny, but rough- he tries to turn his head, to move, anything to get to it and keep it speaking, keep it keeping away the mud. He can’t, his whole body is limp and unresponsive. 

Memories slip by him. Sand creeps up his shoulders. The sound of water- is it the roaring of the  ocean? Or is it the trickling of the fountain where he laughs with his sisters? He can’t hear what they’re saying, it’s muffled, like the beach. Everything is unreal. He is Nowhere.

“ I still don’t get it. ”

The sand comes back. 

Don’t get what?! He wants to yell, but can’t. Instead he can only lie there as a lump rests on his chest and the hands grip so hard they should probably hurt. The voice is silent, but the growing wet patch on his chest tells him enough. 

The sky is so black he can’t tell if his eyes are open or not. But-

Is that a glimmer of gold? 

Please keep talking, he thinks, please just keep talking.

The voice doesn’t though. And after a while, the weight and grasping hands leave too. Without them, he slips away again.

“I checked your brother,” Scotland says in Latin, pulling his head back out from around the living room door, “He’s still breathing.” 

Bengal- well she can’t say she’s properly awake, but she is, broadly speaking, alive, and that will have to do. Sitting on the low step to catch her breath, as Scotland leans against the far wall next to the coat rack.

“And yours?” she says. England took over watching her brother last night, apparently- sneaking back down at 2AM and sitting down at the end of the sofa, refusing to move all night, no matter how much Scotland cajoled him. 

Scotland wrinkles his nose. “Lying over him like a wet blanket- he might be sleeping, but I’m not going to get near enough to check. Not this early in the morning.”

Bengal hmms, hauling herself to her feet, grabbing the bannister as the world tips around her. “I hope so, it would make one of us.” 

She’d been woken in the middle of the night by the argument, and Scotland's feet stomping up the stairs as Norway broke the two up. At this point she wants nothing more than for both of them to shut up. If she has to stare at the ceiling in an insomniac haze, she wants to be able to do it in moderate peace dammit. 

“Is it my fault the idiot won’t look after himself? He always does this, -” his speech dissolves into muttering in another language, scowling at the living room door. 

She sighs, and walks back into the kitchen, puts the kettle on. Scotland follows. 

“Do you want one?” she asks. 

“Sure, why not.” He sighs and slumps into a chair. For a while the only sound is the growl of the kettle boiling.

“Bengal?” Scotland says. 

“What?”

 “Yesterday, when you said that you wouldn’t ask my brother to be a tool- what did you mean by that?” 

She blinks, confused. There’s something tense in Scotland's posture, in his face, that she can’t quite put a name to. Something that feels on edge. 

She opens her mouth to respond- but the door creaks open and England slopes into the room. Immediately, she clicks her mouth shut, and Scotland's face and posture smooth out into an affected, familiar nonchalance. The kid glances at both of them- he’s scowling, but only slightly, mostly he looks as exhausted as Bengal feels. 

“You done?” Scotland asks, voice just barely inquisitive and eyebrow raised. 

England doesn’t even glance at his brother before sloping off to the counter, staring at the kettle and subtly leaning against her while it boils. “Piss off and find a nice sheep to fuck, Scotland.” 

Scotland's face knits up, eyes dark. “Oh I’m sorry Wart, was I just supposed to ignore that you spent the whole night crying your eyes out-?”.

She is just. So done with this.

“Could the pair of you just stop it?” 

They both look at her, shocked- “And take your knee off the table, we eat there- it’s disgusting.”

Scotland snorts, turning away from his brother and letting his chair fall onto all fours as he puts his feet back on the floor, head hanging as if he couldn’t care less. England’s face morphs into a beseeching, put upon expression.

“He started it!” 

She rolls her eyes and pours three mugs of tea, plonking them on the table with force. “And I’m finishing it! Seriously, we have more important things to focus on.” 

England pouts at her again, but is quickly mollified by the tea as he sits in the chair nearest the door. In the early morning sunlight, the silence feels tense and oppressive. 

“The rift,” she says eventually, tapping the sides of her mug, “could a dead man keep it open?” 

“No,” says Scotland, picking his head up to face her. “Magic wants what it wants, it should have settled back into shape afterwards with nothing to hold it.” He waggles his hands. “But fucking hell, the spell must have eaten up everything inside him and then - pfft.” 

Bengal thinks about this for a moment. “So he can’t have been the only one. Someone else must have held it open afterwards.”

Scotland shrugs. “Dunno, possibly, but I only felt one human. And whatever was feeding on you didn’t feel human at all.” 

“Us.” England says, gripping his mug tightly between his fingers. “Feeding on us.” 

Scotland frowns, resting his chin in his hand. “Yeah, probably. Maybe he summoned something to keep it open after his death?” 

Bengal thinks about this, trying to mull over the problem- that glowing, rippling array pulsing out from the corpse in its centre. She shudders.“Is that always the case though? If something is feeding on us- that has to be the spell doesn’t it?” 

The thought crawls in her gut- would the spell eat away at them forever, leaving them trapped and tired and driven half-mad by exhaustion? What would happen when it ends? What would happen when they have nothing left to give it? 

Is it feeding on my brother now?

Scotland shrugs again, hunching in on himself slightly and frowning. “I don’t…think so? It takes intent to keep it open. Knowing intent. I’ve never heard of a spell that could feed itself.” He seems to bite the inside of his cheek. 

They’re quiet for a minute, both boys staring into their tea like it contains the secrets of the universe.

“I-,” England says, “The body down in that basement had a uniform on. It looked the same as the guy who led us down there.”

“Fucking hell that’s grim, Wart,” Scotland grimaces. “ You think he…what? Wanted revenge? Sabotage? Or he just snapped one day and decided to …whatever this is?” he says, waving his hand sharply around them.

England shrugs, still staring at his tea. “Or someone grabbed him and did it to him so they didn’t burn themselves up.” 

“All possible.” 

Bengal startles- Norway looms in the doorway. He’s still drooping a bit, but he looks more or less awake. His voice, words in perfectly comprehensible Latin, buzz against her ears in a way that’s odd, and doesn’t quite match the way his lips move. It’s off putting, and not just to her- Scotland’s rubbing his ears- but she’s just so relieved to be able to understand him that she doesn’t mind. 

“But I agree with you-” he gestures at Scotland, “-I only found one thaumaturgical signature- the magic finger print- so only one person contributed the magic to that array. But so much about this is so strange that honestly I wouldn’t count out there being more than one person.” 

“But how would we find them?” she asks, leaning back in her chair and frowning. “There’s so many people in that building, never mind any conspirators outside of it…We don’t even know who our dead person is. ”  

They didn’t- as soon as they had tried to interview the interim caretaker, Jim, it became clear that he remembered almost nothing of their visit, and on top of that, was so new that he barely knew the names of his coworkers. 

“We’ll need outside help,” Norway continues, “Most importantly employee files from the local council. It’ll take some time- I’ll have to go through my government first, and then who knows how many layers of bureaucracy I’ll go through on this side. But if we can go through them, identify who’s missing and who we can still trace…that should give us a lead. Hopefully.”  

It’s at this point Bengal can’t help but notice her sister is the only one absent. For a woman as nosy as her, it was a sure sign that she was brooding. She clenches her hand reflexively. 

“Norway,” she says, “Is my sister still upstairs?” 

He blinks. “Yes, she was up earlier- she went back to her room- I er, checked on her but-”

“Nevermind,” she says, her hands clenching around her mug so hard her joints ache. “What do we do in the meantime? If whoever did this is in the council records then, do we just…what? Wait?”  

Norway frowns a little. “Not so much, I- if you could continue to research how that portal is even possible that would be helpful. Perhaps between the two of you-” he glances at the boys, “-three of you, you might be able to find more about how it’s even possible.” 

Bengal nods, glancing at the two boys across from her- England looks serious and stiff, leg jittering under the table. Scotland, however, appears to still be relaxed, expression flat and light. 

“Is it bad that I’m hoping he does have some mates all over his creepy business?” Scotland says, cavalierly, pouring more tea. “Otherwise we’re basically fucked.”

“And if he doesn’t?” she says. 

Norway sighs. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” 

It’s as she’s about to head up the stairs that Scotland catches her arm. 

It’s large, and though he isn’t gripping it tightly, his fingers wrap comfortably all the way around her elbow. She pauses, turning on the stairs to look down on him. 

“What is it?” 

He seems to struggle for a moment before saying, “we were interrupted earlier. I- what did you mean when you said you wouldn’t let my brother be a tool?” 

Annoyance flares in her gut and she yanks her arm free, folding them across her chest as she faces the gawky teenager in front of her. “It means exactly what it sounds like- he’s a child, not a servant or a weapon, no matter what he’s been made to do.”

Scotland gives her a sharp toothed grin. Up close his face is drawn and sickly pale, and he sways slightly from exhaustion. He looks as sick as his brother, up close.  Next door- in the living room and the kitchen- she can hear the clatter of a door shutting and breakfast being cooked respectively. 

“I wouldn’t bother telling you this if I thought you meant to repeat their mistakes,” he says, hand settling on the bannister. “But I’ve watched him go from house to house, each one claiming to be a ‘good’ home- wanting to ‘civilise’ him- ‘do right by him’. And in each one they only ever wanted him in the shape most useful to them- and hang the consequences for anyone else. I had to ask.” 

She frowns, mulling this over. As an older brother…of course he would be protective in some way, and perhaps, given what India had said about England’s rulers, definitely more so but-

-there’s something about the look in his eyes. Light, almost mocking- but angry too, that same strange tension he had earlier written in the twist of his mouth and the lines between his brows. 

“Yesterday,” she says, trying to keep her voice level, “you said you made a promise to look after him. You called him your ‘problem’. What did you mean by that?” 

Scotland hisses between his teeth, and leans forward, voice sinking even lower, until it’s barely a murmur on the air. 

“Do you think Rome really wanted another son?”

Huh? She tilts her head, narrowing her eyes at him.  

“Do you think the Saxons really wanted another brother?” he continues, in that same low, uncomfortable tone,  “A motherless barbarian at that? Or the Vikings? No.” He shakes his head,  and meets her eyes. “ Of course they fucking didn’t- they wanted trophies, ornaments, slaves, converts- they wanted him long enough to make him theirs and not a minute more. But at the end of the day he’s my brother, and after everything - he comes back to us. Broken and changed. But ours. ”

There’s a fierce underlying hiss to his words, like a stifled growl. “And even if those Norman bastards have got inside his head and twisted him this badly- I - He doesn’t listen to me anyway, fucker invaded me not long ago but-” 

“You’re trying to protect him.”

It’s not a revelation, not really. But suddenly Scotland looks rent open and raw- large eyes holding her gaze like he can somehow impart the weight  of it onto her-

“One of us has to try and pick up the pieces. Ireland is over the sea, and Wales is a child-”

“So are you,” she says, quietly. She thinks she understands a little now- she’d seen the twins fret when they were just children taking care of her, has a memory of a memory of them vieing with others for their position in her life, and as a child never really questioning it. And on the other side, now, she can see how young Scotland truly is. Ancient, of course, in human terms- but young . A young man promising to take care of an even younger brother- 

“Hardly matters, does it?”  Scotland retreats from her personal space, laughing. It's a tired and bitter sound. “Besides,” a wry smile twists his lips, “I promised Maw, when she was alive. I can’t imagine it counts for much after all our fucking fighting but…” He takes a sharp, heavy intake of breath. 

But it’s all you have. She doesn’t say it out loud. She doesn’t need to.

The Twins had never really spoke of a mother. They did not reproduce as humans did, nor form families in quite the same way. Siblingship being more of an instinct, an echo of a connection to your fellows’ people, a hum in the back of your mind that said ‘mine’. The echo she shared with the twins, an echo that was magnified many times over between the two of them. But parents? beyond the vague sense that the land itself was in some ways a parent to them- they have none. 

What a strange thing, she thinks, for you two to have a mother. What does that mean to you? Even more specifically to have her be gone? To have- the way he phrased it made it sound as though Rome was England's father- the way a human would be?

She was likely missing…a lot of context.

But still, she wonders what it’s like to have that echo of bond in a promise. In a responsibility you cannot possibly fulfil- to watch, again and again, as those that took that duty twisted it to their own ends- or failed in it completely- and then be handed back the remains and be told- what?  

“They broke him,” Scotland reiterates, speaking every word slowly and carefully, like he can make it true just by saying it. “I’m not wanting to watch that happen to him any more.” 

Finally, she recognises the look on his face. Betrayal . Or at least, the anticipation of it. For a moment, all she can hear is the birds outside. 

“It won’t be forever,” she says, “but for what it’s worth, I promise to never twist him to my own ends. I’ll look after him, properly, for as long as he is under my care and I am physically able to. ” 

Relief floods over his features for a second before he turns away, breathing heavily. 

Her heart hurts. 

“Thankyou,” he says, “ Thankyou.” 

“Just-” he starts up again, haltingly, “- I know you say it won’t be long but. It doesn’t always take a long time to break someone. Especially if they’re not quite right to begin with.” 

She shakes her head. “I’ll be careful- he’s really not that difficult you know.”

Scotland gives her a Look.

“When he’s not stabbing people, I mean,” she says, “which he won’t be, because I won’t let him.”  

He laughs. “Well you’d be the first to say so. Truly, though, thank you. Do you go by a human name at all? Mine’s Cinaed at the moment- I’m thinking of changing it soon, but it’ll do for now. You?” 

She blinks at him. “Nazia Gangopadhyay. But I’d rather keep to Bengal for now- I - I barely feel like I know you.” 

His smile twists a little. “Ok. That’s fair.” He steps back.  “I should probably take over from the brat now, shouldn’t I?”

“Probably,” she says, “he’ll not rest at all otherwise.”

He shakes his head.  “I really hope your brother is as good as you say he is-”

“He is,” she interrupts, “But however you feel about him- I’ll keep our promise. It’s on my heart.”

Scotland smiles, and for the first time, she thinks it looks soft on him. He huffs and turns away. “Right back to work I guess. You said you were getting the books?” 

She doesn’t answer him. 

He turns back to look at her.

“For what it's worth,” she says,  “I don’t think your brother is broken.”

The teenger raises a hefty eyebrow at her. 

She continues, “You know what he said, when I asked him why he offered to do magic? Because he has offered.”

“What?” 

“He wanted to help,” she says. “That was all. He wanted to help and didn’t want anything in return- we didn’t let him of course, he’s still a child, but. He offered.”

Scotland stares sadly at her. “We’ve been doing magic since we were tiny- our mother taught us- i just. Look, even our sort…we don’t just stab people to impress others- we don’t. And these last few centuries -” he sighs, “Just don’t be surprised if a dog on a leash will still do tricks. You’re holding his leash, don’t be surprised if he jumps for you.”

And then he vanishes back around the living room door to harass the younger brother he’s apparently so certain is already a lost cause.

On her way back down, with her arms full of books, she decides to try again. With her sister.

She raps her knuckles against the door.

No answer. 

Raps again, harder this time. 

The hardwood door remains silent and unmoving. She scowls and turns away, descending the staircase. Alone.

Just before dinner she manages to catch Norway on his own.

“What would happen if we can’t find the caster?” she says. 

He glances at her briefly before looking back out at the garden. Far from the lush green oasis it had been when they arrived, the endless sun had scorched and dried it beyond what it was able to tolerate, making it brown and patchy. Norway bites his lip for a second. 

“Without them there’s no way to unravel the spell,” he says, bluntly, glancing at her again. “No way to reverse the translocation, and put you guys back where you belong.The rift will just collapse, and the hole will close.” 

She mulls this over, Connection tugging at her guts. “And then what? What happens to us then?”  

Norway sighs, and rubs his hands harshly over his face. “I don’t know.”

For the next two days, she throws herself into trawling through England's magic books again- especially Facium Terrea, but also Principia magicae , Hoc Loco et Aliis Locis , and Inter sidera. Anything she can get her hands on really- studying until her head aches and her vision swims. She studies from early morning to long after the sun sets, alongside the two boys in the living room, again and again, passing the books around, hoping one of them will see something she might have missed. Her brother is always in the background, breathing slowly and shallowly- totally unresponsive to anything they say or do- 

(In the few moments she gets alone, she whispers her promise to him again. She will find something. She will.) 

(She has to.) 

She takes breaks for meals, and sleep- and Scotland takes more rests than that- getting up and stretching regularly…but England- 

Arguably he’s studying least of all- out the corner of her eye she often catches him staring off into space, or drifting off. But he refuses to rest. She can’t make him go to bed, or leave his post at the end of India’s sick bed. He just sits at the end of the sofa and- watches. 

Her stomach churns, watching him. 

Intermittently, Norway comes through- often on a ‘laptop’, or the phone; arguing rapidly with various people in his government and the council. Sometimes in his language- transformed to crackling Latin by the spell- but often in English, untranslated, impenetrable, but urgent. 

She barely sees her sister.

She tries not to think about that. 

On the third day. Bengal comes down to find Norway in the dining room. Sitting in front of two piles of paper- one on a chair, one on a table.

He hands her three half-spherical crystals. She doesn’t need to be told that they’re enchanted- she can feel the ghost of a charge across her skin, like the breeze when you open a stagnant room. 

“They have the same spells on them as I do. If that’s alright with you?” His eyes meet hers. 

She rubs her fingertips together. 

“I’ll get the boys,” she says, and stands. 

At the end, they come up with five names: 

Malcolm Eider 

Jessica Russo  

James Tadwell

Ayodele ‘Aida’ Okonkwo 

Lidnsey Silva

It has to be one of them, she thinks, heart pounding so fast it makes her sick. It has to be.

No- India thinks. He keeps falling- he keeps tripping- from jungle to city to waste land to waist high to towering adult to- He hugs him from behind as the city burns- the man presses a sword into his back and i t  h u r t s- his flag raises high and his stomach opens like a sucking wound-

No- he thinks- mud, sand, mud again- I am not there- here?-there- I am not there- He is nowhere. Or maybe he is in many places all at once, all at when. Mud? Cloth? Famine? Feast? He shifts. Sand?

Then it plunges him deeper.  It burns, fresh and raw all over him- Again?- blood gushing from his stomach as the pain reaches so deep inside his heart that something snaps - millions are torn from his chest and his head is pulsing with fear, rage, pain, betrayal, euphoria.

Suddenly everything stops. 

There’s a presence. He feels it distantly- like the weight of a fish brushing past him in water- a faint pressure echo of a heartbeat that used to beat in time with his own. A connection so close they used to call them twins. Suddenly, he is on the beach again. 

Sister . 

His heart reaches out before he can stop it, chasing that second heartbeat like his own, until he’s burning again, and twitching. And he doesn’t know why his twin isn't reaching back…

Cold slams down like an iron grate. He can’t feel it anymore. It stops burning. That second connection, that second heartbeat… it’s gone. 

He’s frozen in shock. Almost submerged in sand, with the ocean lapping at his feet- and, it’s not a hand on his head, not really- but the ghost of one. The ghost of the feeling when a touch brushes against the hairs on your head but no more. It doesn’t hurt. But it doesn't do anything else either.

The hand not on his head shifts a little. Retracts. A voice sighs. Then. 

Silence

The sand starts to turn to mud underneath him. 

No. he thinks. I won’t.

Bengal can feel herself almost vibrating from anxiety. A delivery man.The interim manager of the night shift. Two cleaners. And an intern who’d just stopped showing up a few days into the job. No obvious connections between them, three on long term sick leave, two just stopped showing up for their shifts. It’s one of them. One of them did this. 

She rubs her hands; they’re always cold now, and sore.

In front of them, the two piles have taken on distinct characters- the first, bloated, shedding paper all over the floor despite being held in place partially by Norway's magic, is the discards- the second is on the table- sparse, and deflated. It consists of just five sheets. 

One of them is in the basement. Or put someone else there in their stead. 

They’re all in the dining room now. Norway had forced them out of the livingroom- to give them ‘thinking space’. Right now she’s grateful for that. SHe thinks staring at these names and her brother might be too much. 

“Well,” Norway says, staring at each of them in turn. “There they are. Our suspects.’ 

“Right,” Scotland says from over by the kettle, “Where do we start?” 

She nods, but she’s not really listening- staring at the sheet in her hand, willing it to give up more information about these people she’s never met. 

“Should we split up?” she says, “To investigate them faster?” 

Next to her, she sees England nod fiercely. 

“No I don’t think so” Norway says, quietly, “ As far as I can tell, none of them have been declared officially missing. So I think the first job is for me to call around, see if any of them pick up-” 

“What? And we do nothing?” England snaps.

Bengal flicks her head around. Englands’ face is scrunched up in rage and disgust, black bags making his eyes sink sullenly back into his skull. When she meets his eyes though, he turns away and buries his head in his arms. 

Norway sighs, accepting a mug of tea from Scotland. “For now? Yes. Unless there’s anything else India wanted to follow up on and didn’t, then the best thing any of you three can do right now is rest. ” 

The boy groans, flopping back into his chair before rolling forwards and putting his head on the table again. It’s the most animated she’s ever seen him, and the most openly frustrated- she rests a hand on his shoulder. 

“What’s up with you Wart, ants in your pants?” Scotland says from where he’s leaning against the counter. 

“Oh shut up , Scotland,” England says, sounding exhausted and shrugging off Bengal’s hand. Then he shoves himself away from the table and walks away, muttering “what would you understand about it anyway?” 

He slams the door shut behind him. 

Scotland's face darkens, but Norway reaches a hand out, which gets him to pause. “Come on,” he murmurs, voice buzzing with the translation spell. “We talked about this-”

“-Just because he’s young doesn’t mean he should get to act like a brat-”

Bengal fights to tune out their quarrel as she stares at the names in front of her- she suspects they’ve forgotten she can understand them now. “Just let him rest,” she says eventually, “He won’t tell you he needs it any other way.” 

“And that’s good enough is it,” Scotland's voice douses her, suddenly sharp- freezing her veins. She stares at him, and his face- his face is ridgid- harsh, challenging, blankness, like a cliff face. “Just watching him get worse isn’t any better you know.” 

It’s like a slap to the face. Hurt floods her- and she knows her shock shows on her face because Scotland turns away. Has she not done enough? She can’t- she won’t- bodily force the child to lie down, she can’t make him sleep. What else is she supposed to do ? 

Scotland, that overgrown child , still refuses to look at her. She tries to hold onto the anger in her gut.

Is this how her brother feels? Dealing with her and England?   

“No.” She keeps her voice steady as best she’s able.”But has yelling at him worked out for you at all, so far?” 

Scotland snarls- she cuts him off.

“What do you think I can do?- ” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Norway's cold voice interrupts them both, “We don’t have time to argue over this.” he purses his lips. “If he’s anything like he was- he’ll sleep when he’ll sleep. If he doesn’t - I promise I’ll step in, if it gets too much.” 

Scotland whirls on him, “Come on, are we seriously just going to-” 

But Bengal, she’s had enough. Shaking with a mix of anxiety, exhaustion, pain and hurt, her heart feeling like it might just explode in her chest- she slams her papers down. 

And storms out.

She meets Shaha just as she reaches the landing. Her sister pauses on the stair leading still further up into the house. In her hands is a bundle of old, elaborate scarves. 

“Sister-” 

“I’m sorry,” says Shaha, hand clenching in her load. “I’m not ready yet. Give me time to think.” 

Her older sister scurries down the stairs, turning the corner to head back to her room. Bengals’ gut twists in anger. 

“You can’t just ignore me forever!” 

Her sister pauses in the corridor.

“Just give me time.” 

And then she vanishes - bedroom door shutting behind her with a definitive click.  

Snarling, she whirls on her heel to go back down the stairs. She has to get out of the house. Now. 

“I’m going out!” she yells, grabbing her shoes. 

Norway emerges from the kitchen, frowning. “Take your phone. Just in case I need to contact you.” 

She huffs, keeping her temper by the skin of her teeth as she searches for it- coat pockets, kitchen, lounge- 

“Where are you going?” England yelps, head whipping round to see her as she barges in. Behind him, her brother lies as still and as silent as ever. 

“Out.” Yes. There it is. She marches over to the armchair chair and grabs her phone off the arm. Clicks on it. It’s half-charged. Good enough. “Just for a little while, I need to clear my head.” 

“Well I’m not staying here on my own!” England says, jumping up from his seat- only a quick glance at her brother before folding his arms and turning away.  “Scotland! Scotland! Get over here- it’s your turn!”

“Wuh?” The older boy pokes his head out the kitchen door, anger fading quickly into confusion. “Oh it’s you…wait where are you going?”  He directs the last at her. 

She sighs. “Outside, I need to clear my head.” 

“You need to stay here with India,” England states, as if he’d planned to come all along. “She might get lost on her own otherwise.” 

Scotland makes a hand gesture at his younger brother. She suspects it’s not a polite one. “Piss off brat. Right. Well, I’ll keep an eye on him until you get back Bengal- the old guy’s got a phone so whatever.” He meets her eyes for a moment, then they flick to England, then back to her. “Don’t break anything, yeah?” 

The promise. It’s infuriating, in a way, to be reminded of it- a raw nerve. But. 

“Don’t be stupid Scotland, what would we even be doing to-”

“I won’t,” she says, interrupting England. Some things are more important than anger. “You’ll call me if anything changes?”

Scotland nods, solemn. 

She breathes out. Turning away she marches out, throwing, “Come on, let’s get going England, before it gets late.” 

She catches a momentary confused look flicker across his face, but it’s gone in an instant as his footsteps fall in line behind her. 

Unfiltered sun falls on her face. Unmuffled, she can hear the occasional car going past. Wind rustles in her scarf. 

She can breathe again. 

“Where shall we go?” she asks, glancing at the boy beside her. 

He shrugs. “I dunno.” 

She nods, picks a direction, and starts walking. 

The heat bares down on her like a beast- radiating up from pavements and cars and lone stone walls in a way that's thick and sharp and homely. In a better mood, she wouldn’t bother- it’s the sort of heat it’s stupid to walk in for any legnth of time- but it’s that or combust at home, so she heaves against the weight of the air and walks. The dull clunth, clunth of her shoes against asphalt backed by the brisk march-march-skip of the kid keeping up behind. 

Feet swinging like a pendulum, she makes herself think . 

Malcolm Eider- the night manager, a recent hire but unlikely to pass his probationary period due to being called up on uncompleted work multiple times; plenty of motive, but a Grandma in Spain relying on him to actually take the trip he planned to take care of her when she leaves hospital, would he really abandon her like that? Jessica Russo and Ayodele ‘Aida’ Okonkwo, two cleaners who worked overlapping shifts and are both off sick- could they have worked together? James Tadwell, night manager- would definitely have had access, but no obvious disciplinary actions against him recently, though he’d been transferred across teams and shifts a few times; a difficult personality? Lindsey Silva - walked out during her probationary period and never returned to collect her belongings or return her work keys.  

Who? Why? Her feet keep pounding against the pavement. And how? How did these humans learn and maintain this spell-

Which of them decided to die for it?  

Her thoughts are interrupted when her feet land on grass. 

She blinks, raising her head to take in her surroundings again. They’re in a park- a flat blank expanse of patchy yellow and off green grass, ringed by evenly spaced trees. There’s a playground at the far end- metal climbing frames and seesaws painted lime greens and lurid blues and reds. There are kids shrieking and squealing with their friends over by the climbing frames. The whole field is dotted with people-  families walking or running around, kids playing games- maybe run and catch but probably something else, she doesn’t know- looking happy. Relaxed. 

There’s even some dogs running about…. She glances behind her to see England watching them and the children with a wary sort of curiosity. 

“Do you want to go and have a look?” she says, “You don’t have to stick by me all the time.” 

After a moment, England says, “What’s the point, they’re all little kids anyway. ‘S boring.”

She hums, understanding, and together they find the nearest bench to sit down and watch. 

Humans were hard going when you were still a child- or at least, they always had been for her. Too young to really understand you, what you were, what you’d seen- but also quickly becoming too old to meet you where you were at, to understand that old is not at all the same thing as adult. In some ways, she thinks, it’s easier being raised by other nations, even if they were a pain…

But - the memory of her conversation with Soctland passes through her and she shivers- maybe it never quite worked out for him. Maybe it-

She refuses to think the words ‘broke him’. She won’t. 

Lord, she never thought she’d have reason to be grateful to the Twins. 

“Thankyou for watching over him,” she says, watching the young boy beside her. “My brother, I mean.” 

He shrugs, hiding his face in the collar of his t-shirt, pulling on the binding. His hair looks greasy and almost matted from neglect- he’d refused the hairbrush, the baths, and regular sleep. A prickle of irritation goes through her- he’d even been disinterested in food- it took constant nudging to get him to change clothes. What else could she have done? She doesn’t let the irritation show on her face. He doesn’t deserve it. 

The noise of the park- dogs barking, kids yelling, people talking- washes over them for a few more minutes. England does not unwind- stays hunched up- like a hermit crab on a beach, watching for gulls. 

“He will wake up,” she says, eventually, staring across the park. A dog bounds up to catch a ball and races back to its owner, tail windmilling like mad. “He’ll come back to us.” 

England raises his head and looks at her. 

She forces a thin smile. “Apart from anything else it’d kill him to be left out of the loop. He can’t stand to be out of the gossip for too long.” 

England turns away, staring back down at his feet. “How do you know?”

“He’s strong,” she says, “And his body is still here, solid, and breathing- I think- I think that’s as good an indicator as we can hope for.”

“It’s been three days, though” England continues, voice quiet and matter of fact. “When humans are unconscious that long, they often don’t wake up again.”  

“We’re stronger than humans, though.” 

“But the more they’re unconscious, the more things go wrong,” he continues, “and when they do wake up again, their minds and bodies sometimes don’t work properly any more.” Suddenly, he clenches his hands together, twisting them so tight the skin goes white. “I- Have you ever seen a nation be unconscious this long?” 

Her gut twists. Across from them is a family playing with their dog, the kids shrieking in laughter as it bounces and twists to grab the ball they keep throwing for it. Still she has to be honest. “Only once, but that was a complicated situation.”

“What happened?” 

Cold washes over her as she thinks about how to tell this story in a way that won’t scare him- because, yes, the nation in question had been unconscious many times, but-

“It’s not a pretty story,” she says, “And I don’t know how accurate it’ll be to our situation. I was quite a bit younger than you when this happened so I can’t even promise it’s accurate. Are you sure you want to hear?” 

England stares at her with wide, lamp-like eyes, and nods. 

She breathes deep. “Many, many years ago, I wasn’t yet the only Avatar on my land. There were still many running around, some older, some younger- some looking older whilst being younger. The Ancients were still running around- still fighting and growing before the Twins absorbed all of them. And one of them was called Nanda.”

“Nanda was…well he was an Empire. I couldn’t tell you how old he was- I think he was younger than the twins, but he’d sprouted into adulthood far faster. He was tall, and strong, and eventually he stretched from the Ganges to halfway up to the Indus. He wasn’t interested in the twins of course- like I said they weren’t the powerful avatars they are now- or well, in our day. And now, I think.” She shakes her head, freeing herself of the temporal shock. “That doesn’t matter, but what does is that Nanda’s Empire rotted his head. And eventually, when he fell- not to outsiders but to usurpers within his own kingdom, he couldn’t adapt. And he started to fall unconscious.”

She can hear England's breathing skip. 

She continues. “For Nanda, gold was power. He became obsessed with it, always hunting for it, taxing it- putting it above everyone and everything. Life, dignity, even the wellbeing of his own people. He was so jealous of it, so possessive, that one day during a great famine, him and his King took 80 kotis of treasure and sunk it into the Ganges. All so it wouldn’t fall out of their control. Out of his control.”

England squirms. 

“I’m simplifying this a little, but eventually, Nanda’s own lords- men called the Maurya’s- rose up against the Nanda kings and deposed them. Normally, a nation would be able to adapt to this- or we’d even be by the new ruler's side from the beginning. But not Nanda. He’d become…entwined, somehow, with the ideology of his ruling family, wrapped in the dogmatic image of power he had in his own head- and -”

She pauses here. In front of her eyes she can almost see the shadow of it; the gleam of metal as it sunk beneath the brown waters, backed by the acute memory of hunger in her tiny body, and the anger at the hunger. Her time with Nanda is brief and hazy, in her mind- she thinks he let her reside with the twins for the most part, as long as she attended court gatherings- but this far on she can’t know . He’s more impression than memory to her now. 

“I mean, I was a child, younger than you are now, so my memory of that day is hazy- but I remember that gold going down into the water and thinking-  what’s the point? All that power, all that money…and you destroy it when people are starving? For what?”

“He created a nightmare and called it glory. Most Empires do. So of course his own people rebelled against his leaders. Chandragupta Maurya took the throne and as he sat upon it as King for the first time- Nanda collapsed. And four days later, he awoke.” 

She takes another deep breath. 

“This I do remember because it became a pattern- Nanda would collapse and remain still as the dead for days at a time, then wake, and then collapse again. At first we thought it was simply trauma- the rise of the Maurya’s was as brutal as the rise of Nanda in many ways. But eventually, we realised that wasn’t it. Every time he’d wake, he’d crawl out and start digging in the gardens for his long lost gold. He could still do his duties, sometimes, but as the years went on…” 

She shakes her head, looking back at the young nation. 

“I thought…we all thought he would get better, move on with his people. If not with the first King, then with the second. But he didn’t. He resented being seen as just a part of the Mauryas ambitions, rather than their embodiment, and he resented deeply the loss of his gold. Eventually, the next king- Ashoka Maurya- took power, and stopped waiting. He wanted more than Nanda anyway and- “

She pauses, unsure how to tell this next part. In the lull, England leans forward. 

“And he was a monster, powerful and skilled enough to slaughter his way across our lands like no one had ever done before, forcing subservience and acknowledgement from coast to coast. Powerful enough to bend the culture around him, rather than the other way around. He claimed the Twins as his own representatives, and they grew no matter how much they feared him because other kingdoms faded away under his sword and other avatars grew smaller, or vanished entirely. But- despite his brutality, and capturing the Twins, or maybe because of it- he changed. Radically. And for a time we were happy. But not Nanda.” 

“He refused to move with his people. He kept passing out, for longer and longer, and when awake he was less and less…there. Less coherent, less present. Eventually he just…walked into the Ganges, chasing gold that his kings had thrown in there hundreds of years ago. He never came out again.” 

She shakes her head.

“And at the time, I cried, because I couldn’t understand. All that power and knowledge, and he just chose to die with it? What a waste. But, and I think it was Sister - Shahadeva- who told me this, though it could have been Nakula - she said that it wasn’t truly that he didn’t want to die, exactly. It was just- he’d become lost in his own nightmare, the dream of his glory- and eventually it became more important to him than reality.”

She pauses, trying to put the next nebulous thought into words. “I think- I think, that in general, those that are most strongly influenced by the nightmares of the past, are those who never even realised that they were nightmares at all.”  

She breathes heavily, fuzzy memories of Nanda crawling at the edge of her mind- many of them just sensation. If the twins in her head are sharp and clear- warm arms at night and childish arguments and bracelets and togetherness at puja’s and rules and warm fond smiles in the morning- Nanda is a silent, broad back. Still, and voiceless, as stone.

Gazing over the park,  she can see some of the families have gone home, but another has spread a red-checked blanket and plastic shopping bags out on the grass, their kids sprawled out beside them, exhausted. 

England looks down and breathes, holding himself.

I hope I haven't scared him. There’s a leaden feeling in her stomach. I wish I had a happier story to tell. She breathes out, slow and deliberate. It will be ok, It will be. He’s strong enough, she holds herself, we both are. 

“This feels creepy,” England says, after a minute

“What is?” she says. “Death? I suppose it is, in a way- we can change the topic if you want.”  

England snorts, scornful. “ No. ” He shakes his head, like he has water in his ears. “The weather. Can’t you feel it? It’s like it’s pushing down on you.” 

“Hmm.” She thinks about it for a second, she can feel a monsoon coming on. Personally, she finds it comforting, like a weighted blanket. “Try holding your nose and blowing through it, that should help.” 

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “That’s not it…”

Suddenly, the kid bolts upright, whipping his head around to stare at the traffic behind them. 

“What is it?” Her back straightens- suddenly she’s half out her seat, hand gripping the back of the metal bench. 

For a second, the boy sways on his feet. 

And then he runs. 

“It's this way!”

“Wait!” Too late, he’s speeding off, already swinging round the gate and darting down the path. She staggers upright, gripping the back of the bench before lurching forward. Again, he pauses, swinging his head back and forth- like a hound- she gets to the gate. The moment her hand touches the metal, he runs again. Straight across the road. Straight into traffic. 

“NO!” 

There’s screeching of horns and breaks and he emerges out the other side unscathed. She lurches after him, slamming her hands down on a car bonnet as a wave of dizziness hits her. “Arthur!” 

He swings his head- darting it left- right- then left again. All around himself- he freezes. 

Then darts down an alleyway. 

She follows. 

“What are you do-” 

The question freezes in her throat. 

Rubbish is strewn around England- bins thrown to the side vomit their contents across the pavement, and skips forced out of place to expose the wall behind it. England throws another bag aside and stands back, panting. 

On the wall is a four pointed star, pulsing with an impossible light and melting itself straight into the concrete- as the wall behind it ripples, like thin skin over a wound. 

I refuse to be drowned again.  

It’s a thought so powerful it shakes him to his core- with the mud creeping up around him- his senses getting lost in the past- he feels himself falling, and he can’t, he can't let it take him any further. 

He doesn’t fight, fighting is useless, but he drags up a skill he’d forgotten he knows how to use- hours spent dragging himself back to reality when memories stripped it away from him, before independence and after. He learned the hard way that the memories cannot be fought, so- he feels. 

Feels the grit between his fingers- paradoxically dry in the deep water pressure- I am not there. Feels the pressure in his throat from the not water- unlike any flesh-y, real sensation- I am not in Flanders. To all encompassing, too viscous, but too easy to swallow around too- I am not in the Empire. I am not in the Mughal, the Mauryas, the past, anywhere- 

I am not even on my own plane. 

The realisation hits him like lightning. He can’t be on his own plane- he fell through the rift, through time? - he must be somewhere else. Not in the past, not home or England or Flanders- he is somewhere else. 

It drums against him as a mantra- I am here, now, I exist - the taste of cold on my tongue and grit under my body and the glimmer of gold threads in my vision-

He blinks. Blinks again. And the threads weave across his vision faint like constellations above a city, so pretty he could cry. 

He has fallen a very, very long way.

But he sits up- weirdly weightless in the all encompassing pressure. There’s a pulling at his navel- like a fishhook inside his guts. A cheese wire stretched too far, cutting into his skin.  

He is in the dark. He is at the edge between an unseen desert and a great black sea. Completely outside the realms of reality. 

So, he does the only thing he can do. He gets up.

And he walks.

Chapter Text

His mouth fills with the taste of cordite, he spits and it lessens, telling the lie of it to his body. The mud continues to suck at the edges of his mind. He focuses on the grit, the sand beneath his bare- sandled- booted- brogues?- beneath his feet until it passes. 

He is walking up. He is walking up on flat- grey? - sand. In the timeless, empty dark the blackness seems to take on colours of its own- though maybe it’s only the pressure on his eyeballs distorting it- making him see colour and depth where there is none-

He is suddenly, uncomfortably, aware that he does not need to breathe.  

He pauses, but the mud and the lancing, stabbing pain in his gut drive him to his knees despite the fact that the two had never sat side by side in real life and he has to focus on the grit- under his knees, beneath his fingers, against his forehead-

He scrambles upright. He keeps walking. The proof of his own presence. 

The sand is definitely grey, he decides, in the infinite dark. Grey sand under a golden criss-crossed sky.

He swallows around the taste of cordite.

He keeps walking.

By the time Norway gets there, the array is already cooling- concrete returning to solid, singular reality, the scar of the four-pointed star cooling from the impossible colour to a dull orange-red. 

“How did you find it?” he asks immediately. 

Bengal looks at England, who’s still crouching in the dirt and rubbish of the alleyway. 

“I felt it,” he says eventually, glancing at the older nation. “Like everything was heavy, and then it got lighter and started to itch. I don’t know.” 

“And was it like this?” 

England frowns. “I moved the bins an’ stuff.”

“It was glowing when we arrived,” she says. “It looked like the array we found a few days ago.”

Norway looks at her. “Did you see anyone else?” 

“I didn’t, no.” 

England shakes his head. 

There’s a moment of silence where Norway takes out his phone and begins to take photos of it. England shuffles out of the way and comes back to her side. She puts an arm around his shoulder giving it a quick squeeze before he can shrug it off. 

After a few more moments she says, “This must have been another spontaneous array, like the one at the Thakurs.” 

“Yes,” Norway agrees. He glances at her. “I still don’t know how that’s possible.” 

England crosses his arms, leaning against her a little. She’s already addressed that he shouldn’t run off, due to the danger of it- but he’d just shrugged his shoulders. ‘It worked didn’t it?’ He didn’t seem angry about her scolding him though. She just hopes- 

“Right, that’s everything,” Norway says, frowning. “Shall we head back?” 

They nod and pile back into his car- it doesn’t take long to get back, but it’s just enough of a walk to be annoying- and pile back out once he parks in front of the house. England scurries up to the door first, darting in quickly once it opens enough- only remembering to take his shoes off when she yells it after him. After she checks that he hasn’t managed to brain himself by hopping his way into the living room, and harrangs him into tidying up his shoes, she heads into the kitchen. And freezes. 

Her sister is sitting at the dining table. 

She stares at her for what feels like a long time. Shahadeva meanwhile, refuses to meet her eyes. 

Norway looks between them. He doesn’t seem surprised. “Right, I’m going to get myself a cup of tea first- if you can wait until I’m out of the room?”

Bengal nods. 

The wait is excruciating. 

But eventually the kettle stops boiling, tea pours into a mug, there's a clatter of tins being opened and shut- a spoon clicking against the side of a mug, and footsteps passing behind her and back towards the door. Before he leaves, Norway speaks, his translated voice grating across Bengal’s ears. 

“Whatever you do, please don’t rip each other apart.”

Shaha visibly flinches. 

And then he’s gone, and it’s just them. 

For a while they sit in silence, the ticking of the clock filling the space where words should be. Bengal tries to maintain her cool- straight backed and staring, challenging her sister to start, even as her own stomach rolls and twists. Shahadeva doesn’t meet her eyes. 

“Are you going to say anythi-”

“While I was marching I thought of you.” 

Bengal forces her mouth shut with a click. Her sister’s voice is…quiet, husky, tense. She watches her swallow, jaw flexing. 

“Midway through the occupation- the Empire- we rebelled. It failed, and he destroyed me, rendered me apart and took you two over the ocean with him. When I pulled myself back together, piece by piece, over months- he came back, and drafted me back into the army.” Shahadeva looks up from the table. Her eyes are exhausted. “Drafted me back into his stupid, pointless wars, with his bastard, pig-shit commanders who thought they were geniuses simply because they were white. And every so often their immortal pet dog would come sniffing around, making sure I was being a good little girlie and not doing anything subversive. Like writing to my twin brother and baby sister living in London.”

“I can’t even tell you how alone I was.” 

Bengal bites her tongue- the look on her sister's face pressing down on her like stone. 

“And so,” her sister continues, “I marched. With our men. We marched, and fought, and died. Mine and ours more often than his, to be honest. But died just the same. Need to be buried just the same, and all that pointless death. All that empty time…. it gives you a lot of time to think- and I thought of you. Both of you. All the time. I- I never told you, before, and I need you to know that I was thinking of you.” 

Her sister's face twists and looks away, seeming to try and pull itself in two different directions at once. Bengal’s breath catches, her heart seizing. 

“And then, when you came back you’d changed. That boy- god, I know you like him just now but when you and India came back to me, he’d twisted himself through you like mould through wood. He poisons everything he touches, and after him, we no longer fit together as a family. India more than you but-” she shakes her head. But stalls, the clock filling the space again. 

“Is that why India didn’t want you near me, earlier?” She says, voice soft in her throat. 

A pause. “Yes.” 

Their eyes meet- properly this time. Bengal finds herself staring, trying to see through her older sister, understand her. She pulls out a chair and sits at the table. 

“Why are you telling me this?” 

Her sister twists her hands on the table. “I- the argument we had. A few days ago. I need you to understand that I love you, and that whatever happens, however upset I am, you’re always my little sister. I’m sorry for not telling you that before.”

Bengal’s shoulders slump. “I don’t-” her emotions feel messy, weighing down her tongue. “I know you love me, I love you too- we’re sisters - but I’m an adult too. I need you to let me make my own decisions, and- did Norway tell you about the array we just found?”

Her sister nods. “Yes.” 

“You must be able to see that we can’t do this without all of us - you can’t afford for me not to be involved. Not really.”

Her sister frowns. “I’m not ignoring that, but please understand- when I see you taking all these risks, these things that could unmake you- it’s painful.”

“Well pushing me out of my own life hurts me Shahadeva!” she snaps, hands clenching. Her sister looks struck. Consciously, she forces herself to relax. 

“Besides,” she says, far softer, “When have I ever stayed out of something I wanted in on? Do you remember when I was still a girl, and I first started learning medicine?” 

Shaha chuckles, a smile tugging at her lips. “Of course. You got straight into the poisonous berries- there was juice all over your face, and India couldn’t stop crying because he thought you’d eaten one. You were really lucky you didn’t-”

“But I wasn’t hurt, was I? I learned from it. I grew.” she interrupts before her sister can go off on one of her tangents. There’s a pained look in her eye still- fear. Bengal reaches out and enfolds her older sister's hands in hers. “Can you trust me to learn from this too?” 

“I-” she feels her sister's hands start to pull away beneath hers, gently, she tightens her grip. 

“Please. I will pursue this, I will hunt down who or what has done this- I will uncover the truth. That’s the only way to make it right.” She breathes deep. “But I don’t want to do it alone if I have any other choice. You promised me you’d help.” 

Her voice wavers. “Did you mean it?” 

The question hangs, delicate as spun glass in the air around them. Bengal swallows, mouth dry- watching her sister look away- then back to her- then away. Eventually, her sister pulls her hands away and stands. 

Bengals heart sinks. 

Her sister pulls her into a hug.

“Of course I mean it.” Shahadeva’s tears drip onto her scarf- her kameez scratchy against Bengals cheek. “I always do.”

“If we’re going to start, then we need to narrow this down,” Shahadeva says, the papers crunching in her hand as she flaps them down away from her face with a sharp fwap . 

“We’ve already narrowed it down!” England complains, just as Scotland says, “Can we not just go round and knock some doors until we get answers?”

Bengal hmms in agreement, gently leaning back against England as presses closely into her side- he seems to be drooping after the excitement of this morning, deflating, but his left leg jitters restlessly. He hadn’t been entirely happy about leaving India, and honestly, she thinks he might be near the end of his rope. 

“We need permission,” says Norway, quietly, his voice barely carrying over the radio. “Although,” he glances back at Shaha, “I’m not entirely certain how we can narrow them down.” 

Shaha leans against the counter. “Well, what have you tried already? We’ll start there.” 

Norway nods. “Employment records, missing persons alerts-”

“Management feedback,” Bengal adds. 

“Not any social media?” Shaha says, light and nonjudgmental.

Bengal shrugs, she doesn’t know what that is. Norway wrinkles his nose. It’s Scotland who asks, “What’s that?” 

“Sites for communication on the internet- don’t worry about it, they’re mostly dreadful- but people often put their whole lives up there,” she says, waving the handful of papers before looking back at Norway, “Really? You haven't checked?”

Norway sighs, leaning back in his chair. “Honestly, I don’t like meeting too many people in meatspace if I can help it.” His voice buzzes against Bengals ears, like the radio when India re-tunes it. “I’d have no idea where to start.” 

Her sister nods. “I’ll message one of the young ones to get a full list, but Facebook and Twitter might be good places to start?” She pauses for a second. “At least I think they still exist. I can’t tell you the shock I got last month when Sri Lanka told me Myspace had gone under-”

“How do we check them?” England's voice is quiet. When Bengal glances down at him, he’s barely looking at them. 

Her sister frowns for a second. “We trawl the internet for them. I say, we , I suspect in practice it’ll have to be me and Norway.”

“Would the translation stones not work?” She asks, stomach twisting. 

“I-” Shaha bites her lip, before turning to Norway, “I don’t know, would they?” 

He shrugs. “Possibly, it’s worth a try.” 

Bengal nods. “Then I want to help- what would we be looking for?” 

“Hmm, that’s a difficult question- but firstly, anything that rules them out as a suspect. Evidence of them being alive for starters- evidence of them being away from the UK. You said one of them was reported sick?” she turns to Norway, who nods. “So evidence of hospital visits then. Other than that…evidence they did do it I suppose? Whoever it was had to obtain materials, access, and the knowledge to do so- and on top of that we have no idea of a motive, do we?” 

Bengal frowns, shaking her head. It bothered her, that, like a loose tooth. 

“Right,” Shaha says, running her nail along her lip. “Then we’ll just have to keep our eyes peeled- anything that seems strange, unusual- anything like that, tell me and Norway.”

“So that’ll be everything then,” says Scotland, smirking. 

Shahadeva frowns. “Probably, but the alternative-” 

“We’ll just have to ask one of you two if we come across anything,” Bengal says, pulling the ‘tablet’ towards her. Looking around the rest of them, she hopes she conveys that they cannot afford to wait. That India cannot afford for them to wait. “So,” she says, looking at her sister, “how do we access this ‘social media’?”

Bengal jumps- jerking out of the grey space of half-sleep she’d dipped into, again- head aching and feeling sick. Stupid- 

“Sister- do you need another cup of tea?” Shaha asks, frowning. Bengal blinks forcefully trying to will herself awake. Glancing around she can see Scotland sprawling onto the papers, mouth open and drooling, Norway rubbing his eyes and stifling a yawn. Besides her is an empty seat where England used to be. 

She shakes herself awake. “Yes. please.”  

Her sister holds her shoulder as she passes her, saying quietly in Bengali, “are you sure you don’t need to rest?”

“I’m fine,” she says back, squeezing her sister's hand, “thankyou.”

She switches back to Latin. “What progress have we made? Have we confirmed that Lindsey Silva is in the Maldives? What about Micheal Eider?” 

“Yes, we’ve confirmed both of them are overseas,” Norway's replies, before glancing back at Sahadeva. “In fact, we think we’ve narrowed it down to two names of interest.”

“Who?” she says, mouth drying, anxiety like lightning down her back. If they had something- anything - to go on- 

Jessica Russo,” Norway says, glancing gently at her sister, a frown pulling at the edge of his lips. “Her last day at work was the day of the incident- her file claims she’s taken sick leave, but it ran out a week ago and she hasn’t returned. We can’t identify her whereabouts through social media either. The other is-”

“James Tadwell,” her sister's teeth biting around the consonants like curses. 

“And he’s-?” 

“A bellend,” her sister supplies. 

“I agree,” says Norway, “but more importantly has been missing with no contact to friends or family since the incident and no explanation. Nothing on his social media either- despite making heavy use of it before. His manager reported him officially missing to the police two weeks ago- but since then nothing. As far as we can tell, he’s vanished without a trace.”

Norway continues, “Between us we’ve managed to get permission from the government to investigate. We can start tomorrow.”

“What is it about James Tadwell that makes you so angry, sister?” 

Her sister doesn’t even glance at her as she fiddles with her phone- they’d pulled over, unable to find their way through the forest of roundabouts and dead ends. “Empire stuff.”

“What sort of Empire stuff?” 

Shaha sighs. Then lowers her phone and looks at her, voice low and serious. “The sort that would look at you and me and see not people, but dogs in need of training.”

Bengal jerks, shaking herself out of her tired-ness  “So a supremacist, huh?” She bites her tongue on the words just like every other Empire- but her sister picks up on it anyway, giving her a tired look. 

“A white supremacist, yes. You- you don’t know what that is, what that means- no you don’t Bengal-” her sister snaps when she can’t help her feelings showing on her face. “ They see anyone with dark skin- or even the ‘wrong' type of pale skin honestly- as dirty, lesser, incapable of true adulthood and civilisation. It’s- look- don’t worry about it, the man’s a cunt is the point, and it doesn’t mean he did it but-” She trails off. 

The hair on the back of her neck stand up. “But what.” 

“It’s a murderous ideology.” Shaha’s voice is quiet, like a breath of wind. “And a stupid one. Someone like him should be investigated on principle- that England’s council even let him work in a government building...” She shakes her head, muttering something under her breath. 

Bengal shuffles in her seat, sitting up straighter and trying to resist the  soporific droning of the radio. She looks outside, at the people flowing past them, and tries to imagine any of them thinking like James Tadwell. She shudders, and tries to distract herself by checking her phone. 

“Any news about India?” Shaha asks. She tries to sound nonchalant but the waver in her voice betrays her. 

“No, England hasn’t messaged.” Saying his name feels a little sour now. The weight of her promise to Scotland and her sister's disclosures weigh uncomfortably at the back of her throat. It’s like grit under her skin, the way the child had turned out- 

He’d volunteered to stay home today. Because someone needed to watch over her brother.   

Her sister interrupts her musings. “Wait, I think that’s him.”

Her sister strides out of the car, slamming the door behind her, and Bengal scrambles to follow her and catch up. They march across the road, flanked on all sides by towering grey and brown tower blocks, and cracked pavements. A crisp packet rolls past them as they march towards one of the doorways and a non-descript man in a grey, ill-fitting suit.

“I-” she pauses, “the man we’re meeting- would he look like that?” 

Her sister looks over her shoulder. “Yes,” she says, “that’ll be him.”

As they approach, the man pauses, watching them- and for a brief second Bengal thinks they must have the wrong guy before Shahadeva pulls out something from her wallet and there’s a flurry of warm introductions. She nods and smiles at the guy when introduced, but otherwise just looks at the building James Tadwell lived in.

She doesn’t know what to make of it. 

“Could be worse,” Shaha says quietly in Bengali, “God though, you’d think he’d make something better with all that stolen wealth than these…” 

She glances at the other woman out of the corner of her eye. Her sister’s face would be pretty impassive if there wasn’t that slight curl of disgust at the edge of her lip. 

There’s a click as the man they’d come to meet opens the main door, and gestures them up the stairs. 

There’s a lot of them. 

Bengal pants harshly as she climbs, needle-like pains shooting through her knees. It’s no palace that’s for certain- there’s grot and detritus lurking in all the corners and the yellowish walls give the sense that the whole place is terminally ill. Shaha of course, is fine, and they climb the stairs in silence. 

Why, oh why, were there so bloody many of them?  

Eventually, at the point where Bengal thinks she genuinely might pass out, they stop. There’s a brief exchange between her sister and the pale man pulls out a small silver key and starts jiggling it about in the lock. Bengal just focuses on staying upright. 

A warm hand grabs her arm. 

“Are you alright?” her sister says.

Bengal nods, blinking the spots out of her vision. In front of them the door clicks, and the grey man makes a triumphant sound as it swings open. 

“Put these on, we don’t want to leave more traces than we need to.” Shaha says, passing her a pair of thin blue gloves. She says something to the man in English that has him smiling. He waves his arm and ushers them inside. 

It’s small. Is Bengals first thought. It’s dirty. Is the second. 

The flat is saturated with a putrid smell of rotten food because the rubbish hadn’t been taken out in over a month. The floor is thick with leaflets of leaflets. Bengal doesn’t know why, but in Britain she seemed to find new brightly coloured leaflets shoved through the door every day. But here, through neglect, they had piled high, forming a doormat over the doormat, and it feels unstable and slippery under her feet. 

But, she thinks as they proceed deeper into the flat, it isn’t all within the last month. There’s a low buzzing of flies in the quiet, and every corner, every edge along the wall, seems to have more stacks of crumpled or folded paper or belongings cluttering it up. The coats are half balled up under the rack, rather than on it- and Bengal is not a tidy person by any stretch of the imagination, but there’s multiple half eaten plates of food in the living room and balled up clothes by the side of the sofa.

Which she immediately hobbles over and sits on, because damn the dirt, her knees are about to give in. 

“Sister!” Shaha hisses, wringing her fingers. 

“What?” She shuffles on the squishy thing to get comfortable in the dip in the cushions, “I’m trying to get a sense for how he lived-” she gestures at the mess in front of her, “Just getting into his head.” She pauses for a second before meeting her sister's eyes. “Also my knees hurt.” 

Her sister rolls her eyes. “Ok, while you ‘get into his head’, i’ll go and check the kitchen. Try not to disturb anything too much, ok?”

Bengal makes a non-committal hum as her sister swans into the kitchen, but can’t help but snort at the audible shout of disgust her sister makes as she opens the fridge. She turns to examine her surroundings. 

It’s dark , she thinks, despite everything- big windows catch the light and make the best of what little filters past the other tower blocks, but the off white walls seemed to absorb it and spit it out grubby. Under the mess there might be good furniture- the sofa she was sitting on felt soft, the table in front of her looks like it’s made of glass- but all over it are the half eaten plates of food, glasses of water and cans of what smells like beer- or possibly something sweeter. She picks one up and shakes it- empty. 

Even the sofa is not spared- apart from the ubiquitous blue and blue leaflets, one end is drowned by a duvet and another plate perched on the armrest; the other a pillow and a magazine. It sags heavily in the middle.  

“He must have been sleeping here,” she says, “Don’t these flats normally have bedrooms or?” 

Her sister snorts- Bengal can’t see her face, but her scorn comes across loud and clear in her voice.

“Yes, they do.” She wanders back into Bengals line of sight holding one of the leaflets, “but we should clear this room first.” 

Looking around, Bengal privately thinks that would take all year, but she levers herself upright anyway- catching herself on the arm of the sofa when the world tilts suddenly and she sways. 

“Not if you’re going to collapse though,” Shahadeva says, giving her a sharp look, “Trust me, he isn’t worth it.” 

“No, I’m fine,” she replies, waiting as her vision slowly rights itself into something solid and trustworthy again and she doesn’t feel like she’s going to puke. “Sooner we start, the sooner we can finish. We’ve no guarantee this is even the right person yet.”

She slips the translation stone out of her pocket. 

“If you're sure,” her sister murmurs, before slowly turning back to a box full of yet more leaflets. “There’s no guarantee there’s anything to find in the piles at all though -”

Bengal just rolls her eyes at her, crouching down and grabbing some leaflets from the nearest pile. She runs the translation stone over them. The words BRITAIN FOR BRITONS blazing out from each of them in blocky white writing, completely uniform, with a symbol in the corner like a Lord’s standard. 

“Fine, forgive me for worrying  then-” her sister’s complaints descend into muttering, though there’s no heat to them at all. Bengal ignores it. 

“These look too regular to have been made by just him,” she says instead, “could he have been in contact with a wider organisation.” 

Shaha wrinkles her nose. “Yes, he probably was at some point- this volume of leaflets was probably from a wider group asking him to distribute for them. But I’ve not seen any that look new- these are all from 2014-” She comes and looks over her shoulder, “-yeah, these are the same design. Doesn't mean they couldn’t be new but I didn’t see any recent direct contact on his social media before it died - not deactivated, just completely unused since the date of the meeting. But before then, lots of reblogging, but no real comments or obvious indications that he was still directly in contact with them.”

“So, what?” Bengal frowns, flicking quickly through the uniform leaflets before putting them to the side. “Do you think he tried to leave the group, or?” 

“Or he decided to move onto something even they wouldn’t tolerate,” Shaha says, smiling grimly. She moves back over to a cabinet with a telly perched precariously on top of it, opening it up and yanking out the piles of paper, pens, and other assorted brik-a-brak onto the floor before sifting through it. 

Discomfort crawls between her shoulder blades- and she turns away, busying herself with the pile of books just abandoned by the wall. Running her translation stone over their covers- and the first few pages, she mutters, “he was really into history..” 

There’s a sharp laugh behind her, bitter and harsh. She turns to see her sister has abandoned her task. They meet each other's eyes for a moment, before Shaha turns away, shaking her head. “No he wasn’t. Oh don’t get me wrong, he probably thinks- thought? He was, but these people-” she spits the word, “they’re into history the way Kings are into karma- only if it gives them the excuse to do what they were going to do anyway.” 

“Ah.” She rocks back on her heels. In some ways that answers the other question that had been burning at the back of her mind since they entered the flat- that surely James Tadwell would not want to directly harm his nation- the rest of them sure, supremacists seemed terminally incapable of understanding the network of relationships their culture needed to survive- but England and Scotland? 

But arrogance and ignorance were a hell of a drug. 

Muttering, Shaha says, “Idiot didn’t even know what he was fighting for….” 

“Who was it reported him missing again?” Bengal asks, taking a look under the garbage around her to find…more garbage. 

“His work,” Shaha replies, turning back to the detritus at her feet, “He’s no family to speak of, spent most of his time online, and well. If he had any school friends before then I suspect they left as he sunk into this….mess. I don’t think anyone would exactly have been missing him by the time he went missing.”

“You know the irony of it?” Her sister's voice is quiet, and stiff. “This idiot wouldn’t have even been a commander, or a minister, or anyone of any note who profited from the whole thing.” She laughs again, bitterly. “He probably has this vision in his head of being tall and powerful and noble- lording it over all us savages. But in reality?” She snorts. “He’d have been maggot food. Corpses are all the same, in the end, and he’d have been laid in the ground just the same as the rest of us, far from home in a graveyard of people who hated him. What a waste. What a fucking worthless thing to die for.” 

Bengal looks down at her gloved hands. Fiddling with the edge of the plastic.

“That must have been hard to live with.” 

“Yes it was,” Shaha says, voice bland and hollow, arms folding tightly around herself as if she’s freezing, fingers clinging to her own shirt with a white knuckle grip. “But I suppose some people never learned that you can’t repeat the past.”

Bengal looks around at the mouldering flat, and shudders. 

She reaches out and squeezes her sister's arm. Shaha’s eyes snap round, refocusing on her, and shakes her head. 

“Whatever happened…I was always marching back to you. Always.” rubbing her arms as she hugs herself.  “Sorry, sorry I didn’t expect- I survived, we all did, despite his best efforts. And God if he gets you all killed by one of his own playing Empire-”

There’s a distinctly unhappy twist to her smile. Personally, the idea makes Bengal feel sick.

She shakes her head again. “Anyway it doesn’t matter- we don’t know , James Tadwell did it, just… if he did I wouldn’t be surprised.”  

Bengal stays silent for a moment, then pulls her older sister into a hug. For a moment Shaha freezes, holding herself ridgid as Bengal's arms circle her chest. For a good long while the hug is awkward, like she’s cuddling a plank of wood, but then, eventually, her sister softens- drooping over her and uncoiling her arms from around herself and wrapping them around Bengals shoulders. She stays there for a bit, letting her older sister release whatever emotions are tied up inside her, politely ignoring the harsh breathing and hot tears that soak through  her hijab. Eventually she gives her favourite sister another firm squeeze and says, 

“I missed you too.” 

She feels her sister smile against her head. 

“At least when you’re not being a raging bitch.” 

Her sister jerks away- staring at her open mouthed for a minute, before grinning and shoving her away by the shoulder. “You always have to have the last word don’t you? You’re terrible! So mean!” 

“Hmm, wonder where I picked that up though?” 

Shaha throws back her head and laughs. “Young people are so rude, my god, let's get this over with before I have to endure any more of your famous ‘charm’.”

Bengal can’t help it, she smirks back. “Go cry about it to China and the other oldies over some mahjong-”

“Noo,” Shaha whines, “Too much, no more, you don’t even know how much mahjong we had to play when you were young- you were spared , you were coddled from it-”

“-I’ll bring you a nice cup of tea-”

“- mahjong isn’t even a bad game but a thousand rounds with China is more than enough-”

“-And a warm blanket before bed time.” 

“Oh piss off,” Shaha rolls her eyes, before marching to the closed door and turning the handle, “The sooner we can get this place cleared the sooner we can move on, I really doubt this man would have a had the wit-” 

She opens the door. 

And the smell hits them.

Norway hisses between his teeth.

“Let me lay this down- I don’t think it’s active but-” 

Her sister nods. And Bengal watches as Norway lays down the iron powder through what is unmistakably a summoning circle. Upon a summoning circle. Upon a summoning circle. 

The room is mutilated. Gaunt and empty except for piles of crumpled and shredded paper on every surviving shelf and empty corner, smeared red-brown stains around the ragged, blurred four-point array. In one corner, across from the door, is just a pile of broken furniture. In another, the ragged carpet comes up at the corner. Empty pens carelessly litter the floor. Dead animals. 

“He didn’t even close off the circle before making a fresh one,” Norway continues, the buzz in his voice is something distinct- it pulls her back into reality and she drags her gaze away from the plastic bag of small, charred corpses in the nearest corner. “Why would he do that?” 

“Stupidity?” Scotland says, at the same time as Shaha says, “Incompetence.”

“I- yes. Maybe.” 

Bengal carefully toes one of the piles of paper up. Just the floor underneath. She picks them up- unable to read them but able to see that it’s handwritten, and repetitive- the same pattern of letters over and over again. She turns the top page over- it’s the same on the other side. 

“But who would teach someone this…badly?” she says, barely feeling the murmur of it on her lips.

“You’re assuming he was taught,” Shaha says, pacing slowly around the room, taking pictures. “Or that he was a good student.” 

There’s some muttering behind her, then Norway says. “Perhaps he’s self taught.” 

She can feel the scepticism rolling off him.  

“Either way, I’m glad you shut that thing off,” Scotland says, “It felt disgusting .” 

Bengal blinks. Looks around the room. “Is there any evidence that he worked with anyone else? Contacted anyone else?” Here, or in the rest of the flat, she doesn’t add. 

Her sister frowns. All traces of vulnerability have been tucked away, and she stands there straight backed and authoritative as if nothing can touch her. “Not that I could see, but, well, that doesn’t mean very much- for all we know he could have had his phone on him when he died- we are all in agreement that this is our dead man, yes?” They all nod. 

“Almost has to be,” Bengal feels herself saying. “He’s not been here for weeks, he last signed into work on the day it happened- and-” she almost can’t address what's right in front of them. Her guts churn, and she swallows the bile back down her throat. It burns. “- and our other prime suspects are accounted for, aren't they.”

“Yes.” says Norway, “The only question now is, was he working alone?” 

“Well,” Shaha says, dropping a pile of papers into one of the black bin bags. “I couldn’t find a phone anywhere through the rest of the flat, and if he contacted anyone through that or through the internet on it then the data may be lost- ” She pauses for a second. “Actually, give me a minute, I’ll see if I can find a laptop.” Then she stands and leaves the room. 

“And if he doesn’t?” Scotland says with what must be forced cheer.

“We have his notes,” Bengal says, shovelling more of them into their plastic bags. “That should tell us what he was thinking. We will get there.” 

We have to.

That is definitely purple, he thinks, shivering off the bite of barbed wire across his chest. And that…blue. And that’s…that’s almost green. 

In the dark, in the desert, India’s eyes must be playing tricks on him. But as the golden threads become more visible, a spider web across the sky, he can’t tell himself that there aren't- clouds, for lack of a better term- drifting and swirling through the nowhere space. That the subtle shifts in between them don’t read as colours to his eyes now. That, right now, they could almost be called beautiful. 

He breathes, he doesn’t need to, but it’s comforting, a reminder that this frozen automaton is still his body. 

 More or less- his mind's approximation of a body at least. A soul, maybe.

He shakes his head, digs bare feet into rough sand- he must have bare feet, he’s decided, because that’s the most comfortable way to walk on sand, and he would choose it every time if he could. 

He’s figured out what he’s walking towards at least.

The throbbing pale glimmer that flickers on and off like a malfunctioning light bulb, it’s scarcely anything really, more the memory of light than a true brightness. Still, he calls it the Star. 

At the very least, it’s what the fishhook in his guts is pulling him to.

Chapter Text

Eventually, he reaches the Star. 

Up close, the light burns his eyes- still It swirls, forming and breaking over and over again. Indistinct globular shapes tearing away, swirling in their own orbits before being absorbed back into an ambiguous form punctured by needle straight vibrating threads that gimmer gold in the light from the star. 

A ball of light brushes by his cheek, bright and sickeningly hot in the ice cold sea as he sits there, mesmerised as it comes back into the whole. 

And he knows, somehow, that home is on the other side.

 Norway's magic swirls over her brother. Blue stars drifting, dancing over his prone body to Norway's throaty chanting. With one hand on his forehead and the other on a scrap of ruined carpet from James Tadwells flat, he could almost be mistaken for a doctor. 

If it weren’t for the stars. 

Her hands tighten on England's shoulders. 

“Isn’t there anything we can do?” He folds his arms, leaning back slightly into her grip. “Just watching isn’t going to do anything.” 

Her sister sighs. “We could start with his papers, but -” 

“Then why don’t we?!” 

“Hey, brat, quit it,” Scotland says. He’s lounging against the door frame, body lax. But his eyes are tense and watchful. He looks at her sister. “But - and I can’t believe I’m saying this- I agree with him. It’s not that late- even if we just make a start-” he glances back to her brother. “-that’ll help, won’t it?” 

Shaha glances at her again. Bengal clenches her hands tighter to hide the shaking. 

“What do you think, Bengal?” 

“Hmm?” she says, tearing her eyes away from her brother. “Yes. I think we can make a start tonight. Even if it’s just to familiarise ourselves with what he’s written- sorry, just. Give me a minute-”

She only just makes it to the downstairs toilet before she throws up. 

“Are you sure about this?”

It’s on flushing away the second bout of (normal, pale, burning acid- blessedly normal, not black, not cold-) sick that Shaha’s voice washes over her, cautious, but still refreshingly stabilising. Bengal can’t stop shivering.

“I’m ok, it’s just-” She spits out an acrid wad of vomit. Briefly her throat and stomach convulse- but no. She breathes through it and it fades. “Too many stairs.” 

“All the more reason to rest,” he sister says, kneeling down beside her and passing her a glass of water.

She takes a sip. It tastes almost metallic, but it’s cool, and clean. She takes another sip.  

“But it’s up to you what you want to do,” Shaha says.

“I’ll be alright,” she says, leaning away from the toilet and taking another sip. “Besides, those two will rip each other's heads off if we leave them alone.” 

Shaha grimaces. “You're not wrong.”

They sit there for a while, at least until Bengal feels able to move again. Using her sister and the sink to pull herself upright there's a brief moment of dizziness where she thinks she might- but no. The world levels itself out again and she can wash her face. 

When she walks into the kitchen, England physically jolts to his feet- his brother suddenly alert behind him. 

“I’m fine,” she says, waving her hands in reassurance before slumping into the nearest chair. “Let’s just get started. Get familiar with the text, then we’ll pick it apart tomorrow once we’ve slept- ok?”

Cautiously, the boys turn their faces away from her and to the bulging plastic bag of papers sitting in the middle of the table. 

“And-” she bites her lip for a second before deciding to say it anyway. “Keep an especially close eye out for any mentions of any…” for a second she struggles to think of a word. “Creatures.”

All three of them look at her worriedly. 

“Keep a lookout for any mention of creatures,” she repeats, before pulling the bag towards her and diving into the musty papers.

- I checked around the building, I didn’t even need to follow him home because he lives right above his shop! There’s a couple of walls where I think the camera doesn’t cover. Not that it maters, what the fuck could they even accuse me of if they caught me? ooh it’s you who’s done this to us. Yeah, well, how? I’d like to see them explain that in court those stupid-  

“Why creatures?” Her sister mutters in Bengali, without moving closer, or even seeming to shift her focus from the stained paper she has in hand.“Is there something you noticed?” 

A less familiar person would mistake it for nonchalance. Bengal does not. 

Is there something you haven’t told us? Her brain translates. A memory of bone-deep cold sweeps over her. She shivers, glancing back down at the page and its spidery, hateful contents.  

It’s past five AM now. For all they’d said they were only going to familiarise themselves with the papers and go to bed, they’d all fallen into this quiet, desperate focus- passing papers back and forth between them, trying to put them in order. Trying to put them strategically in a new order when that order didn’t make sense or couldn't yield a potential code, then back into the new old order when that didn’t work. 

“I…I never told you what I saw, in the between place when my Ruquah failed, did I?” She keeps her head lowered, she’s…not sure if she wants the boys to notice if something is amiss or not. Not while they seem to be on a roll, England rattling off suggestions and Scotland testing them out on clean pieces of paper, striking through the possibilities one by one. The work piling up next to the tatty evidence in a pile of fresh, clean discards. 

They haven't argued all night, which is a minor miracle. 

“No. You didn’t.”

“It’s-” she risks a glance at her sister. Shaha stares back at her with narrowed eyes. “That place is a sunken place, cold, and dark and shifting, so heavy it feels like you’ll be crushed by the weight of your own skin. And I didn’t see much of it. And I remember even less but…” 

She clenches her hands. 

“There was something In There, sister.” She looks Shaha full in the face. “I saw it.” 

“And you think this something has to do with our current situation?” Her sister's face is open and serious, hands loose around a piece of paper she’s been staring at for hours. Bengal breathes a sigh of relief. She believes her. 

“Scotland and Norway have only ever been able to find evidence of one human in the magic, haven’t they?” She stares at the pile of papers in front of her. “Have we actually found anything to contradict that?” 

“I suppose not.”

She glances down at the paper in her sister's hand. 

“-they say there'll be a gathering of diplomats at work in the next couple of months, here from all over the world, but I know the truth. They’re countries. Fucking countries. One of them, allegedly, ‘Arthur Kirkland’ actually lives near here, I’ve seen him, and I know. I just KNOW what he is- drunken idiot got knocked down by a car and just got up and walked away and it just came into my head. That that’s what’s left of MY country-”

“I just think we should maybe not close ourselves off to the possibility of something even more sinister, “ she says, shaking off the discomfort, “Our brother needs us too much for that.” 

Her sister hmms, looking down with a troubled expression. 

Scotland interrupts. 

“It does have to be a code, doesn’t it?” he says, dragging his hands down his jaw and neck. “We aren’t barking up the wrong tree entirely are we?” 

“Of course we aren't!” England snaps back, “Look we’ve got him drawing these, and these little arrays over here so it has to be him and he has to know what he’s doing-” He slaps his hand down on a couple of papers. 

“What’s going on?” Bengal switches back to Latin, “Have you found something?” 

England groans, slumping his head on the table, but it’s Scotland who answers. “Yeah, but not anything that makes any sense.” 

“Well, lay it out then,” he sister says, “Let's see if we can make sense of it together.” 

England wrinkles his nose and squirms a little, before Scotland nudges him and he speaks. 

“Well, ok so, we’ve got him writing and admitting to making these-” he shoves forward the small arrays that the Thakurs had documented in the months leading up to the fire, “and these-” here he shows them the larger arrays; four pointed stars melted into brick or burned into James Tadwells carpet at home, “but I mean- it’s weird because he doesn’t seem to think he’s done the spontaneous arrays at all, or he has  but like not really-” 

“It’s like he’s paved the way for a friend to do them,” Scotland interrupts, ignoring England's huff, “But-” 

“But he doesn’t write about any friends at all- not even a teacher,” England interrupts, suddenly talking very fast, words almost tumbling over themselves to get out of his mouth. Then he mutters, “At least we know how he did the spontaneous arrays now, ‘cause the smaller arrays- y’know, the ones that were turning up for months before the fire at the Thankurs?- as amplifiers. They don’t contain much magic in themselves, but they might be like a slingshot- projecting the magic to where he wanted it. ” 

Bengal straightens up, skin tingling with excitement. “And the fire?”  

England flushes, looking away, mumbling too quietly for her to hear. However, after briefly watching his brother, Scotland takes over. 

“The projected array wouldn’t have anything containing it, none of his arrays did, so his ability to keep the energy directed where he wanted it and doing what it should do would be massively limited. He wasn’t even putting them in for the summoning circle in his house, honestly knowing that, the fire doesn’t surprise me.” He shrugs, rubbing his hand over his dark ringed bags eyes. “Fucking amateur.” 

Her sister frowns. “So how much do we know about what he did? And really, he didn’t try to do this with anyone?” 

“Like I said, it’s like he’s set it up for someone else to activate,” Scotland says, “But on the night of the Thakurs fire, or that vandalism in the pub, it’s only him there. Just him putting the energy in-” 

“And the people who worked with him hated him,” England mutters. 

“Yeah, and that,” Scotland says without breaking stride. “But the guys writing was getting pretty fucking incoherent by the end- again he didn’t even put barriers in to the summoning circle he was doing in his bedroom, so fuck knows what that did to him- so I’m not going to pretend we couldn’t have missed something here.” 

“Then how do you know when he did each of the arrays?” Shaha asks.

Scotland's eyes rest on Shaha. “The moon cycle.” 

At their questioning look, he points to the part shaded circles at the top corners of the pages. “Look, see- new moon, waxing crescent, half moon, waxing gibbous, full moon, then the waning half of the cycle. At certain times of month the world is thinner, and it’s easier to contact the fey and break through the skin of the world- not like in the dirt but-” 

“In that it’s easier to summon,” Bengal says, noticing her sister leaning forward to listen. 

Scotland nods. 

“Yeah, and he was definitely doing a form of summoning-” his brow wrinkles then, “- though it’s strange, he was often doing them a few days after the new moon or the full moon, which are the best days. But-” he shakes his head. “It lines up. And maybe he just fucked up the cycle because he didn’t really know what he was doing.”   

“And he was definitely on his own?” Bengal asks, eyes straining under the pressure of following the chaotic, scrawling script.  

“- I don’t really see how he could have done anything else.” 

She breathes. In. Out. 

England says, subdued “There is one reference to a book where he got the arrays but-”

Bengal snaps her head up, heart racing.

“but he just burned his copy of whatever it was. Ripped out two and a half pages, copied them down, translated them really fucking badly and then burned the book so no one else could use it.” 

“So that’s a dead end then?” says Shaha “You don’t recognise the book?” 

Her voice is plain and non-judgemental, but England shrinks back, head lowering until his face is half hidden by his hair. “No.” 

They sit like that for a minute. The clocks ticking echoing off the tile in the early morning, as outside the edge of sky begins to lighten. Eventually, Scotland sighs. 

He pushes over a piece of paper. “It’s not like he isn’t getting his ideas from somewhere though.”

“ - It came back to me in my dreams. My neighbours say they don’t play the radio at night, but they’re fucking liars. I can practically hear it in my dreams. Just over and over again- I can’t even sleep any more, and I hate it because when I do I can just see so clearly what needs to be changed to make them work better, and just do all these things to make it like it was, to FIX this country for fuck’s sake- ”

Bengals stomach drops. “That’s not exactly reliable is it? He can’t be serious.” 

Scotland shrugs, looking dour. 

“Well that’s the thing,”  England says, quietly, “None of them went wrong. I dunno how, but they didn’t.”

“Until he died,” Scotland adds, helpfully. 

Silence falls over the table, chilling and uncomfortable. The heavy weight is leaden on Bengals shoulders, souring her gut. Without a method, without a plan, how could they understand- deeply- what James Tadwell had done? How the spell he’d woven with his death had been constructed? How could it be unravelled? 

“I’m not sure we can say that’s a mistake,” her sister says, face pale and lips set in a grim line. “Not with his fixation on ‘fixing’ the country- not with the fact that he knew about us. What about the final array? Anything there?”

The two boys look at each other, then England, biting his lip, passes over another piece of paper. 

- IT IS COMING 

IT IS COMING 

HE IS COMING. AND IT WILL MAKE IT RIGHT AGAIN. IT KNOWS THIS. I WILL FIX THEM. I WILL MAKE THEM RIGHT AGAIN.

HE IS COMING-

She turns it over- it’s the same on the other side-repeated over and over. “What is this?”

“‘S all there is.” England shrugs. “We dunno, he starts talking a lot about finding the ‘right one’ and ‘fixing things’ which we assume is the last one but…” 

“But there isn’t any direct references,” he sister says, leaning back in her chair and gazing into the distance.

“No,” the kid mumbles. 

Shaha stands, pacing across the kitchen to stare out of the window before turning back, face unreadable. “And the previous days? What was he talking about then?”

“Just the same really,” England says. “He just kind of. gets worse? I don’t know, he just stops making sense and just says the same things about ‘fixing’ and ‘turning things back’ and ‘it’s coming’ over and over again. It’s like he’s just…I don’t even know.” The kid shivers, looking deeply uncomfortable. “Obsessed?” 

Her sister rests her face in her hand, rubbing her eyes harshly before taking a deep, heavy breath. “And are we sure there aren't any codes, anything at all hidden in the way it’s written?” 

“I-” England's eyes dart from his brother back to Shaha, before trying to straighten his spine, “none that we could see.” 

“But that is very common.” 

“Yeah but,” the kid says, “none of the ones we know are in there and there’s lots of information -”

“But not what he actually did,” he sister says. 

Scotland leans back, crossing his arms. “Just cause it’s common doesn’t mean it’s universal,” Scotland snaps, “Who knows if this fuckwit even had the brains to think to do that-” 

“Or we just haven't found the right one yet,” her sister snaps, gesturing sharply with her hand, voice gradually getting louder and louder. “We can’t just take what he says at face value and give up, you said yourself that you might have missed something. There's got to be more than this!” 

Bengal stares, slack jawed, before reaching out to her sister. 

Something. Flickers over England's face- then he shoves his chair back with a screech. Bengal reaches out - but over Scotlands “For fucks sake she didn’t mean it like that, Wart-” he shrugs her off. 

“ ‘m gonna check on India.” 

“Wart, she didn’t mean it like-” Scotland says. 

He slams the door behind him when he leaves.

“-that.” 

The clock chimes six. 

“I’ll go check on him,” Bengal says, in Latin, and leaves her sister to face Scotland's glare alone.

She runs into Norway in the hall. 

He pauses, giving her a long look, clearly communicating that he felt she should have gone to bed hours ago. He opens his mouth. 

“Don’t,” she says.

He closes it and sighs, closing his eyes briefly before opening them again, softly saying, “He’s just through there, don’t take it too hard if he doesn’t want to talk.”

In the living room, she finds England. He’s watching India, naturally. Sitting and staring like the force of his glare can make the man wake up and laugh and herd them off to bed like misbehaving disciples once again. Gently, she rests a hand on his shoulder, in warning, before wrapping both arms around his shoulders and just. Holding him there.  

“I really did try every code I could think of,” he whines, sullenly. His hair is lank and greasy from neglect, and it's tickling her nose. 

“I know.” 

Far from comforting him, he seems to retreat further into himself. Curling up and away until she has to loosen her grip or be pulled into a hunched position, like a mother over a child. 

Still she squeezes his shoulders tightly, just so he knows she isn’t leaving him. For a while, they stay there, watching the light fade over her brothers even, shallow breathing. In the evening light, the dark skin of his cheeks gleams gold.

“Why are we so bad at this?” the child mutters, a thread of pain in his voice. 

She says nothing. 

She flops down on the bed, soft duvet underneath her somehow contributing to the lead-bone feeling, like she’s being dragged down to the centre of the Earth. Blinking up at the ceiling, swallowing around a razor sharp pain in her throat, she’s surprised to feel herself crying. 

Breathing fast, halting, there’s a yawning pit in her stomach that hurts. We’ve failed, this is never going to get better, we failed before we even started- we failed- 

She tries to get a hold of her breathing, slow down her strangled breaths- in through the nose, down to the deepest parts of her lungs, back through her mouth. She needs to sleep, she needs to pray, she needs to be strong enough to keep things ticking over. She tries to control her breathing. 

She tries. 

She fails. 

This is what she comes up with instead.

Fact (?): There is no one left alive who can tell us what was done. What was said, how the spell was set up, how it works, why they did this, how to undo it. 

    Solution (??): We must do it ourselves. 

Fact (?): There is only one way the spell could have stripped her brother into a hollow shell of himself, and that is by stripping his mind from his body and catapulting him into the dark. It had done it to her, and it had done it to him. 

    Solution (??): They had to bring him back- and they would have to puncture the fabric of reality to do it. 

Fact (?): Unlike her or England, or the many others thrown into this situation, he had no destination to land in. The spell had affected him passively, incompletely- the way her failed Rukyah had affected her. With no past self to swap with, he would be adrift- not stranded in the wrong time, but unmoored from it all together. 

    Solution (??): They had to find him. Specifically.

Fact (?): These spells spread- like a badly tended fire they wanted to consume everything in reach- and they marked you. Just touching the void had left her sick for days. 

    (Solution): We must contain this. We need God on our side. 

The solutions slot together one after the other like jigsaw pieces- the first suggesting the next suggesting the next suggesting the next, channelling through her hand onto the paper with a clarity beyond regular thought. A four pointed star traces itself out in her mind. Then, inside, and eightfold series of chambers- some copied directly from the profane array on England’s lab floor. Then, finally, a wheel of calligraphy unspools in her thoughts- prayers, clean, divine, and protective- around the outside, to contain the monstrosity of an array, and to close it over when it’s work is done. People outside the prayer wheel should be safe- ish. Safe-ish. People inside-  

Bangal sits back when the final pen stroke is made on her description, her theory, and looks upon the solution she has devised. Her hands shake. In the hazy clarity of desperation she feels reality shift aside, and she thinks, this is madness. 

But could it-?  

It’s a person. 

It sneaks up on him, the realisation. Standing there watching the star break and reform like a luminescent rorschach test always coming back to a form just about familiar-

It’s a human person. What's left of them. His stomach rolls at the realisation, and India swallows compulsively even though he has no stomach to be sick with here. The corpse of spirit swirls on regardless, dismembering and reconsituating around the unyielding threads impaling it, again and again and again. Can souls decompose? 

Can souls feel?

He hopes not. 

For the sake of everything, he hopes not. 

Chapter Text

He watches the swirling degradation of the glowing soul until he feels it. 

The pressure. 

He turns, ignores the way his vision flickers with the past, and stares into the void. 

And stares. 

And stares. 

He feels it again. A slight wave of pressure against his skin, a slight shudder in his bones, ice cold and searching. 

Something moves in the dark. 

The design comes to life under Scotland's pen. A four pointed star, sigils and a wheel in the centre- then a swirling prayer circle around it, containing it. Designed to puncture the skin of the world. 

Her mouth dries. The skin of her palms aches under the pressure of her finger nails. 

“Maybe,” Norway says. “Maybe it’ll work, if we’re lucky.”

It’s just the four of them, clustered around the dining room table. Her vision swims in front of her eyes, and her hands shake from exhaustion. It’s pure nerves and determination keeping her awake. 

At least the sun has risen. 

“It’s got to - it’s our only option,” Shaha says, staring at the paper. “I mean, how long has India got? Realistically?” 

Norway rubs his hand over his forehead. “Again, maybe.” His altered voice buzzes against Bengal’s ears. “But this spell will be unstable- no offence Bengal- but we can’t know that it will work first time. On top of that, the energy requirements will be immense. Frankly, there’s a non-zero chance that it just rips whoever uses it to pieces.”  

She swallows, she can’t pretend she didn’t know the solution would be…. dark. Dangerous. Reckless even. 

Just not carried out by her hand. 

“But there’s three of us,” says Scotland, frowning, “for the centre of the spell, including England. And two for the prayer wall- that’s got to be enough power doesn’t it?” 

Norway Norway hisses in through his teeth. “The concern isn’t that they are too much in terms of volume, per say. Anyone of use could technically power this spell on our own- the question is how do we do it without ending up like James Tadwell.”  

Quiet falls over the room, and Bengal suspects they are all remembering the contorted and charred body in the basement, with flies swarming over what used to be it’s face. She knows she is. 

“As stressful as these last few days have been-  I’d still rather no one of us ended up a charred raisin,” Norway says wryly- but Bengal can see the way his eyes flick anxiously between the two boys. “Both of you- all three of you really-” his eyes glance at her for a split second before returning to Scotland, “-are already under strain from the spell, and it’d be better not to add to that. Honestly I’d rather none of you were nowhere near it until we could be confident it works.” 

“Yes, but-” Shahadeva speaks and Bengal feels her eyes dart back to her sister, who is now sitting with her arms folded and her lips thinned. “-the longer we leave it, the greater the risk to my brother- we have no idea what it’s doing to him internally, but the longer we leave it the more time it has to do it.”

Bengal blinks at Shaha’s little slip.

 “Yes,” Norway says, “On the other hand, no one is helped if we get hurt-”

- by my solution-

“-while saving him, so if we can make it safer, we should.”

Between the clouds it swims- tracing along the golden threads. Its body cutting through the dark so smoothly, so enormously, that his eyes scarcely agree to see it as movement- it’s a feature of the landscape, not a beast. But still, it moves. 

He stumbles back, more by instinct than intent to run, there’s nowhere else to go, nowhen to go- 

The heat of the star behind him sputters like a candle.

The pressure crushes him- needle like pain pierces his eardrums. He collapses to the sand-mud-sand- tasting nothing but cordidte and his eyes screwed shut (no- open them open them-)

He does.

The creature looks back.

Its eye subsumes him, a wall of yellow beyond what he can even see- tall as a skyscraper and round as the globe. Its horizontal pupil is longer than his entire body. Under its gaze, India gets the sense that he’s made it angry. The way a fly angers a petulant child. 

Then. A deep, sucking absence that makes his bones rattle. 

Then.

MINE.  

And all he can do is scream. 

She turns to Norway, “Can you think of anything?” 

He rubs his chin. “Test runs I think. I have a friend who could help me do that. I’d take a few days for him to get here, and neither of us are specialists in this type of magic, but between us, we could make it safer. Or at least understand the risks.” 

Bengal feels her shoulders relax, and Shaha leans back in her chair, nodding. Scotland also nods, a look of relief flickering over his face. 

“This friend of yours,” Pakistan asks, “is it anyone I know?” 

But before Norway can answer, England bursts into the room. 

“Something is wrong with India!”

The seizures are strange, like nothing Bengal has ever seen before. 

“What on Earth?” Shaha says incredulously, as Scotland pushes past her in order to join Norway in monitoring her brother- green lights rising over the blue until her brother is almost obscured by them. The seizures- 

The seizures are constant, but variable. They start as tremors in the hands and feet, vibrating uncontrollably on the end of rigid limbs. Which intermittently jerk - pulling his whole body into agonising contortions. Then he goes lax again. Limbs flopping like strings have been cut. 

“Is this what happened to you?” Norway asks, voice tense and urgent, sweat beading on his forehead. 

Bengals throat freezes shut for a second- the memory of sharp lancing cold and bone crushing pressure flooding through her. She looks at her brother's hands- they don’t lie anywhere for long because of the seizures, but where they do- they leave brown, smoking marks. 

But she can’t know what it looked like from the outside . She opens her mouth to say she doesn’t know when- 

“Yeah, it does,” England interrupts. She tightens her grip on his shoulder. 

“It feels the same too,” Scotland says, “I don’t think I could tell before but he’s definitely feeling like something’s feeding on him.” 

“We need to get something to stop him burning himself,” Shahadeva mutters, before walking out. 

“Can you do anything?” she asks Norway. Who frowns. Muttering, he runs his hands above India, along the length of his body as her brother twitches and shakes- lights following him. “I think I can stabilise the magic loss- anything else though and I risk disrupting his Connection and magical core entirely.” 

Shahadeva returns, armed with a pair of tea towels, which she throws roughly over India's hands- tying them around the wrists with a piece of string. Almost immediately they begin to smell - but they don’t burn through. 

They sit there for at least another minute- India still shaking and trembling. At some point, England pulls away and leaves. Bengal is rooted to the spot. She doesn’t think anyone has been counting the length of the seizures. There’s no doubt in her mind though, that they are the longest ones yet. 

Eventually, it stops. Her brother lies still and limp. 

Norway pauses, hands shaking. Then removes them from her brother's shoulders.

India does not wake up. 

“I think it’s done,” he murmurs. 

Silence. 

“If you all get some sleep, I’ll call Romania and-” 

“You cannot be serious!” her sister snaps. “After that, you cannot be thinking of making him wait- Look, just gather yourselves and-” 

“No.” The word slips out of Bengals mouth before she’s properly conscious of it. Her hands are still shaking

Her sister stares at her open mouthed. 

Bengal shakes her head. “I- we can’t.” Scotland and Norway are staring at her. To avoid looking at them, she stares at the slow even breathing of her brother. “We’ll only get one chance at this. iI we mess it up- if we don’t do it right-”

Her throat closes up and she meets her sister's eyes. 

“I don’t want to be responsible for killing anyone, sister ,” she can no more stop the tears than she can stop the plaintiveness of her voice or the way she slips into Bengali as she calls for her older sister. 

In an instant Shaha’s arms are around her, strong and stable, holding her as she sobs. Hushing gently, she cradles the back of Bengals head, familiar and safe. 

“I won’t let that happen, little sister, I won’t,” she whispers.  

Gradually, slowly, her sobs subside into halting gasps, then sniffles, then just heavy breathing. She gasps, rubs her face childishly against the beaded fabric of her sister's kameez, before finally raising her eyes to see the rest of the room. Blinking to clear the hazy film of tears over her eyes. 

When it does, she sees Norway looking back at her, face nakedly worried and compassionate; and Scotland, staring at the wall, face flaming red. 

She sniffs, a honking, wet sound that forces her to swallow lest she hack up the mucousy mess that's lodged up the back of her nose. 

“Sorry,” she says, retreating from her sister's arms until she can see her soft brown eyes. 

“Don’t be.” 

Bengal smiles slightly, face burning. She sniffs again before stepping aways. “Let me go check on England, I’ll be back. Just…please don’t fight.”

Her sister smiles grimly. “We won’t- in fact, let me make us some food. It’s about that time isn’t it?” 

“I’ll help,” Norway adds, standing quickly and following her out the room, briefly turning back to Scotland. “Are you ok to keep an eye on India?” 

The red head shrugs, then nods, eyes drifting to the carpet. 

Then the door swings shut, and leaves just the two of them. 

“Scotland,” Bengal says. 

His eyes snap up to meet hers. 

“Can I ask you something?” 

It should take more effort to sneak up on the kid than it does. He should see her really, from where he’s sitting cross legged with his hands through the railings at the top of the stairs. He’s just one floor up, he should be able to hear her. 

He doesn’t even glance at her as she climbs the stairs and passes him, fills her arms full of towels and toiletries from the bathroom, and perches the shampoo bottle on his head.

He jumps, whipping his head around- and she has to jolt forward to grab the bottle of shampoo before it crashes to the floor below. It’s rose scented. According to Scotland, it’s England's favourite scent.

“Oi!” He scowls for a second, then his shoulders relax when he sees it’s her. “Oh, it’s only you.” 

He goes back to staring into space.

This time, she drops a flannel on his head. “Yes, it’s only me,” she says as he whines in the back of his throat. “C’mon, you need a shower- your brother is watching India and dinner probably won’t take long.” 

England shakes his head. The flannel falls to the ground. “Is he ok?” 

She swallows. She is so tired, and so shaky. And even the question has the power to tip her over again if she lets it. “As good as can be expected I think.” 

The child takes a deep, shuddering breath and rests his head against the wooden railing. 

She steals herself. “Now c’mon, you’ve not washed for five days now.”

This, at least, is fixable.

“Five days is nothing.” England hunches his shoulders. “Was it really just him?” 

Whoever let him think five days is nothing should be skinned alive . Bengal shifts her grip on the towels. “Nothing that suggests he had any accomplices, no.”

“D’you really think we should wait for Norway's friend?” England says, noticeably quieter, looking away from her. 

She doesn’t say anything to that, though her hand twists through the rough fabric in her hands. Truthfully she doesn’t know, but the thought of what could happen without them makes her want to throw up. 

James Tadwells cruelty hangs over all of them like an axe. But she refuses to be the executioner. 

“Yeah, I do,” she says eventually. 

For a moment they sit there in silence, the bedraggled child watching over the hall like a statue, like a guard dog, like a bodyguard. He barely eats, obviously barely sleeps, and somehow it feels as though what little child-like brightness he had leached away in that basement. The child had always been…odd. Stiff. But right now he seems like a husk of himself. 

“You know, India would have chased you into the shower by now,” she says, “regardless of whatever else was going on.” 

She doesn’t mention his own brother. She doubts it’ll help. 

England, if anything, seems to hunch in on himself even further, knees curling up until he can hug them tightly to his chest. “...but what if something hap’ns when I’m gone?” 

His voice is little more than a murmur. 

“I think whoever we get to watch over him would tell us if something happened,” she says softly. 

No reply. 

“….Do you…not think they would?” 

England curls up and buries his head in his knees. “...that’s not it.” 

“Then what is it?” she asks, but the moment is gone, England just lifting his head and shaking it, eyes hollow.

“It doesn’t matter.” He grabs the flannel off the floor and stands up. “I’ll just do it. Get it over with.”  

She nods, and hands him the towels.  

After forty-five minutes or so she can smell the rich scent of food drifting up from downstairs, and she knocks on the bathroom door. Just to make sure England hasn’t drowned.

“Are you ok in there? Dinner'll be ready soon!” 

There’s quiet for a moment, before a small voice replies. “Yeah.” 

“Ok, just checking,” she says, she turns to walk away, but before she can take more than a few steps, England replies. 

“Hey, Bengal?” 

She pauses. His voice is small and reedy, hesitation hanging over every word. 

“Yes?” 

“What do you do if…what happens if..”

Her brow creases. 

“What happens if what?” 

There’s silence from the other side of the door, before she hears a big intake of breath. “What happens if you do something bad-”

She frowns. 

“-Not, not bad as in ‘I disobeyed you’ bad but like….really really bad?”

She blinks, leaning against the door, staring absentmindedly across the hall, where it’s been slowly coming to her attention that the walls weren’t just bare, they’d been stripped. “It depends what it is, really. What sort of ‘bad’ thing do you mean?” 

“I…really bad. And awful. The sort of thing that makes you bad forever. That sort of thing.”

She breathes out, slumping down against the door. Blinking, she tries to figure out- 

“What do you mean England?”

“...does it matter?”

She breathes out again, trying to organise her thoughts- order them; most important- least important, most helpful (?)- least helpful (?). Suddenly, a horrible lance of fear goes through her chest. “Is it something to do with India being unconscious?” 

“No! I wouldn’t- ! I didn’t-!” 

“That’s ok, that’s ok!” she rapidly soothes, heartbeat returning to its normal rabbit-rhythm. “I believe you! I just needed to check is all, just checking. Ok, bad forever, what happens if you’ve done something that makes you bad forever…”

Her voice trails off, and she just…tries to think about it. 

“Well,” she starts slowly, “I suppose I’d question how possible it is for someone to be ‘bad forever’ in the first place. We have a hadith- that’s a teaching- that states even an evil doer one step from Hell could still repent, ask for Allah's forgiveness, do a good deed and enter Heaven. If they chose to, of course.” 

“Ok but what if someone was ,” he says forcefully, “what if somebody was just bad, just not…not good. They don’t have any good in them at all .” His voice goes quiet. 

“That’s the thing.” God, her chest feels so heavy. “I don’t think good and bad are things we have inside us. They’re things we do, and if,” she pauses, biting her lip, Scotland and Pakistan and Indias voices flowing over her, that England might not. Might not be capable of…

She forges on anyway. “If we want to change that, we need to acknowledge it, and work to be better, make amends where you can-”

“But what if it’s just not fixable!” he yells, horse and strained. “What if you’re not fixable!”

“I don’t think you’re broken England.” 

She hears a muffled sob from behind the door, soft as a whisper. He doesn’t try to come out, and she doesn’t try to go in. She doesn’t think- well she thinks there might be a reason he didn’t feel able to look her in the eye while he says this, and she doesn’t know what it is, but she can respect it anyway. She waits while his halting gasps subside, turning into muffled hiccups and then, eventually, silence. 

She jolts when the door finally swings inwards and England creeps out in fresh clothes, with wet hair that barely looks like it's seen the towel but still insists on flicking every which way regardless. He’s chewing the edge of the towel wrapped round his shoulders as he sits next to her.  

“ ‘m sorry,” he says.

“It’s alright,” she says, “Is this about the Thakurs?” 

England just shrugs, eyes downcast. 

“Something else?” 

He curls up, hiding his head between his knees. Part of her wants to know, desperately, wants to pry the truth from him so she can understand all these fractured puzzle pieces she’s been handed. But- part of her doesn’t. Doesn’t want to force him, doesn’t want to hurt him in the name of protecting him.

And if she’s honest with herself, part of her doesn’t want to know at all. Not if learning hurts this much. 

But that’s not a good reason. 

“I’m not going to make you talk if you don’t want to,” she says, resting a hand between his shoulder blades. “But just. Take it one step at a time. If you want to change something. I’ll listen, if you do.” 

There’s a long moment of quiet before England raises his eyes and rubs away harshly at his snotty face with his sleeves. 

“I wish we weren’t so shit at fixing this,” he says quietly. 

“Yeah,” she agrees, even though the kid is avoiding the question. Even though maybe he doesn’t believe a word she’s said. Even though he might keep going on still believing- “Yeah, I wish that too.”   

“Come on Romania, pick up will you!” 

Norway keeps muttering as he paces up and down the living room. Bengals eyes follow him. Back and forth. Back and forth. 

It’s better than watching her brother lie still as a corpse. 

The thought alone set Bengal shivering. 

It’s dark now, the sun has just set, and Norway has been pacing for who knows how long since her brother's seizures ceased and he did not wake up. Back and forth. Back and forth. 

She rests her head on her arm, curled up in the chair. Everything hurts; her whole body aches, there’s a pressure like her brain is trying to burst its way out her skull, pushing behind her eyes and nose like she might cry but can’t quite make the tears come. 

“Is he still not picking up?” says Pakistan, voice flat. 

“He must be up in the mountains or doing his own research and have his phone off,” Norway says, visibly chewing his lips and rubbing his free hand over his face. 

“And how long will it take him to get back in contact?”  

They watch him pace. Back and forth. Back and forth. Then. “I’ll try again in the morning.” 

“It might be too late by then!” her sister snaps, “Can we-” she cuts herself off, breathing deeply, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Look, I’m only saying, do we have to wait? My sister said it herself, this should work-”

“But there’s a massive difference between theory and practice- magic is only predictable up to a point- I mean, just look at your brother!” Norway yells, gesturing at India’s prone form. “That was just from brushing one of these spells, but creating one ourselves-”

“You said yourself we have the power!-”

“What good could it do any of us to add more casualties to the list-?!”

“What, so instead we’re going to wait for it to get worse while you look for a perfect solution, rather than the good one we have-!” 

“Both of you, stop it!” Bengal yells hard enough to make her own ears ring, suddenly standing, panting, the two other adults in the room staring at her. Exhausted, she collapses back into the chair, crumpling back into herself. “Please, don’t fight. Sister- I don’t want anyone injured using my solution- if Norway can make it safe…Please listen to him.” 

Her sister's mouth thins, and for a second Bengal expects she will have to fight her. But. “Ok, sister, it’s your work after all.” She turns back to Norway, “Sorry.” 

“No, I’m sorry too. You’re right we do have to think about time but-” he bites his lip. “I promise, if I can’t get in contact with anyone in the next three days- we’ll go ahead anyway. We’ll just have to hope.” 

Three days. The thought rings hollow through Bengal, she slumps- staring back at her brother. After a moment, she feels a hand on her shoulder. She looks up to see Norway. 

“Don’t worry,” he says, looking serious, “I can keep him stable for that long, and if worst comes to worst,” he grimaces. “I have some favours I can call in from some lapsed users.” 

Her sister looks at the both of them coolly before shaking her head. “I’ll get us some hot drinks for us shall I? It’s probably going to be a long night.” 

The thought sends a bolt of lightning down her spine. “Shit! We forgot to make dinner!” She groans. But her sister just laughs softly. 

She glances up again to see Shaha looking at her with a fond expression. “Don’t worry about it, sister. I’m sure they’ve been through worse. Let me find them and sort out some sandwiches or cake or something, and they’ll be fine.” 

Bengal smiles softly at her as her sister leaves the room. It falls though as she turns back to Norway, “I’m sorry, we do both appreciate what you’re doing it’s just-” 

“You’re sleep deprived, worried, and hungry?” Norway says wryly, perchin himself on a nearby footstool. “That’s ok. It’s not- it’s not fair that you’re in this situation.” 

“Well, my sister’s too proud to say sorry properly, so let me say it for her anyway,” Bengal feels her lips pull up, despite herself. For as long as she can remember, her older sister had been the louder, more driven of the two twins- not that she was unreasonable, but she’d always had to work harder to be listened to and taken seriously, and took it harder when she felt the fool. It was difficult in a way, similar but different to Nakula, to have her strong opinions riding roughshod over her own- but at the same time familiar, because she’d found her own voice arguing with her, and you always knew that what she said, she’d do. 

“Nah, it’s alright,” Norway says, and she must be getting used to the buzz, because it almost feels comforting now, “If it makes you feel any better, Scotland started crying from sleep deprivation two weeks in.” 

“Really?” 

“Really, he doesn’t like to show it outwardly, but he struggles too- he’s like his brother in that way.” Norway turns away to stare at her brother. “Out of all three of you, I think you’re by far handling it the best.”   

There’s a creek from the door. Bengal starts, but it’s only England, who slopes across the room before slumping at the foot of her chair, pressing into her legs silently. 

Norway glances at the kid before looking back to her and standing. “Well, let me go and check on Scotland. See where he’s skulked off to. Please don’t worry, we will find a way to fix this.” 

After he leaves the room, England looks up at her with a serious expression. “Are you ok?” 

She blinks at him, before sighing, staring back at her brother. “I will be. Don’t worry about it, once my brother wakes up…” she shakes her head. “It’ll be better. You’ll see.” 

England stares at her for a long moment. But just as he opens his mouth, Shaha comes in with a laden tray, followed by Norway and trailed by a grey-faced Scotland who practically trembles where he stands. 

“Chai!” Shaha announces, plonking the tray down on a small table- the crockery rattling as she pulls it to the centre of the room. It’s crowded, little flowery cups almost toppling over next to a large round teapot with a handle that looks like it’s been broken more than once. They overcrowd the plate of small snacks and little yellow biscuits, pushing them to the corner of the tray. “The proper stuff- I found some oven-ready samosas and baji’s too- they’re crap but have something warm. Oh, and jammy dodgers. The only good biscuit I swear.” 

Eventually, full and comfortable, she yawns so hard her jaw cracks. 

“Get some sleep sister, please,” Shaha’s voice is gentle, her face soft in the lamp light. “I’ll watch him.” 

“I-” she glances between England and Shahadeva, sitting stiff and alert even as the clock ticks closer to midnight. It makes her uneasy to leave her brother, but. How can she argue? She can barely keep her eyes open. “Ok- c’mon,” she jostles England's shoulder. 

He scowls at her. 

“Time for bed, let her handle it tonight.” 

He pouts and looks away from Bengal, staring at her brother. She squeezes his shoulder. “C’mon, day by day, you-”

“It’s ok,” her sister says, “I’ll make sure he goes to bed. You’ve already done too much today, rest. I’ll handle it.”

“Alright,” she can’t help that it comes out slightly petulant, “but you-” and here she prods England gently in his shoulder, “-have to listen to her. Especially when she tells you to go to bed.”

Surly silence. 

“Please England.” 

The kid rolls his eyes. “Alright, fine.” He huffs. 

“Thankyou,” she says, and repeats this when she hugs her sister on her way out. “Seriously, thankyou.” It’s little more than a murmur. Her sister hugs her back anyway. 

“No problem,” her sister mutters back, “Just promise me you’ll try and sleep through the night? We need you.” 

When she wakes up in the middle of the night, she knows something is wrong. 

She can taste it. 

Slipping out of bed, the air crackles around her- thick, angry. Tiredness gone, she slips barefoot and silent through the hall, down the stairs, pausing at the lowest step to just breath in air so thick it could drown her. 

I know this feeling- 

Horror shoots down her bones, her spine, as she flings open the living room door only to be  blinded by bright, nameless light. The howling rage of the rift punctuated only by two sets of chanting. One Arabic, one in an unknown language. 

“No-!” her yell is ripped out of her throat as it leaves, the ends of her scarf are torn from her shoulders and she has to snatch it from flying off completely. Clinging to it desperately as the ritual continues, un-seeing, un-caring. The three people who must never be there, not now , caught in its teeth.

Pakistan. Kneeling and chanting, praying in Arabic- her glowing prayers barely leashing the monstrous spell the way a spider web leashes a tiger.

England. Inside the spell- a fragile creature glowing in his own light as the spell rips it from him, threatening to devour him whole. 

India. Lying prone in the centre, his chest bowed out by the force of the spell, a thin gold thread wafting from his chest - gossamer thin, frail as a ghost. 

She is screaming, yelling, pleading with them to stop- before it kills them, before it rips the house apart, before the spell uses them up like wood in a fire- 

The spell eats her words before they can hear her. She can’t move closer without being torn into it by force- can’t disrupt it without killing them herself- all she can do is scream and sob until her throat tears- until she thinks she might bleed from the force of her pleading-

At some point she becomes aware that she is on her knees, still alone- where is Norway? Where is Scotland?! - and the spell is no longer stealing her words quite so brutally. The pulsing beast of the spell is retreating, curling closer into the centre-tendrils curling in until they pulse only around India. 

It shudders, collapsing. And Sahadeva plunges her hand straight into it. Bengal can’t scream - her raw and swollen throat won’t let her. Shahadeva’s prayer wall collapses and a wave of cold and sickness thumps through Bengals chest like a hammer- England sways, still glowing. Shahadeva yells something, face pale and shining with sweat- he straightens, bracing himself on toothpick arms. The rift pulses.

And collapses. 

Green light blinds her as she’s thrown onto her side, smacking her head against carpet. For a minute, all she can do is lay there, winded and blinking away lightspots. Trying to process what she’s just witnessed. 

My sister- England- I failed - why?- 

Did it work?

Sickened with herself, she lurches up into a kneeling position, and nearly throws up. Unable to stand, she crawls over to the three at the centre of the burned wreckage of the living room. Her sister sits up first -

“Did it work? Is he back with us?-”

She ignores her. 

When she passes her brother, she checks his throat and almost sobs in relief at the rhythmic thub thub against her fingertips. Up close, she can see him breathing, slow and regular. His skin is cool to the touch. 

“Is he- is he better, sister?”

She ignores her again, and crawls to the far side of the array. 

England looks like death. 

Skin grey and sweaty, collapsed on his side. He’s breathing. As she approaches, feels his forehead, he starts to shiver violently and his eyes open. They look glassy and unfocused. 

The first thing he does is cling to her wrist and curl into her. 

“I’m fine,” he mutters, voice shaky. “ ‘M ok.” 

Her heart feels like it’s ripping itself out of her chest. Unable to speak, she strokes his forehead, brushing back his sweaty hair in the desperate bid to communicate the truth to him as he uses her arms to pull his head off the floor. 

She sweeps him into a hug. Comfort be damned, it’s the only way to hold him upright and keep him warm just now- she can’t leave him alone- can’t leave him alone with-

“ ‘m fine,'' he continues to mutter into her shoulder as his shivering slowly subsides. “It’s alrigh’-” 

Eventually, he seems stable enough that she can turn around and look at her sister. 

Her sister is on her knees now, colour in her face. 

They stare at each other. 

“Is- is he-” She nods at their brother in the centre of the ruins. 

“...h-’s…’l..v..” Is all she can rasp out. 

“I-” she looks down for a second before raising her eyes to meet Bengals in a parody of sorrow. “And the child?” 

I’m sorry- now he’s a child- now you care-? 

Out loud all she says is- “...’l..v..”

They sit like that, staring. 

Until the body between them starts to groan. 

Reality comes back to India in pieces.

Carpet 

Ash

The smell of burning 

Light. 

Light-! 

He forces his eyelids open- they feel more like heavy steel doors than thin flesh- and has to blink suddenly as he’s blinded by yellow light. Breathes heave in and out of him, light air filling his lungs, and for a single beautiful minute, he feels light and alive. 

Then the pain hits.

Pins and needles race down his limbs, jagged and relentless. He gasps. 

“Brother?” 

He turns his head, blinking rapidly as the swirls of blinding colour resolve themselves into dim lamp light and cushy carpet and the worried and frightened face of-

“Pakistan?” he mutters horsley, “Ra’ani?” 

Her jaw shakes, and her eyes fill with tears. “It is you, it worked. Oh God, it worked-!” 

There’s a breathless squeaking gasp from his other side, and he turns his head again. “Bengal?”

She nods, tears running freely down her cheeks, chest heaving in sharp, voiceless sobs. Cradled in her arms-

“What happened to England?” he asks, looking at the floppy child staring at him with dull green eyes. 

“‘M fine,” the kid mutters, which is completely undermined by Bengal letting out a strangled wail and collapsing the pair of them right onto India’s chest, almost knocking the wind out of him. 

“Careful!” his twin snaps. “He’s only just got back, you can’t just-!” 

“It’s ok,” he chokes out, raising a hand to rest at the back of Bengals head as she cries. He can feel someone shifting, burying their head deeper in his stomach- and the wetness that starts to soak through his shirt- so he doesn’t think England is all that keen to move just now either. “I’m back.” 

He tears his eyes away from his twin, staring at the ceiling. Body hurting, lungs rejoicing, head full of-

He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I’m back.”

Chapter Text

India would like to say he didn’t wake up to an argument. 

He would like to say that. 

His sisters watch each other warily across his prone form- Bengal’s eyes puffy and red, Pakistan's dry and tense- eye’s locked in a staring contest that’s on the knife edge of exploding. 

Even in his half unconscious state he can hear that there are words not being said. 

Speaking of. “Ow.”

Pakistan hurries over to him as Bengal disentangles herself from where she’s clinging to an unnervingly floppy-looking England, gently sitting him on the carpet.  He sways for a moment, but remains upright. 

They each grab his arms, and- with him ignoring the racing-ice-cold-needles-pain running up and down his limbs and jabbing deep within his chest- help him to his feet; immediately swinging themselves under his arms as he stumbles, the floor suddenly pitching and rolling under him. Together, they stagger like a three legged pantomime horse over the sofa, where they finally let him collapse.

India adjusts himself as best he can with his arms and legs feeling disjointed, only half there and half paralysed- shuffling up the sofa so he’s lying on his side with his neck resting comfortably on the armrest. He sighs, and blinks, waiting for the world to stop spinning

“Are you ok?” England asks, voice thin, and hushed. 

The living room gradually steadies- resolving into an ash stained mess, carpet burned, clutter shoved to the sides in what looks like haste; disordered and dismembered. He thinks it might literally have looked better during the Blitz. Post bomb, even. 

“I will be,” he manages to say, shuddering as pain and exhaustion run down his body. 

“Yes, you will,” says Pakistan, moving briskly up the sofa, “now, pass me your hands-”

He’s. Too tired to argue, so he does. She checks them, asking him to flex his fingers, close his eyes and move the finger she touched, even to push against her hands until her face sets into a sort of grim satisfaction. She then moves methodically down his joints, checking they all bend and move as expected- Bengal standing off to the side, face puffy and tear stained, halfway between the two of them and England. He can hardly see the kid behind her. Every so often she opens her mouth, emits a rasping half sound, and shuts it again. 

She looks awful. 

“Right, now sit up,” Pakistan demands, and he does- though immediately his brain and body revolt on him, and he collapses back, groaning. His sister frowns. 

“Good enough- I’ll let you rest now, get some food and tea into you- and hopefully you’ll be better soon-”

“Where are Norway and Scotland?” 

It slips out, almost, but staring into his sister's eyes- 

They widen, minutely, at his question. The hand on his shoulder is withdrawn. 

There’s a painful sounding snort from Bengal, and Pakistan turns to look at their younger sister. “Yeah-” she says- voice scant and horse. “Where are-” her voice dissolves into a wind-like whisper- quiet and raspy like bones dragged over dust. 

Pakistan’s face hardens. She grabs a wool blanket off the back of the sofa and throws it over him, refusing to look either of them in the eye. 

“Pakistan?” he asks, tentatively. 

“They’re in their rooms, sleeping,” she says, curtly, “you can even check if you like.” She says this sharply- pointedly- at Bengal.

“They’ll wake up in a couple of hours,” England says, quietly.

India turns his head so sharply, his vision spins, to see the kid poking out from behind Bengals legs. Half curled up around his knees, half propping himself up with his hands- he looks wan, almost grey. He looks ill. India stares as his brain struggles to put things in order. 

“What does it matter? They’re fine, we’re fine, and I’m sure this one will be back to irritating the pants off us in no time at all-” Pakistan says, a defiant lightness to her tone, almost daring them to judge-

A fuzzy possibility worms its way through his mangled brain. His stomach drops. 

“Did you drug them?” he says, heart seizing. 

England ducks his head. Curls up tighter. 

Pakistan just busies herself with smoothing down his blankets. 

“ I didn’t, no,” she says, voice impenetrable. 

India watches her- 

But Bengal looks at their sister, turns to stare at the boy curled up at her own feet- and looks back again, disbelief written on her face. Shakes her head. “ No- ” Another harsh rasp- this one dissolving into a set of coughing that sounds deeply painful. When it stops she takes a ragged breath, jabs down to the kid then- sharp, angry, purposeful- at Shahadeva.

Who just stares at them, face hard. “Don’t.” 

“ Sister-!” Bengal rasps, in Bengali. 

“They were going to let him die waiting for the safety checks!” Shahadeva snaps back, suddenly staring defiantly- eyes turning to each of them in turn. “How long were we supposed to wait? They’re both alive, awake. They’re both fine , and in a few hours they’ll be like nothing happened- your solution worked exactly as designed- as I knew it would, because it’s you- ” 

Bengal shakes her head mutely, pale, wide-eyed, and stifling another harsh coughing fit.

“And - look, stop shaking your head, we couldn’t have waited- he’s not their brother-” Pakistan steps towards Bengal- reaches out to her-

He struggles to sit up, to voice that this is the wrong way- 

Bengal slaps her sister’s hand away and turns her back- pausing only to try to drag England to his feet before she goes. But she can’t- the kid is too exhausted and floppy from whatever happened to go much onto his knees, let alone his feet. Still, she keeps trying, not even looking their way. Not once.   

Pakistan’s hand drops- almost imperceptibly, her shoulders hunch

India watches, voiceless. 

“Sister- let him rest,” Pakistan says- eventually- in Bengali, oddly soft. 

The look Bengal gives her is baleful .

“I’ll be fine,” England murmurs, squeezing Bengals hands, and then again when she turns to look at him. “I’ll be good, I promise.”

And India can see her shoulders slump. She cards her fingers through the child's hair before turning back to her sister. 

And then she leaves, slamming the door behind her. 

The quiet seems to press down on him in her absence. 

“Can you wiggle your toes for me?” Pakistan says quietly. They’ve already done this bit, but -

He does as he’s told. They don’t go through the whole process again, just enough to help his sister feel…useful? Purposeful? 

Not dead? 

He…he doesn’t know anymore. How this makes his twin feel. 

The thought hurts a hollow, scarred part in his chest that  he tries not to think about. 

“What did you do?” he asks instead. There’s nothing she’d want to hear from him anyway.

She meets his gaze with eyes as flat as stones. 

“I already told you. I saved your life.” 

“But how?” 

 “Does it really matter?” She sighs, and straightens her back, head held high as if fixed by a steel rod. “I expect you need to sleep. Bengal did, before.”

“Pakistan!” he calls as she stands and walks away.

But she too vanishes beyond the door, and does not return. 

She is…shaking. Physically trembling. Storming into the kitchen with her vision swimming with… rage. 

Heart thudding like a stampede in her chest, tight and hurting and betrayed - 

She takes a deep, ragged breath. 

She tries to control it- ignores the tears dripping down her face- tries to breath through it- they’re wasted anyway- why does she do this? Why does her sister always do this?-  

She takes another ragged breath and it catches in her throat, setting off a coughing fit that burns and forces her body to give in to a crouch to recover control. 

She keeps breathing. Eventually it stops. 

She wipes away her tears. Tries to talk- only to have a squeaking rasp scrape jaggedly across her throat. 

Right. 

Ok.

Tea. 

She staggers to her feet and puts the kettle on- it’s own heated rasp joining the quiet as she grabs the herbal tea bags that India had thrown in a shopping basket so long ago…

It’s more in the mind really. A memory of comfort. She can already feel her body mending- a slight itch at the back of her throat. But still, her siblings had always tried to make sweet warm drinks for her when wars and crisis would give her nightmares- and her brother would hug her while her sister told her stories of daring do-

She shakes her head. 

The kettle boils. 

She hears the door open behind her. 

She shakes her head again as her sister marches into the kitchen. Her voice hurts too much to speak. 

“Sister…come on, sister,” Shaha implores, following hot on her heels as she walks over to the kitchen. “Please, you’re being dramatic, it isn’t as bad as you think-” 

Disbelief. Bengal shakes her head, turning away again to grab a mug from the cupboard. 

“I had to-” he sister says, reaching out her hands, halting them before they touch, “ no- come on- you knew how long it was going to take, and look at our brother no- come on, please- stop shaking your head, stop shaking your- listen to me sister!” 

Shaha’s hands grasp her shoulders like a vice, hard, cloying- with those long nails digging in, they feel like they could rip her skin-

 Bengal shoves her back. 

Her sister stares, shocked and panting.

Bengal stands her ground. 

“You can’t-” Her sister's hands curl up towards her chest, eyes wide, and hurt. “You can’t seriously have wanted us to wait, could you?” 

Bengal holds her gaze and half mouths, half snarls the words. “You…c’ld…h’v k’l’d …h’m.” 

It’s like a veil falls from her sister's eyes, and she tilts her head, ever so slightly, at her. 

“He volunteered, you know,” she says. Quiet. “I didn’t force him, he came to me.” 

“ Th’m …I- s’d th’m -” she chokes out, before shaking her head. “B’ss’d, h’s…. ch’ld.”

“And you think that means he’s innocent, do you? That he doesn’t know exactly what he was offering? What he was going to do?” her voice rises steadily, “He probably would have tried with or without my help! Bar Norway, he probably knows more magic than any of us! He knew exactly what he was doing! I did nothing wrong! ” 

“...’s st’l..a ch’ld.” She turns away. 

“Look,” her sister's voice is soft now, almost pleading. “I trusted you, implicitly, I trusted your calculations and bet my life on them. I knew you wouldn’t fail us like that. And I was right . Your calculations kept us safe. Besides, if you’re serious about letting people make their own decisions, then you should let him make his- turning away from that doesn’t make it less true.” 

Bengal just shakes her head. It’s not the same. 

Some things were wrong no matter how you tried to justify them. 

Her sister stares at her- face disbelieving, eyes pleading- like it’s Bengal who’s the unreasonable one, the difficult one, the one who broke her promise-!  

She turns away and busies herself with making the tea. 

The click of the door is the only sound of her sister leaving the room. 

Alone.

At last? 

She lays her head on the counter, and sniffs, trying to pretend the tears aren't there. 

His head is still throbbing. The rest of him too for that matter. And the horrible swooping sensation in his stomach like he’d missed something or swallowed something rotten- the thought of his sister’s odd behaviour- 

He grunts, shifting himself into a comfy, well comfi er , position- one where his joints hurt slightly less than earlier and he can almost be said to be sitting up. He blinks briefly as his vision swims.  

When it stabilises, he turns to England- still sitting limp and grey in the middle of the carpet. 

“What happened?” he asks softly. 

England's head raises to look at him, there’s an uncomfortable blankness to his eyes for a second. Then it clears, and he bites the inside of his lip. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. 

“Sorry.” 

There’s a prang in India’s chest that has nothing to do with his foray into that black, monster filled ocean. “Just tell me what happened first, then we’ll figure out if you need to apologise or not.”

England lowers his head. Shrugs. 

“You went unconscious when you stepped in the spell,” he says, voice quiet and reedy, “It took your soul from your body, you wouldn’t wake up. Not for days and days.”

India waits. Lets the silence hang. 

“Even when we found out who did it, we couldn’t find any way to make you better. You just lay there and you were getting worse.” 

“But you found something, surely, otherwise I wouldn’t be here,” he says. 

England takes a deep breath. “Bengal figured it out. She thought that if the spell had separated you from your body, but you hadn’t been replaced with another you, then you must still be in the place Bengal passed through when she went unconscious. She thought that if we used a version of what he had, we could reach in and. Pull you out.”

His heart stutters. “And then?” 

“Norway didn’t want to use it.” England's voice goes soft, whispery. “Even though you were having seizures, so. So me and your other sister came up with a plan.” 

“Pakistan?” He says it softly, so as not to scare him.  

England nods. “She said if we did it together it would work. Norway even said that it could be powered by just one of us so- so we had to do something. So we- she got some of these round pills from the top of the cupboard- and I helped her put it in the food. She said they were to help people go to sleep. I-” his eyes glance at India as before huddling down again. “I didn’t want to give much to Bengal, she was already so tired. So I only put half in hers.”

A shaky, shivery anger flows up from his gut. He swallows. Keeps his voice soft. “And then when they were asleep, you carried out your plan.” 

“She did the prayer wall to protect the others,” he says, shivering, “I did the spell.” 

“And Bengal interrupted you?” 

“Yeah,” Englands is full on shivering now, voice wavering, “and she was so mad, she was screaming and crying, and then after, even though I was fine and wasn’t moving she held onto me-”

Again India lets the moment linger, gives the boy a chance to process his emotions. 

“But I don’t get it,” he says, voice still shaking, “She was right, it did work, we got you back, we didn’t need to wait and watch you get worse. So-” His eyes meet India’s, wide and panicky. 

“Why does it feel like I still did something wrong?” he finishes. “I tried to do something good but I still feel like I did something bad and I’m sorry .” 

The child isn’t crying, but he’s shivering like a leaf in the wind, staring at him desperately. India sighs, burying the anger for later. The kid doesn’t deserve to be seeing the anger meant for someone else. Someone who should know better. 

He opens his arms instead. 

“Arthur?” 

England shakes his head and looks away. 

“Arthur.” 

No response. 

“Arthur.” 

He takes a deep breath. 

“England, look at me. Please” 

The kid does, but shakes his head again. 

“For me, then.” After all this time, to think again that this was the only way to get the man to take comfort. The boy to take this comfort. “I won’t make you, but after all those days in the dark, I would appreciate a hug.” 

And without biting back, or lashing out, or even face-saving grumbling, the boy- not a man- shuffles over and leans against the sofa, allowing India’s arms to drape over him. 

Why don’t you take the child and run?

She goes upstairs to check on the others. It’s half to make a point- check she’s not going mad, losing it from sleep deprivation and anger- that she wasn’t so tired she’d tricked herself into believing- 

But no. She finds Scotland and Norway still in their beds, sleeping, but not rousable. Even flinging Scotland's curtains open and shaking him only gets a woozy blink and murmur before he slumps back into the bed. 

It’s not a natural sleep. That much is certain. 

She slumps into a chair beside Scotland's bed - lets her head drop into her hands. Her conversation with Shaha- her sister- . She just. Why? It swims in circles, around and around- restless in her exhausted head. The way her brother acted- was wary- was getting bodily between the two of them when she first arrived in the house, like- 

Like he expected something to happen. 

The thought sits bitter on her tongue. 

She stays there a long time, long enough that she can feel the itch of her healing throat crest and fade. Gradually the sun sneaks higher in the sky. 

Eventually, Scotland starts to stir. 

When he sees her, he jolts upright with a yell. 

“Jesus, what are you do-”

“I’m sorry.” She drops her hands so he can see her face. 

He stares- a deep crease forming between his eyebrows. Then he moves his head, slightly, like a question. 

Bengal takes a deep breath, stealing herself to ignore the twisted-rope of guilt in her gut. “I’m sorry, I- I failed your brother. I didn’t mean to but I-” She stops herself, takes another breath. “I broke our promise. I’m sorry.” 

Scotland doesn’t move at all for a moment, but then he says, quiet and cautious. “What happened?” 

And she tells him.

He doesn’t move much through the whole story- just looking at her intently for the first half, then drops his head when- well when she talks about what his brother had done. Had admitted to doing. And her sister's role in it.  

 “- I truly am sorry,” she finishes. Her throat feels knotted, like someone had taken it and twisted it inside her neck like a piece of unwound rope. She clenches her hands to stop them shaking. 

Scotland shakes his head.

“Not your fault,” he mutters. 

“But she’s my sister, I should have-”

Scotland shakes his head again, raising it to look her in the eye- his face is all hard lines and grim determination. “No. I don’t even have any control over my brother, you think I can lecture you about this I can’t- you didn’t think she would do anything like this, no?” 

“No,” she says it softly. The pain of it nestled behind her ribs. 

He nods. “There we go then.” 

They fall into silence, the sun streaming across the floor between them. Eventually, Scotland says. 

“Is Norway all right?” 

“I-” she coughs around her dry throat, “he was drugged too- he seemed ok when I checked on him.” She pauses. “He might be waking up now, actually- if you’re awake.”

“Right,” his voice sounds distant. They sit there, quiet, waiting as the sun moves. 

Eventually, he slaps his thighs and stands- but she’s the one who leads the way- marching out and down the hall, quick as she can without running, trying to outrun the trepidation threatening to freeze her muscles stiff, Scotland's longer, slower strides thudding behind her. 

She reaches Norway's door and pushes it open. 

“Oh, you’re awake,” she says looking in. “That’s good.” 

Norway, sitting on the bed and rubbing the back of his neck, stares blearily back at her. 

“Mmfph?” he says, voice foggy with sleep. “Is there any reason I wouldn’t be?” 

She almost wishes her throat hadn’t healed. She manages anyway. “My sister brought India back.”

He blinks at her for a minute, then wipes the crusts away from his eyes so he can open them fully. 

“Did something go wrong?” he asks.

“Not exactly.” She bites her lip. And tells him what happened.

By the end- 

His face is a storm. Brow twisted into whorls of rage- transforming that normally placid face into something vicious. Something elemental. 

He stands sharply.

“What are you going to do?” she asks.

“First-” he says sharply, “I’m going to check on England. Then-” his face twists into a snarl . “I’m going to ask your sister what. The actual fuck. She thought she was doing .” 

He sweeps past her, hands coiled and body tense- and, heart thudding in her chest, she follows. As they march down the corridor, the stairs, the short distance of the hall- Norway opens the  living room door like a war-gate, and looks around sharply. 

Then he vanishes inside, followed swiftly by Scotland. 

A strange trepidation runs under her skin, and she has to force her feet, one in front of the other, to follow them. 

The first thing she notices? Her sister isn’t there.

India is still lying on the sofa, his arm gently resting around England's shoulders- he looks startled, hair mussed like he’s just woken up. England himself looks frozen- he stares at Norway, face pale- then scrambles back, scuttling out from under India’s arms, bumping into the side tables and setting their contents rattling. 

Norway pauses for a second before walking forward again. 

Scotland is faster. 

Striding ahead, he drops in front of his brother with his back to Norway, and starts talking quietly in the language she’s heard them use before. She stills to watch. England looks at Scotland, looks over his shoulder at Norway- glances briefly at her, then India, then back to his older brother. He nods. She feels a little tension leave her body. 

England stands and leaves himself into the comfy chair, guided by his older brother - shivering as he turns to face India, and allows Norway to approach. 

Bengal allows herself to relax. Just a little. 

“Are you ok?” she asks, quietly, sitting on the end on the sofa. Up close her brother appears sickly, his normally warm brown skin looking ashen and drained. 

“Hm?” His eyes snap back to her, and a smile lifts on his face that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah, I’m fine.” 

She stares at him a second. “No, really,” she swaps into Bengali, “are you?” 

His eyes soften, and his smile rests into something more natural, and more sad. “I am, I think. More or less. Freezing though.” 

An answering smile pulls on her face. “Yeah, it feels like it goes down to your bones doesn’t it?”

He snorts and nods, head falling back, staring at the ceiling. To the side she hears the rhythmic throat-singing of Norway, and soft blue lights begin to float in the air- she glances to the side- England is still sitting there, staring at his brother as Norway’s hands skate an inch away from his back. 

“Do you-” She whips her head round at India’s voice to see him still staring at the ceiling. “-do you get the memories?” 

She stops. Images flicker through her mind, unbidden. She’d…pushed them back- they didn’t seem important, and she didn’t want to remember anything about that place more than she had to. 

“I…I got nightmares, I suppose.” The words creep out of her mouth, like they don’t want to leave. “They were more flashes than anything- just. Images. Sounds. Sights. Smells,  that sort of thing. An empty field. A red flower and a fat green seed pod. This odd smell- I can’t describe it, sort of like tar? The sound of a typewriter. A leaflet-”

Her brother stays quiet. It compels her mouth to keep running.

“A fire- not exactly, but something that feels like it- running over me- an overwhelming crush of people running- and at the end…” she tries to shape her mouth around the words, “...a swathe of my land feels foreign from me.” 

She meets her brother's eyes again- she’s not sure when hers strayed. There’s this…knowing look in them. A miserable, sad knowing in the tension of his brow and the downturn of his mouth. 

The realisation causes a dull throb of anger to pulse in her gut. 

“...they’re not nightmares are they?” she says. “They’re memories of my older self.” 

India opens his mouth, closes it again. Nods. “It…doesn’t seem like you got the whole of them- but. Yes.” His face twists in the oddest way. “Yes, it sounds like they are.” 

The thought hangs between them for a moment.

“But I think I know how they’re keeping the rift open,” her brother says, a consoling edge to his voice. “They have a human soul trapped down there-”

“James Tadwell.” She shakes her head. “He was … well officially a night manager, but really more like a senior cleaner than anything- maintenance, that sort of thing. He was part of various groups that… Shaha called them white supremacists. He was obsessed with England’s empire, apparently.” 

Something in India’s eyes…flattens. Becomes unexpressive and blank. “Ah.” Then he shakes his head and sighs. “What an idiot- but, whatever he is, it’s feeding on him now.” 

The idea sits heavy between them. 

“What-” she opens her mouth, closes it. Despite everything, something about the question in her mind feels almost cruel. 

“What happens when it finishes consuming him?” India finishes for her. 

She nods. 

But before he can open his mouth, their sister enters the room. 

And freezes. Bengal’s heart catches in her throat. Besides her, she can see Norway's magic sputter and die. 

“Norway,” Pakistan says, eventually, face suddenly smooth and blank as a mirror. “You’re awake.”

Norway- looks ridgid with rage . “Yes. I am.” 

Something hovers between the two of them.

  “What. Exactly did you think you were doing?” Norway snarls, breaking it. 

There’s a flicker of- something in Shaha’s eyes- but it quickly vanishes as her face hardens. “Saving my brother, what else?” 

“Saving him-!” Norway looks aghast, “You could have killed him! You could have killed both of them- yourself as well!”

“I was confident in-”

“It’s an experimental array, you could be confident of nothing .” Norway says, clipped and harsh, hand making a sharp jabbing motion. “You should have waited for Romai-”

“And how long would you have waited?” Shahadeva’s snaps to meet his as she defiantly steps further into the room. “Days? A week? Would there be anything left to save of him after that time?” 

“We would have made sure that it was safe-”

“Safe for you ,” she snaps, “Safer for us . You forget that India would be spending all that time waiting trapped inside that experimental spell.”

Norway says nothing. 

“Besides,” Pakistan finishes, “could you genuinely promise to make it safe? Or would you just be quantifying exactly how fucked we are?” 

Bengal’s gaze flicks between the two of them. That viscous, wounded something is back- sitting heavy in the air between them. Burning. 

“You rank amature.” Norway hisses, eventually.  

Bengals eyes dart back to her sister, heart racing. 

For a scarce half second, a tremble runs through Shaha’s hands. Then she clenches them into fists. 

“You wait there,” she forces out between gritted teeth before storming out. She returns quickly. 

With a map. 

Her sister opens it with a ferocious shake, unfurling it like an unusually rigid and creased sail, brandishing it at them- at them all.  

“What is this?” Norway's voice is needle sharp.

“Can’t you tell?” her sister's voice is equally so- almost sneering. Then her voice softens- flattens. “It’s a map of all the abnormal phenomena that have been happening since James Tadwell acquired that book. The pink are from all the events prior to his death. The green-”

“-all the ones after.” Bengal’s voice surprises even herself. The two combatants snap round to look at her- she fits the urge to cower. 

Then, her sister nods. Unfurls the map further. 

In front of them, there’s a tangle of green and pink covering a whole third of the map-little coloured dots spread across the city, then to the outer towns, then finally, radially, spreading out across the island, and even to the northernmost coast of the land beyond the channel.  

“All the outbreaks of dancing plague, the spontaneous array you observed, the unexplained fires- at least the ones that appeared to match the profile of the Thakur fire- the events England identified previously…” her voice falters for a second, before her face hardens, grim and angry, “some of them I can’t be a hundred percent certain of, of course, but-”

“Equally speaking there may be events that you could not identify,” Norway says seriously, whatever rage he’d contained seemingly banked. For now. “Especially in the ocean. Is that-?”

Pakistan nods. “I think so.” 

Slowly, as she stares at it Bengal can see the tangle of green and pink resolve itself. It’s lopsided, imperfect, apparently incomplete- dense in the middle, but sparse at the edges- it would be so easy to dismiss it as noise. But- if you took the dots over the far side of the channel to be the southernmost points- there are three of them. Three points protruding from the more complex tangle in the centre. And the start of the forth jutting eastwards, vanishing into the sea.

Her heart sinks. 

A summoning array. 

“What on Earth?” She jolts her head to the side to see her brother sitting up, face draining even further as he looks at it, eyebrows knitted together. 

“Is there any way a human could do this?” she says. Her voice is still rough. “Or even a group of humans?” 

Norway looks at her. Looks away. “No. Not on their own.” 

Her breath catches in her throat.

He continues, “There’s too many of them, too widespread- some of these events- they lasted for days didn’t they?” He glances at Pakistan. 

Who nods. 

“The one that happened near Stonehenge lasted more than a week,” she says. “And it kept spreading.” 

Norway grimaces. “Then unless there’s a whole lot more missing persons who, somehow, were in contact with James Tadwell, then I think we can rule this out as a wholly human phenomenon.” His eyes flick to hers. “Or even a national one.” 

Her held breath escapes like a punch.

“Then what could it be?” Scotland is standing now, England still curled up and grey on the comfy chair. 

Norway turns to look at the brothers, face unreadable. “The summoning array is a tool, cutting through the skin of our dimension to reach into the space beyond. That skin is tough, and most things can barely sense it, let alone tear it. But it is still a skin. So, if we can puncture through from this side…” 

He pauses, shakes his head. “Then something else could tear through from the other.

He stares- face blank, his ice blue eyes-

She realises it with a jolt. He’s afraid.    

Chapter Text

India’s head is swirling- the world is too cold and too bright and too sharp all at once- but Norway's words cut through it all. His mouth moves before his void-logged brain has time to catch up. 

“There’s a monster down there.” 

They all turn to look at him.  

His bladder gives an insistent prang. 

“Wait-”

He scrambles upright, half tumbling through the living room and to the hall for the downstairs loo. He slumps against the wall to use it.

He wobbles back to the living room, head still swimming- 

-watches their concerned faces.

He opens his mouth. Pauses.

How do you describe a monster made of memory?

 “It had an eye,” he settles on eventually, slumping back onto the sofa. “Bigger than I am tall.”

He describes what he can. It’s comes in sharp, icy fragments- the void,  the memories, the shredded spirit- the void itself seems to float in his head. The memories are disconnected- separate- like they belong to someone else. Until he touches on something raw- then it surges through his body like lightning, too real and suffocating. Until it leaves, and leaves him shivering.

These memories- the memories of the void itself- they don’t belong in his head. 

…he’s not a hundred percent sure all the memories it showed him of him belong in his head.

“-they weren’t all bad,” he elaborates, briefly glancing up before lowering his eyes back to his hands- which twist and clench in his lap. “Not when I was just walking through, a lot of them were very normal-” his throat suddenly closes up, the smell of roses in a Mughal palace garden and the laughter of his two sisters suddenly more real than real- “-but they were overwhelming in that they sucked me in very easily, and I had to continually ground myself to keep moving. But I could walk through it- until I came to where I assume I fell in. There was this light that was…falling apart I suppose. From what you say it must have been what’s left of James Tadwell- I- the creature showed up very quickly once I was near it. I assume it didn’t want to let him go.”  

The faces around him range from grim to stricken. Pakistan visibly shivers. 

India clears his throat. “And then I looked at the eye and- the memories, the eye-” he swallows, eye lowering again. “It tore me apart.”

“Thank God we got you out of there then.” 

Pakistan's words hit him like a thunderclap. The hard line of her mouth is twisted to a sharp, combative, smile- her stare stabs into Norway with a vengeance. For all the bravado though, her hands are white knuckled from where they grip the sleeves of her crossed arms.

The man's jaw works- clenching on and off - for a few seconds before he breathes out and speaks.

“Anyway,” he says, and his eyes stay resolutely fixed on India, and betray nothing. “Can you remember anything more? Little details, things like that- maybe we can figure out what this thing is.”

India does- as best he’s able- the scope of the experience is so huge (he was unconscious for several days ), and so outside his normal reality (he was down there for several days ) - that its hard to piece them together, let alone describe them. Is the horizontal pupil most worth mentioning or the impossible rainbow blacks? Are either of them? Is his pull towards the golden threads a function of the space or of himself? And either way his head feels like it’s bulging, throbbing with details he can’t even clearly recall- it’s like his mind is a roaring river, and describing it is like trying to catch that ricer in an egg-cup.

Bengal helps- though every time she adds a fragment she has this far-off look in her eyes that makes his stomach twist. But between them, he thinks they build a pretty good picture. 

Eventually, the last of his words dry up, and Norway sits back on his heels- tilting back until he sits on the carpet. Deep lines mar his face. 

There is a long moment of silence. 

“So,” India says, fighting to focus against the sucking cold in his bones. “What exactly are we facing?”

Norway blinks and looks up- glances between him and Bengal. The gentle light of the midmorning sun makes his face look ⁷incongruously open and naive.

When he finally speaks, though, his voice is level. 

“I don’t know.” He takes a breath. “I need to return to my books. Scotland, if you help me- the rest of you…get some rest, please.”

And that look of frightened worry is back in Norway's eyes as he and Scotland spring to their feet and leave the room- leaving the tension in the room. 

There’s a rigidity between the four of them left in the living room, Bengal feels it in her shoulders, sees it in the resolutely blank stare on Pakistan’s face, hears it in the deathly, uncomfortable silence. After a moment, England turns away from both of them to sit cross legged facing India- who for his part, looks grey and exhausted, eyes slipping closed as he loses his battle with sleep.

Bengal cannot even imagine doing the same.

She shivers. Her nerves hum with energy and her muscles strain with the urge to runrunrun - She can’t of course, that wouldn’t help anything, and didn’t generally help most things . Norway's words ring in her ears

She leaves the room. 

She catches them in the hallway. 

“I want to help.” 

They startle for a moment, pulled out of an intense conversation in a language she doesn’t speak. They look at each other, and then at her. Norway's face is painfully soft- he’s concerned- Scotland, however, looks torn. 

“You really need to rest,” Norway says, translated words buzzing against her ears. “You’ve done more than enough.”

She can’t stop herself from flinching at the kindness, and stands there- staring him down. She refuses to go.

“How about you work on the prayer circle?” Scotland says, breaking the stand off. His eyes dart between her and Norway, his face tense, but not unkind.

“I mean, none of the rest of us can do it, and it was your work anyway…” He flinches when their eyes turn to him. “...that’s the efficient way to do it.” 

Bengal breaths in, then out. He’s right. She still feels like she wants to tear her own skin off but he’s right- anything they do, anything they find out…they’ll need the prayer circle for protection. She deliberately pushes aside the fact that, on some level, they are trying to get her to rest by repeating her old work. 

Shows what they know. Bengal had been woken by the energy ripping through the house, breaking past the prayer-wall and howling into every nook and cranny. Next time…

“Yes,” she says eventually, “I’ll make it stronger.”

She ignores their stricken looks and heads up to her room. 

The moment she enters, the panic takes her. 

The world folds in on her, snatched and sucked into a pinprick, breath too fast, eyesight fuzzy, head everywhere and nowhere at once. She slides down the wall- ragged pants saw in and out of her lungs. She draws her knees up around her, skirt-cloth twisted in her fingers.  

India’s voice runs through her head. 

Narrating the nothingness, the void, that bare black stretch of nothing rips out of her mind and crushes down on her- she’d tried to push it away, keep focused on the real but- 

The memories are faded. Hazier than India’s seemed to be- he’d spent so much longer down there than her-  but oh it was so so clear-

-Oh sister, why couldn’t you have just listened to me?” A phantom boot presses down on her chest-

Memories that weren’t memories. Two ends of a tunnel tied together- time folded like paper, tangled together in a way never meant to be-

A phantom, familiar face down the other end of the barrel of a gun. 

(the word is alien- familiar, not meant to be in her head, not meant to be remembered as having been known by her-)

Could it be called a memory if it hadn’t happened yet? 

She shakes her head. Forces her breathing slow. No. They cannot. They must not, they might not? 

The words to describe them escape her. But. Whatever they were, she will not let them be a fixed line, a fate. Like all things under God, they could be understood.  If they can be understood, they can be overcome. 

Breathe. In. Out.

This- tangling- of time. 

She will unmake it. 

India wakes, and is immediately startled by a pair of green eyes watching him.

“I brought some sandwiches,” England says, before looking down. “Or, Bengal bought some sandwiches before rushing off upstairs again. I kept them safe for you though. Scotland wanted to eat them.” 

It’s early evening, the warm light of the exhausted sun is spilling through the window and he vaguely hopes that the kid hasn’t spent all that time sitting by the sofa. Though given his general droopiness and heavy bags under his eyes, he thinks that’s unlikely. 

Why is it always me who has to-  

He shakes his head, he’s exhausted, he’s sore, and he’ll burn that bridge when he gets to it-

“Sorry.” 

He turns his head to the boy beside him, confused. “Why?” 

The kid shrugs. India’s head is too fuzzy to disentangle that just now. He reaches over to take a sandwich. 

“I didn’t touch them you know,” England says, unprompted. 

Confusion swirls in his head again, until he finally remembers- the sleeping tablets.

“I wouldn’t have minded if you had,” India says, surprised to realise it’s true. He takes a bite of the sandwich- cheese. It’ll do. “I don’t think you’d do something like that again.”

Confusion creases between the kids’ brows, and he opens his mouth- but before he can say anything, Scotland walks in through the door. 

“India you’re old. Did you know Rome?” 

The question is so out of left field that it leaves India blinking. 

England seems to know what this is all about and huffs. “You can’t just ask that! And I already told you- ”

“ I know Wart, I wasn’t asking you- India, did you know Rome back in the day?”

India blinks again. It’s not exactly an insult, not for him and not for their kind but heavens above-

“Yes,” he says, and for a moment the only memory that comes up for him is the mid-eighteenth century- England, with sharp greedy eyes asking him the same thing, adult Scotland pausing in his paperwork behind him to listen-

But then another, older memory shoulders its way forwards. A chance meeting with a short, muscular man in armour on India’s - well, India’s and Pakistan’s (Nakula and Shahdeva they called themselves back then, the twins, young and athletic and telepathic-)- short visits to Persia’s house back in the day. He’d had a purple cloak and dimples when he smiled. 

India sits up a little more on the sofa. “Yes, not well, and not for long, but yes, I did know him.” 

“What was your impression of him?” Scotland’s eyes are watchfull, and there’s a tension in his face. England, too, is watching him carefully. 

Ah, Rome came to conquer the British Isles didn’t he? Another little piece of the puzzle slots into place. 

But what else can he do but be honest? “He was charming, boastful, but with good humour. He liked good food and good wine.” And good company , though he doesn’t say that bit- they hardly need to know. He then thinks a little about how to phrase this next bit, then settles on being straight forward. “I didn’t trust him.” 

“See,” England says, pointedly, “I told you he was a liar.” 

Scotland rolls his eyes. 

“I have a friend, Yao, who might have known him better- they were pen pals for a good few centuries,” India adds, though that is rather underselling it. Those tempestuous love letters were something of a legend among the oldest nations. “Persia- she’s known better as Iran, now- would also know more. But he was a neighbour of a neighbour for me, and I only met him a handful of times.”

England says something to Scotland in their own language- but Scotland speaks over him, “And do you think he’d lie about his conquests?”

A strange, cold feeling pierces his chest. An odd thought comes into his head - was it them who dealt with Rome? Or their mother? “No, he was boastful, sure- but me and, well, Pakistan didn’t get the impression that he was making things up. Persia seemed to corroborate a fair bit too. I don’t think he was the sort to outright lie about his achievements.”

“Even if he claimed to have killed a God?” 

That. Makes India stop. He sits up properly now, swinging his legs round so his feet are on the floor. Somebody has removed his socks, so he can feel the prickle of the damaged carpet beneath his toes. He focuses all his scattered attention on Scotland, of the teens' impassable, oddly challenging, face. 

“What’s this all about?” he asks. “I think I need to know the details.”

The two brothers share a look. Then, England curls up and starts talking. 

“They were looking for what the monster you saw could be, and Norway said it would have to be something big, something made of story-stuff, like us, but not like us? And asked us if any of the signs of its power reminded us of anything.” 

“Wart said it reminded him of stories of the gods back in Roman times. And of Rome having murdered Bacchus.”

“Slayed Bacchus,” England says, as if there’s a difference, pulling at the hems of his trousers, “And I didn’ say that- I said it reminded me of the stories about Bacchus- the dancing and the goats’n’ stuff. An’ I said Rome boasted about killing him. But he was a liar, and he’d been feasting and drinking so.” There’s a moment of quiet. “It was a long time ago anyway, it doesn’t even matter-” 

“But it’s worth investigating anyway,” India says, and both boys look at him. Scotland serious and focused, England with a look like- surprise? Maybe. Though there’s something soft about it too. “But unfortunately I can’t confirm or deny it, I never heard that tale. But then again, I didn’t really know him well.” 

England nods, a little absent mindedly. Scotland bites his lip. They both look exhausted. 

“Shall we play some cards?” He offers suddenly. He has enough energy, and- 

They’re only boys. 

“Whatever happened, back then, whatever Rome did or didn’t do, won’t be sorted out tonight,” he says it firmly, because elsewise, they’ll argue, “But I’ll message Iran and China- the two friends of his I mentioned earlier- and maybe they can shed some light on this. Meanwhile-” he gestures at one of the cabinets banished to a corner of the ruined living room. “There should be cards in one of the draws in there- we can play while we wait.”

At India’s direction they drag over a small table and clear it of knick-knacks. India shuffles the cards. 

“Right, do you two know any card games?” 

He looks at both boys- Scotland shrugs, while England mutters, “I saw some traders play once.”

Fair enough.

“Ok,” he says, as he begins to deal, “Then let me teach you a game I like, and we’ll play a few practice rounds first so you two can see how it works. It’s called Rummy-” 

Evening drags on into night, and they play round after round- not well, not competitively, it’s not that sort of time- though not for lack of trying by the boys. But the escalating tension is easy for India to disperse with a silly comment or interesting fact. If anything, there’s something of relief, both in their shoulders and in India’s stomach. The evening isn’t about anything- the time passes comfortably between the rounds, and India doesn’t bother interrupting it when he receives the response from China, or later, from Iran. They break for tea, and more sandwiches. But not for business, not tonight. 

Eventually, gradually, England's eyes slip closed and he shifts from where he’s seated- back to the sofa so India can (not so) covertly help him spot his tricks- to lean against India’s tired legs. His breath evens out. His hands go loose. He’s asleep. 

A quiet, still moment drags softly through the air. Scotland speaks. 

“What do you want with my brother?”

“What do you mean?”

He looks up from the cards, when he meets Scotland's eyes they are flat, and hard. 

“People like you always want something.”

The words hang, tense. 

“People like me?” He says it softly, trying to give the teen the benefit of the doubt. This far back- well he’s pretty sure the concept of white didn’t even exist, let alone the concept of non-white.  

“Adults,” Scotland's teeth clip at the word impatiently, before he looks back down at his cards. “Empires.” 

“Ah.” India mulls that over. Again, there’s a hurt in his heart- to live a life where that was your assumption of a full grown nation..! “I’m not an Empire, you know.” 

Scotland gives him a look of disbelief. “Yeah right, pull the other one old man, it's got bells on.” 

India blinks. Then he remembers- some years (decades) ago Bangladesh had rolled her eyes at him for…something or other- he thinks one of the small nations had been startled by him and he hadn’t known why- and she had said. 

You’re too used to being big . You’ve never been small enough that you have to pay attention to another nations' energy instead of attending to your own. Don’t let what that bastard did make you forget that.

“I’m not an Empire though,” he says, keeping it mild, “I’m a Federation.” 

Scotland gives him a look of deepest suspicion. 

India lowers his voice, firm but gentle. “Not all of us got large by brutalising others you know.” 

Scotland snorts and looks away- but India doesn’t owe the child the messy, bloody, complicated reality of a large nation (Avataar, they used to be called, Embodyments, if you wanted the nearest translation) over many kingdoms, united at times, warring at others. No matter how sad it is to watch the teen mull over his cards with that look on his face. 

Eventually, Scotland folds them and stands up, turning away.

“Just don’t damage him too much, you hear? I’m the one who’ll have to pick up the pieces afterwards.”

“I’m not planning on keeping him,” India says mildly, gathering up the cards and shuffling the deck. “I just want us all to get back as safe as possible.”

Scotland gives him a long, level look. Then shakes his head. 

“Whatever, night.” 

“Night,” India replies quietly, as the boy leaves the room, mulling the conversation over and over in his head, as a little voice niggles at the back of his mind.

Why don’t you take the child and run? 

The morning light streams through the windows strong and clear, but it does nothing to help Bengal’s general foggy-ness. The six of them are gathered around the kitchen table, again- and no amount of tea can calm her racing heart or drifting brain. Her neck hurts, her shoulders hurt, her eyes hurt. 

The rest of her is numb. 

“I’ve discovered how to contain the magic further,” she announces, and hopes her voice sounds sturdy at least. Her eyes sweep their bedraggled group- skipping over her sister- her heart seizes, her palms are wet with sweat. 

No, she is numb. 

She leans into it. She shows them the revised diagram. “Here and here, I’ve introduced an additional part- it’s very delicate, but it’s an inversion of the spokes of the array-” she is proud of this, and she holds that to her chest like a candle against the dark- the beautiful, holy lines, falling back where the array surges forth, jabbing in where it retreats, a back and forth, a balancing act. Control by negotiation, not by force. “-rather than blocking the magic directly, it should separate and disperse it, neutralising it faster and more effectively.”

And with less energy, she doesn’t say, though she does shiver. 

“Like flood defences,” her sister's voice is unmistakably proud. 

For a brief moment, she makes the mistake of meeting her sister's eyes. 

Her stomach lurches. 

A boot on her chest. She’s bleeding out. Her throat’s cut, but not deep- the bleed is elsewhere- everywhere- slow and painful.

The boot on her chest grinds down harder. 

“Why don’t you just listen? ” 

Her eyes skitter away- land on her brothers. He gives her a shaky, kind smile. It doesn’t help. 

It’s not true, it’s not. It can’t be. 

She takes a deep, shuddering breath to try and settle her stomach. Barely conscious, swimming in a memory she aughtn’t have and couldn’t be true anyway, she only resurfaces as India’s voice washes over her and turns serious.

“-it took them a while to respond, but I got some details, yes.” Her brother's voice still sounds steady, despite his tiredness. He must have slept some then.

She’s not sure whether to be grateful or jealous of that.  

“The long and short of it is yes, he boasted about killing a god- China thought he might have been speaking metaphorically. Iran- Persia- she thought differently.” He coughs. “In fact she said- and I quote- ‘Don’t you remember back then? They didn’t know the difference between us and other spirits, and we didn’t either, really’ -  She said she believed him, anyway, at least believed that he believed he had.” 

Quiet around the table. Bengals head swirls around the information. 

Eventually Norway leans back. “Damn.” 

“What is it?” Pakistan's voice is sharp and curious.

Norway shakes his head and rubs at his eyes. “I had a hunch- I asked Scotland to look into it but I hoped it wasn’t true but.” 

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Pan, Bacchus, was the Roman-Greek God of parties, and wilderness. But also of madness and nightmares - they say women in his cult used to drink and dance themselves into such a frenzy, that if you came upon them unexpectedly, they’d rip you limb from limb and keep dancing around your mutilated corpse.” He sighs. “It’s why wild parties are sometimes called bacchanalia. It’s also where English gets the word panic from.”

A quiet, horrible certainty slips into Bengals brain.

“That would explain the ‘dancing plagues’,” India mutters. 

“And the goats,” her sister adds.

Bengal tries to ignore that.

“If it is,” Norway continues, “then we don’t just know the what, we know the where too. If it is Pan- then the void isn't just any old in-between-space. It’s the Sea of Dead Gods.”

“What's that?” The words are out of Bengals mouth before her brain has really caught up. 

Norway meets her eyes. “It’s where stories go to die- where people like us disappear to, when we’re gone, we think. If it is that- then we’re in a lot of trouble.”

Her brother frowns. “Why?” 

Norway sighs, “Well firstly because it’s not a place the living are supposed to pass through, lively spirits connected to their source - they stay here. Don’t get me wrong, you do hear of some faded nations coming back as echos- and then of course there’s Prussia and no one knows what that’s about- but as a rule, you stay on the same… well plane of existence.” 

“That’s why our connections are all stretched out,” England murmurs, eyes lowered to the table. 

“Yes,” Norway says, and the pauses. Bengal can feel the words hanging in the air. 

“There’s more isn’t there?” She asks. Her voice sounds dead. 

Norway looks uncomfortable for a second. Then nods. “Yes.” He leans forward and picks up one of the blank pieces of paper she’d left on the table. “The whole time, since we realised it wasn’t England, I’ve been wondering- why? Why this? Why go to all this trouble? Now James Tadwell’s motivations make sense, as disgusting as they are, but-” 

“-but he was being guided by a darker force,” her sister says. 

Norway looks at Pakistan and nods. “But what does that force get out of it? This took months, maybe even a year of careful manipulation and planning, coaxing Tadwell into doing more and more outlandish things- remember, most humans nowadays don’t even believe in magic- it took a long time haunting his dreams to make Tadwell do what it wanted. You don’t do that on a whim.”

Shahadeva’s eyes become shadowed. “If it was murdered- if Rome disposed of Pan before it faded...well, I think we can guess what the massive summoning circle is for.”

“Yes, but- oh.” A look dawns across Norway's pale face. Then he mutters, “that’ll be why.” 

A moment. 

“It wants to feed.” The words are simple, and chilling. “If you have one version of a nation on this side, and another back in time, and you- yank them back together, like two weights on a stretched out elastic-” 

India sits up sharply, “You mean this-” he gestures around him, “is to build up potential energy? Like charging a battery? ” 

Bengal looks at him- he’s angry. Real, quiet, angry.

Norway nods. “Pan will need it to break through. Maybe even sustain itself, this side of the barrier, if there’s nothing for it to connect to.”

Bengals stomach drops. She feels sick. 

“And what happens to them when that potential energy gets used.” Shahadeva speaks, lips taught and knuckles white from clenching. She makes a sharp nod towards Bengal, and the two boys. 

Norway breathes heavily. “I think- I think they’ll be torn apart.”

The next hour swims by as if she’s underwater. Words float into her head- if the energy is released by them coming together violently, can we release it gently? - muffled, distorted. Theoretically yes, and if we do it there should be no more stored energy for Pan to use. A pause, a thoughtful hmm. But we would need to do that for all of them all at once, right Norway? Otherwise I’d imagine Pan’s- what ghost? Would be pretty furious.  India. Yes. No one can be left behind. Norway?

Plans swirl into existence around her- Then we need to organise us all to go together, but it needs to be fast . Sahadeva. Then Norway again. Yes, I think- I think if we make small groups and distribute them across high magic areas around the globe, we can make it work. Besides, the more of us tear through the same location the more energy Pan has to work with, and the easier it is for him to reach through. I suspect the tear caused by the original swap is what’s allowed him to exert so much power even with his minion dead. If I make- let's call it a ‘receiving’ array- they shouldn't even have to do much, just feed it magic and let us do the complicated stuff. And a prayer barrier as well? Scotland. Of course. Norway. 

She says nothing.

There’s only one thing though- 

What?

To gently untangle them…one of us will have to go down there. To do it by hand, it’s the only way to be sure they all get back, put them in place one by one. 

It’s only after, having drifted through what passes for lunch, then going through the motions of promising to rest- that what she needs to do comes through to her, sharp as a lungful of air 

She needs to talk to her brother. 

“Can we go for a walk?”

She’s cornered him in the hallway at the bottom of the stairs. His eyes widen. 

His skin though, is wan, grey-tinged - he looks like he’s drooping under the weight of his own body.

“Only if you have the energy, obviously,” she amends, quickly. 

He blinks at her for a moment. “Of course.” He moves and nearly falls as he bumps the bannister- she rushes forward and takes his arm. Not that she could stabilise him much if he did fall- she’s only five foot one. 

“Maybe just the garden then,” he says with a shaky smile.

She nods silently. 

The garden is a sorry shadow of its former self. The unrelenting sunshine had scorched the soft grass until it was brittle and wilting- only scant patches of miserable faded green left in a sea of brown yellow. Even the daisies sprouting in it had died. 

As soon as they settle on a spot, India flops down onto his back. She sits beside him, the grass crunching beneath her. It prickles, even through her clothes. 

“I wonder if he enchanted that bush…” her brother's voice drifts over to her and she looks up. His head is tilted back, staring at a thorny bush so lush and dark it looks almost wet. Even its flowers, a dense dark red, are so thick with petals they almost seem to be falling out of the bud. 

“Then again, he always did have a thing about roses.”

Her brain snags on that. “Wait, that’s a rose? ”

Her brother looks at her, chin on his chest, eyes wide- shocked. Then his head flops back down to the grass. “Yes, England used to bread them, make new cultivars- this one stronger, that one adapted to harsher soil, this one a new colour-”

His voice drifts off. Then, quietly. “Stupid man.” 

A strange, uneasy feeling lingers - until her brother sits up and looks at her. “Anyway, what did you want to talk about?” 

“Why don’t you want Pakistan around me?” She uses Shaha’s modern name firmly, deliberately.

He freezes, eyes widening, smile stiff- he opens his mouth, and for a split second, she can just tell, she just knows , he’s going to lie.

“I saw things,” the words are sharp and forceful, she wills her eyes to convey what she can’t say, “In the Sea of Dead Gods. Terrible things- I-” her heart flutters, needle sharp, in her chest, “Famines. Worse than I’ve ever known, emaciated bodies piled up in the streets, pale men in red coats stepping over them, then more bodies, not starved, but blood running through the streets and our sister-” her words fail her, catching her rasping throat as though clawing to stay inside- “our sister , Shaha, standing over my broken chest, pointing this grey thing at me and I know-”

She takes a ragged breath and wipes the tears from her eyes. “I know she is going to kill me. I know I am going to die.” 

Her voice breaks and she has to bury her face in her hands just to hold herself together- ragged, wheezing breaths, heart shattering all over again. In her chest, the Connection, always taught, always hurting, vibrates viciously. She knows she was never meant to know this, this is wrong and her whole body rebels against it- but speaking the words- she has to. She has to.  

Eventually she gains a hold of herself, the pain fades to its normal background hum, and she wipes her eyes free of tears (and her nose free of snot. Eww. That was embarrassing). Her brother is sitting up now, legs crossed, arms folded on his knees, face grim as death. 

He passes her a hanky. She blows her nose heavily. 

“I thought they were just nightmares, before.” Her voice feels thick and soupy. She scrubs at her face with the cloth. “Until you talked about what you saw.”

There’s a moment of quiet between them. 

Then her brother sighs- quietly, not at her, not at anything in particular she doesn’t think- she remembers- it’s the same sigh as when he told her about Nanda and the river, when she was finally old enough to put her childish memory fragments together and understand . 

“I don’t, fully understand it- I always thought-” he pauses, looking at the grass. “Before- before independence, long before, I came back. And everything had changed. We’d all changed.” 

“You’d gone back before me, and you and her got close. You decided- you both decided, or i thought so at the time- to become your own countries. I-” he pauses again, and his eyes slip closed. 

“Looking back maybe it didn’t happen like that- I think there was a lot between you and her that I couldn’t have known about at the time-” he shakes his head. “Anyway, then there was Independance, and Partition-” 

He chokes, shakes his head again. 

“Anyway, after. There was me, India, and you two- East and West Pakistan.” He pauses. “I never…” 

He takes a breath. Straightens up and looks her in the eye.

“What I’m going to say next is what you told me, over the next few decades, in bits and pieces. I don’t know what happened really- not until the very end, but from what you said later, Ra’ani- Shahadeva - had changed. I know you always found us overbearing at times, a lot, even-'' he amends at her look. “-but it had genuinely looked like it was getting better- then.”

“...you told me it started with her not listening to you. She would apparently talk over and around you until you did what she said regardless. You said that gradually she’d started picking away at you- making you look like her, talk like her- she’d start screaming at you, apparently, when you didn’t.”

“You told me- you told me you gave her some lee-way at first. You thought- you thought at the time that the Partition had changed something and she’d go back to the way she was before in a few years.” India pauses. “Later you’d say she was an evil bitch looking for an excuse.” 

Bengals breath catches painfully in her throat. 

“You left the first time she hit you.”

“You wanted to be your own country, your own person- to be all of yourself, muslim and hindu, but mostly Bangla . You made a new name for yourself- Bangladesh and started to fight for your Independence.”

India pauses again, and his eyes are far away. 

“All I know is- when you crawled to your border with me, that your guts were still hanging out, and your throat was healing from being cut.” 

Bengals heart freezes. 

“You told me later she’d done it herself.” 

Her brother takes a deep, shuddering breath.

“Her soldiers killed hundreds of thousands- possibly millions- of your people over the course of a few months, and brutalised many more. It was a genocide, no matter what she said later,” He says it bluntly, eyes tired. “You’ve never- I won’t say you two’ve never spoken since but-” 

Her mind reels, she’s shivery, cold- the memories she oughtn’t have- 

It feels very far away when she says. “And what do you think? Do you think she was looking for an excuse? Do you think she’s evil?”

India’s voice is quiet. “I don’t know. I really, really don’t know.” 

The conversation with Bengal leaves him rattling. 

It’s as if something has woken up inside him, when he sees her gaunt face, stubborn, try to grapple with the unexplainable. Something vicious, when they go back inside and Bengal walks straight past Pakistan without even looking at her, and she looks at him, eyes wide. She knows.

It claws at his innards with red hot nails, making him want to scream and flail and break things- what, you expected me to keep your ugly secret for you? You expected me to choose you over her? What is wrong with y-? 

He doesn’t of course. That’s not his way. Instead, he throws himself into fixing this mess. If that’s even possible.   

Preparing to fight a God is a strange thing. There’s an initial flurry of activity- - texts and emails, and a list of itineraries and arguments and plans. He doesn’t even blink before volunteering to be the one who goes Void diving- it can only really be him, after all, he’s the only one who knows how to move independently in the space. 

As for how they’ll untangle the threads? They’re working on it. 

He keeps himself busy, the red hot nails clawing at him when he doesn’t. Activity swirls around him- not exactly dream-like, but not wholly distinct from the dreams either. For the first time in a long time, he’s acutely aware- the weight of Bengal in his arms when they found her, adolescent days spent by the royal fountain-

Acutely, suddenly, he’s aware he had- has- a past. Not that he’d ever quite forgotten it, still, he feels it acutely, his long life swirling like a great river behind him-

And he recalls, faintly, a memory- or not a memory- of taking a familiar hand, the most familiar hand, as he stepped into the stars. 

The thread stretched far and wide before, and stretches further still into the future. 

He is still so, so, bone deep angry. 

“Have you had something to eat?” 

India looks up, startled. Norway stands over him, concerned look on his face.

India is curled up, half on the kitchen window sill, it’s not really wide enough for this, and one leg rest on the floor to stabilise him while he’s curled up with his laptop open braced between his chest and his knees. 

He takes a moment, lets himself come back to himself long enough to register the various hurts of his body. 

His arse hurts, his heart hurts, he’s hungry. 

“No,” he says, mildly surprised, “I don’t think I have.” 

Norway frowns, visibly concerned and ushers him over to the table, where he fixes him some tuna sandwiches. India, who wasn’t even aware they had tuna, nonetheless tucks in gratefully. 

“I went grocery shopping, we were running low,” Norway answers the unasked question before meeting his eyes, “India, you’re good at putting on a face for the others, but tell me, what is going on?”

It’s like a stone has dropped into his stomach. He takes another bite of tuna but it tastes like ash in his mouth. He looks away.  

Does he want to? Does he actually want to open that box? 

If he does, will he ever stop?

“What would happen if one of them didn’t go back? Through the Sea, I mean,” he asks instead. His tongue is dry around the words. Distantly, he’s aware he’s switched to English- a language only he, and Norway,

 (and his twin-)

 , speak. 

Norway's eyebrows raise, though his face doesn’t betray much. “I don’t know, but it hurts them being here- at least from how they describe the connection. So not good, I think.” 

India’s fingers squeeze tight around the bread, just feeling it squish and change- clay like. He takes another bite. 

The thought runs through his head. 

Why don’t you take the child and run?

“What if.” He says it carefully, rolling the words around his mouth as he chews the tuna. He swallows. “What they were going back to was worse?” 

He meets Norway's gaze meaningfully- so he sees the moment the penny drops and his eyes widen. The other man opens his mouth- then closes it again. Then. 

“Those times did pass, though.” Norway speaks carefully too, eyes flitting away to rest on the floor. “Eventually.”

“Did they?” 

At that Norway looks up, a naked question in his eyes. Something hungry, curious- a little bit guilty too- 

Oh. Yes. The book mentioned the Norse- Norse- norway. 

India shakes his head. “I mean, war fucks you up- it really does- for a very long time. Even for us.” 

Norway nods. 

Emboldened, he continues. “But at the end of the day we learn to come home, or most of us do.” He pauses, a heavy leaden thought in his stomach. “I’m not sure he ever did though.” 

Norway, again, struggles to get his words out. “True but-” 

“Besides it's not just about the pain to him ,” India cuts him off. “An Arthur raised to be something kinder, that would be good for all of us, wouldn’t it?” 

Norway looks down. 

“It’d be a sort of death, if you do it, you could never take it back.” Norway's mouth is set in a grim line. “His family- I know his relationship with his family can be bad but-” 

India breathes. Thinks- again, as if he hadn’t been thinking for days- about Ireland and Wales, about England's many many children, those that talk to him (Canada, still caught up in his apron strings, Australia, still wanting his dad despite all the difficulties that came with-) and those that did not (Jamaica springs to mind). About those never quite part of the ‘family’ but haunted by its shadow with every step regardless.

“It’d be a second chance for them, too,” he says, eventually- he can’t say he’s asked them. He hasn’t- there’s no time, even if they had a hundred years there’d be no time. “Perhaps something better would come of it, him being near them this time around.” 

Norway- he looks conflicted- eyebrows and mouth twitching in a grimace like they don’t know which way to pull. 

But before he can say anything, the door slams open. 

“So that’s it then.” Ra’ani’s voice is glass-sharp. Cuts through the air, like a whip crack, through the bang of the door bouncing off the wall. “That’s your grand master plan to fix this whole bloody mess, send everyone back, keep England?”

The world freezes. Her words are the only ones in the world. 

“I’ll just…” Norways voice seems to come from far away, muffled, as if from underwater. “I’’l just, leave you two to it.” 

Absently, India notices Norway scuttle off, but it doesn’t matter much. He’s just stuck in the breathtaking pull of his sister's anger.  

As if she has any right- 

“I’m glad to see you awake.'' Her voice is sharp, clear and cuts through his foggy head. She storms past him to make tea. “You could have thanked me, you know.” 

He opens his mouth- sharp retort on his tongue- then stops. He doesn’t. It’s not even worth it. 

She’s definitely the wrong sort of right. Not that she’ll ever accept anything of that. 

He sighs, deep and weary. “I wonder if the child would thank you for that if he understood what he paid for it.” 

His twin snorts, almost slamming the cup down as the kettle boils. “So you’re being truthful then? You want to try and keep ‘the child’ .” 

A moment. Then muttered Urdu. “You’re fucking hopeless.”  

“Maybe, maybe not.” He feels his hackles rise with his voice. “I haven't decided yet- I’m not going to rush into a decision like that.” 

His sister turns with a sharp caw of derisive laughter. “Hah! That’s a lie. At least my hairbrained scheme worked.”

His face burns. “By eviscerating the people around you!” And then you wonder why people don’t trust you…

“ Excuse me?” 

Oh. Had he muttered that out loud. 

Too late to turn back now- he straightens up and stares straight into Pakistan's furious gaze. “You heard.” 

She leans back and chuffs - painful, bitter, halfway to a laugh. “Oh, and you’re any better? God above! You’re bringing in another stray- again! Giving him another chance- again! Wasn’t once enough? You think you can keep him? He’s a sovereign nation India! And that’s even if it works- more likely you’ll kill us all!”

“And what’s your alternative? Send him back into that nightmare? Make him repeat the past that made him a monster? He was raised a soldier Pakistan- I don’t think he knows how to do peace!”

“Then he should learn!” she’s shouting now, face screwed up. “He should get off his selfish arse and make himself better, make the hard choices and grow up! ”

“What- like you did?!” He’s so angry he barely registers that he’s on his feet. Barely registers anything beyond the pounding of his heart in his head. “Like you did?! Making so many ‘hard decisions’ that you destroy everyone else? Is that what you tell yourself so you can sleep at night? Was growing up why you left our sister broken and gutted in the dirt-?” 

As soon as the words leave his mouth he regrets them- too much, that was too much…

..especially without Bangladesh present.. 

Would she ever be here again?  

The thought plunges him into ice water, and he looks away. Inside him a maelstrom of emotions, everything he’d been trying not to think, rages.

His twins face is grey. Wordless. 

The unspeakable makes its way up his throat. 

“How can. How can I ever trust you again, after what you did? Yes, I’m glad to be alive, I’m glad we all have a way out but….you did that once. You were willing to trick a child this time. What will you do next time?” 

Pakistan, his twin, reels back. Then looks away. “I … don’t say that as if you’re any better than me.” Pause. “Not when you’re about to rip a man's whole future from him.”

He jolts- “I - what?”

She looks at him straight in the eyes- for a moment, he feels the ghost of a heart beat, beating in time with his own. A memory. “We are our stories- if you reach that deep inside him and rip that out to rewrite it…do you think he’d thank you for that? You’re trying to save him, but. Even if it works, he won’t be the same- ever. Do you really want to reach so far inside someone you tear that out? The badness…it’s already in him, it already happened. Do you really think you can fix that just by taking him away from what’s already been done?”

He stares at her.

She continues. “At least I know I have to let go of Bengal once the time comes.” 

It’s like a punch to the chest. He blinks.

 “...I think he can do that for himself if he’s just taken out of that space,” he says. 

It mulls over in him, some more. “Like I said, he was raised in war. I don’t think he knows anything else. When soldiers can’t come home, it damages them. You and I both know that. Our sister isn’t the same.” 

His sister- his twin- looks away again. “Fixing people isn’t a matter of just pretending the bad didn’t happen, India.”

“It’s not a matter of running away from it either.” he says, exhaustion hammering every part of him. He slumps back into the chair. “I’m…coming to realise that.”

Pakistan laughs again, softer this time. “Then what do we do, huh? Can’t go back, can’t go forward…”

She trails off, and silence descends between them, heavy, painful. He hates this- it’s easier when they argue, really, then he doesn’t have to think about the ache in his side, the quietness in his head where once there was noise- that kinship of someone who always, well almost always, knew what he was thinking- who he knew as dearly and they did him. It fucking hurts. 

“Do you…” Pakistan broaches the silence with an almost whisper. “Do you remember much of the night we became free?”

His head shoots up and he stares at her as she stares into space, her arms wrapped around herself- one of them clutching tightly to her side. 

If they’d stood naked side by side his Partition scar would touch her skin there.

He wonders- for the first time- if she has one herself. 

He wonders if it’s the same shape as his- a ragged line like a slice of skin had been cut away by a knife. 

(India had once met a man who used to be a conjoined twin when he was a baby. Used to be connected by the back to his brother- they’d only shared a kidney, admittedly, and his family was well off, so the doctors had cut them apart to live independent lives. And India..can’t sympathise of course, he’s immortal and he and Pakistan had never been conjoined - but.)

(He’d seen the man's scar once, as they got dressed together in the early hours of the morning. It’s familiarity left him sad and joyous and grieving all at once.) 

“No,” he says. “Well, only partially. The night of mostly- the Raj flag going down, our flags rising…the joy…”

A flicker of a smile. “Yes, that night was so beautiful.”

He looks down. “I don’t remember much afterwards though- Not for…at least two months. Pain maybe. Joy, confusion, fear. And when I woke-” 

Pakistan grips the side of her dress even tighter. “Yes…that’s about what I remember too.” 

She looks him straight in the eye. “Why bother with him? Truly, Brother , speak plainly to me.” 

There’s something hungry in her eyes. 

India swallows. “I have to hope, don’t I? For all of us- it can’t. He’s not going to die, Sister. And I have to believe. That at least one soldier can come home.” 

She looks away, blinking rapidly, tears in her eyes. “I just- I can’t lose you to him. Not again.” 

A strange pit in his stomach opens up, dizzy and complicated. “...Haruppan wouldn’t have wanted to see us fight like this would she?” It’s no more than a whisper. 

Pakistan's laugh is bubbling and snotty. “You mean Indus? I don’t think she could have even imagined this.” 

Quiet again. He can hear the birds outside. 

“Do…” his sister speaks again. “Do you really think eternity is enough to wash away the blood?” 

He looks up at her again. Looks down. Can he say? His own hands are hardly bloodless afterall. 

“I think you’ll have to ask Bangladesh that,” he says looking up. “When she’s back, I mean.” 

And his sister stares at him - she must be able to see what she needs because she turns away. “Ok. But if you jepodise my chance to make amends with your fucked up savior complex… I’l fucking kill you.”

It’s said with a lightness he hasn't heard in many decades, and he laughs- and suddenly becomes aware of the dried tear tracks on his own face. He rubs at them suddenly. 

Pakistan shakes her head and hands him tissues from her pocket. He takes them, even though he has his own handkerchief in his trousers. She wipes her own eyes with her hands. “I don’t know how you wind up so snotty when we’re identical twins,” she says muzzily.

There’s a sniffly, soft silence between them.   

“Just promise me something.” She says, eventually. 

“What?” 

“Give him a choice,” she says. “He’s a scumbag but he’s a person. He deserves that much.” 

And India….could say so many things to that. So many things that were cruel and honest and wouldn’t help a single thing. He knows she knows he knows she’s a hypocrite.

He doesn’t need to rub it in. 

Or maybe she has grown some. He can’t read her mind. 

He nods instead.

The decision is still set, India will dive into the Void to detangle the Nations connections and send the young ones back to when they should be. Norway and Pakistan continue on as mostly normal, and from the young ones- well, he can tell they haven't said anything either. 

As they all get into position around the globe. India spends a lot of time just watching. 

And waiting. 

And watching.

And waiting.

And watching. 

“Have you had something to eat?” 

He startles, the rest of the world comes back to him, and he notices England peeking from the doorway. It’s dark now, and in the lamplight the kids face is soft and sad. 

Ah, he must have missed dinner. 

“That would be nice, thankyou.” 

The kid nods, and vanishes for a second before returning with a pile of cheese sandwiches, which he sets on the table before perching on the arm of the sofa, head bowed, and hands in his lap. 

England watches him eat for a while, holding his own sandwich loosely in his hands. 

“Why do you feel safe eating that?”

India blinks. Looks from the sandwich to the boy and back again. “I don’t think you would repeat what you did again.”

Silence. India takes a bite of the sandwich. Funnily enough, he believes it. He chews, low key hoping that his nonchalance will encourage the boy to eat- the stare is getting unnerving.

Besides, there’s the slight scrape of staleness to the bread, but it’s still soft- and the cheese is nice. 

“Could I have a cup of tea?” he asks.

The kid nods and fetches one for him. 

As he takes a deep drink- it doesn’t quell the exhaustion but it helps- England speaks. 

“Norway made the sandwiches for everyone, he said- he said it was so everyone could get them regardless of when they were awake.” 

India hmms, waiting. Though the kid is no longer staring at him, the heaviness of the stare he directs as the carpet could burn steel. The silence stretches on.

“That was kind of him,” he says eventually.

There’s a rise and fall in the kids shoulders. “But how can you trust that?” it’s little more than a mutter. “He could have done what I did.” 

India takes another bite of the sandwich. 

“Because I don’t think he would want to do that,” he says eventually, “And I think if he did want to do it, he wouldn’t. I think…well, I can’t imagine any reason he would want to, but if he did- I think he’d find another way.” 

The heaving of England's shoulders speeds up. “Just because you can’t imagine it doesn’t mean it won’t happen.”

India swallows another mouthful. The spite, the pain- . Vihaan remembers, focuses on the string- stretching back into the past, but also onwards-

Into the future. 

“Yes…that is a risk,” he says, eventually, “That will always be a risk, and- I can’t tell you when it’s right to take that risk- it’s not always worth it. But I can say, right now, that I trust Norway to help me- and not to poison my food.” 

There’s a new stillness in the child's form. “And me?”

India- chooses his words carefully. “I know you…feel the urge to act, very strongly. And I know my sister can be very persuasive. I don’t…I think if she hadn’t offered - you wouldn’t have done it.”

“But you said Norway wouldn’t have done it.” 

“No I don’t think he would have.” He watches, the kids face jerk up- fierce and screwed up, and interrupts. “But I also think he would know what to do instead.” 

“So he’s just smarter?”

That- jabs something painful in his gut. “No.” 

Silence. India looks up again to see England stare at him- something desperate in his gaze.

“No. He’s not.” 

And the conversation dies there for a second. England stares at him, seeking the answer. And India…doesn’t have one. After a long minute.

“And I guess you’re just going to have to trust me on that.” 

And England stares at him and says. “Ok.” 

They sit together for a good long while. England takes a bite of his sandwich, and shuffles a little closer. India doesn’t react, except to bump his shoulder gently against the kids. 

A tacit acceptance. The child shuffles nearer again, nibbling his sandwich and shuffling until he’s leaning on India’s arm. He looks exhausted, but tense. His whole body seems to wilt, from his pulled in arms to the greasy tips of his hair. 

Resignation settles over him like a heavy duvet.

….this would be so much easier if the child would listen to literally anyone else.

“Hey, are you going to shower before bed,” he nudges the kid with his elbow, “I know you won’t sleep, but you’ll at least be a little more comfortable” 

“ ‘m tired,” England says, and snuggles closer- he must be truly exhausted, “Doesn’t matter anyway. Going back soon.” 

India’s heart catches in his throat- he remembers clearer now, being a teen and adopting feral cats, or an orphaned tiger cub, or being a child and holding his little sister like she was the most precious ball of blubber in the world. He remembers he has always, deep down, been soft. It’s simply part of who he is. 

“Ah.” 

England shoots him a look through a scarcely open eyes. The slip of green seems no more annoyed than an unsettled cat. “It’s my business anyway. It’s cold back then. And as long as I don’t embarrass my Lords it's fine anyway.”

India mulls over what hasn’t been said. The greasy roots of his hair. “But does it feel better though, to be tidy?” 

England is quiet for a moment. “Yeah.” 

India lets the conversation settle. Instead he stares at the opposite wall. At the sun light setting and catching the few ornaments that have survived the chaos.  They cast a swirling rainbow of patterns on the floor, stretching across the burned carpet.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        

Sitting there it is as if he’s in a strange, far seeing place, time flowing backwards and forwards around him, the whole world mutable- like unfired clay.

“England.” He asks slowly. It feels as if the moment will shatter if he goes too fast. 

“Hm?” 

“I’m going to ask you something, and I need you to answer for yourself. Not what your King would want or what you think I want to hear, ok?” 

England stills at his side. India can’t bring himself to look at him. 

“If you had the choice,” he swallows around a lump in his throat. “To go back. Or to stay in the future with us. What would you choose?” 

And England is silent, for a long time. Long enough for India to screw up the courage to look at him. His head is down, and he’s very still. At first, India thinks he’s overwhelmed him. 

But then he shifts to comfort the child, and England flops, bonelessly. 

And he realises

The kid isn’t breathing.

Chapter Text

Independence and the British Raj - I think looking back there can be a temptation to flatten the responses to the Empire, to paint people's views as all one or the other. But people are rarely that straightforward, and complex and sometimes contradictory views of the Raj still play out in India, Pakistan, and Bangladesh (and the diasporas) today. The Raj was a machine of racist exploitation and abuse- but it was a machine that was skilled at incorporating different groups into it in ways that gave them a degree of investment in the machine that exploited them. The Empire as a whole was also very skilled at propaganda- both in terms of it’s infamous ‘Divide and Rule’ tactics (that would use local divisions to it’s advantage to weaken resistance and bolster its own position) but also like… literal propaganda around ‘the benefits of civilisation’ and so on and so forth. Whilst from our perspective today it’s easy to recognise this rhetoric as racist bullshit, it’s striking going back and reading contemporary accounts and seeing how much sway this had over people at the time. The Myth of Empire really was (and in Britain, continues to be) a really key part of its power.  

Partition - famously, the settlement reached for Independence of India was the ‘two-state solution’, that instead of the entirety of the British Raj gaining Independence as a single country, it would instead be split into two along religious lines- with one country ‘Pakistan’ being set aside for Muslims, and the other ‘India’ for ‘Hindus’ (the reason I’m putting this in quotation marks is because the construction of the group called ‘hindus’ is its own very very complicated thing- apart from anything else in this case it also includes other religions such as Jains). It’s important to recognise that whilst religious tensions between Hindus and Muslims weren’t unheard of prior to British involvement on the subcontinent, centuries of Divide and Rule tactics had deteriorated the situation to the point where prominent leaders of the Muslim minority in India were afraid of political marginalisation and violence upon Independence. The way this and the birth of far-right Hindu extremism (it’s worth remembering that Ghandi, who fought for a united India, was assassinated by a Hindu extremist) combined was that the eventual settlement was for two countries to be established. However, almost immediately post-Independence, this solution- which was always going to require immense mass migration- erupted into extreme and horrific violence across the countries as people scrambled to escape to the ‘right’ side of the border. Around 1 million people died, and between 10-20 million were displaced. 

The Bangladesh genocide (25 March 1971-16 December 1971) - Although the formation of East and West Pakistan was supposed to have led to a stable resolution, in practice it became very clear that West Pakistan held the majority of political power, and that politicians in West Pakistan had a vision of the country that was incompatible with the reality of life in what would become Bangladesh. East pakistan still had a relatively large amount of Hindus, and a contingent of its Independence movements had formed with a larger sense of ‘Bengali’ nationalism, rather than being divided along religious lines (though, to be clear, religious based groups still existed). West Pakistan refused to recognise the Bengali language, and post Partition was extremely suspicious of Hindus in general. East Pakistan began to argue that it should break away and become a new country called ‘Bangladesh’- in response, East Pakistan sent in the military to systematically murder Bengalis and especially Bengali Hindus. The death toll was somewhere between 300000 and 3 million dead, with many more injured or displaced. The murders appear to have specifically targeted intellectuals- poets, doctors, academics (these groups were a major part of popularising and reinforcing a sense of Bangladeshi national identity), and mass rape was also used against Bengali women as a tool of genocide. This genocide was part of the trigger for, and was ended by, the Indo-Pakistan War of 1971 which lasted around a week and a half, and ended in the surrender of Pakistani forces and the signing of a treaty which allowed for the formation of the Republic of Bangladesh as a separate fully Independant country. 

….

In terms of writing this… I have a lot of thoughts. There’s a great difficulty in writing historically based Hetalia fic that acknowledges the brutality that shapes history, but doesn’t turn the nation itself into a monster. I don’t think I’d ever be comfortable writing a fic were one country or another is truly, irredeemably monstrous (though they might be that way in the eyes of another), simply because they’re an amalgam of all their people- not just the worst of them. At the same time, there’s something dishonest to me about exempting them from the atrocities committed by their people- it feels very ‘oh, it was just a few bad apples’, like on some level it’s refusing to acknowledge the systemic nature of mass violence and exploitation. 

I don’t think there is (or can be) just one way to square that circle, so I suppose I take it on a case by case basis. Overall, I suppose I do my best to write people as doing horrific things for reasons that make sense to them at the time whilst trying to be honest about the fall out of those incredibly violent actions. Having said that there are some forms of violence I’ll probably never feel comfortable writing a sympathetic (? not sure if that's the right description here- humanised might be better) character as engaging in or having engaged in in the past- particularly intentional child abuse (as opposed to being a shitty parent with a fucked up understanding of how to do right by their children) and sexual assault. Maybe that makes me a hypocrite…but one of the biggest challenges I’ve had in writing this story, and in writing this chapter especially, is in taking ownership of my process and way of writing- what I am and am not comfortable in writing, and presenting that to the best of my ability. I don’t think this method is a definitive ‘right’ way to do it- because I no longer think a ‘right’ way exists. Maybe in the future I’ll figure out a better way. But for now, this is the best I can do, and I just need to take ownership of that. 

Anyway, thankyou for reading this chapter, and accompanying feature length meltdown :P. I’ve got some revisions to do on the next chapter before it's ready, but we are very much in the home stretch. We will get there, I promise! If nothing else, I’m a stubborn old cow!

…..

Oh! Also! I nearly forgot! I found this very cool site on the history of card games in Europe: https://www.parlettgames.uk/histocs/infographic.html and in the 1300’s card games had only just made there way along the silk road to Europe- they were rare, new, and (possibly?) expensive. It's probably the case that the boys wouldn’t know any card games at this point- they’d be much more familiar with dice. Also, I wasn’t able to clarify if India had card games prior to colonisation- the answer is probably yes, but I wasn’t able to find much detail on them- board games seem to have been preferred. But one of the most common card games in India now is Rummy- a British import. Idk, I appreciate the irony and circular nature of India teaching the boys a card game that England more than likely introduced him to. Just one of those little things. 

Chapter Text

“Help!” 

Her brother tears through the house like a wild thing. It takes a moment for her to process the floppy shape in his arms, when she does, her mouth goes dry. 

England. 

She leaps to her feet. 

“What happened-”

Her brother, eyes wide- wild- interrupts. 

“Get Norway, now.”

His tone sends a lightning bolt through her- something is wrong, desperately, horrifically wrong- she runs through the kitchen looking for the other Nation. She almost crashes into him as he comes out the downstairs loo-

“Somethings wrong with England, you need to come,” she says before he can even open his mouth, and then together they bolt back to the living room, where India has placed the child on the sofa.  

“What’s happened?” Norway's voice is firm, even as his face is confused. 

“He’s gone.” Indias’ words come out tense, strangled. “His heart has stopped, but he’s not coming back.” 

Disbelief, horror, lances through Bengals chest- immediately she kneels next to the boy, places her hand on his chest. 

“His Connection is still there, I think.” India says, words tumbling out of his mouth. “He’s not disappeared at least, he still feels solid.”

This does not re-assure Bengal. The Twins- both of them- are not sensitive to things like this. It’s infuriating at times. But right now there’s no time for that. 

The child is cold- ice cold- skin the blue grey of a corpse. Which of course he was. 

For a terrible moment, she can feel nothing. England is empty as a puppet with no strings. 

Then-

There. As thin as a spider web, as faint as a breath. And thready, thrumming - she thinks she can feel it …fraying? But it’s there. 

“He’s still in there,” she confirms for the benefit of the room. Meets her brother's eyes. “Here, I’ll show you.” 

She replaces her hand with his, and for a moment India’s face is creased and tense- Bengal wonders if it’s something about the size of him, of them, the Twins, that makes them less sensitive- then it smoothes, and he nods. “It’s there.”

As if it needed confirming. 

“We’ve run out of time.” Norway interrupts. His face is almost as grey as Englands. “Sorry, we’ll have to start the array now- you, India, stay with him and make sure he doesn’t-” Norway's voice seems to choke itself on the word. Then he swallows. “I’ll get the others. We’re out of time.” 

Bengal stands- she knows what she has to do - and starts clearing the room. It’s not graceful, and she should probably be more careful- but right now they need space and they need it fast.

They need to do everything fast, now.

Heart racing, her mouth starts going as she chucks a small side table into the corner from where it had been briefly restored to place. “We need to get the receiving arrays going quickly too- half of them won’t even be in place, the rest won’t even have time to draw-”

“They will,” India says, “I’ll start calling them, they’ll sort it out.”

He sounds strangely calm.

“You think?” She says, voice strangled by tension. “Besides we need someone to go down there still, and then to figure out how to send the threads back and-”

“I will.” 

She freezes. Stares at her brother. For a moment he keeps staring at England, when he finally turns to meet her eyes-   

“Scotland is too vulnerable, Norway needs to manage the array from out here. You and Ra’ani…even if you weren’t vulnerable. I wouldn’t make you do that.” 

The words choke her from the inside.

Thundering footsteps break her concentration. The living room door slams open as Scotland piles in- Pakistan only a pace behind. 

The younger of the two crowds around her brother, leaning over the kid- he reaches out- there’s the hint of a whisper, then light- flexing and twisting- ignites in his fingers.

India reaches out and grabs the teens hand- the light crackles out of existence. 

She still can't stop herself from shivering in horror at the casualness of the magic- or relief at it being snuffed out.

“He’s still there,” her brother says, maintaining his gaze with the pale-faced teenager, “But he’s fragile- I wouldn’t take the risk.” 

“Scotland,” Norway says, “Come here and help me with the array.”   

The teenager sways, eyes flicking between Norway and India, and England- limp and grey on the sofa.

“It’s the fastest way to help.” Norway's voice is soft. The teenager comes away. Norway turns to India and asks, “Can you contact everyone? If this is going to work, we need the receiving arrays ready to go when we are.”

India nods. 

“And me and Bengal will make the prayer circle,” Shahadeva, her sister, Pakistan , says. And Bengals chest goes cold. 

She’s conscious of eyes on her, not just India’s and Norways, nervous and calming, but her sisters too. Her sister's eyes- skittish though they are0 seem to scrape over her skin. She wants nothing more than them gone. It’s too soon, too awful, too late-? 

The horror of what she did stretches through time. 

Her mouth shuts and she swallows. Looks away and her hands tighten into fists. Here and now, there is simply no more time. 

She nods, jerkily. Her whole neck feels like it's grinding against iron rods.   

“Then I’ll call the others,” India says, “the faster we can get them into some sort of workable position-”

Norway nods. “The faster we can start.” 

She will do what she must. 

They will survive this. 

They must. 

England isn’t going to fade. Not yet anyway.

India holds the thought with an iron grip. 

The next hour and forty buzz with barely contained activity- they clear the room first- the living room is the only place big enough for the scale of what they’re attempting anyway, so everything. Everything. That isn’t built into the walls has to go out. Chairs, tables, knick knacks, fancy rugs that cover the rugs nailed to the floor- all out, pilled into the hallway and the kitchen, turning the stairs into a trip-hazard highway. And fuck it, if England bitches and moans-

-well at least he’ll be alive to do it. 

(The thought sends a discomforting wave of nausea through India’s stomach, and a little voice whispers in his ear-)

( Why don’t you take the child and run? )

Once cleared, India starts phoning. It was no easy business to plan where the groups would move to in the first place- reorganising it is a mad scramble of panic. Australia and New Zealand are still in the air. The Middle East, due to religious reasons, has maybe one member? Possibly? Who can donate magic to a receiving array. Even Germany and Western-Central Europe, who had banded together into a sort of neighbourhood co-parenting situation, have nowhere to set up an array in their poky little apartment, and are now scrambling to find a national park secluded enough and magically dense enough to work. 

Using him as a go between- compromises are found- Western-Centreal Europe share their GPS location with Australia. The Middle East scramble to make their way to the steppe nations caring for Belarus, Ukraine, and Russia. Thankfully the America’s- Canada- who already had the longest to travel, has already made his way to Sweden, and is touching down in Stockholm- just a fretful bus ride away from the Swedish-Finnish border where their receiving array will probably already be sorted with a ruthless, yet calm, efficiency.